"Awww." Libby laid a gentle hand along the side of Morris's face for a second. "So, if not me, then who have you been giving referrals to?"
"Well, there's Anita. I sent a couple of people her way."
"Oh. Her."
Morris gave a snort of laughter. "You said that the way I bet Dracula used to say 'Van Helsing.'"
"Not for the same reason."
"She's good at what she does, Libby."
"Well she used to be. But from what I hear lately, she's more interested in who she does than what, if you know what I mean."
Morris grinned at her. "Moral judgments, Ms. Chastain?"
"I'm not a prude, Quincey, you know that. But if the stories are true..." She shook her head.
"Different strokes. In Anita's case, I grant, very different. And lots of them. But she's not the only option. A few months ago I came across a lady in the business who I hadn't been aware of. And I thought I knew everybody."
"Really?"
"Name's Jill Kismet. Lives in New Mexico. Superbly trained, and tough as nails - toward the bad guys, anyway."
"I'd like to meet her, sometime. She sounds a little like our old friend Hannah Widmark, rest her soul."
Morris bit his lip for a moment. "Um, yeah, about that."
Libby turned and looked at him closely. "What?"
"I meant to tell you, but with all the drama since you got here - which is my fault, entirely - I clean forgot. Thing is, I got kind of a funny card, last Christmas."
"Funny ha-ha, or funny strange?"
"Definitely on the strange side," he said. "Paris postmark. On the outside of the card, it just said Peace, with a little image of the Eastern star underneath. Inside, it was blank, except where somebody'd written, S. Clemens was right about those rumors. And it was just signed H."
There was silence in the car. Then Libby said, "Samuel Clemens was the real name of Mark Twain. And Mark Twain once said - or wrote, I forget which - 'Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.'"
"Yep, he surely did."
"Dear Goddess," Libby said softly. "Hannah's alive? How can that be possible?"
"Well, her body was never positively identified, we knew that. Everybody - every thing - in Grobius's compound was pretty much burned to a crisp. And nobody could find any dental records on Hannah to make an ID that way. Maybe she had perfect teeth, and never needed a dentist."
"But, as you just said, everything there was incinerated. You barely escaped yourself."
"Yeah, and even I got a little souvenir on my neck to remind me of the experience."
"I wish I could do more to help you with that, Quincey, I really do. But burns are really hard to treat, even with magic. It's specialist work, and even then it doesn't always succeed. In fact -" Libby stopped speaking suddenly.
"What's wrong?" Morris asked.
"I was just about to say that the Sisterhood has a medical facility that has been doing some good work in developing treatments for burn victims." She looked at Morris. 'It's just outside Paris."
"Well, now. I just wonder..."
"Hannah knows the Sisterhood pretty well, after Idaho," Libby said. "And vice-versa."
Morris rubbed his chin for a second. "I reckon if Hannah is alive and wants to get in touch again, she will. Maybe she doesn't want any visitors. Could be she was scarred a lot worse than I was."
"Well, I think I'll start sending a few prayers in the general direction of Paris every night. Couldn't do any harm," Libby said.
"I think I'll say a few myself." Morris tapped the fingers of one hand on the steering wheel. "Actually, I suppose it's possible I could have some work in the offing. Remains to be seen."
"Really? Do tell."
"Before we left, I got a call from a guy I know named Masterson. His first name's Hugh, I think, but everybody calls him Bat."
"Like the Old West lawman?"
"Exactly. This one's a lawman, too. I first met him when he was a cop in Ohio, but these days he works for the U.S. Secret Service."
"What does he want you to do," Libby said, "help him protect the President?"
"He's not guarding the President these days. They've got him protecting some Senator who's running for President.
"So, what does he want you for? To help keep an eye on this Senator?"
"He didn't say. He did tell me that he's come across something that's 'really fucking weird,' to use his words, and he wants to talk about it. He's flying in tomorrow."
Libby was quiet for a few seconds before saying, "Are you sure you're ready to go back to work, Quincey? Emotionally, I mean."
