Mimi's Demons

Chapter 30: Holes Where There Shouldn't Be Any

Duke still felt utterly strange stroking his daughter's hair on his lap an hour after she'd passed out from crying. He'd never had the chance to pet someone's head like this for so long, let alone a child; his child's. A month of proper care had left his daughter's wheat-colored hair smooth as satin. Her closed eyelids were puffy from tears and her shirt was smeared with snot. He wouldn't have minded if she had used his shirt, but was thankful all the same. Perhaps he should make it a habit to keep handkerchiefs on hand.

Omen loomed in the doorway, his scarlet turban almost reaching the ceiling of his daughter's room. That wouldn't do. But he had wanted to take time to learn his daughter's tastes before renovating her bedroom. He almost had enough to call the contractors.

"Identity," Duke whispered.

"Orwell Fernandez," Omen's low voice was still able to make the air rumble from a whisper and Duke almost kicked him.

"Cromwell?"

"Bruised, but fine."

Duke scratched at the budding gristle on the tip of his chin. That one spot grew facial hair at a pace that made him want to tear at his face half the time, but it wouldn't do to get laser hair removal. He might need his facial hair one day. Disguises and that jazz.

More irritating than his chin was the second murder attempt from the inside. Usually his people knew better than to hurt those close to him, let alone him himself.

Duke held out a hand towards Omen. He didn't need to ask. Omen took out his smartphone and set it in his boss's hand. Duke's hand on his daughter's head paused as his other scrolled through the report. It was incredibly detailed for only a few hours after an incident, but he didn't accept anything less. Doc Cricket was also very good at his job.

Fernandez's initial story had been that Cromwell's sticky fingers had pulled up the wrong blackmail to hold against Fernandez. But Cromwell had blackmail on everyone in the organization, it was an unspoken rule. He wouldn't be doing his job if he didn't. Thus, Doc had smelled a lie and dove deeper to pull out the truth: he'd been paid. Handsomely. With a side of threats to his current baby mama and his three daughters.

Duke inwardly sighed and pinched the tension growing between his eyebrows. Orwell Fernandez was one of his most important informants and connections to the Mexican Cartel. Whoever had bribed him had picked well. It would be a pain to lose him, but lose him he must. Traitors were dead men, even in the over world.

Question was, how could such a tight-lipped man who'd lived his whole life in this business be bent so easily? Fernandez had only gotten as close as he had to Duke's inner workings by proving he knew not to bite the hand that fed him. Bite everyone else to shreds, sure, but never, never Duke. Daughters and baby mamas could be replaced, at least in the eyes of low lives. Useful scum like Fernandez didn't get in this deep without knowing their family would be targeted.

But even after reading the report a second time, he couldn't find what he needed to scratch the itch.

"This can't be it," he muttered. He handed the phone back to a straight-lipped Omen, who pocketed it without answer.

"He had a strange look to his eyes," said Omen.

Duke frowned. "And you didn't include that?"

"It was a feeling, not fact."

Duke had to give him that. He didn't like cronies giving hunches. But Omen's instincts were like Duke's: rarely wrong.

He looked back down at his sleeping daughter and wrinkled his nose at the snot smears on her sleeves. He loathed to wake her.

Not until he was ready, at least.

"What do you think of demons?" he asked the giant by the door.

Omen blinked.

"I myself or my religion?"

"Either or."

"Evil influences, but spiritual. Non-beings. Mythological representations to give man a picture of what defies being one with God."

Duke nodded to himself, scratching again at the patch on his chin. That was more than he'd ever given thought to them. Little horned red men with pitchforks on hot candy packages. Or a particularly colorful description of a person.

But his daughter had said so. Parents were supposed to be the one person to believe in their children when no one else would. His father had taught him that with his own unwavering belief in Duke. It had encouraged more integrity and loyalty in Duke than anything else. It was the world's job to disbelieve and pull you down. Not to mention he'd worked with Doc long enough to know the ins and outs of all sorts of nasty mental illnesses and none should be able to give you psychic powers to foretell a murder happening on the other side of a compound the size of a village. And he'd had all conversations she'd had outside Omen and Serena recorded. Yes, that included Cromwell's brat, who thought himself so sneaky.

Still, he'd keep his eye on her. The moment it should seem to harm her...

He glanced at her arms, covered in their snot-crusted sleeves. Hadn't it already done that?

Believe and watch. That's all he could do for now.

At least his angry kitten had finally willingly come into his arms and let herself be pet. He couldn't ruin this progress.

"Cromwell's kid," he said. "She's warmed up to him, right?"

"As much as can be expected."

Duke nodded to himself. He would prefer a female friend, but Cromwell's kid had been raised in the business. Experience would have to do as well as similar gender. "Set him up as a bird for her. Limited access to the obvious places."

Omen bobbed his head and took his phone back out to text. It always fascinated Duke to see the Sikh's enormous thumbs texting on such a little screen. He didn't know how he managed.

Meanwhile, he got his own phone out to do some one-handed work, his other hand picking back up with petting his kitten's satin-smooth hair.

Holes aside, his plans for a daddy's girl were working out. Maybe he could find her something sparkly while he was at it.