Working for the Devil

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Necromances.

  On the other side of the bridge the dog waited, sleek and black; His high pointed ears focused forward, sitting back on His haunches. I touched my heart and then my forehead with my right hand, a salute. “Anubis,” I said in the not-dream, and my lips shaped the other sound that was the god’s personal name, that-which-could-not-be-spoken, resonating through me.

  I am the bell, but the god puts His hand upon me and makes me sing.

  I breathed out, the warmth of His comfort descending on me. Here in this refuge I was safe even from Lucifer—demons did not tread in Death. At least, I’d never seen one here.

  Sometimes, especially after a long stint of working one apparition after another, I wanted to stay. Almost needed to stay. No other Necromance could enter my Hall, even those that could speak to Anubis as their psychopomp. Here I was blessedly alone, except for the dead and the god.

  The cipher of the god’s presence in the form of a dog pressed closer. I stroked His head. Silently, I felt Him take the crushing weight of the problem and consider it. Blue crystal walls and floors sang a tone that washed through me, pushing away fear and pain as they always did. The souls of the dead rushed past, crystal draperies fluttering and sliding past the edge into the well of souls, impelled down the great expanse of the ballroom of infinity, I curled my fingers in the dog’s fur and felt a jolt of warmth slide up my arm.

  My left shoulder twinged. The dog looked up, sleek black head inquiring; then nodded, gravely. I found myself laughing. It was all absurd. The demon’s mark did not rob me of my ability to walk in Death. I was under the protection of my patron, the Lord of the Dead, what did I have to fear?

  Nothing.

  I sat straight up, bright metal peeking out between hilt and scabbard. The demon looked down at me, his green eyes subdued now. The file started to slide off my stomach.

  I grabbed for the red file, propping the sword to the side, using the floor to brace the end of the scabbard so I could slide the metal back in. It took me a few moments to get situated, but Jaf waited patiently, then handed me a cup of steaming coffee. “Were you dreaming, or Journeying?” he asked.

  “Neither.” The contact with the psychopomp is private; other Necromances don’t talk or write about it easily—and never to strangers or other psis. I would most definitely not tell this demon about it. I accepted the coffee cup, sniffed delicately at it. Good and strong. He’d even added a little bit of creamer, which is how I like my coffee. “Thanks.”

  He shrugged, folded his hands around the mug he’d chosen. It was the blue one, an interesting choice. Most people chose the white one, a few chose the red geometric TanDurf mug. Only one other person I’d allowed in my house had chosen the blue Baustoh mug.

  Maybe the gods were trying to tell me something.

  I yawned, scrubbed at my eyes, reached over and hooked up the phone. I’m one of the few people left without a vidshell. I don’t want anyone seeing my face unless it’s in person. Call me a Ludder, but I distrusted vidshells. And in the privacy of my home, if I wanted to answer the phone naked it was nobody’s business but mine.

  I keyed in the number. The electronic voice came on, I punched in a few buttons, the program checked my balance and informed me the pizza would be at the door in twenty minutes. I hung up, yawning again. “Pizza’s on its way,” I said. “You can eat human food, right?”

  “I can,” he agreed. “You’re hungry?”

  I nodded, took a sip of coffee. It burned my tongue, I made a face, settled the file in my lap. The tapestry hung on my west wall fluttered uneasily, Horus’s eyes shifting back and forth. “I lost lunch and breakfast back in that alley, and I need food or I start talking to dead people.” I shivered. “Without meaning to,” I added. “Anyway, I hope you like pepperoni. Make yourself at home while I take a look at this.”

  He backed away without looking, dropped down in a chair next to a stack of Necromance textbooks holding up a potted euphorbia. Then he just sat, his eyes narrowed, holding the coffee under his nose but not drinking it, watching me.

  I opened the file.

  Seconds ticked by. I really didn’t have the courage to look down yet.

  I sipped at my coffee again, slurping, taking in air to cool it. Then I looked down at the file. There was the grainy police laseprint that made my stomach flipflop—Santino getting out of a car, his long icy-pale hair pulled back and exposing his pointed ears, the vertical black teardrops over his eyes holes of darkness. I shut my eyes.

