Taken By Storm by Emmie Mears Page B

that reality home show that's like What Not to Wear for real estate.
    The living room is empty of people, but from the pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table and the line of beer cans behind them, this is the primo hangout spot for Hells-Zealot McMullet.  
    There's a porno mag on the couch advertising morphs in various stages of shifting, all nude, nude, nude.
    I think I need steel wool for my eyeballs. For a moment. Then I wonder if Wane likes morph porn like that, and I feel somewhat abashed as we walk on soft feet through the room.
    I don't reckon she'd be thrilled to know I found this in a demon-worshipper's house, whatever morph culture and custom has to say about porn and shifting.
    We stop in the entry to the kitchen, and I listen. The refrigerator motor sounds like it's seen better years, but beyond that I can hear at least three distinct voices.  
    "Guns blazing," Evis says.  
    Guess so. "Try not to kill the others. We'll turn them over to the Summit. The other one's my job."
    They nod, though Carrick gives me a long look. I remember on one of our team missions with Gregor, seeing him decapitate a shade who was begging for his life. He did what I couldn't, then. Maybe he expected this would be the same.  
    Things change.
    The basement door is open, and I don't bother to be quiet as I tromp down the stairs. "Hello, the hells-worshipping house!"
    "Fuckin' hells, who the fuck are you?"
    "Ayala Storme, at your service." I reach the bottom of the stairs and bow to McMullet. There are three other people down here. One looks like an advertisement for the Meth, Not Even Once campaign, another is wearing a tweed suit and distinctly out of place, and the third is the person I'm here to kill.
    The three non-spawning folks scrabble to stand and face me, but they seem to know they're outnumbered and outmatched. They'd be outmatched even if I were alone.  
    I turn my attention to the fourth person, who lies on a nest of foam padding and blankets in the far corner, fingers and face reddened from his meal and a bit of beef still stuck to one cheek.
    Even seeing Lena Saturn splatted from the inside out hasn't desensitized me to the sight in front of me.
    The man's stomach is grossly distended even after only a week or so of pregnancy. Nude and wearing the same euphoric expression I saw on Lena's face, his pale stomach undulates rhythmically.  
    McMullet regains a bit of nerve, and he stays where he is, but he drops his weight from one foot to another, almost dancing with fervor. "You ain't gonna stop it. You ain't gonna stop shit."
    I pull my sword from its sheathe with a hiss and point it at the man in the corner, who neither seems to know nor care that I'm about to kill him. "I'm about to stop that."
    "Ain't matter. You ain't gon' do nothin' to stop what's comin'." McMullet's flat brown eyes start to sparkle, and a spot of spittle clings to his lip.  
    The others, to give them some credit, seem to have a bit of fear. Methamphetamine the Cautionary Tale backs up against the wall, her nose twitching faster than Nana's.  
    "Steve," she says. "I think that there's one of them Mediators."
    "Merciful Zeus, do you people live under rocks? Of course I'm a gods damned Mediator." I jerk my head behind me. "And they are the end result of that."  
    I point to the man in the corner, who lets out a hysterical giggle followed by a wet fart.
    "The brain cells of these two speak for themselves," I tell Tweed Suit, who has her back to the wall now alongside Cautionary Tale. "But you seem to have at least enough to practice some personal hygiene. I'm going to ask you once: what fucking possesses you people to pull this bullshit?"
    "They are the future!" McMullet screeches this at the top of his lungs, spit flying from his mouth.  
    "I didn't ask you," I say mildly.  
    Carrick stalks past me and stands face to face with McMullet, considering just a moment before slamming his fist into McMullet's face.  
    I make eye contact with Tweed Suit.