Devil's Business bl-4

by Caitlin Kittredge

  CHAPTER 14

  Shocking Jack not one iota, Sal’s garage was locked up tight, doors pulled and padlocked, and lights dark.

  “He better not have done a fucking runner,” Jack told Pete. “If I have to chase him all over California, my mood’s not going to improve one bit.”

  “Try not to be a complete cunt,” Pete said. “Maybe he didn’t know.”

  “For a man who gets that much of a hard-on over a piece of metal and a combustion engine,” Jack said, “he knew. Probably etched that spell on himself. Unlike Mayhew, he doesn’t seem like a bloody idiot.”

  “Just don’t burst in there and start causing mayhem and disaster,” Pete told him.

  “When have I ever, personally and deliberately, caused mayhem and/or disaster?” Jack spread his hands. He felt justified—the mayhem usually wasn’t his fault, and disaster was inadvertent at best.

  “Oh, do you really want me to answer that?” Pete said with wide-eyed false innocence. “Because we’ll be here for a bit.”

  “Shut it,” Jack told her. He banged on the metal door with the flat of his fist. Seconds went by, then minutes. Sal didn’t materialize.

  “There’s a back door,” Pete shouted. Jack picked his way through the rusted field of auto parts that surrounded the garage and tried the lock. Pete rubbed a hole in the grime and peered inside. “Don’t see anything.”

  “He’s there,” Jack said. “Hiding, probably.” He would, if he were in the business of screwing over mages. Jack put his hand over the lock and it popped open. The back of the shop was dark and smelled of stale coffee and motor oil.

  “Wait here,” he told Pete. “Keep an eye open.”

  A door marked OFFICE hung open, and Jack heard muted music from behind it. Sal sat behind his desk, a revolver in one hand and a mostly empty bottle at his elbow. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

  “Yeah, me,” Jack said. “You think I’d be good and gone by now?”

  Sal shrugged. The revolver clunked against the desk. “It’s a .357 Magnum,” he said. “The most powerful handgun in the world. It’s a replica of the one they used in the Dirty Harry movies.”

  Jack ignored his yammering. It seemed nobody in LA could tell reality if it bit them on ass.

  “Who told you to put that spell on the car?” Jack said. “And I’m not going to believe it just happened to be there, on the special car you decided to give especially to me and Pete.”

  Sal laughed and took a pull off the bottle. “You think I’m scared of you?”

  “I think you’re pissing your shorts over something, yeah,” Jack said. “If not me, then I’d really like to know what.”

  Sal raised the revolver. “Get out.”

  Jack shook his head. “You don’t want to do that, mate. Believe it or not, I’m your friend in all this.”

  “Friends, right,” Sal mumbled. “Got no fuckin’ friends left. Friends are leverage, Jack, you know? Friends can bleed if the sons of bitches can’t bleed you.”

  Sal kept mumbling, but he dropped his eyes down to the bottle, and when the revolver dipped Jack grabbed it and punched Sal just under his left eye. Not hard enough to break his hand, or Sal’s cheekbone, but enough to get his attention.

  Sal grunted, chair rolling backward, and his bottle teetered and smashed on the floor. A brown puddle bled slowly into the cracks in the concrete floor. “Well, shit,” Sal said. “Now look what you did.”

  “You want your skull to keep its shape, you’re going to tell me whatever your scummy little part is in all this,” Jack said. He cracked the chambers of the revolver and emptied the bullets out before dropping it on the desk.

  Sal grunted, and fished in his drawers for a pill bottle. He popped the cap and dry-swallowed a handful of small white caplets. “Said I’m not scared of you. What can you do?”

  “It’s either Mayhew, Belial, or Sanford doing it,” Jack said. “So which curtain, Sal? Who wants me kept track of, and why?” He leaned across the desk and grabbed the greasy front of Sal’s uniform, lifting him halfway out of his chair. “As for what I can do … do you really want to find that out firsthand?”

  Sal drove his fist into Jack’s gut, and his air went out of him, along with his balance. He went down, bouncing his chin off the edge of Sal’s desk and bloodying himself all over again. Sal grabbed the revolver, thick bourbon-numbed fingers fumbling with the bullets, sending copper slugs rolling in all directions.