  “Get down, Doreen. Get down!”

  Crash of thunder. Moving, desperately, scrabbling . . . fingers scraping against the concrete, rolling to my feet, dodging the whine of bullets and plasbolts. Skidding to a stop just as he rose out of the dark, the razor glinting in one hand, his claws glittering on the other.

  “Game over,” he giggled, and the awful tearing in my side turned to a burning numbness as he slashed, I threw myself backward, not fast enough, not fast enough—

  I shook memory away.

  Last seen in Santiago City, Hegemony, it said, and gave a date five years back. That’s the day Doreen died, I thought, taking another slurp of coffee to cover up my sudden flinch. He could be anywhere in the world by now. He had been using the name Modeus Santino, rich and elusive owner of Andro BioMed . . . we’d thought he was cosmetically modified; the rich got altered to look like whatever they wanted nowadays. After the murder investigation, we found out Andro BioMed was a front for another corporation. But the paper trail stopped cold, since the parent corporation had filed Andro under the Mob corporate laws, effectively rendering itself anonymous.

  I hated the Mob like I hated Chill. It wouldn’t have hurt any of them to tell us where Santino had gone, it wasn’t like we were trying to bring down the Mob as a whole.

  We’d squeezed every Mob connection in town and made ourselves a few enemies and finally had to admit defeat. The ancient law of omerta still reigned even in this technological age. Santino had vanished.

  More pictures.

  Pictures of victims.

  The first one was the worst because the first one was Doreen lying under the photographer’s glare, her legs twisted obscenely aside, her slashed throat an awful gaping smile. Her chest cracked open, her abdominal cavity exposed, her right thigh skinned all the way down to the bone and a chunk of the femur excised by a portable lasecutter. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful, but it was still . . .

  I looked up at the ceiling. Tears pricked behind my eyes.

  Someday someone’s going to find out what a soft touch you are, Danny, Reena’s voice echoed through years. I hadn’t thought of her in a while, no more than I would think of any other deep awful ache. Someone had once accused me of being unfeeling. It wasn’t true—I felt it all the way down to the bone. I just didn’t see any need to advertise it.

  The doorbell rang, chiming through the silent house. I was halfway to my feet before Jaf reached the hallway. I sank back down on the couch, listening. The pizza delivery boy’s voice was a piping tenor—must be the kid with the wheelbike, I thought. The murmur of the demon’s voice replying, and a shocked exclamation from the tenor. Maybe Jaf tipped him, I thought, and forced a shaky smile. I already could smell cheese and cooked crust. Yum.

  The door closed, and a hot stillness took over the house. The demon was checking my house shields. It was faintly rude—he didn’t trust me to have my own house guarded?—but then I set my jaw and turned Doreen’s picture over.

  Santino hadn’t had time to do his usual work-up on Doreen, but there were other pictures, familiar from the case. He had taken different things from each—blood, different organs—but always the femur, or a piece of it. As serial killers went, he was weird only in that he took more numerous trophies than others.

  That had been back when the police could afford my services. I still did a turn every now and again, mostly on cases Gabe was working.

  I owed Gabe. More important, she was my friend.

  He was a
demon, I thought. It all makes sense now. Why didn’t he taste like a demon? I wasn’t THAT inexperienced . . . and why hasn’t Lucifer tracked him down before now?

  I looked up. Jaf stood at the entrance to the living room. My tapestry was shifting madly now, woven strands moving in and out, Horus shimmering, Anubis calm and still, Isis’s arms beckoning. “Why hasn’t Lucifer tracked him down before now?” I asked. “Fifty years is a long time.”

  “Not for us,” he said. “It might as well have been yesterday.”

  “Because only humans were being carved up.” I felt my eyes narrow. “Right?”

  He shrugged. The coat moved on him like a second skin. “We don’t watch every serial killer and criminal in your world,” he said. “We have other ways to spend our time. Our business is with those who want to evolve.”

  “Get some plates for the pizza, please.” I rubbed at my forehead, delicately, with my fingertips. Looked back down at the file.