"I think so, since you've helped pull me out of that downward spiral I was in. It was a good week, Libby. Thank you."
"You're quite welcome. You're pretty good at Scrabble."
"Not as good as you."
"Nobody is," she said. "In the absence of Scrabble, try to keep up with the meditation - it's a far better stress reliever than booze, drugs, or sex."
"I hear you. Anyway, Bat coming out doesn't mean I have to jump back into work, if I don't think I'm ready. The guy just wants to talk. I mean, how bad can it be?"
An hour or so later, as they lay in a tangle of sweaty sheets and scattered pillows, Ashley said lazily, "You don't smoke, do you?"
"No, I don't." Peters glanced at her. "Does that mean you do?"
"Not really," she said. "But the image of the two of us lying here smoking just seems so cinematically perfect. Very French New Wave."
"I don't know how a cigarette, or anything else, would make what just happened more perfect than it was."
She rubbed his bare leg. "More flattery. I love it. You show promise, Peters."
"So, what's the deal?" he asked her. "Does Astaroth run an escort service as a sideline?"
She laughed lightly. "Not quite - although I am here at his bidding."
"Did he, um, hire you? Are you a professional escort?"
"No, honey. In that regard, I retain my amateur status. I'm here more in the nature of a favor."
"Oh." Peters thought for a while. "So, you do favors for Astaroth? Have you... known him long?"
Her voice was suddenly cold and bleak as she said, "I've known him a very, very long time."
Peters wasn't sure what he ought to say to that. Before he could come up with something appropriate, she said, in a more normal tone, "He didn't explain his motives to me all that clearly, but it is unlike Astaroth to have one simple reason for doing anything."
"Yeah, I have no trouble believing that," he said.
"One purpose of my little visit is pretty obvious, I think. I'm here as a reward. You've been working quite diligently on this little assassination project, I understand, and Astaroth decided some recreation was allowed. I trust you will agree that I am first-class recreation."
Peters was shaking his head. "Nope, I'm not buying it. I know enough to understand that the words 'gratitude' and 'demon' don't go together. Not ever."
"I'm not suggesting that Astaroth is motivated by benevolence. That would be a stretch, wouldn't it? No, it's just that he considers himself something of a behaviorist."
Peters closed his eyes for a moment. "Now you've really lost me."
"Motivation, sweetie. Stimulus-response. Fear is a fine motivator, but Astaroth believes the stick is more effective when combined with a carrot, and furthermore - why are you laughing?"
Peters clamped down on the laughter, which threatened to rise into something very like hysteria. "Sorry. I was just having trouble viewing you as a root vegetable."
"Oh, you'll find that both are good for you, if eaten on a regular basis."
"So, that's it? You were sent to give me the best sex of my life because I've been a good boy?"
"Well, there is your little porn problem."
"Hold it - Astaroth's cool with that. He must be."
She turned her head on the pillow and gave him one raised eyebrow. "Because he hasn't dragged you back to Hell for the time you've spent at Lesbian School
girls dot com?"
With everything that had happened to him, on Earth and in Hell, Peters wouldn't have thought himself capable of blushing. He would have been wrong.
Her laughter was gentle. "Oh, don't feel bad about it, honey. It's very well done, for that kind of niche porn. Really quite arousing."
Peters looked at her. "You, uh, like girls?"
With mild exasperation she said, "I'm the woman of your dreams, am I not? Everything you've ever wanted in a female?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
She gave his thigh a stinging slap. "Wrong answer."
"Ouch! Yeah, okay, you're the woman of my dreams."
"And does the woman of your dreams like girls?"
"Well... yeah."
"Then, Q.E.D., I like girls."
"Q.E.D.?"
"Quod erat demonstrandum. The Latin equivalent of Duh!"
"Sorry," Peters said. "Don't mean to be dense."
