Tortured Souls: Arbiter Series, Vol. 2

Arbiter Series, Vol. 2

By Matthew L. Schoonover

Incubus-detective Gus Pilot is back in a paranormal police procedural that pits mortals and supernaturals alike against the Arbiter. When body gases escaping from a corpse start killing people Pilot is put on a timetable that pits him against wise guys, vampires, the FBI and a bodiless sylph. Side-stepping the Secret Service and a Presidential appointee he's supposed to be guarding, he must stop a plague and keep his friends from suspecting supernatural interference. But time is running out …

ISBN 1-59431-040-8 Science Fiction / Mystery / Police / Paranormal

Also available in RTF and HTML formats.

Cover Art/Maggie Dix



Chapter 1

"[T]here ariseth another priest, Who is made, not after the law of a carnal commandment, but after the power of an endless life." __Hebrews 7:15,16

Webster was the first to meet the stranger, although later, when people started asking questions, he kept his mouth shut.

Webster wasn't a young man, he knew, but he didn't consider forty-nine as old as he once had. He had been in good health all his life and even though he was going bald (no graying, no thinning, just straight to bald) and had about twenty pounds too much around his mid-section, he had thought himself worldly and able to take care of himself.

He had been wrong. So terribly wrong.

Leaning against the wall of a honky-tonk, Webster was on his knees, vomiting, when the hand came down softly on his shoulder. "Are you all right?" the stranger asked.

He turned to see a face shrouded in shadows. The weak light from the parking lot lamp was behind the stranger and too far away to do anything but throw shadows on already existing shadows. Even with that thin light, he could tell the man was black. A black man in a black shirt, shadow on shadow. At this realization came a thought; a thought that made Webster lean his head against the brick wall and laugh hoarsely through split lips. His head reverberated with the sounds of country music coming from the other side of that wall. "Great!" he thought, "I must have a neon sign on my back that says SUCKER." He had already been used and thrown away once tonight, and now this guy, obviously seeing an easy mark, had come to scavenge.

The stranger wiped blood from his face with a handkerchief. He raised a hand to ward the man off. "I'm fine," he said, his voice a whisper filled with pain. His nose was broken, he had one swollen eye, and one cracked rib for sure, maybe more. For all that, he still felt lucky.

"Who did this?" the stranger asked.

"I did," he said. "It was my own damn fault. I should have known better."

Hands began probing his body; gentle, knowing fingers that seemed to know where each sore spot was; brushing over those areas without touching hard enough to cause pain. Even though he knew what those fingers were doing he still misunderstood their intent, still clung to his first impression. "You're too late," he said through split lips. "They already took it."

"Who did?" the stranger asked. "What did they take?"

For answer, he tapped the wall behind his head and said, "Everything that was of any worth to me."

"You're still alive."

"You're wrong, Mister. I'm dead. Or at least I will be when I get to Benny's."

He was about to tell the stranger to mind his own business, to find someone else to mug, when he caught sight of something in the weak parking lot lamp. The stranger turned sideways while probing his body and the dark shirt he was wearing suddenly took on a minor glow of its own. It was centralized, localized, singular, and Webster had to stare for a minute before he understood what it was.

"You're a priest?"

He caught a partial smile on the black man's face, ironic, almost impish. And then he noticed the black man's eyes.

They were gray-green.

"Who are you?"

"Someone on a mission," the stranger answered.

I must be going into shock, Webster thought as a cold finger ran down his spine. "Mission? What kind of mission?"

The priest started to speak and then stopped. "I was going to say a mission of mercy, but there is no mercy in what I've set out to do. Call it a mission of justice. I am looking for a man named Red Hurly. Truck driver. I'm told he frequents this bar on occasion."

Webster tried to stand. "He's in there," he said. "Him and his friends did this to me."

"How come?"

The words jumbled out, "Playing pool… money for Sharon… sick, real bad…needed chemotherapy and the insurance ran out. Was winning too. Red didn't like it." For the rest, he showed the priest his right hand, now a mangled heap of flesh and bone at the end of his wrist. "He didn't like it at all."

"How much," the priest asked.

"About two hundred dollars."

"No. I mean, how much do you need for the Chemo?"

Webster stared in disbelief. "Too much," he answered. "Besides, the two hundred is for Benny. He's the loan shark I borrowed money from to pay for the Chemo."

The priest helped him into a fairly comfortable sitting position. "Wait here," the priest said.

Webster reached up with his good left hand and took hold of the shirt. The priest pulled gently but Webster wouldn't let go. "You've helped me some, Father, and I'd like to repay you if I can. You can't go in there. The last black man who went in there hasn't been seen since." The priest looked at him with mild surprise. "You would help me?" An impish smile spread across his face. He patted Webster's hand in a comforting manner, dislodging it from his shirt. "Trust in the Lord," he said.

"Only if he's got a forty-five."

"Better than that." the priest chuckled.

Webster watched in stunned disbelief as the black man with the priest's collar and eerie gray-green eyes walked into the bar.