Working for the Devil

by Lilith Saintcrow

  I rocked up to my feet, carrying my sword. “Okay,” I said quietly. “That’s it.”

  Gabe sighed. “I didn’t want—”

  “Let’s get this over with,” I snapped, and my thumb caressed the katana’s guard. One simple movement would slip it free. “I didn’t want to be here in the first place, Monroe. I’d rather live in the filthiest sink of Nuevo Rio than stay in your house.” I took a deep breath. “And that demon’s saved my life more than once since this whole filthy mess started. More than I can say for anyone else here.”

  Silence. Jace carried two glasses instead of his staff. He walked across the room, handed one glass to Eddie, who was watching me, his hazel eyes narrowed. Gabe turned over another card, accepted the other glass.

  I started to feel a little foolish, standing up. Gabe hummed under her breath, a snatch of classical music. Berlioz, I placed it, and took a step back, turning on my heel.

  “So you’re in a bit of a mess,” Jace said quietly. “You always did have a talent for getting into trouble.”

  I rounded on him, my unbraided hair swinging heavily against my back. “It’s none of your concern. I wasn’t the one that wanted to contact you.”

  “I know,” he answered, straightening a little. His fingers tapped his swordhilt. “Gabe told me as much. I talked her into staying here. It’s safer all the way around, especially if you’re hunting Santino.” His voice dropped. “I heard enough of your nightmares to know that name.”

  My thumb rested against the guard.

  There was a slight sound, and the black-clad hatchet-faced butler bustled in. I took a deep breath, eased my hand away from the guard, clasped the hilt loosely. He directed a stream of liquid Portogueso at Jace, who shrugged and gave a clipped answer. The butler, his dark eyes resting on me for just a moment and skittering away, bowed and scuttled out.

  Jace shrugged. “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes, sweetheart. I was just curious. He’s a tough one, your demon.”

  I swallowed dryly. My left shoulder gave one last spiked flare of pain; then a wave of warmth slid over my body, my neck easing its aching. “I guess so,” I said. “Look, I didn’t want this.”

  He nodded, his eyes holding mine. “I know. It’s okay. Come on, let’s get something to eat. It’s been a long day. I’ve cleared my calendar for the next month or so, and there’s a few contacts we can start on tomorrow—”

  “You’re inviting yourself in on my hunt, too?” My jaw clenched.

  Jace’s mouth curled up into a half smile. It was his “I-know-best” expression, and the sight of it tightened my hand on the hilt. “Why not? You’re a hell of a lot of fun to work with, Danny.”

  I looked down at Gabe. Her hair fell forward over her face, unsuccessfully hiding her smirk. Eddie still stared at me with narrowed eyes. He was tense, too tense. Eddie expected me to go after Gabe.

  That managed to hurt my feelings.

  I took another step back, bare feet shushing against the Persian carpet. If I’d been wearing my boots, I might have stalked out of the house. “If everyone’s finished having some fun at my expense,” I said tightly, “I think I’ll excuse myself.”

  “Dinner,” Jace said softly.

  “Not hungry,” I countered.

  “You don’t eat, you start seeing ghostflits without wanting to,” he reminded me. “Come on, Danny. Don’t let that stupid pride ruin a lovely reunion.”

  I kept my temper with a physical effort of will, my hand clenching on the hilt. Gabe scooted back and made it to her feet, hooking her arm through Eddie’s. “Come on, Eddie. Let’s let these two have a moment alone.” She looked enormously pleased with herself.

  “No need,” I said. “I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t.” Jace said. “Come on, Danny. Bend a little.”

  I shrugged. “I was never very good at that, was I? That’s why you left.”

  Gabe all but dragged Eddie out of the room, whispering something to him. The shaggy blond Skinlin cast a doubtful look over his shoulder. Gabe kicked the door to the hall closed behind them. And for the first time in three years, I was alone with Jace. His face was interested and open, his eyes now bright blue. His tattoo shifted a little, thorny lines twisting.

  “Dante—” he began.

  My sword leaped half free of the scabbard, my arm tensing. “Don’t.”

  His own hand drifted down, touched his swordhilt. “That’s what you want?”

  “I won’t hold back,” I warned him. “Don’t push me, Jace. I’m on a hunt, and Gabe seems determined to bring every halfass mercenary in the world in on it. And I’ve been dragged through Hell for this, I even have to have a demon tag along with me.” I resheathed my blade, then reached up and dragged my shirt down, exposing a slice of the branded mark on my left shoulder.

  “Fuck,” Jace breathed. “Dante—”

  I let go of my shirt. “So don’t push me, Jace. Got it?”

  The ceiling fans turned lazily, drafts of cooler air sliding across my skin. “I never did,” he said. “You were always the one pushing.”

  “We’re old news, Jace. Get over it.” I turned away again, but was unable to resist a final parting shot. “At least the goddamn demon can’t betray me.”

  He grabbed my arm, sinking his fingers in hard, his weight perfectly balanced. I recognized the stance—he was ready for me to attack him. I wondered grimly if I should. “I didn’t betray you. I would never betray you.”

  I shrugged. My rings crackled in the tension, reacting uneasily with the Power in the air. “Get. Your. Hand. Off. Me.”