"It's all right. In fact, if you work really hard, like a good little assassin..." She slowly ran one index finger lightly along his thigh where she had slapped him, with a very different result. "... some night we can actually call Elegant Evening Escorts. We'll have them send over one of their girls who does couples, and have ourselves a nice threeway."
She might have been discussing a recipe for pot roast.
"Or," she continued, "you can just watch me with her, if that turns you on - oh, right, you're male. Of course it turns you on."
"Quod erat demonstrandum?"
Another tinkle of laughter. "Touché, Peters. Touché. We may make a wit of you yet."
"Wait - some night? You mean, this isn't just a one-shot?"
"Afraid not, sweetie. I'm assigned to you for the duration. I hope you don't snore."
"You're assigned to me - assigned to do what?"
She ticked the points off on her fingers. "One, to lend my not inconsiderable intelligence to any problem that may arise which you can't solve yourself; two, to keep you focused on your work and away from ten-minute 'porn breaks' by keeping you so sexually satiated you will consider porn a waste of your time; and three, to provide my assistance, as needed, in carrying out the assassination of Senator Howard Stark and sending that importunate bastard Sargatanas back to Hell where he belongs."
Peters looked at the ceiling for a few seconds. "And, four, to take me back to Hell when the assignment's over?"
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. "I don't have orders on that yet. We'll have to see what develops."
More silence, until he said, "And if you already had instructions to drag me back with you, you'd lie about it, wouldn't you?"
"Naturally. Would you expect anything else?"
"So, I won't know if you're taking me back until it's all over, one way or the other?"
"I'm afraid so, sweetie."
"Well, it's not like I have any choice, is it?"
"Nope - none at all."
"What are you, anyway - a succubus?"
This time, her laughter held derision. "Those simple little fucktoys? Not hardly, my dear man. Not hardly."
"Then what -"
"I am a demon of the fourth rank, three choirs down from Astaroth. He is one of those just below my Lord Lucifer, of course."
"Wait a minute - Astaroth told me he can stay here for only twenty-four hours at a time."
"He spoke truly - unusual for him, when addressing a human."
"He has to go back to Hell, but you can stay? That doesn't make sense."
"It does, in a perverse way. Astaroth, as I said, is a demon of the first order. He had once been high among the ranks of angels, and was one of Lucifer's generals during the Late Unpleasantness."
"Yeah, I guess I heard about that... back there."
"Having been so favored by, um, you know, his defection was that much more of an offense. To the greater offense goes the greater punishment. Astaroth's suffering is thus more severe than mine in every respect, including the amount of time he can spend in this plane of existence."
Peters lay there for a full minute, trying to wrap his mind around these cosmic truths that were being revealed to him - in bed, by a hot, naked woman who wasn't really a woman at all.
Finally he said, "Since telling the truth isn't part of your job description, I'm guessing that the name you gave me earlier isn't true."
"No, but it's close enough. I am known in Hades as Ashur Badaktu."
She leaned over and gently brushed her lips against his. "But you may just call me Ashley."
After that, Peters could not think of any more questions. For a while.
Libby Chastain's flight into JFK had benefited from a tailwind and actually touched down five minutes early. She rescued her suitcase from the baggage return and grabbed a cab that let her off in front of her building a few minutes before 9:00 in the evening. She paid the driver and stepped out into a cold wind that was in marked contrast to the mild temperature of Austin.
Libby was glad she'd made the trip. Quincey Morris had not been quite his old self when he'd dropped her off at Stephen F. Austin, but he seemed to be well on the way. She hoped his Secret Service buddy might have something for him, as long as it wasn't too strenuous or harrowing. He needed to prove to himself that he was still good at what he called the 'ghostbusting' business. Even better would be a case the two of them could take on together.
In the lobby, the elevator was about to close in her face when a man's arm came between the doors and made them reopen. Libby stepped inside and found that the arm's owner was a quiet man in his forties who, she knew, lived on the floor above her condo. She saw that the man, whose name she thought might be Victor, was accompanied by an attractive redhead a little younger than he, whom Libby had also seen around the building.