  A decade ago, Jack could’ve gotten his wind back, smashed Sal’s kneecap with his boot, and gotten on with the hard questions. One less trip to Hell, and he could’ve swallowed down the blood coating his tongue and stood up to trade lumps. But it wasn’t, and he hadn’t, so he struggled up as far as one elbow, sucking in air that felt like razor blades embedded in his lungs, before Sal aimed the gun at him.

  “Adios, you fucking Limey cocksucker,” Sal said.

  The office door creaked, and Jack expected Pete, and tried to yell. He had a vision of the slug in her chest, the red blossom growing on her skin, the exit wound spraying crimson mist over the hallway behind her.

  “Salvatore,” a voice said. A man, not Pete. “You know better than that.”

  Jack let himself fall back to the floor. The concrete was cool, and a flourescent tube buzzed above his head, throwing spider-legged shadows into every corner.

  Sal’s face was wan, the boozy colors fled and a rime of blue in their place. His eyes were wide and black with panic, and the gun hung limp in his fist before slipping to the floor. “No,” he said. “No, I did what you asked.”

  “Shooting Winter in the face isn’t part of the deal, friend,” said the man.

  “He’s working for that demon!” Sal shouted. “The one who’s got his teeth in your ass. I was doing you a favor.”

  “Belial can nip at my heels all he wants,” the man purred. “But he’s never going to bite down. He’s a spineless maggot like the rest. You know what I do with maggots, Sally? I squash ’em.”

  Sal raised his hands, backed behind the desk, and sat down. “Whatever you say.”

  The man extended a hand to Jack but kept his eyes on the mechanic. “It is whatever I say, Sally. Don’t forget that again.”

  Jack didn’t take up the man’s offer. He was pleasant enough looking, what old ladies would describe as a nice young man. His slightly flat features were familiar, too, but Jack didn’t bother playing twenty questions with himself on where he knew the face from. He got up, knee and then foot. His head was swimming and his guts still roiled.

  “You’re a tough guy, huh?” said the man.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Jack said. “But who the fuck are you?”

  The man spread his arms. “You don’t remember? That’s hurtful. I’m the man with the plan, Jack.”

  Jack lifted one eyebrow. “Lots of stupid cunts have plans.”

  The man laughed, displaying perfect movie star teeth. “Fair enough. I’m Don.” He held out his hand again. A small star sapphire ring glittered on his pinky finger, like an eye protruding from his flesh.

  Jack found a whisper of familiarity in the voice as well, but couldn’t place it. It bothered him, but not as much as the rest of the mess.

  Don retracted his hand when Jack didn’t take it. “Careful sort, huh?” He grinned wider, face almost in rigor mortis. “Don’t blame you, seeing as I’m the one you’ve been looking for.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Jack took a step back. A human reaction, to get as far away as you fucking could from predators and the unnatural. A reaction that made him look like a coward, and when Don laughed, it just felt all the worse.

  “Don’t worry, Jack. I’m not here to make a steak and kidney pie out of you and the little woman,” he said. “Depending on how our conversation goes, we could be great friends.”

  “I seriously fucking doubt that,” Jack said. “What’s your game, Don?”

  “Survival.” Don shrugged. “Same as you, Jack. Same as Belial. Lions and zebras both
dislike hyenas. Little motherfuckers will eat you clean and laugh while they’re doing it.”

  “And three guesses, but I’ll only need one, you’re the hyena?” Jack said. Don shook his head.

  “No, Jack,” he said. “I’m the fuckin’ big bad wolf.” He pulled a nail file out of his jacket and cleaned under each finger with a short motion. “But enough about me. Let’s repair to someplace a little more hospitable.”

  “No, I think I like it here,” Jack said. Don shook his head.

  “I don’t want to gut your lady friend out there from crotch to collar, but that doesn’t mean I won’t,” he said.

  “You seem to know so much about me,” Jack said. “Then you know that threatening Pete is a royally bad fucking idea.”

  “But effective,” Don said. “You don’t have soft spots, Jack, except for her. She’s going to get you killed one of these days.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh wait, she already has. How was your little vacation in the Pit, Jack? Did the dry air do wonders for you?”

