A Shot in the Dark Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Praise for

  A Devil in the Details

  “A clever conceit, with a surprisingly moral center. Lots of fun, deftly witty, and one of the most appealing central characters of recent years.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Simon R. Green

  “If you want your life saved, you call the cops. If you want your soul saved, you call Jesse James Dawson, a modern-day samurai who has it all over an Old West gunslinger and then some. But with demonic doubledealing, enemies old and new lining up to take a shot, and every battle to the death, you’d better buckle up for one helluva ride. Humor, action, and a one-way trip straight to Hell, this book delivers it all.”

  —National bestselling author Rob Thurman

  “K. A. Stewart’s Jesse James Dawson is a modern-day warrior who can tie up his ponytail with one hand and use a katana in the other to fend off the forces of evil. Equal parts heroic, dark, and funny, A Devil in the Details is a welcome addition to the urban fantasy genre, pickup truck included.”

  —Anton Strout, author of Dead Matter

  “[A Devil in the Details] hits the trifecta of strong story, characters, and prose. . . . Stewart’s wisecracking hero is smart and thoroughly 3-D. The tight, terse style honors but doesn’t copy Jim Butcher’s Harry Dresden books, and urban fantasy fans looking for something new will happily devour Stewart’s debut.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A Devil in the Details has a similar tone and style to the Dresden Files, with a wry first-person narrator explaining things with a dry, sardonic sense of humor. Using that similar voice, the author creates a very different world from that of Harry Dresden. For all that the book deals with death, devils, and damnation, it doesn’t dwell in Gothic gloom, but flits lightly and entertainingly from emotional lows and highs. A very enjoyable book, with the potential to become a very engaging series.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “K. A. Stewart is a welcome addition to the urban fantasy writers with a strong opening entry. . . . A Devil in the Details is a dynamic debut.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “K. A. Stewart is a sensational writer who will soon work her way up to the level of recognition of Jim Butcher and Simon R. Green, and A Devil in the Details is her first work of pure excellence. . . . This is a must-read for any fan of urban fantasy. . . . I truly expect to see her name in a few years right up there on the New York Times bestseller’s list. A terrific read.”

  —Whatchamacallit Reviews

  “[A Devil in the Details] gives you a hero that will make you smile, and it is an enjoyable read.”

  —Smexy Books Romance Reviews

  “A refreshing story with really appealing characters who have such witty humor that you don’t see it coming until it smacks you in the face. I’ll definitely be reading the next one in this exciting new series.”

  —The Book Lush

  Jesse James Dawson Novels

  by K. A. Stewart

  A Devil in the Details

  A Shot in the Dark

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, July 2011

  Copyright © Kari Stewart, 2011

  All rights reserved

  ISBN : 978-1-101-51630-0

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For the Jewell Pack

  Who never doubted, even when I did.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, thanks to Anne Sowards, Kat Sherbo and Chris Lotts, without whom none of this would have been possible. A huge thanks to my beta-slaves: Janet Yantes, Geoff Glover, Jesse Phillips, Jenn Wolfe, Will Sisco and Auggy. Thanks to Elysabeth Williams, Lisa Brackmann, Alice Loweecey, Rob Thurman, and Stacia Kane, who are not only amazing authors, but also amazing friends. To Dr. Gita Bransteitter, for invaluable medical advice and for feeding my nail polish addiction. For Purgatory, all hail The Junk! For the Badger Blades crew and their epic weaponry. And a special thanks to Sensei Dave Elam, who didn’t blink an eye when I asked, “Can you show me how to knock a guy out?” As always, for Scott and Aislynn.

  1

  Two years ago . . .

  “Fire in the hole!” I grabbed the kid by the front of his shirt and dragged him into the water, falling on top of him to protect him further. Problem being, there was room for one man at the bottom of the pool, but not two. Half submerged as I was, the explosion was enough to deafen me, the sound wave skipping across the top of the water to smack me upside my very thick skull.

  As I felt things pelting down on me, splattering my shoulders and the one arm I couldn’t get under the water, I was forced to admit that this had not been one of my better ideas. I pressed my forehead against
the kid’s, trapping him under the water, and held my breath until spots danced before my eyes. Pondering just how I’d gotten to this point, I was pretty sure that somehow, it was the poodle’s fault.

