by G A Chase
The professor took a draw of his pipe. “The point is, without being able to fully trust Doodlebug, we don’t have any way of telling what side Jenna is on. That girl is our only eyes, ears, and swords in hell, so there’s no way we can confirm what she tells us.”
Sere tried to imagine all of the people she and Jenna knew. “If everything you’ve told me is correct, the one person we know Jenna would listen to is Sanguine. No matter who Doodlebug is working for—us, Marjory, Jenna, or even herself—she has sufficient motivation to find Sanguine. If we can free our angel, hopefully, she’ll be able to talk some sense into Jenna.” Sere had a few choice words for Sanguine as well, but for the moment, the woman deserved the benefit of the doubt—as, Sere hoped, did Doodlebug.
Kendell wrapped her arms around her stomach. “It would be wonderful to have Sanguine out of the penalty box and back in the game. We need someone in charge in that dimension.”
Chloe stood in front of the boarded-up windows. The light filtering through her dress and hair made her appear even more ethereal. “Has anyone considered bringing Sanguine back to the land of the living?”
Sere only knew the woman as hell’s angel. She could still see her with her long feathered wings and faceted crystal eyes. “I’m not sure she’d return willingly,” she said. “That realm custom-tailors itself to her wishes, or at least it did before she was captured.”
“We did try once,” Myles said. “It was before Sere was cast into hell. We brought Sanguine home, but she couldn’t adapt to being human again. Returning to hell was her idea.”
The professor doodled a buttonhole on his pad of paper then drew an angel-shaped button on top of it. “If she did return, her presence might provide the answer we’ve been searching for to contain the hell mouth.”
On the professor’s wall of computers, a red light flashed above a phone receiver that looked to have been salvaged from an old-fashioned pay phone. Professor Yates slowly got out of his Barcalounger to answer the call. “Hello.”
“What’s with the bat phone?” Sere asked.
Polly motioned for her to keep her voice down. “Your joke is not far off. Joe knew one day something might happen to him, so he set up this relay in case any of his associates needed to reach out. It’s also the landline that he used to hook you up to our equipment.”
The professor hung up the receiver. “That was Madeline. She has a visitor who says if Sere wants her stuff back, she should meet him in the garage.”
“What could that mean?” Bart asked.
The professor returned to his well-worn chair. “When it comes to that phone, we’ve been told not to ask questions, just deliver the message.”
Sere took Bart’s hand. “I know exactly what it means. Feel like giving me a lift? With any luck, we might even get an answer or two along with my belongings.”
Sere had never really appreciated how nice it was to ride on the back of a motorcycle with the wind in her hair and someone else dealing with the mundane hassles of navigating through traffic. With Marjory dealing with her latest failure and Jenna no longer pulling at the hole between dimensions, for a brief moment, Sere could disconnect from her worries and simply enjoy the ride. She gripped Bart’s waist and sat upright to feel the sun on her face as he raced down the freeway. Though it was the same stretch of road where she and Doodlebug had decapitated demons on their escape from the city, the relatively calm traffic and light of midmorning made that adventure seem like a dream.
Bart took the Myers exit and downshifted the Ducati to a reasonable speed for the sleepy town. After a couple of miles, he stopped at the entry to a neighborhood made up of nearly identical tract homes. “This is as far as I remember.”
Sere pointed down the street. “Third left then the fifth house on the right. I counted them off last time so I wouldn’t get lost again. Figuring out which it was in the dark was a royal pain.”
“Tell me about it.” Bart put the bike in gear. “Clever hiding spot, though.” He eased the Ducati down the streets like a wolf prowling a chicken coop. As he pulled up onto the driveway, the garage opened as if they’d been expected. He didn’t stop until they were well out of sight of any nosy neighbors. The door closed the instant he set the bike on its kickstand. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”
Sere hopped off the back. “Keep your hand off your gun.”
“Why?” Bart immediately reached for the butt of the revolver tucked into the back of his jeans.
Like telling him not to do something ever works.
Gerald Laroque entered through the side door. “Because she’s afraid you might get yourself in trouble by shooting the former chief of police.” From the dirt on his hands and the bag of mulch he was carrying, he looked to have been doing a little gardening for the old woman of the house.
Bart slowly brought his empty hand out from behind his back. “We don’t want any trouble.”
“Relax, son. If Sere hasn’t figured out whose side I’m on by now, she’s not nearly as smart as I thought.”
Sere pulled the tarp off her Triton. Her clothes were neatly folded on the seat. “Since we’re all feeling so chummy-chummy, feel like answering some questions?”
The big man dusted off the seat of Joe’s old BSA motorcycle and leaned on the dried leather. The springs groaned under the unfamiliar weight. “Fire away.”
Sere paced in front of him while giving the powerful man an appraising sideways glare. “How’s your cover holding up?”
“Not bad, thanks to our little deception. Nice choice of costume, by the way. Hopefully, my peashooter didn’t hurt you too badly.”
The pain in her side seemed to be something she’d left in hell. “I’ve had worse. She didn’t get suspicious when I didn’t disintegrate on the way to the elevator?”
