Demon Lord 4: White Jade Reaper by Morgan Blayde

the descendants of stranded aliens. 
    “One question,” I said, “how did you manage to bypass the security devices on my car?”
    “Apparently—against my orders—Onyx stowed away for the trip out here.  I agreed to forgive him in exchange for him using his shadow powers to possess the car so we could drive it.”
    A thought send my weapon back to the satchel in my room.  “Okay, swing by a liquor store, have Onyx get me some Jägermeister and Red Bull.  Tell him I give permission for him to kill whoever he has to.”  Dropping a shot of Jägermeister into a sports drink is a Jägerbomb, the American variety.  In Europe, the shot is dropped into beer.  Watching the chupacabras had made me thirsty.  And having booze with her might just keep her alive when I see her next.
    I killed the connection and put my phone away, continuing to watch the hunting chupacabras and their intended prey.  Not having a dog in that fight, I didn’t really care to root for either side. The hindmost pig skidded to a stop, turning to face the goat-suckers.  This was intended to let the rest of the herd get away.  The guardian pig would go down, of course, but might do some damage before he died.  That was my hope anyway.
    I want to see some blood.
    The three chupacabras slammed into Doom Piggy.  A dust whirl sprang up like the Tasmanian devil was cleaning house.  Doom Piggy slashed with his tusks.  A goat-sucker went down, throat ripped away.  By then, prehensile tongues had flipped the pig on his back and pierced him with incisors.  The surviving chupacabras carved up the pig’s stomach and a flank with their freaky claws.  Squeals of distress spiked, then fell off.  I didn’t need to notice the sudden stillness or glazing eyes to know Doom Piggy was gone.
    I was about to go back to the room when a Hispanic maid came out of a ground floor apartment, pushing a cart loaded with cleaning supplies, towels and sheets.  She looked hot, about twenty-five, her lustrous black hair tied in back.  She wore an apron over street clothes instead of some special uniform, and smiled as she passed.
    I felt the monster in my pants stirring with equal interest.  There was something special about her scent, something not quite human.  I drew a deeper breath.  A shifter? Fey?   No, something else.
    “Good morning, sir.”  Her purred words were accompanied by the slight squeak of a cart wheels and a little metallic rattle.  “Can I help you?”
    I grinned at her.  “Most people think I’m beyond help, but there are a few possibilities that come to mind, though it will probably throw you off schedule.”
    “I have a break coming up, but the best things in life should not be rushed.”
    I leaned against the cart, and toward her.  “You have a name, sweetness?”
    Her voice was a breathy tease.  “Elena.”  She leaned on her side of the cart.  The tip of her tongue appeared, wetting her full upper lip.  “What about you?”
    “Caine.”
    She stared at me, eyes flaring with realization.  “I know you!”
    “I think I’d remember.”
    “Deathwalker, right?”
    My eyes narrowed.  “You got my name from the hotel register?”
    “No, from here.”  She brushed a towel back, reaching for something. 
    A flicker of thought caused one of my Beretta PX4s to appear in my right hand.  I didn’t let her see the semi-automatic—and wouldn’t—unless she pulled a weapon of her own. 
    She produced a folded tabloid.  I watched carefully as she opened the paper.  Nothing dangerous lay hidden inside.  I sent my gun back to its satchel.  The tabloid was the Dark Side News, one of the underground newspapers put out by our kind; a rag devoted to gossip, dark trends, and often comical conspiracy theories. 
    She spun the paper around and held it up, one finger stabbing a photo.  “This is you!”
    I looked at the photo as her finger came away.  The story caption read: Deathwalker fucks coven into submission .  Yeah,