  Now, I hate poodles. They’re not even real dogs. They’re more like rats in sheep’s clothing. The constant “yip yip yip” should be blared over loudspeakers to end police standoffs. And no cute fluffy animal should be pink. It’s just wrong on so many levels.

  So I hope you can understand the amazing amount of restraint I exercised, not half an hour earlier, as someone’s pink, yappy, woolly rat barked and snapped around my ankles. One quick stomp with my heavy boot and it’d be all over for the glorified rodent. I had a feeling my client, the dog’s owner, would object to me murdering her darling Mitzi or Bitsy or whatever the hell its name was. She seemed the objecting type.

  “Now you’re certain you can do this? You come highly recommended, but . . .” It was the umpteen thousandth time she’d asked the very same question.

  “Ma’am, I can’t promise anything. Yes, I think I can do this. But there is always an element of uncertainty. Anything could happen.” I was tired of pointing out to her that the contract was already set, so she was stuck with my services whether she liked it or not. If not for that, and my own personal honor, I might have bailed a long time ago myself.

  She sniffed, her jaw tightening in displeasure. I got the feeling that she was used to getting absolute answers. From her dyed hair to her real pearl necklace, from her trimmed-in-real-mink coat to her purse by some designer I’d never heard of, Mrs. Effingham was a lady. The kind that expects you to use the word with a capital L like some kind of title. When she snapped her manicured fingers, she expected the world to come running. Guess that explained how her kid wound up like he was.

  Junior was standing behind Mummy, shoulders stooped sullenly. He obviously didn’t want to be here, despite the fact that he was the guest of honor. His very expensive haircut was ruined by the fact that he probably hadn’t showered in days, and with his hands stuffed in his pockets, he practically oozed teenaged angst. Occasionally, he would look up at his mother and this flicker of absolute hate would pass through his eyes, but most of the time he gazed vacantly into space.

  The breeze carried a faint hint of lilac and the promise of a spring shower. From the manor house behind us, I could catch the smell of something in the soup genre being prepared for dinner. Though, it probably wasn’t soup, it was something fancy like bisque or . . . whatever rich people eat. Nothing out of a can for this family, no way.

  It was definitely the fanciest backyard I’d ever been in. Tall stone walls marked the borders, stately and dignified. The elaborate koi pond put my own water garden to shame. I mean, what they called a pond, I’d call a pool and me and my buddies would be swimming in it. And I would forever be envious of the barbecue grill (apparently unused) sitting on their expansive patio. The gas grill was almost big enough to require its own garage.

  Dressed in my tarnished mail, with a sword hanging on my left hip, I stood out on their carefully sculpted lawn like one of those tacky yard ornaments. Maybe the one of the old farmer mooning. Damn good thing their neighbors couldn’t see into the yard. The high walls prevented that, and cast long shadows across the grass, creeping slowly toward us as the sun made its way downward in the sky.

  Beyond the walled garden where we stood, down the hill in some quaint New England village, a church bell tolled the half hour. The time was drawing close.

  “Mrs. Effingham, if I could have you return to the house while we do this. I only need Elliot here with me.” And take your gawd-awful yappy dog with you.

  “I prefer to remain with my son, thank you.”

  I finally turned to face her, drawing up to my full height to make sure I got the “looking down” part just right. Scruffy and uncouth as I am, I know how to be intimidating when I need to be. “That wasn’t a request, Mrs. Effingham. That was an order. This is not a spectator sport.”

  Splotches of color flared under the caked-on makeup on her cheeks, not an attractive look at all. “How dare you? I am paying you good money—”

  “You are paying me to be an expert in what I do. So we either do this my way, or I walk now, and your darling little boy goes to Hell. With or without the hand-basket.” Sometimes, I’m just an asshole. I admit it. I couldn’t have walked away, not with the contract set, but she didn’t need to know that. She gaped like a landed fish for a few moments before jerking the poor poodle into her arms and stalking across the landscaped lawn to the house.

  Only then did I get a faint smile from Junior. “Man, you royally pissed her off.”

