I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2) by Tony Monchinski Page B

except spouting off at the
mouth—“to associate with others with sincerity”—Boone knocking
Halstead back three steps with the sole of his foot, raising a
forearm to block Pomeroy’s strike—“to contribute to the development
of culture”—but too late, taking the blow to his skull, shaking it
off, the Kendo code ringing in his ears—“to promote peace and
prosperity among all peoples.”
    Boone dropped to a knee and drove his fist
into Pomeroy’s covered groin like a piston—fuck had to feel
that even with the armor. He took Halstead’s sword blow to his
shoulder and got his hand around to the top of the thing’s helmet,
snapping the vampire down, spinning behind it, sweeping Pomeroy off
its feet with his leg, smashing Halstead in the back with an elbow,
ignoring Colson’s commands.
    He was on top of Halstead, pummeling with his
fists and elbows, when Colson let him have it, the collar around
his neck frying him, his body stiffening, arms straightening and
shaking. His bladder already emptied, Boone would have pissed
himself again.
    When he could regain his feet, Pomeroy and
Halstead were already on theirs, on either side of the mat.
    “How did that feel?” Colson asked.
    “Think I came in my pants that time.”
    Colson spoke to the two vampires.
“Again.”

 
12.
8:35 P.M.
     
    Gritz was seated at the bar in Jackie’s, a
glass of vodka and his Faust open in front of him. The stool
on his one side empty. The stool on the other was occupied, but the
guy had his back to Gritz, talking to a friend.
    “Let me get three Corona Lights.”
    Recognizing the voice, Gritz pulled himself
away from the continuing adventures of Mephistopheles and Doctor
Faustus. “You’re too young to be drinking in a cop bar, Smith.”
    “Hello, detective.” Jason Smith, dressed in
street clothes, didn’t look overly thrilled to see Gritz.
    “Don’t you got a wife or something?”
    “I have a girlfriend.” Smith looked across
the room and Gritz turned slightly in his seat, spying her over
there with another guy. Pretty girl. Gritz figured the other guy
for one of Jason’s cop buddies.
    “You should be at Webster Hall with her. Not
here.” Jackie’s dark wood paneling with framed photos of police
brass on the walls.
    “We’re here for the band.” A small stage was
set with a drum kit and other equipment, a sound man or somebody
getting things ready. Jason had craned his neck, got a look at the
book on the bar in front of Gritz. He didn’t comment on Gritz’s
choice of reading material. “How’s the case going, detective?”
    “I’m looking into some leads.”
    Jason picked up some of the change the
bartender had deposited on the bar, leaving a couple singles. He
nodded at Gritz—“Take care of yourself, Jason”—gathered his
longnecks and departed, back to his table, his friend, and his
girl.
    Gritz took a sip of his vodka, went to put
the glass down, figured the fuck not and threw
back what was left in one gulp. He tapped the glass on the bar,
getting Jackie’s attention, then lost himself in thought looking
across at the shelf of booze.
    This Mephisto serial killer guy. Wasn’t his
case, but Gritz had a feeling about this one. Guy—they were
invariably men in these kinds of things—was taking it out of the
city now, into Jersey. Threatening the local papers that they
better publish his manifesto or he would kill again, like that
Kaczynski fuck.
    That other carnage over in the Bronx back in
the second week of September. Lots of blood and bullet holes, shell
casings, but only one body for all that. Guy’d been bled out from
the neck; someone had put a hole in his throat, drained him from it
like a spigot. Dead guy had a rap sheet on him too: breaking and
entering, trespassing, petty theft. From Gritz’s experience, what
you could learn about them from their papers was usually the tip of
the iceberg. And from the scene at the warehouse, it looked like
the guy had been involved in something lot more