  “If you’re going to try and kill me, do it,” Jack said. “Otherwise, shut the fuck up and let me go about my business.”

  “We’re not done,” Don said. He opened the office door, but instead of leading Jack back down the hallway, he went to the auto bay. The door was up and a sleek black car rumbled, headlights cutting cones of yellow on the dingy walls of Sal’s garage.

  “Take a ride with me,” Don said. “I promise after it’s over, you’ll see things my way.”

  Jack pointed to the back door. “Let me just tell Pete I’m going.”

  “No,” Don said. “Now, or you can clean her insides off your outsides.” The door of the Lincoln swung open, and Don gestured Jack into the back seat. The car was old, upholstered in slick hide that shifted like oil in the low light. “She’s a big girl,” Don said. “I’m sure she can find something to occupy her time until we’re finished.”

  Jack tightened his jaw, but he got into the car. Don needed him alive for something, at least for now. If he really wanted Belial off his scent, he could’ve just sliced Jack, or let Sal shoot him. And Pete would be well and truly pissed off that he’d left, but she’d get over it. Or she wouldn’t, which would probably make his life easier in the long run. Pete hating him was probably how it should go.

  “Good move,” Don said when Jack settled back against the seat.

  “Fuck off,” Jack told him.

  The Lincoln didn’t have a driver, but it backed out of Sal’s garage and purred smoothly to the freeway. Don opened the center console between the seats and drew out a thin black cigar. “Care for?” he said to Jack.

  “No, thanks,” Jack said. “I try to restrict my vices to things that’ll kill me slow.”

  “You’re funny,” Don said. A cherry sprang to life on the end of his smoke. “Didn’t expect that.”

  “What exactly did you expect?” Jack asked.

  “I know a lot about you,” Don said. “Been keeping tabs on you, just like Belial. Enemy of my enemy and all that shit. Knew when my spell went dead that you’d head back to poor Sally back there and threaten to beat the piss out of him. Fortunately, Sal knows what side is the right side. He’s a good boy.”

  “Belial is going to find you one way or the other,” Jack said. “Whether I’m helping him or not. He’s a vicious cunt, that one.”

  “Belial is more concerned with keeping his little hardscrabble patch of Hell in his control than he is with me,” Don said. “I was away for a long time before he ever cared. Nergal made him look bad, is all. I’m older than him, and I’m meaner, but if he wants a stand-up fight, he’ll get one. And his little masters the Princes aren’t going to like the upset in Hell one bit when I give it.”

  Don rolled down the window and let the smoke drift out, trailing behind them. The highways were empty, something Jack knew should never happen at this time of day, and the Lincoln traveled so fast he could feel the vibration of the road. “I’ve walked around the block, Jack. I know when to sit back and let the dogs and the rats fight it out. Whoever’s left, that’s who I’ll deal with.”

  “So, what, you kidnapped me because you’re lonely and wanted to have a chat?” Jack asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Don said. “You don’t have the whole story, Jack. When you do, you’ll be on the right side.”

  “And by right side, you mean your side,” Jack muttered. Don grinned at him.

  “Of course.”

  Jack stayed quiet at that. Don certainly wasn’t what he’d expected, in terms of a boogeyman who’d frighten a demon enough to go through the trouble of compelling Jack to hunt said boogeyman down. He wasn’t sure of Don’s nature just yet, but he didn’t ping his senses like a ghost or a demon, and he’d never stopped smiling since Jack had gotten in the car. That, more than Don’s purported reputation, worried him. You couldn’t trust somebody who was always cheerful. There was usually something wrong with them.

  The Lincoln left the freeway and started to climb into the hills. The barren scrub blurred by so fast it was only a welter of green and brown, and the flashes of Los Angeles in the gaps came and went so quickly they could be a single frame of film.

  “Let me guess: You’re going to tell it to me?” Jack said. That was the thing with demons and their ilk—they always wanted to blather at you, to make you understand how right they were, even as they burned and flayed and ate humans alive. Don wasn’t human, was certainly who Belial was searching for, but Jack couldn’t read much beyond that. He was a blank spot in the Black, something either so old or so strong that magic flowed around him like a stone in a river, leaving a void that shrieked against Jack’s sight.

