You Slay Me

by Katie MacAlister

  Jim, who had licked Cecile's ears to the point that they were frothy with dog slobber, frowned at me as I waggled the leash meaningfully, but the demon managed to drag itself from the corgi.

  'Time to eat?" it asked hopefully.

  "No, time to go to the hotel and send you back to your fiery little home."

  Jim sat and gave me an odd look. "You can't send me back. I told you that you were my master now."

  I snapped the leash on its collar. "Yes, I know. I'm your master because I summoned you, but you belong to Amaymon, so it's back you go."

  "Geez, what do I need to do, use semaphore? I told you I was unclaimed."

  Amelie sucked in her breath, and with that sound I had the first inkling that something else was about to go very, very wrong with my life.

  "You said that Amaymon kicked you out of his le­gions, but that he'd take you back in a bit," I said slowly. With much portent.

  Jim made a face. "Yes, but before that could happen, you summoned me. You bound me to you. That means you're my master now."

  The inkling turned into a full-fledged flood of horror. "What?"

  Jim grinned; I swear it grinned at me. "It's just you and me, sweet cheeks."

  "It can't do that, can it?" I asked Amelie with more than a little bit of desperation evident in my voice. "It can't refuse to go back? All I have to do is conduct the rit­ual, and it's gone, right?"

  She shook her head. "All demons belong to a lord; that is the nature of their existence. If you summoned one who had been cast out, it would become your demon. Un­less you did not command it so?"

  A wild hope arose within me. I looked at Jim.

  "Do the words 'My name is Aisling. I'm your master' ring any bells with you?"

  My heart joined my stomach as it turned to a leaden ball and promptly dropped to my feet. "Oh, god. This means ... This means I'm ..."

  "Yes," Amelie nodded gravely. "You are now offi­cially a demon lord."

  Oddly enough, I didn't collapse or burst into tears or have a hissy fit, or even throttle Jim right back to Abad­don, even though I really wanted to do all those things. Instead I drank a few more cups of coffee while Amelie looked through her extensive library for any help there might be in getting rid of an unwanted demon.

  "I'm afraid that short of destroying the demon, there is nothing you can do. I do have one piece of good news, though," Amelie said.

  "Hit me with it—I could use some good news," I said as I gathered up my things to leave.

  "You are the only Guardian in existence who is also a wyvern's mate and a demon lord." •

  "Guess I'm just lucky that way, huh?"

  Her lips twisted in a smile. "Luck is one word for it, yes."

  I waved good-bye and trotted out to find a taxi to take me to the address she had given me.

  "Metro's cheaper and has the added benefit of crotches right at nose level," Jim said as I walked toward a main street where Amelie said I'd find a taxi stand.

  "You are in such hot water right now, I don't think you need to be saying anything, especially on a street where people might hear you."

  "You're the one who's on the Venediger's hit list, and I'm in hot water?"

  I stopped listening to Jim, concentrating on what I'd say to the Venediger when I met him, polishing up my apology for the police closing down his bar (even though that wasn't technically my fault), and trying to form a re­quest for help with Drake that wouldn't involve me sell­ing him anything I was attached to, like my soul.

  By the time the taxi pulled up outside the four-story building in a quiet neighborhood in the fourteenth arrondissement, I had my groveling down perfectly. Trees lined a street almost empty of traffic as children ran up and down, romping on the sidewalks, dodging little old ladies with black scarves and mesh bags. The Venediger's gray stone building looked like any other in Paris, com­plete to the ubiquitous black scroll wrought-iron railing that graced the bottom third of every window. Twin white French doors were set back into a recessed entrance.

  "Looks nice," Jim said as I paid the taxi driver. "Maybe he can put us up? It would be a nice change from those dives you like to hang around."

  I shuddered. I didn't even want to think about staying with the Venediger. I had a feeling it wouldn't be at all healthy. "Effrijim, I command thee to keep thy piehole shut until I inform thee otherwise."

  Jim, unable to refuse an outright order, glared at me. I smiled at it, patting its head as I pressed the buzzer. "Why didn't I think of this before? Silence, sweet silence."

  Jim lifted its leg and peed on the side of the entrance-way.

