Demon Born

by Christine Pope

  To Loc’s relief, the shop was empty. It would be easier to determine if its proprietor was the one he sought without a crowd of humans muddying the water. Gilt-framed cases hung on the walls, showcasing pieces set with sapphires and emeralds and rubies, pearls and topazes and garnets. A freestanding case stood near the opposite wall, which was covered in rather garish floral paper.

  As Loc stared at it, feeling again the pulse of the power that had led him here, a door in that wall opened, and a tall black woman emerged. Her hair had been plaited into a thousand tiny braids ornamented with bands of gold, and they jingled faintly as she moved toward the counter. It was difficult for him to determine her age; he thought she was no longer young, but there was no gray in her black hair, and the warm brown eyes that regarded him coolly had very few lines around them.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was as rich and dark as her hair, with a certain lilt he recognized from the island nations he’d visited during the course of his quest.

  Loc cleared his throat and stepped forward. This was always the most difficult part, for while he could sense the magic in others, they could not do the same with him. He had to find a way to broach the topic without giving too much away.

  “It depends,” he said. “So far, I haven’t been able to find what I’m looking for. But I was hoping your shop might be different…just as you yourself are different.”

  She understood at once what he was saying, for her eyes with their thick liner narrowed slightly, and she put her hands on her ample hips. No, she was not heavy, but rather curved in the precise way a human female should be, bosom full and waist narrow, the width of her hips echoing the roundness of her bust. “You’re sayin’ I’m different, then?”

  “Yes,” Loc replied simply. “And it’s because you are different that I thought you might be able to help.”

  The woman regarded him out of her still-narrowed eyes. “And are you different, too, sir?”

  “You can’t tell?”

  For a long moment, she was silent, appearing to survey him. “I’m not sure,” she said, her tone frank. “That is, I can’t feel your difference the way I should, and yet….”

  “And yet?” Loc prompted.

  “And yet you’re standin’ there with that pretty face of yours, and that body a woman would want to know better, and there’s something’ about the way you’re wearin’ it, like it was a suit you aren’t sure fits the way it should.”

  “Very perceptive,” he said. “Yes, there is a reason why I can feel your power, but you can’t feel mine. I don’t think I need to say anything more than that, do I?”

  The woman couldn’t precisely go pale, but something about her mouth tightened, revealing lines that didn’t seem to have been there a moment earlier. “What do you want?” she whispered.

  “I want to know who here in New Orleans can reach out to my world,” Loc replied. “Can you?”

  At once she shook her head, the metal rings in her hair clinking against each other like strange little chimes. “Nossir,” she said. “There’s a darkness in that magic I know better than to touch. It’s the sort of thing that can eat away at a person. But….”

  “‘But’?” he echoed.

  She cast a glance over one shoulder, although it was obvious that she and Loc were the only occupants of the store. “None of ’em like to talk about it,” she said, again in that low murmur which was barely above a whisper.

  “Them…who?”

  “The Dubois witches,” the woman replied. “I’m not one of ’em — they took me in when I sought refuge here — but I know what happened.”

  “What exactly did happen?” Impatience made the question sound harsher than Loc had intended, and the woman went even more tense, knuckles standing out against her dark skin as she clutched the edge of the display case, the only thing separating the two of them.

  “Him,” the woman said. “I’m not going to say his name, because even one of us whispering it is enough to call his attention. Over in the Garden District is where he abides. Darkness hides there. The Dubois witches keep him away from us here in the French Quarter, but they’re not strong enough to drive him out of New Orleans altogether.”

  “This warlock isn’t part of the Dubois clan?”

  Another fierce shake of her head. “Nossir. I don’t know who or what he is. Only that he’s there. And if it’s those sorts of dark spells you’re wanting, then he’s the only person who could help. Not that he’s in the habit of helping anyone but himself.”

  The woman’s obvious fear might have given some people pause, but Loc knew there was no warlock in this world whose powers were great enough to best his. Yes, Simon Escobar had been able to summon him to this plane, thanks to the one peculiar flaw in a demon’s nature that allowed them to be called in such a fashion…but that human warlock hadn’t been able to control Loc once he was here. Conversely, another witch or warlock could send him back, but would have no other power over him.

  “The Garden District,” he said. “Where is that?”

  “’Bout a mile from here. A taxi would take you.”

  “An automated car, you mean?”

  For the first time, the shopkeeper witch smiled, as though reassured by this evidence that he didn’t seem to know everything. “No. The taxi union lobbied to keep those things out. Only human drivers in the Quarter.”

  Interesting. Loc knew about the self-driving cars that operated in every city in the world, because of course he’d availed himself of their services during those instances when it made more sense to ride than to magically move from place to place. It seemed that tradition had prevailed over technology here, however.

  “A taxi, then.” He paused, glancing down for the first time at the display case in front of him. All manner of jewels sparkled there, but his eye was caught by a necklace with a series of heavy, smooth, graduated emerald drops that dangled from a fine collar of diamonds set in black gold. It would look magnificent encircling Cat’s slender throat. “And that necklace. The emerald one.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “I — I can’t just give it to you. The owner — ”

  “I want to buy it, not take it,” Loc cut in. He might be a demon, but he wasn’t a thief.

