by E J Frost
I know one. Inconveniently, he’s a faerie. “True,” I admit. “You’ll like this one anyway.” I run my fingers over my face, wish I wasn’t so bruised and puffy, and rise to meet Peter.
A huge, red-haired man strolls through the door of my office, tapping one of my business cards against his teeth. He takes in my office, me and Lin with a quick flick of his eyes. As his eyes pass over me, they flash neon-blue.
I stagger back, catch myself on the edge of my desk.
The demon smiles and holds out his hand to Lin. “Jou,” he says.
Lin blushes like a nerd teenager who has just been noticed by the captain of the football team. “Lin.” She shakes his hand, and he holds hers a moment longer than necessary.
At least he didn’t kiss it. I’d have thrown up. Again.
“Are you a friend of Tsara’s?” Lin asks, recovering some of her cool.
“Somethin’ like that.” The demon gives her a toned-down version of his wicked leer.
“Then I’ll leave you two to talk,” Lin says graciously. She glances at me and frowns at whatever version of shocked and horrified is playing across my face. But she’s already in motion, moving towards the door, and the demon makes a show of holding it open for her and closing it behind her.
He seats himself in one of my desk chairs and crosses his legs at the ankle, making the simple action both suggestive and obscene. I watch him, gripping the edge of my desk for support.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss.
“Thought I’d drop by and see how you’re doin’.” He grins, turns it into that indecent leer. “You look like shit warmed over, witchy-poo.”
“You need to leave,” I say. Before I start screaming. “I have an appointment—”
“At noon. Mr. and Mrs. Simons, right?” At my fractional nod he continues. “Yeah, they’ll reschedule. So will your one o’clock. We got some things to hash out, you an’ me.”
I back a step away. Jumping through my office window sounds like a better idea than hashing anything out with a demon.
“So.” He flicks my business card with his thumb. “Tsara Elizabeth Faa, huh?” He pronounces my name correctly, Zara, instead of the way most strangers try to say it.
I swallow against the sudden dryness of my throat. It can’t be good, a demon knowing my full name. His grin says he knows what I’m thinking, and is happy about it. A happy demon. I edge another step back, putting the desk between him and me.
He flicks the business card casually into the air. The white and green card winks gold, then explodes in a puff of flame.
“Tsara,” the demon says, rolling my name around in his mouth. “I like it. Better than Zee-Zee. I was havin’ trouble picturing it, calling you Zee-Zee while I’m fucking you.”
The screaming starts in the back of my head. I reach and unsheathe my churi. Hold it tight against my leg. It’s a better defense than the desk, at any rate.
The demon’s eyes flick to the knife, then back to my face. “That a threat?” he asks blandly.
I shake my head. I definitely do not want to threaten him. Not if I don’t have to. Because I have no idea what he’s capable of. “It just makes me feel better.”
The leer disappears and he gives me a very narrow and unfriendly look, which makes me shiver. “If I decided to come at you now, that wouldn’t make a fucking bit of difference.”
He says it with utter confidence, and although all demons are liars, I don’t think he’s lying about this. He could probably kill me without even thinking too hard about it. That he hasn’t yet both relieves and terrifies me.
I nod shakily.
“Keep it out, then. It might come in handy. Here.” He reaches down the front of his pants. My eyes widen and my hand on the churi shakes.
When he withdraws his hand, he’s holding a thick roll of papers. Where did they come from? His pants are much too tight to have concealed those. He unrolls the papers across my desk and maneuvers the stack around with two fingers so it’s facing me.
Puzzled, I peer at it. A warm, musky, leather scent rises off the papers. More than I wanted to know about how what’s down his pants smells, really.
I scan the first paragraph, reading aloud, “This Agreement dated blank, between one, Tsara Elizabeth Faa, hereinafter ‘the Seller’ and two, the Princes and Overlords of the Innumerate Legions of Darkness, hereinafter ‘the Buyer’—” I break off and glare at him. “What is this?”
