Slate Gray

Chapter 14: Perrin Slate

Smack dab in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a thick grove of trees with only a chain-link fence to hedge them back, Malone's X-Treme Motocross Park is an impressive terrain of dirt and hills, dips and turns, valleys and uncertainty.

Texting Dad that we made it, I guide our motorhome into the parking lot, lit only by a pregnant moon and two measly flood lamps above the gate. It's so dark way out here that not even flipping on the brights illuminates the tracks in their entirety.

Terry kills his motorcycle as I hop down from the RV, the AR-15's strap draped across my shoulders. The purity of the sudden silence is jarring and I angle my head to listen.

There's not a single animal sound. No insects chirping, no mammals scurrying. Every living thing has fled.

The blood pumping in my ears begins to sound like a bass drum, the creak of Terry's leather jacket as he dismounts a neon sign announcing our presence.

Malone's manifestation is gonna be nuts, I can already tell.

Unslinging the rifle, I disengage the magazine to confirm everything's working the way it should be. And pulling the lever back to eject the remaining bullet, Terry huffs appreciatively when I snatch it out of midair.

"So, what's with all the hardware?" he asks, eyeballing the weapon. "Seems kinda mean to shoot someone who died by gunshot."

A shrug as I click the mag back into place. "You have to remind the soul that it's dead. And that it's time to skedaddle."

"Ever consider less violent methods?" His forehead scrunches as he trails me to the fence, its gate entwined with a padlocked cable. "Like trying to soothe the soul instead of blasting it?"

Re-slinging the gun, I rattle the standard Master lock. Child's play. "Nope. The only surefire way to banish a demon is via a good, ole double-tap with the weapon that killed 'em."

Making quick work of the amateur hour security, the gate clatters open and a rank gust of air, like the sigh of some immense beast, sends gritty flakes whipping past my face.

Knock, knock, Mr. Demon. Up and at 'em.

"When do we cover that in basic training?" my intern teases, jerking his chin at the lock in my hand.

Sucking my teeth, I lob it away. "Ooh, sorry. Only exceptionally skilled fingers are allowed at my lectures."

He flexes five, large digits. "I've been told I'm uncommonly dexterous."

Toes curl in my boots even as my answering scowl attempts to curb the blatant flirting.

But he only smirks, annoyingly dauntless. "Do I get a gun, at least?"

Honestly, it's a toss-up whether I'm safer with him armed or unarmed, but after a beat, I reach under my jacket. If he shoots as well as he can take a punch, then I should be ok.

Hitting the release to pocket the mag, I rack the slide twice to clear it, pull the trigger to click the action and pass my pistol to him handle first. "You ever fire one of these?"

"A couple times."

"What's 'a couple'?"

"More than ten but less than twenty." He palms it cautiously, like it could go off any moment. But he's savvy enough to keep his finger off the trigger. "My dad used to take me hunting."

"Used to? He dead?"

Tricolored eyes spark at my brilliant small talk skills, but he shakes his head. "Nah, still alive. Just a bastard."