  "Bad demon, bad!" I scolded, quickly straightening up from where I was about to try to rub Jim's nose in the puddle when the door opened. A pretty brunette stood in the open doorway, her bright pink lips pursed in what I suspected was a perpetual pout as she looked first me, then Jim over. She was wearing the sort of black leather straps and fishnet ensemble I had always thought meant bondage queen. All the important parts were covered— just barely—but the rest was left open to inspection. "Oui?"

  "Bonjour. Parlez-vous anglais?"

  "Yes," she admitted rather grudgingly. "What is it you want?"

  "I would like to see the Venediger."

  Her hand tightened on the door, almost as if she thought I was going to force my way into the house. Ha ha, oh ha. Almost made me laugh, that idea did.

  "It's important," I added.

  "He's meditating. Not for anything is the Venediger disturbed when he is communing with his guides."

  "I have a feeling he won't mind being disturbed by me," I said with much loftiness, not a single ounce of which I was feeling. "My name is Aisling Grey."

  Her eyes widened at my name; without a word she stepped backwards, waving me inside, which alternately pleased me (I was special!) and scared the crap out of me (the Venediger must really want to see me to allow his meditation time to be disrupted). Jim at my heels, I fol­lowed her through a surprisingly light, airy living room to a lovely small garden at the back of the house. Pink Lips gestured toward a small wooden structure in the back of the garden, situated next to a tall brick privacy fence. "He is in the gazebo."

  "Thanks," I said. "Um ... excuse me, but what's your name?"

  Suspicion filled her eyes. She took a step backwards. "Why do you ask?"

  I raised my hands to show I was harmless. "Politeness. I thought it would be nice to know who you are."

  "My name is my own," she said, snapping off the words. She turned on her heel and marched back into the house, slamming the door behind her.

  "Sheesh, what did I say? Why wouldn't she tell me her name?" I asked Jim.

  It blinked its eyes at me.

  "Oh for heaven's sake ... you can speak again."

  The answer to that permission was a rude gesture made with a big hairy paw. I tugged on the leash as we started across the yard. "Very clever, Mr. Pottypaws. An­swer my question: Why did that girl get all bristly with me when all I did was ask her name?"

  "I told you once—names have power."

  "Uh..."

  Jim heaved one of his (many) martyred sighs. "If she told you her name, you could have used that against her."

  "You're kidding."

  Jim flared its nostrils, not an easy feat for a Newfie. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

  "Hmm," I said thoughtfully as we strolled across the lovely velvety green lawn toward a white gazebo. Noth­ing about the structure was what I thought of as a tradi­tional gazebo—a circular covered wooden deck with seats going around the perimeter. This building was made of wood, all right, whitewashed wood, but the windows were standard size and bore tinted glass panes. There was also a solid-looking door. The fence beyond the gazebo was at least ten feet high, made out of solid red brick.

  Evidently the Venediger liked his privacy even in his backyard.

  I took a deep breath as I stopped before the closed door, mentally running one more time over my apology and plea for help. "OK, I can do thi
s. I'm a professional. I'm in control. I have a demon, and I know how to use it."

  "Do you have a history of insanity in your family? 'Cause I think what you're about to do is downright stu­pid."

  "Comments from the peanut gallery are entirely op­tional," I said, raising my hand to knock on the door. The second my knuckles struck wood, the door opened. Slowly. With much creaking. I stood in the open door­way, my hand still raised to knock as I gazed inside. Ev­idently there were skylights, because the closed gazebo was filled with light shining down in beautiful golden beams.

  Light that caressed the figure of a man hanging upside down.

  Light that shone off the highly polished handle of the seax that had been plunged into the man's chest.

  Light that glinted off the blood pooled below, captured in the black-etched symbols of Ashtaroth.

  Jim pushed against my leg to peer inside. "Well, now, there's a sight you don't see every day."

  "Voulez-vous cesser de me cracker dessuspendant que vous parlez," I said, my heart pounding wildly.

  "There's the spitting-in-my-face saying," Jim said softly to itself.

  "J'ai une grenouille dans mon bidet!" I growled.

  "And the frogs."

  "T'as une tete afaire sauter les plaques d'egouts," I wailed.