"Thank you so much," she said to the man, although she let her smile take in the woman, too. "This elevator's so slow, I might've had a long wait until it came back down."
"No trouble at all," the man said. "You're on nine, aren't you?"
"Yes, thanks," Libby said and watched him press '9,' followed by '10.'
She knew the trip would take a while. Might as well be friendly. "I've seen both of you in the building, but we've never met." She put out her hand to the man. "I'm Libby Chastain."
The man shook hands and smiling said, "I'm Vince Cook. And this is my wife, Donna."
"Libby shook the woman's hand, too. It was warm, as if her body temperature might be a little higher than average.
Vince nodded toward Libby's suitcase. "Looks you've been away," he said. "Someplace warm, I hope."
"Actually, I was," she said. "Not the tropics, exactly, but I've been in Texas visiting a friend. It's brutal down there in summer, but very nice this time of year. Quite a contrast with New York right now."
"I hate the cold," Donna told her. "We try to get away for a couple of weeks every winter. We adore Jamaica - such gorgeous beaches."
"I've only seen it in the movies, but it looks fantastic," Libby said.
"There's a resort we stay at every year," Vince said. Libby detected a very slight change in his tone as he said, "It's called Hedonism Two."
Libby nodded. That name rang a bell, although she wasn't sure why. Something she had read somewhere.
"We're leaving a week Sunday,' Donna said. "I can't wait."
The elevator was just passing the fourth floor. As she glanced at the floor indicator, Libby said, just to be saying something, "You must have your bathing suit already packed."
She caught the quick look the two gave each other, along with the small smile of a shared secret.
"Well, no, not really," Donna said casually. A pause. "You don't need a bathing suit at Hedo. Nobody wears them."
Libby nodded and said "Oh," as if it all made perfect sense to her. A moment later, it did. She remembered what she had seen in a magazine article once. Hedonism Two was a swingers' resort. Libby had never been to such a place, and would probably never want to go, but still, it sounded... interesting.
&nb
sp; She looked at the floor indicator again, and saw that the elevator hadn't made much progress. From the corner of her eye she saw Vince and Donna look at each other again, and thought she saw a small nod from Vince.
"Now that we've met, Libby," he said, "why don't you come up for a drink - once you've had a chance to unpack and freshen up, I mean."
"Yes, please do," Donna said. "We'd love to get to know you better." Her voice was pleasant, no more, but Libby thought she detected a hint of something else.
Libby looked at the attractive, middle-aged couple for a moment before responding. She thought she knew what was being offered, and it was more than a drink and casual conversation. This was something Libby had heard about, but not tried. Yet. She could always plead fatigue or a headache, and say she was going to bed, alone.
What came out of her mouth was, "Thanks, I'd love -" and that's when her phone began to fill the small space with a light, bouncy piece of music.
"Excuse me," Libby said. She pulled out her phone and looked at the caller ID: C. O'Donnell. She pressed 'Answer' at once.
"Hi, Colleen."
"Hey, Libby," Colleen's voice said in her ear. "Listen, I need to talk to you about something pretty important. Can you spare some time?"
Libby knew when FBI Special Agent and Sister Witch Colleen O'Donnell said something was important, she wasn't talking about a recipe for lamb stew.
"I'm in the elevator in my building," she said, "heading up to my place. Can I call you back - say, in ten minutes?"
"That'll be fine, Libby. Thank you."
"Talk to you soon," Libby said, and ended the call. She looked at the Cooks, who seemed disappointed. So was Libby - at least, she thought she was.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but this is pretty important. Work stuff. How about a rain check - on the drink, I mean?"
"Of course, absolutely," Donna Cook said, pleasantly, and her husband nodded.
"Stop by any time," he said.
As the elevator finally reached Libby's floor, Vince Cook said, "Your ring tone sounded kind of familiar, Libby, but I can't place it."
"I heard it somewhere, too, years ago," his wife said. "It's from some old TV show, right?"
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