He folded his thick arms over his large chest. “Since that was the first time a doppelgänger has been shot with one of the magic bullets, she didn’t have a reference on how long one of you would survive with the paranormal slug inside. I gotta tell ya, she was pretty pissed at being locked in the basement. We had to wait until the bank opened to be let out. When she sees you again, you’d better be prepared. I was only able to modify the bullets I have, not the ones she snagged from the box. And she always carries that silver-plated revolver in her purse.”
“Sorry about confining you with your sister.” The truth was she wasn’t sorry at all, but sarcasm and lying were close enough that she managed the snarky comment without choking on the words. “What about Devlin?”
“He didn’t last the night. Dare I ask how you managed to kill him?”
She continued to give the big man side-eye. “I think I’ll keep that trick to myself. So your sister failed. How’s she taking the defeat?”
Gerald put his beefy hands on the old seat. “Marjory doesn’t give up that easily. She’s still got the vault and copies of the baron’s journals. Devlin was just one heir among many. She’ll chop off every branch on our family tree until she finds someone that can become immortal. I hate to tell you, but you’re proof that what she wants is possible. That’s all the incentive she needs to keep trying.”
Sere continued her pacing while wondering how much she could trust the man. “And her connections in hell?”
He shrugged. “Even though my cover is intact, she doesn’t trust me with all of her particulars. If you were expecting her to be a dejected opponent, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
She turned to face him. “And what about you? The way you talked about immortality made it sound like you’d at least considered the idea.”
“And play second fiddle to my sister for all of eternity? No thanks. I’ve noticed the only people who want to live forever are those who’ve already reached the top of whatever mountain they were climbing.”
She leaned against her motorcycle. “But you're only a few feet from the top. That’s still not good enough? I’d think a man of your skill and ambition might, in time, find a way to supplant his master.�
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He struggled back to his feet. “I told you the first time we met that I wasn’t trying to earn your trust. You’d be a fool to put your faith in anyone. All I can tell you is that I’m not interested in my sister’s proposal. It’s up to you to figure out if I’m lying—if you can accept my word at face value or, if not, determine my true motivations. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see about getting Madeline to give me a ride out of this sleepy little town before someone notices I’m missing.”
Bart had remained on guard next to his bike during the conversation. It wasn’t until Gerald left through the side door that he unfolded his arms, showing he was holding his gun at the ready. “Do you believe him?”
Sere still had trouble with the concepts of lying and trust. “He’s playing a long game. Everything between those siblings is drawn out and complicated. He didn’t kill me when he had the chance, even though that might have put him even stronger in Marjory’s good graces. I interpret that to mean he thinks I still have value to him, though for what end, I don’t know.”
“Do you think he considers you a better bet for achieving immortality?”
The question of her offering life everlasting kept coming back around like a mosquito looking for the perfect opportunity to strike. “Maybe. And if that's the case, what if he’s right?” Sere said.
Bart’s expression turned hard and cold. His usually welcoming eyes took on the daggerlike stare she’d seen in Joe when he was disappointed. “Ah, finally, the grand question: am I only hanging around you for the possibility of immortality?”
“Well, are you?” she demanded.
He came over and sat beside her on the seat of her Triton. “I won’t bullshit you the way Gerald just did.” He turned his head toward her as if inviting her to read his every expression. “The idea has crossed my mind. But we’ve both flirted with death enough times for you to see that being this close to you isn’t the smartest way for me to extend my life.”
She didn’t want to push him, but she also didn’t want the issue to linger between them. “You didn’t answer the question.”
His deep-brown eyes locked into hers. “What would I say if you offered me immortality? I honestly don’t know. Being with you is a crazy, exciting, sexy adrenaline rush. I don’t imagine either of us could continue this level of activity indefinitely, even if we didn’t age. So the real question is, where does this relationship take us?”
She gave him a squinting stare. “I’m not proposing marriage if that’s what you’re thinking. Even if we were both immortal, that wouldn’t make you beholden to me forever. I’d never build a world of slaves even if I did have the power over life and death.”
“And you think that’s what makes you different from your father or Marjory?” he asked. That question got under her skin, and she suspected he knew it.
“I have no interest in playing God. I’m only asking, if death wasn’t inevitable and I could make immortality happen, would that be such a bad thing?”
He leaned back on the bike. “I think the fact that you can’t do it right now makes the question theoretical. And so long as that’s the case, you can focus on containing hell and those that would seek to exploit it.” He got off the motorcycle and started pacing. “If you ever did have that ability, I think the ramifications would drive you mad. What if a person you gifted turned evil? How would you make the determination of who was worthy? Even if you didn’t expect anything from them, how could you be sure anything they did for you in the future wasn’t based on a feeling of obligation? And as you’ve already speculated with me, how could you ever trust that what someone felt for you wasn’t simply a way of trying to get you to give them a forever life? In light of those questions that you would have to ask yourself, I would have to say no. I like my life, and I’ll take it just the way it is.”
She felt like she was about to be sick. “I didn’t mean to question your feelings for me.”