  "Face like a manhole cover. Can merde be very far be­hind?"

  "Merde!" I bellowed.

  "You can say that again," Jim said.

  10

  "Why does this keep happening to me?" I wailed, wav­ing my hands around wildly. "Why, why, why? What am I, a dead body magnet?"

  "You want everyone in the neighborhood to hear you, keep it up," Jim advised, looking over its shoulder toward the house.

  "Ack!" I shoved Jim inside the gazebo and closed the door behind us. "Don't touch anything. Oh, my god, he's been killed!”

  "Looks like the same setup as the other place," Jim said, nosing around the circle. "Smells the same, too."

  I wrung my hands, my mind whirling like a hamster chained to a wheel, forced to run around and around and around without stop. "He's dead! The Venediger is dead! Right in front of me, he's dead!"

  "Yeah, I think we've established that. Are you hyster­ical?" Jim asked. "Should I slap you upside the head?"

  The threat of being slapped by a demon allowed me to get a grip on myself (although it was a close thing there for a few seconds). I took a few deep breaths to get some much-needed oxygen heading toward my hamster-on-a-wheel brain. "OK. I'm in control. I'm confident."

  "But are you a professional?" Jim asked.

  I circled the upside-down body of the Venediger, gnawing on my lower lip as 1 examined him. "He's hang­ing by one foot. His hands are bound lo his sides. He has a knife in his heart. Oh, merde, this is the Second Demon Death, isn't it?"

  "Yup. All the classic signs, right down to the sum­moning circle beneath him."

  I reached across the circle to place two fingers on the Venediger's hand. It was cooling, but not yet cold. He hadn't been dead long, maybe a half an hour. As I took my hand away, an object fell from his grasp. Without thinking, I picked it up. It was about the size of a silver dollar, a flat, round, dull gray-striped stone that was chased in gold, a paper-thin golden dragon limned onto the back. "What the heck is this?"

  "You asking me?"

  "No," I said slowly. I turned the stone over in my hands, unsure of what I should do with it. It felt heavier than it looked, and made the tips of my fingers tingle. "Power. It has power. Since it was clutched in his hand, more than likely it was the Venediger's, but the dragon is the same style as the one on my aquamanile and the chal­ice I saw in Drake's lair. Didn't Drake mention some­thing about the aquamanile being one of a set of three?"

  I gnawed on my lip for another moment, then tucked the stone into my bra for safekeeping. If it turned out to be nothing, I could easily return it. If it was valuable, per­haps I could use it to charm Drake into helping me. "Be­sides, the Venediger's dead, so it's simply a matter of finders keepers."

  "Oh, yeah, that sounds ethical," Jim said dryly.

  I ignored the demon as I paced around the body again before squatting on my heels to look closely at the circle.

  being careful not to touch it. "It looks like it's been drawn with a marking pen."

  "Wood floor," Jim pointed out.

  "Oh, yeah. At least it's easy to see the demon symbols. Bafamal again."

  "Popular guy. Gets around a lot. Likes disco. Favors shiny Italian suits when it dons human form," Jim said helpfully.

  "Hmm." I bit back the urge to run away from the dead body, from Paris, from everything, and instead held my hands close to the circle as I closed my eyes and opened myself up to the power within it. The light in the gazebo as viewed through my inner sight was so brilliant, it made me flinch. Mentally I looked around the room, but there was nothing to see but the body, the blood, and the circle. "The circle is closed, but no demon was summoned. Bafamal was here, though."

  "Went to ground." Even with my eyes closed, I could see Jim nosing around a faint black smear on the wooden flooring. "Don't suppose you can feel who drew the cir­cle?"

  I dragged my sightless gaze back to the circle and al­lowed myself to really see it. There was something about it that felt. .. familiar. "It's someone I know, someone I've met since I came to Paris, but who it is ... I can't see. I just can't see." A finger of ice chilled my back, making me shiver. "I know this: It's someone with a truly evil soul."

  Jim looked toward the body of the Venediger and pulled a face. 'That pretty much goes without saying."

  "Darn it, I can almost feel who drew the circle. I must not be doing something right. If I can just concentrate enough ..." I pictured my magic door, pictured it open­ing as it had when I channeled Drake's heat, when I felt the power of his fire as it burned through my body, giv­ing me strength, giving me energy.