  “I have that effect on people.” With Mummy gone, I could feel some of the tension go out of my shoulders. Sad when I’d rather face a demon than an upstanding social matron. Guess I could understand some of Junior’s rebellious tendencies. “How are you doing?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, finding the grass infinitely more interesting than looking at me. “Okay.” Not much on public speaking either. I figured it just never got to be his turn to talk with his mother around.

  “Do you understand what’s going on here?” In all my negotiations for this particular challenge, I’d had very little chance to actually talk to the kid. Mummy had handled most of the details.

  “Yeah. Guess so.” He shrugged again and kicked a bare patch in the grass.

  “Do you understand that this is your only chance? If I fail, your soul is bound for Hell when you die. No getting out of it, no reprieve.” There ought to be an age limit on demon contracts. A sixteen-year-old shouldn’t be able to just wish away their soul on any little thing that catches their fancy.

  Scuff scuff went the sneakers.

  “Do you even want your soul back?”

  His fidgeting stopped, and after a moment, he nodded. I was just happy to get something that wasn’t a shrug. “I’m cold all the time now. I want to warm up.” Most likely, the chill was in his mind, but whatever worked.

  “Even if I win, if you do this again, you’re on your own. Mommy can’t buy you out of this again.”

  Junior nodded once more, his dark brows almost meeting above his eyes. “Yeah, I got it. She’s been screaming it in my ear for weeks now.”

  “She’s just worried about you.”

  Junior snorted. “No, she’s worried that I’m gonna embarrass her. Can’t let anybody know that Ava Effingham’s boy sold his soul for a freakin’ car. Somebody else’s kid probably sold theirs for a Harvard degree or something, much more respectable.”

  I had to give the kid a teeny weeny bit of credit. He’d sold his soul for a ’72 Corvette Stingray. I mean, at least he sold it for a car, not some piece of crap. Of course, I’d only seen pictures of the vehicle. It was currently in a pile of scrap in some auto yard, chunks of the telephone pole that killed it still embedded in the metal. The boy was lucky to be alive.

  See, that’s the thing about demon contracts. They never say what you think they do. Just because the demon promised you a car, or whatever it was, doesn’t mean that it said how long you get to keep it.

  I also had to give him credit for the most words I’d heard him string together. There was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice. “Sounds like there’s issues there.”

  That earned me another noncommittal shrug. “Just usual stuff.”

  The shadows from the wall had reached the toes of my boots, and I loosened my katana in its scabbard. Flexing my left wrist, a small item dropped out of my thick leather bracer into my palm. I examined the coin—just some worthless carnival trinket I’d dragged home from somewhere—and rolled it over the backs of my fingers a few times ’cause it looked cool. The metal made my skin tingle. It was almost time. “Where’s your dad in all this?”

  “He died. Three years ago. Mom says it was cancer, but I know better. It was . . . that liver thing you get when you drink too much. What is that?”

  “Cirrhosis?”

  “Yeah, that’s
it.” Junior shrugged yet again. He had a very limited body vocabulary. “We weren’t really close.”

  “You know, in ancient Japan, if a boy’s father died, the boy became the head of the household. Kids even younger than you. They were expected to armor up and go fight as knights, just like their fathers had.”

  “That had to suck.”

  “They were treated like adults. They were given great respect.”

  He snorted. “That’d never happen here. Mom’s a control freak.”

  “No?” The shadows oozed over the toes of my boots. Almost there. Flip flip flip went the coin, back and forth across my knuckles. “You were grown-up enough to sell your soul, even if it was for something stupid. I figure if you’re enough of an adult with that crowd, you’re an adult for me. You want a bit of advice from a total stranger?” Shrug. “Well, you’re gonna get it anyway, ’cause I might be dead after this and then I won’t get to say it.”

  That caught his attention and he finally looked up, puzzlement in his eyes. I suppose it had never occurred to him that a man may die today because of him. For kids, death is something that happens in movies and video games, or hidden away in sterile hospitals. It doesn’t happen in your backyard, with somebody’s guts spilling out on your Chuck Taylors.

  “Your dad is gone. You’re all your mom has. Even if she rides your ass sometimes, it’s only because in her own warped way, she loves you. Man up, grow a pair, and earn that respect you want.”

  Junior didn’t seem to know what to say to that. I didn’t expect much. Hallmark moments don’t really happen, and I highly doubted there’d be some miraculous change in him no matter how the next hour or so turned out.