  “You what?”

  “It is for sale, is it not?”

  “Yes, but….” For the first time, the strange witch looked more puzzled than frightened. “It’s eighty thousand dollars.”

  “Good thing I carry plenty of cash, then.” He produced the wallet from his front pocket, and calmly began pulling out hundred-dollar bills, stacking them on the counter. Since the woman appeared to be frozen in shock, he said, “Perhaps you could take out that necklace and wrap it up for me? This is going to take a while.”

  A blink, and she said, “Yes, sure.”

  The case rattled a bit as she opened it. Realizing that having enormous stacks of hundred-dollar bills lying out on top of the glass would be rather conspicuous if anyone else were to come into the shop, Loc instead produced a satchel from the air, then made sure that eight hundred of the hundred-dollar notes were stacked neatly inside. He set it on top of the counter as the woman straightened up, the emerald necklace dangling from her hand.

  “I — I’ll just get a box for it, sir.”

  She went into the back room, presumably to search for the aforementioned box. In her haste, she left the jewelry case unlocked, but Loc had no intention of pilfering its contents. If he’d wanted to, he could have taken anything he desired, but he had found the perfect piece for Cat and had no wish to acquire anything else.

  The witch returned, a dark green leatherette case clutched in one hand. She opened it to reveal the emerald necklace displayed against a bed of white satin, several discreet pins holding it carefully in place.

  “That will do very well,” Loc said, allowing himself to admire the piece for a moment before he shut the case and pushed the satchel an inch or two toward the woman. “Your payment.”

  He
r long, clever-looking fingers wrapped around the satchel’s handle. She appeared to hesitate, as if wrestling with a question she knew she shouldn’t ask, then said quickly, “Who is it for?”

  “A friend,” he replied. That seemed to be a safe enough answer, especially since he wasn’t quite sure he could articulate to himself how he felt about Cat Castillo, let alone explain such a thing to a stranger.

  “A very lucky friend, I think.” The witch paused again, dark eyes searching his face. “This friend knows who you are?”

  “She knows what I am,” Loc said smoothly. And that, he thought, was perhaps the most remarkable thing about his current situation. Cat had known from the beginning who he was and where he came from, and she still had offered him a place to stay. How many other human women — even witches — would have done the same thing?

  The woman standing behind the display case appeared to absorb his reply, then said, “Then go to her, and take her the necklace. Don’t go to see him. You’ll regret it.”

  “Are you a seer?” That seemed the most rational explanation for her urgency. Perhaps she had seen something….

  But the strange witch shook her head. “Nah, not me. Estelle Dubois, prima of the clan here — she’s a seer. That’s partly why she’s been able to keep him at bay — she can see him comin’, so to speak. She can’t see everything, though, and that’s why — ” She stopped abruptly there, as if she had just realized she was about to reveal secrets that were not hers to tell.

  “Why what?”

  “Nothin’. Or at least, no concern of yours. Better to go back where you came from, take that necklace with you. I figure you must be trapped here, or someone like you wouldn’t be seekin’ help. But sometimes it’s better to leave such things alone. Exile isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a person.”

  Although Loc wanted to know more — a certain sorrow in her big dark eyes seemed to indicate that she understood the pain of exile all too well — he guessed she would not reveal more unless compelled to do so, and he had no wish to inflict pain upon her. She had clearly already suffered her own share, and besides, such behavior would not reflect well on the Castillos if the Dubois witches ever figured out where he had come from.

  Perhaps her words were wise ones. However, Loc had set himself on this quest, and he would not shy away now. He had already crossed paths with some workers of very dark magic and had never suffered any ill effects for it. They, like he himself, knew that he could not be bested.

  “Thank you for your help,” he said politely, and took the jewelry case and left her. From the sorrow in her face, she appeared to realize he planned to ignore her advice, but she made no move to stop him, or protest further.

  Wise woman.

  As she’d informed him, taxis painted a variety of bright hues constantly trolled the streets of the French Quarter, looking for fares. Loc supposed they must occasionally leave this district, or at least he hoped they did. Otherwise, he would be forced to go the rest of the way to his destination on foot.

  He flagged down a taxi painted a shocking orange, then climbed in the back and told the driver, “The Garden District.”

  The man, whose looks were as classically patrician as the Castillo witches Loc had met in Santa Fe and whose accent proclaimed him to be from somewhere far north of Louisiana, said, “Want to narrow it down? There’s a lot of places you could go — zoos, parks, museums, Lafayette Cemetery — ”

  “The cemetery,” Loc said immediately. He wasn’t quite sure why, but for some reason he’d experienced a strange prickling along the back of his neck as soon as the driver uttered the words, “Lafayette Cemetery,” as though the power within him had recognized the destination as significant, even if he had no real way of explaining why.

  “Gotcha,” the driver said, and began inching along through the heavy traffic.