His leer is back. His canines look very sharp, even if he isn’t a vampire. “Paperwork.”
I shove it back across the desk at him. “Go to Hell.”
“Been there.” The demon flicks his fingers and my business card appears between them again. Didn’t he just incinerate it? “And when I go back, I’m planning on takin’ you with me. Or part of you, at least.”
Now I raise the churi. He can take that as any kind of threat he wants. “Fuck you. I’m not selling you my soul. I’m not letting you take me to Hell. You might as well bring it now and we’ll see what piece of you I can take with me.”
The demon tips his head back and roars with laughter.
Asshole. I hate it when scary creatures find me amusing.
When the demon’s laughter dies down to a chuckle, he says, “You’re feisty. I like that. You could be sexy, too, if you took that shit out of your hair and dressed in somethin’ other than a sack.”
My hand rises to my hair of its own volition. Touch the black cherry-streaked strands. “There’s nothing wrong with my hair. And you can talk!” I glare at his brilliant red dreadlocks, which are pulled back today with a leather thong.
The demon laughs again, then surges to his feet. I step back, into the small space between my desk and the window. Another step and I’ll be pressed against the glass. Nowhere to go. I think about bolting for my hearth room, but the idea of losing a foot-race to the door with the demon keeps me immobile.
The demon leans over my desk and breathes on me.
I expect power to hit me in a wash. Fire licking over my skin. Something.
But there’s nothing. Just a warm brush of air, and a faint, spicy scent. Like ginger or cinnamon.
“Better,” says the demon. He sits back down, leather pants creaking. He brushes the papers he’s put on my desk with two long fingers, and they disappear in a puff of flame. “If you won’t enlist, I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.”
I’m trembling all over. Flushed with adrenaline from the attack I expected that didn’t happen. Shakily, I reach for my desk chair, sink into it. “Just leave me alone.”
My relatives’ suggestion of a substitute is beginning to have some appeal.
“Sorry, sweet meat. You got enough power to light up three levels of Hell, even if you don’t know how to use it. When I go, you are comin’ with me. One way or another.”
I curl into myself. Try to control how hard I’m shaking. “I’m not damned.” Nothing I’ve done has been that bad. There may be shadows on my soul, but I’m not lost. “You can’t make me sign.” I don’t know much about demons, but I know that. They can’t force you to do anything against your will. “So we’re at an impasse.” I give in to idea of a substitute, even though it makes me feel filthy. “Why don’t you find someone else to torture?”
He stretches. Tilts his crotch at me obscenely. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll catch some other fish while I’m here. But they’re just appetizers. You’re the entrée. I haven’t felt power like yours since John-fucking-Dee.”
He’s lying. Trying to flatter me. Because he’s a demon. I shiver. “Go fish, then. I’m busy.” And scared and sick and hurting.
“Sure.” He shrugs; the leer broadens. “Gimme your address and I’ll head out.”
“My what?”
“Where you live,” the demon clarifies.
“I know what an address is! Why do you need it?”
The demon shrugs. “You got somewhere else in mind?”
I stand, and control a scream only through titanic ef
fort. “For what?”
“For me to rack. I had a long night, cleaning up your shit. Figured I’d sleep at your place for a couple of hours. Then I need to hit the mall. This is all I could find that fit in the dead bitch’s closet.” He fingers his black tee, and as he does so, I see a thin leather thong strung around his neck. Something small and white hangs from the middle of the cord.
My tooth. He’s wearing my goddamned tooth. No wonder he found me.
“You are deeply nuts if you think I’m inviting you into my house.”
He tilts his head to the side, watches me with those gleaming eyes. “What was that? ‘Cause you know, witchy-poo, you can tell me—”
Or I can take it out of your head.
I shudder. “Stay out.”
His leer stretches so wide he looks like a shark. Too late. My blood’s runnin’ through your veins. Gives me easy access any time I want. So play nice.