  A teenage girl’s eviscerated body peered up at me. Her mouth was open, a rictus of terror. They’d called him the Saint City Slasher in the holovids, lingering over each gory detail, theorizing why he took the femurs, plaguing the cops for information.

  I reached for the phone again. Dialed.

  It rang seven times, then picked up. “Mrph. Gaar. Huck.” Sounded like a monkey with horrible bronchitis.

  “Hello, Eddie,” I said. “Is Gabe there?”

  “Murk. Guff. Ack.”

  I took that to mean “yes.” There was the sound of sliding cloth, then Gabriele’s breathless voice. “This had . . . better be good.”

  “You got some time tonight for me, Spook?” I asked.

  More sliding sounds. A thump. Eddie’s cheated growl. “Danny? What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a lead,” I said. “On the Slasher case.”

  Silence crackled through the phone line. Then Gabe sighed. “Midnight, my place?” She didn’t sound angry. “You know I don’t have time for a wild-goose chase, Danny.”

  “This isn’t a wild-goose chase.” My jaw ached, I was almost grinding my teeth.

  “You have new evidence?” Gabe’s voice changed from “friend” to “cop” in under a heartbeat.

  “Of a sort,” I said. “Nothing that will stand up in court.”

  “Doesn’t follow the rules of paranormal evidence?” She sounded sharp now, sharp and frustrated.

  “Come on, Gabe. Don’t ride my ass.”

  The demon paced into the room, carrying the pizza box and two plates. I nodded at him. He stopped dead, watching me.

  “Fine.” Click of a lighter, long inhale. She must really be pissed. “Come over at midnight. You alone?”

  “No,” I said. I owed her the truth. “I’ve got company.”

  “Living, or dead?”

  “Neither.”

  She took this in. “All right, keep your little secret. Jesus. Fine. Come over around midnight, bring your new thing. We’ll take a look at it. Now leave me alone.”

  “See you soon, Spocarelli.”

  “Fuck you, Dante.” Now she was laughing. I heard Eddie growl another question, and the phone slammed back into the cradle.

  I hung up and looked across at the tapestry. Horus shifted, Isis’s arm raised, palm-out. The great goddess held the ankh to Her chest, protectively. I saw Anubis’s head make a swift downward movement.

  As if catching prey.

  Well, the gods were with me, at least.

  “We’ve got an appointment in two hours with a friend of mine,” I told the demon. “Let’s go over the file together beforehand, so we’re prepared.” Never mind that I’m going to ditch your immortal ass as soon as possible. I had to fight back the urge to giggle again. “Bring the pizza over, share some space.” I patted the couch.

  He paused for just the briefest moment before pacing across the room, settling next to me on the couch. I laid the file aside and flipped the pizza box open. Half pepperoni, half vegetarian—I took a slice of either, plopped it on my plate. “Help yourself, Jaf.” I prodded him, and he took a single slice of pepperoni. Looked at me. “Haven’t you ever had pizza before?”

  He shook his head, dark hair sleek and slicked-back. His face was blank, like a robotic mask. A muscle twitched in his smooth cheek. Had I somehow violated some complicated demon etiquette?

  I folded the vegetarian slice in half, set the open pizza box on the floor, and took a huge bite. Melted cheese, crust, garlic sauce, and chunks of what used to be vegetable matter. “Mmmh,” I said, helpfully. The demon took a bite. He chewed, meditatively, swallowed, then took another bite.

  I swallowed, tore into another chunk. Licked my fingers clean. Hot grease and cheese. The food made me a little more solid, gave me some ballast. I had three slices in me before I started to slow down and really taste it. I alternated between chunks of pizza and long gulps of less-scorching coffee. The demon copied me, and between us, we polished off the whole gigantic pizza. He ate three-quarters of it.

  “You must have been hungry,” I said, finally, licking my fingers clean for the last time. “Damn. That was good.”

  He shrugged. “Unhealthy,” he said, but his green eyes shone. “But yes, very good.”

  “How long has it been for you?” I asked. “I mean, you don’t seem like you get out much, you know.”