  At this rate, it might have been faster if he had walked, although Loc didn’t know whether even the young and healthy body he wore would have been up to the task of slogging more than a mile in this heat and humidity. At least this time in the back seat of the taxi gave him some time to mentally prepare to face the nameless warlock who resided in the Garden District. In general, witches did not frighten easily, and so the very real fear the witch in the jewelry shop had shown must be based in some sort of harsh reality.

  Even so, Loc knew he had no reason to be afraid. In fact, fear was not an emotion he understood very well, since he had yet to truly experience it for himself. Yes, he was not precisely happy at the thought of having to remain here in this world for all eternity, but even with all that, he couldn’t exactly call the emotion he felt at the thought of such a prospect fear. Trepidation, perhaps, but that was about as far as he was willing to go.

  At last they were out of the French Quarter and its crowds of milling tourists, but their progress still wasn’t what anyone could call swift. Eventually, though, the driver stopped the taxi under a large oak tree whose roots had all but destroyed the sidewalk around it. On the other side of that ruined sidewalk was a brick wall, its whitewashed surface faded and patched.

  “Lafayette Cemetery,” the driver said. “The entrance is around the block, but there’s generally no place to stop there.”

  “Not a problem,” Loc replied. He produced a hundred-dollar bill from his continuously resupplied wallet and handed it to the man, whose expression shifted from guarded boredom to outright surprise.

  “I’m not sure if I have change for that — ”

  “Keep it.”

  Loc opened the door and got out. The driver, apparently not wishing to stay around to see if his fare changed his mind about the size of the tip he’d just given, pulled away from the curb in some haste, narrowly missing the front bumper of a truck that had just turned the corner.

  Perhaps the citizens of the French Quarter should rethink the carte blanche they’ve given the taxis, Loc thought with some amusement.

  That amusement faded abruptly, however, as he felt it drifting toward him, like a foul odor being carried on the wind.

  Evil.

  Some might argue that by his very being, Loc himself was evil, but he knew that was not precisely true. Demons could only act according to the natures with which they’d been born. There was nothing evil about such behavior, even if those acts might occasionally impinge on human health and happiness. Although he, as a demon lord, was not as controlled by his nature as his vassals, he still existed outside the moral code that bound most mortals.

  However, humans could not claim that same privilege. They knew the difference between right and wrong, had the free will that allowed them to make decisions based on such knowledge. If a human turned away from the right-hand path, explored areas of learning that should have been shunned…well, then one could only call them evil.

  And that was what he sensed now. A darkness that lived here amongst these gracious old houses and narrow streets, that hid its nature from those around it. But it could not hide from Loc, because his inner senses were far more attuned to such things.

  He turned away from the faded, whitewashed wall that bounded the cemetery, and regarded the house directly opposite where he stood. It was barely visible from the street, thanks to the high brick wall that enclosed the property and the old, old trees which crowded the grounds. He was able to make out a tall house, also made of brick, with several chimneys and dark green shutters, but he could not see much more detail than that.

  From this vantage point, he could not detect anything like a gate in that high wall. Perhaps it was located on the side that bordered the driveway, which was long and empty. Not that it mattered; even a wall as high and forbidding as the one he faced now was not enough to keep him out.

  In an eye blink, he was inside. The sense of evil was even stronger here, like having to walk through the miasma of a skunk spray, although the front garden itself seemed ordinary enough, the tall trees shading a lawn of lush green, white camellias gleaming like familiar spirits along the edge of t
he front porch. Jaw clenched, he stowed the jewelry case he carried in the back pocket of his jeans, although it should not have been able to fit in such a confined space. However, the laws of physics did not constrain him the way they did ordinary mortals, and so the case with its precious cargo fit in his pocket well enough.

  That task done, Loc made himself approach the porch, even though he was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all. Never in all his travels had he encountered anything like the cloud of darkness that seemed to envelop the house in front of him. Then again, he already knew that the magic required to send him home was not anything a light-worker would touch. If the sense of evil was so terribly strong here, that must mean the warlock who was its source must be equally strong.

  Up the front steps, five in number, and then Loc paused at the door. It was ordinary enough in appearance, painted dark green to match the shutters on the windows to either side, with a fanlight above it and a plain brass knocker.

  As he stared at that door, willing himself to reach up and knock, it slowly swung open. The man who stood there did not appear either young or old, but someplace timelessly in between. His skin was far lighter than that of the witch in the jewelry store, but still dark enough to show he was probably of mixed blood. Features regular, but neither handsome nor ugly. The one striking element of his appearance were his eyes, a pale, icy shade somewhere between blue and gray.

  Those eyes fastened on Loc, and the man smiled slightly, showing very white teeth. “Hello,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  5

  Cat trailed her fingers through the bowl of stone beads that sat near her elbow. This was a normal practice for her, since she liked to feel their shapes beneath her fingertips, get a sense of their weight, before she began selecting the ones she intended to use in a particular piece. Now, though, she had the feeling she was doing this more to kill time than because she was getting any closer to enlightenment when it came to her current work-in-progress.