  "Uh .. . Aisling . .."

  "Shh, I'm concentrating." I embraced the dragon fire, shaping it, molding it, turning it from a force that took life to one that created it.

  "Aisling, I think you should see this."

  "Just a sec—I'm almost done." Drake's dragon fire was the key to my power, about that I was sure. I took the shaped energy I had drawn from within me and gave it form.

  "How do you like your dead man, rare or well done?"

  I opened my eyes, once again aware of a vague sense of loss as I was confined to just normal sight.

  The gazebo was on fire.

  "What the hell?"

  "Abaddon, not—"

  "Crap on rye!" I interrupted, stared at the flames lick­ing at the back wall of the gazebo. "Didn't I tell you not to touch anything?"

  "I didn't do that—you did. The minute you started breathing heavy and doing your Mme. Aisling stuff, the fire started."

  "Criminy dutch," I snarled as I got to my feet, cough­ing as the smoke from the fire stung my throat and eyes. "Why does everything happen to me?"

  "I don't think now is the time to debate the cata­strophic nature of your life. Now is the time to get out of here before we become barbecue."

  "I think you're right, but not only because of the fire—I'm more worried what Inspector Proust will think. He might know I didn't murder Mme. Deauxville, but he is not going to be a happy camper if he finds me here. Oh, blast, Pink Lips!"

  "Maybe she won't say anything," Jim suggested as I opened the door a couple of inches to scan the garden.

  "You think?"

  "Naw, I was just trying to make you feel better."

  "Oh, you're a big help."

  "All my masters tell me that."

  The fire was gaining strength, the bench beneath the wall now burning steadily. I squinted through the grow­ing smoke at the Venediger. "Shouldn't we try to get him down?"

  "It's him or you, chicky."

  "I vote me."

  "For once, I'm with you."

  I waved Jim forward, slipping out the door and closing it carefully. I paused for
a second, then turned back and with the hem of my tunic wiped the doorknob clean.

  "Prints," I told Jim as I shooed it toward the house.

  "The building is about go bonfire, and you're worried about fingerprints?"

  I shot it a glare. "I bet you if I searched hard enough, I could find a do-it-yourself neutering kit."

  Jim looked thoughtful. "Point taken."

  I hesitated before the flagstones leading lo the patio. "I wonder if we should call the police. It feels wrong to just leave the Venediger hanging there. After all, if Pink Lips tells Inspector Proust I was here, and I didn't raise a fuss about finding the body, won't he think I'm involved?"

  Jim took the edge of my tunic in its mouth and tugged me sideways along a narrow crushed-stone path that ran the length of the house. "You don't think you're involved now?"

  "Yeah, but maybe I should call the fire department—"

  "Halte!" A masculine voice yelled from the house. A man in a policeman's uniform stood in the doorway looking in my direction. He turned and gestured to his left, where two other men came around the far side of the house, both in plain clothes. I recognized one of them as being on Inspector Proust's CID team. The man in the uniform paused in the doorway and pointed at me. "'Arretez-vous ou vous etes!"

  "Jim!" I yelled, spinning on my heel and taking off in the opposite direction, heading for the non-police side of the house. "Help me!"

  "Make it a command," it yelled at me.

  1 stopped long enough to bellow, "Effrijim, I com­mand thee as thy sovereign master to attack the men who would stop me... but don't hurt them seriously, and don't let yourself get hurt, either, OK?" before darting down the crushed-rock path toward the wooden fence that met the brick one. Behind me, Jim started woofing in proper dog tones. I stopped at the gate, struggling with the catch, suddenly worried about Jim. All I saw of him was a giant black blur as he jumped the men. One of the plainclothes detectives was running away, talking into a handheld radio. The uniformed cop was on the ground, writhing. Jim was snapping and growling at the second detective.

  "Jim, heel!" I yelled, then drew the gate open and raced out of it. I made it the width of the house when I ran into a six-foot-tall broadleaf hedge that merged seam­lessly with the front corner of the house. Behind me Jim panted, the sounds of yelling coming from the back gar­den.