  Another shrug. “Mortal years don’t mean that much,” he said, effectively stopping the conversation. I squashed a flare of irritation. Served me right, for getting personal with a demon.

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “How about you tell me why Santino doesn’t smell like a demon?”

  “He does,” Jaf replied. “Just not the kind that’s allowed out of Hell. Santino’s a scavenger, and a plague, one of the Lower Flight of Hell. But he served the Prince well, and was rewarded for it.” Jaf popped the last bit of crust in his mouth, his eyes half-lidding. “That reward allowed him to eventually escape the Prince’s strictures and come to this world, with the Egg.”

  “So what’s in the Egg?” I might as well ask him now, I thought, I might not get a chance to later.

  “The Prince told you it’s none of your concern,” Jaf said, staring blankly at the pizza box. “Is there more?”

  “What, three-quarters of a gigantor pie isn’t enough for you?” I stared at him. “Why would breaking the Egg be bad?”

  “I’ve rarely had human food,” the demon said, and hunched his shoulders, sinking into the couch. “Vardimal must not be allowed to break the Egg. The repercussions would be exceedingly unpleasant.”

  I blew out a dissatisfied snort. “Like what?” I asked. “Hellfire, brimstone, plagues, what?”

  “Perhaps. Or annihilation for your kind,” he replied. “We like humans. We want them to live—at least, most of us do. Some of us aren’t so sure.”

  “Great.” I toed the empty pizza box. “So what side are you on?”

  He shrugged again. “I don’t take sides. The Prince points and says that he wants a death, I kill. No philosophy for me.”

  “So you’re on the Prince’s side.” I wiggled my toes inside my boots, then rocked up to my feet. “You’re hungry, huh? That wasn’t enough?”

  “No.” His mouth twisted down on one side.

  I scooped up the pizza box and my empty coffee cup. “Okay. Let me see what else I’ve got. What else do you know about Santino?”

  He spread his hands, indicating helplessness. “I can give you his Name, written in our language. Other than that, not much.”

  “Then what good are you?” Frustration gave my voice an unaccustomed sharp edge. It’s usually better to speak softly while a Necromance. Some of us tend to affect a whispery tone after a while. I took a deep breath. “Look, you show up at my door, threaten me, beat up six street punks, drag me through Hell, and finish off the job by eating most of the pizza. The least you can do is give me a little help tracking down this demon-who-isn’t.”

  “I can give you his Name, and can track him within a certain distance. Besides,
I am to keep you alive,” Japhrimel said. “You might find me useful, after all.”

  “Lucifer said you had a personal stake in this.” I balanced the pizza box in one hand. “Well?”

  He said nothing. His eyelids dropped a millimeter or so more over burning green eyes. Lucifer’s eyes were lighter, I thought, and shivered. Lighter but more awful.

  “You aren’t going to tell me anything,” I said, finally. “You’re just going to try to manipulate me from place to place without telling me anything.”

  Nothing, again. His face might have been carved out of some golden stone and burnished to a matte perfection. It was like having a statue of a priest sitting on my couch.

  That’s the last time I try to be nice to a demon, I thought, said it out loud. “That’s the last time I try to be nice to a demon.” I turned on my heel and stalked away, carrying the empty pizza box. Fucking demons, I thought, rip me away from a nice afternoon spent doing divination and watching the soaps. Now I’ve got a demon to catch and another goddamn demon sitting on my couch and Doreen . . .

  I folded the pizza box in half, barely noticing. Then I jammed it in the disposer and closed the lid, pressed the black button. “Fucking demons,” I muttered. “Push you from square to square, never tell you a goddamn thing. You can take this job and shove it up your infernal—”

  Dante. A touch like a breath of cool crystal against my cheek.

  I whirled.

  The world spun and wavered like a candle flame. I looked down at my hand on the counter, my fingers long and pale, red molecule-drip polish on my nails glimmering under the full-spectrum lights. Necromances can’t handle high-end fluorescents on a daily basis.

  I could have sworn I heard Doreen’s voice, felt her usual touch on my cheek, her fingernails brushing down toward my jaw.