  “Going to try,” Don said, as the Lincoln cornered, spraying gravel behind it. “It’s not a happy story, but I have high hopes for the ending. I’m not one for a downer, just a slow fadeout before the credits roll. I like a twist. You?”

  “I like knowing that my day won’t consist of listening to smarmy demons talk about themselves,” Jack muttered. “But so far it hasn’t worked out for me.”

  Don lunged forward, leaving no space between Jack, himself, and the seat behind. Jack could feel springs pressing into his spine and his bones creaking from the pressure.

  “I’m not a demon,” Don purred. “I don’t like being called what I’m not, Jack. It’s narrative falseness. It’s not fair to the audience.”

  “Fine,” Jack said. He hated that his heart beat faster, that he could hear blood roaring in his ears almost to the exclusion of Don’s soft voice. He shouldn’t be afraid of flash gits like this any longer. Not after Hell. Not after everything that had come before it.

  Don sat back and grinned. “Good. We’re here.”

  Jack looked through the tinted glass. They were at the crest of a hill, a long gravel road in front of him that swooped down into a canyon. Nestled at the foot of the sunset-colored rock, a few gray buildings and a farmhouse with a distinct tilt to it baked in the California sun.

  “I’ll bite,” Jack said. “Where’s here?”

  Don snapped his fingers and the Lincoln’s doors sprang open, mental raven wings poised for flight. “Home sweet home.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Don’s boots crunched on the gravel. The heels and toes were silver and flashed in the sun, the stippled snakeskin in between crackling as he walked. “Close enough to the city that no white-knight types poke around,” he said. “Far enough to enjoy the beauty of nature.” He flicked the end of his cigar away. “Paradise on earth. Gotta hoof it from here. We take a few precautions, being Belial’s most wanted and all.”

  Jack followed Don, the ripples in the Black growing stronger the closer he got to the farmstead.

  “You like that?” Don said. “Farmer killed his wife and his daughter back in forty-eight or so. Killed two sheriff’s deputies when they came to see what happened. Found out later he had eight whores buried under the floor of his barn. Guess the wife put her nose where it didn’t belong. Sad when that happens.”<
br />
  “Sad, yeah,” Jack said. “They charge you extra for the story?”

  “Something like.” Don smiled. “Real estate around here isn’t what it used to be. Used to be, you couldn’t spit in Los Angeles without coming across a crime scene or a poor sad little murder-victim ghost.”

  Jack watched a crow alight on the ridgepole of the barn, cawing once before it took flight again. Don curled his lip. “One of yours? Or your bitch hag checking up on you?”

  “Wouldn’t know,” Jack said. Under his shirt, the markings of the Morrigan crawled over his skin, as if the wind had ruffled his feathers.

  “Aw,” Don purred. “You and Mommy have a fight?”

  “Would it make you feel better about your goatee looking like a stripper’s pubic hair if I said yes?” Jack snapped.

  Don wagged his finger. “You’re not much fun to have at the party, Jack, and if you don’t cheer up, I might have to throw your ass out.”

  A sagging porch wrapped the farmhouse, weighted down with mattress springs and a rusty icebox. The crow on the barn took flight, screeching. In the bowl of the earth, the heat pressed down against Jack’s skin, radiated from the dirt and from the near-white sky above. The Black here was seared and screaming, hot as an iron and dry as graveyard dust. There were other places that felt the same, but they were concentration camps and mass graves, the sites of enough pain and terror to leave an indelible echo through the layers of life, death, and magic. Jack had never seen so small a patch of earth so infected.

  In the bare dirt yard between the barn and house, a small girl sat crosslegged, pushing two dolls together at the apex of their legs. The dolls’ faces were blackened and melted, and their hair had fused into thin spikes. She looked up at Jack with pure black eyes that were lidless and did not blink.

  “She’s our little one,” Don said. “Not used to people yet. Still got the marks on her from where I cut her free.”

  Jack stared back at the girl until she stuck her tongue out at him. “I see you,” she whispered. “You want this body? You want me to suck your cock? I see it. Don’t lie.”