His blood’s still inside me? I gag, slap my hand over my mouth. “Go back to Rowena’s,” I hiss through my fingers.
“You miss the morning news? Tragic fire. Three people killed. Messy, messy.”
“Three?! But—”
The demon shrugs. “I haven’t been topside in a while. Forgot my own strength.”
I shudder. And he wants to stay at my place? Not a chance.
You’re stallin’. An’ I’m losing patience. I feel him ruffle through my mind. I clamp down, try to push him out. But my mental muscles are flabby. I haven’t done anything like this since college. The demon easily plucks the memory of where I live out of my head.
He stands and moves toward the door. “See you later.” He blows me a kiss.
Not if I can help it.
“You want anything particular for dinner?” he asks, his innocent question ruined by his wicked leer.
“Get out!”
He chuckles and sidles out of my office.
I sink back into my desk chair. When my shaking finally subsides, I pick up the phone.
My first call is to Manny Goldberg, to tell him that I’ve got his thrice-damned ring. The second call is to Lin’s brother, Wen-Long, after I get his number from Evonne. Wen answers his cell on the second ring. “Talk at me.”
“Hi, this is Tsara Faa—”
“Linnie’s friend. How’s it going?”
I clear my throat. “Not so good actually. I’m calling for advice. But I, uh, I wonder if we could keep this between us? I don’t want to worry Lin.”
“No probs. The big sis, she is a worrier.”
I manage a weak laugh. “Yes, she is. So, um, this is the thing. I’ve been tracking down a ring—”
“An inferiarcus. Linnie mentioned it.”
He knows the technical term for it. I take that as a good sign and push on. “Right. And, well, it turns out that it actually works. That is, uh, someone used it to summon a demon—”
“Hate it when that happens.”
Small laugh. I’m getting better. “Me, too. Any ideas on how I send this demon back? I don’t know what to do. I’ve never dealt with a demon before.”
“Me, neither. The dead are more my thing.” I hear a scritching noise over the phone, like he’s scratching a bristly chin. “You got any idea what flavor it is?”
“Flavor?” I repeat, not sure I’ve heard him correctly.
“Uh-huh, there are different kinds of yaoguai. Might help if I knew what type it was.”
The really scary type. “No idea. I could, um, ask him.”
“You could?”
What harm could it do? “Yeah, hold on.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece, in case I end up cursing out loud. Or screaming.
It’s not even an effort to reach the demon. All I have to do is think about him and I can feel him, right there, in the back of my mind. Are you busy invading my home?
Nope, still driving. Your memories are fucking confusing. And who put these one-way streets all over the place?
I control a mental ‘ha’. Boston is a maze for the uninitiated. I hope he spends the next several days trying to find his way out of East Cambridge. Maybe the locals will take care of him for me. Some of them are scarier than he is. I have a question. What flavor demon are you?
Butter pecan, he thinks, without missing a beat. Why?
I roll my eyes at the ceiling. I hate demons. Never mind.
Aw, fuck. Now I’m going the wrong way. C’mon, witchy-poo, help me out. How do I get to your place from Binney Street?
He’s screwed. I’ve never figured that out in all the years I’ve lived here. No idea. Stop and ask directions. The natives will help you.
Or eat him. A girl can hope.
He chuckles into my mind. Yannow, witchy-poo, I could get to like you.
I uncover the receiver. “He’s not being helpful,” I tell Wen.
“Sounds like a demon. Listen, I’ve just been trying to remember some of grandfather’s stories. Most demons want something. Like true immortality. That’s why they make their Journey to the West and all. What’s this demon want?”
I sigh. “My soul.”
“Oh.” He’s silent for a moment. “That’s . . . bad.”
“You have no idea.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s not get negative here. I’ve got an idea, but I want to run it past this guy I know first. Can I call you back?”
“Any time.”
“It might be tomorrow. This guy’s hard to get a-hold of sometimes.”
A night with the demon in my house. I’m staying in a motel. “Sure. Thanks a lot. I appreciate the help.”