He put his hands on her shoulders the same way Joe had done in her dream. “The only beings who’ve offered what you’re talking about have been called either gods or devils. One type stays clear of mankind so as not to interfere with our progress, and the other seeks constant involvement. I don’t see either as being very good role models for you.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him firmly between her legs. “I suppose not. Being equals, even if I’ll probably outlive you, has its advantages.”
21
Doodlebug straddled her Blackbird motorcycle on the airport tarmac, waiting for the optimum combination of wind and rain. When it came to weather, all she knew was the storm. The idea of the sky not trying to knock her down and drowned her was as alien as the concept of light streaming down from the heavens. Seeing what the cushy conditions had done to her idol made her glad for the incessant hurricane.
A squall line whipped her short ponytail out from the collar of her bomber jacket and beat it against her cheek. “Time to go.” As the pelting rain diminished and the wind increased, she opened the Blackbird’s throttle to stay ahead of the next downpour. The bike jetted out from under her butt so forcefully she had trouble hanging onto the handlebars, but she’d had the wicked machine dump her on the ground enough times to know the drill.
“Not this time.” She kept her body low against the seat as she scrunched back to the command position. The Blackbird squirreled side to side across the runway but came back to its upright attack once it saw she was in charge.
“So much for first gear.” She pulled in the clutch and gave the foot lever a good quick lift with the toe of her combat boot. When she let go of the handle, the rear tire squealed against the blacktop. “Damn, you’re fast.” She held on better this time, but if it weren’t for the wide expanse of roadway, she feared she’d have gone over the edge.
Third gear brought the bike’s speed even with the hurricane. Freedom from the constant pounding of the weather gave Doodlebug a feeling of invincibility. Even the storm bowed down to the girl on the motorcycle. “Is that all you’ve got, Agnes? I’m not done with you yet.” She shifted again to chase down the rainsquall ahead. The defenseless drops smashed against her oncoming goggles.
She had just shifted into fifth when the white lines on the runway announced she’d need to slow down—or lift off the ground, which seemed entirely possible. Not wanting to dissipate, or worse, trash her new love, Doodlebug reluctantly let off the gas and pulled in the clutch. Cornering wasn’t nearly as fun as jetting off in a straight line, and turning into the mouth of the storm made her wonder about the wisdom of taunting the tempest earlier.
She lined the bike up directly into the oncoming dagger droplets and turned the motorcycle loose. With its knifelike front cowling, the Blackbird slipped through the wind like a newly sharpened sword through tender flesh. Between her wraparound goggles and the beast-machine’s low-profile windshield, Doodlebug was able to tell, more or less, where she was headed. At a combined thrust of over two hundred miles per hour, the rain pellets tore at her clothing and the flesh it was meant to protect.
She hunched her legs tighter against the cowling. The position made her feel one with the machine. “So that’s how it’s done.” At the far end of the runway, she swung the bike around for another run. “No pussyfooting around this time.”
She didn’t wait on the storm. It was no longer a concern. The rain had done its worst and failed to unseat her. The moment the bike started moving forward, she tucked her legs into the indentations of the gas tank, lowered her chest until her eyes were even with the windshield, and twisted the throttle as far as it would go. The front tire lurched off the pavement, but she held on firmly and didn’t ease off of the gas. Leaning even farther forward, she convinced the Blackbird to remain on the ground in spite of its obvious desire to live up to its name.
The moment the acceleration leveled off she hit the gearshift. “If I’m going to make it through all six gears, I can’t take time enjoying the ride.” In second gear, she sliced through t
he wall of water. Before she’d made it halfway down the runway, she shifted yet again. By fourth gear, the wind against her helmet had shifted from behind to ahead. “I am the master of the storm.” No one in hell had ever surpassed the speed of the hurricane. Even the Cormorant was at the mercy of the wind.
After a half-dozen runs up and back on the airport runway, Doodlebug felt she’d gained enough of an understanding of the Blackbird to use it without crashing. She pulled in close to the terminal gate and parked next to the extended ramp. Only her bomber jacket had survived the run unscathed. The loose-fitting jeans that had seen countless battles had been reduced to shredded cutoffs by the storm. Her legs were so lined with bloody lacerations that she looked like a demented zebra. Adrenaline from the ride would only keep her going for so long before she passed out for her normal regeneration.
Removing the skullcap helmet wasn’t nearly as easy as putting it on had been. It was as if her head had expanded to fill the small void. She reached into the satchel between her breasts, pulled out the terry-cloth headband, and scrunched it over her flattened hair.
“What nightmare did you get into now, bitch?” Dooly never was one for polite greetings.
The easiest thing was to simply ignore the gutter princess, but after the gift from Sere, Doodlebug was feeling less hostile toward reality than usual. “Nothing’s broken, so this speed healing shouldn’t take long. Just put your head down and rest your pretty little eyes for a moment.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might have a life of my own? Between you sucking my life force like a vampire from hell and Kendell dragging me off the street in front of my friends like an overly protective mother hen, I’m beginning to wonder if this whole adventure has been worth it.”
Blah, blah, blah. Doodlebug wondered if the girl ever changed her tune. “Be nice, and I’ll take the headband off once my cuts are healed. Keep being a little brat, and I’ll leave it on.”
