Page 10 of Clay White
I’m not a big fan of LA.
But I managed to reach Santa Monica in one piece just as the sun was falling into the Pacific, lighting sky and water with carnival colors. I was momentarily tempted to abandon my mission and walk barefoot on the beach instead, with the breeze ruffling my hair and gulls calling from the pier. Maybe I’d even buy an ice cream cone and eat it while watching the Ferris wheel and roller coaster.
Instead I parked in front of a stucco bungalow with a Spanish tile roof. Two rocking chairs on the front porch flanked a small table; colorful tiles hung on the wall. The ornately carved front door had a decorative metal plate covering the peephole. I rang the doorbell and waited.
The door opened quickly, but just enough for a figure to fill the gap. “Charles Grimes?” I asked.
He scrutinized me instead of answering, and I stared back. He was tall and lanky, with pale skin, straight white hair, and irises that were an odd pale green. He wore khaki trousers and a blue dress shirt and could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty years old.
“What do you want?” he finally asked.
“Townsend gave me your name.”
That bit of news made him pinch his mouth. “Show me your badge.”
“Don’t have one. Not anymore.”
More staring, this time with his nearly invisible eyebrows drawn into a V. “What’s your name?”
“Clayton White.”
“You were the agent in that Redding mess.”
“Yeah.” I tried to unclench my jaw. “That’s not why I’m here.”
After a brief pause, he opened the door more widely and stepped aside. I followed him into a room that, while in excellent condition, looked as if it hadn’t been changed since the house was built in the thirties. The floor, window frames, and ceiling beams shared the same dark wood, while tiles ornamented the stuccoed fireplace. The furniture was substantial and somewhat worn—three overstuffed armchairs, two large bookcases, and an old-fashioned rolltop desk.
While I stood in the center of the room, Grimes gave me another long look before he seemed to reach a decision. “Ten,” he called.
That confused me briefly, but puzzlement was replaced by astonishment and fear when a creature strode into the room. He wore nothing but a pair of briefs, but that wasn’t what made me gasp. Against his back were furled an enormous pair of black wings.
“Demon!” I shouted, reaching for my gun.
Grimes moved as swiftly as Marek and grabbed my arm before I could draw my weapon. “Don’t,” he snarled. “He’s mine.”
Had I been thrown into this situation a few weeks earlier, I might have struggled. But my recent encounter with Marek had taught me that not all monsters were as dangerous as I’d assumed. So I relaxed and let Grimes remove my gun from the holster. He checked to make sure the safety was on before tucking it into the back of his waistband. The entire time, the demon stood impassively nearby, his hands folded in front of him.
“Sorry,” I rasped.
“Tenrael sometimes has that effect on those who don’t expect him. Especially Bureau agents.”
The demon’s name was familiar from my training. “Tenrael. A bringer of nightmares?”
“Not anymore,” said the demon with a slight smile.
“I don’t understand.”
Grimes walked to Tenrael and settled a hand on his shoulder; Tenrael leaned a bit into his touch. “You don’t need to understand,” said Grimes. “You came here on your business, not ours.”
Fair enough.
“All you need to know is that Tenrael is my partner and nobody may harm him.”
I nodded, and some of the tension in Grimes’s body eased.
“Sit down,” he said, waving at a chair.
I did so, wondering if his furniture was custom-made to fit his height. For once I didn’t feel as if I dwarfed my seat and didn’t worry whether it would hold up under my bulk. Grimes took the chair opposite me, and Tenrael knelt gracefully beside him. Without even looking—seemingly well accustomed to such movements—Grimes reached over and stroked one of Tenrael’s glossy wings. It was clear from their postures that these two cared deeply for each other. Instead of being disgusted by the idea of someone loving a demon, I found myself slightly envious of their relationship.