“No probs.”
After he hangs up I sit and stare at the phone for several minutes. I’m out of ideas. Out of resources. I don’t know how to get rid of the demon and I don’t know who else to call for help. Finally, I rise and make my way into my hearth room. If I can’t help myself, I might as well help others. And a cup of decaf hazelnut crème won’t hurt, either.
Chapter 15
I stay late, waiting for Manny, who has promised to pick up the ring on his way home. After he comes and goes, with a hug that seems heartfelt and would be nice if I wasn’t so sore, I potter around my office. Clearing my desk. Tidying up. Dictating needless file notes. Anything to keep myself occupied.
I’m just beginning to wonder how bad it would be to sleep on Lin’s acupuncture table when the phone rings.
I nearly jump out of my skin. The night service is on. Calls shouldn’t be coming through to my line.
Warily, I pick it up. “Hello.”
“You’re late,” the demon drawls. “Dinner’s gettin’ cold.”
I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. “Leave me alone.”
“Ain’t gonna happen. When’re you comin’ home?”
As long as he’s there? Never. “I’m not.”
“Wrong answer,” he says. His voice drops, grows darker. “Try again.”
“I have too much to do here,” I improvise. “I’m going to pull an all-nighter.”
The demon scoffs. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Be ready.”
“I’m not coming home,” I grit through my teeth.
“Wanna bet?” It’s a growl now. “Remember the easy way and the hard way? The easy way is that you’re standin’ outside in that fucking ugly coat when I get there. And the hard way—”
I don’t want to hear what the hard way involves. “I get the picture.”
“Good. See you in ten.”
How he intends to get from Porter Square to Government Center in ten minutes, I don’t know. Maybe he’ll get pulled over for speeding. Here’s hoping that Boston’s finest are on my side for once.
“Fine,” I say and hang up the phone.
Reluctantly, I close up the office and retrieve my fall coat from the hall closet. It’s not ugly. Well, not very ugly. It’s army surplus from the Goodwill store on Mass. Ave.: olive green wool, and warm as toast. Not very stylish, though, I have to admit. I shrug it on self-consciously and cuddle it around me while I wait for the demon.
He pulls up exactly twelve minutes later.
“You’re late,” I say sourly when he rolls down the driver’s side window.
“You’re impressed. Admit it.”
I roll my eyes and remain leaning against the locked front door of the clinic. “Whose car did you steal?” I don’t recognize it. I hope he hasn’t taken one of my neighbor’s cars.
The demon gives me an innocent look, ruined by the strange shadows the streetlights cast into the car and the electric gleam of his eyes. “Steal? I inherited this.” His teeth glitter in the streetlights. “Gotta give the dead bitch this, she had good taste.”
The car is sleek and silver and looks very expensive. Very Rowena. “She’d be delighted to hear that, I’m sure,” I say.
“She’d be delighted to hear anything other than her own screams at this point,” he says. “Stop fucking around and get in.”
I shudder and plod over to the car. He reaches across and opens the passenger door for me. A polite demon. Perfect.
I sink into the seat. The smell of leather rises around me. The demon puts the car into gear and pulls smoothly away from the curb.
“Is she really?” I ask when the silence stretches and I can’t think of anything other than Rowena screaming as her soul is violated over and over again.
“Really what?” the demon responds, without taking his eyes off the road.
“Is she really in Hell?”
The demon grunts. “Why d’you care? She tried to kill you.”
“She’s my friend . . . or she used to be.” I shrink deeper into my seat. “Is she in Hell?”
“You can ask her yourself when we get there.”
I turn away and stare out the window at the passing buildings. “Screw you.”
We drive in silence over the Charles and through Cambridge. The demon navigates the back streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He even makes the correct turn through Harvard Square, weaving through the college students who clot the sidewalks and spill carelessly into the road. I grind my teeth in irritation. Driving in Boston is a trial. I had a hundred near misses before I lost my license. The demon makes it look easy.