  “No.”

  “Get your—”

  There was no warning. One moment I was yanking my arm away from Jace’s grip, screaming, and the next Jace stumbled back, sword ringing free, Japhrimel’s right hand up, arm outstretched, the shining gun held level. The demon was between us, his long black coat fuming with Power, the rumbling thunder of his arrival shattering the air inside the room. Jace’s defenses resounded, humming into life, crackling with Power, gathering like a cobra gathers itself to strike.

  “Stop!” I yelled, and the demon paused, though the gun didn’t move.

  “Are you injured?” he asked, and his eyes didn’t waver from Jace. I thought for one lunatic instant that he was asking Jace if he was injured.

  “Call him off, Danny,” Jace said grimly. He carried a larger sword than mine, a dotanuki instead of a katana; the steel shimmered under the full-spectrum lights. Second-guard position, balanced and ready, Jace’s jaw was set and his eyes burned blue. Burning—but still human.

  I curled my left hand around Japhrimel’s shoulder. The subliminal hum of that much Power in such a confined space roared through me, heady whine like the kick of a slicboard’s speed against my stomach. “It’s okay,” I said. “Really. Stand down, Jaf, it’s all right.” It was an effort of will to keep from using more of his name. When had I started to think of him as human?

  Japhrimel considered Jace for a few moments, then eased the hammer down with his thumb. The gun was bright silver, glittering under the lights. “You’re all right?” he asked again.

  “I think so,” I replied, taking another deep breath. “Where were you?”

  “Returning from my feeding,” he answered, still not looking at me, his eyes glued to Jace. “I felt your distress.”

  “I’m not distressed. Just pissed off and tired and hungry and wishing this was all over.” I kept my hand on his shoulder. If he dove for Jace, what would I do? Stab him in the back? “Okay? Thanks, Jaf. I mean it. Easy, okay?”

  The gun disappeared. Japhrimel half-turned, examined me with one laser-green eye. His mouth turned down at both corners. “You have no further need of me?”

  My chest tightened. “Thank you.” I meant it. “I’m going to go do some recon.”

  Japhrimel’s shoulders tightened slightly. If I hadn’t been staring at his throat, I wouldn’t have seen it. What’s with him? He looks ready to explode. “I will accompany you, then, as is my duty.
”

  I decided it would be wiser not to fight over this one, set my jaw. My head rang with the tension and Power humming in the air. If Jace moved on Japhrimel, or if Japhrimel decided Jace meant to hurt me—

  “Danny.” Jace’s sword slid back into its sheath, whispering. “Get something to eat. And I’ll spar with you tomorrow, I’ll even let you kick my ass if it’ll make you feel better about this.”

  “Good,” I slid my hand down Jaf’s arm, found his elbow. “I’ll do that. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “Hey, demon.” Jace’s chin tilted up. “Take care of her.”

  Japhrimel studied him for a bare second, then nodded once, sharply.

  I don’t need anyone to take care of me, Jace, shut your stupid mouth. I hauled on Japhrimel’s elbow. “Shut up, Jace. Just shut up. Have a nice fucking dinner and I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

  He didn’t respond. Japhrimel followed me obediently out into the hall, then pointed to the right. “The front door is that way.”

  “I need my boots,” I said, harshly. My throat hurt, for some reason. As if there was a big spiky lump in it.

  “The stairs.” Japhrimel pointed, again. I was grateful, even though I had Jace’s house mostly figured out. I’ve deciphered enough city street grids that one overblown Nuevo Rio mansion wasn’t a hassle.

  I nodded, and we set off. Just to be sure, I kept my hand on his elbow. He didn’t object.

  CHAPTER 25

  Once we alighted from the hovercab Japhrimel had somehow had waiting for me at Jace’s front door, I chose a few streets at random. Walked along feeling my shields thicken and thin, taking in the atmosphere. It’s a strange process to get accustomed to another city; it takes normal people months. Psionics process a lot faster; it takes up a few days—or if we deliberately sink ourselves into a city’s Power-well, a few hours.

  We walked, the demon and I, his coat occasionally brushing me. I sweated freely, heat still trapped in the streets, my coat’s Kevlar panels heavy against my back. My bag’s strap cut into my shoulder. I carried my sword, tapping my fingernails on the hilt.

  I might not have held back this time, I thought, as we turned into the redlight district.

  Down in the smoking well of Nuevo Rio, I found a taqueria and ordered in passable pidgin with a soupçon of pointing. The demon stood uncomfortably close, his heat blurring and mixing in with the heat of the pavement giving back the fierce sun of the day. He said nothing as we stood aside between a bodega and a closed-up cigar shop. Crowds pushed past, Nuevo Rios in bright colors, most of them wearing grisgris bags. Vaudun and Santeria had taken over here after the collapse of the Roman Catholic Church in the great Vatican Bank scandal in the dim time between the Parapsychic Act and the Awakening; the revelation that the Church had been funding terrorist groups and the Evangelicals of Gilead had been too much for even the Protestant Christians traditionally opposed to the Catholics. And the Seventy-Day War had put the last nail in the coffin of the tradition of Novo Christos.

  Nuevo Rios understood a little more about Power than other urban folk, and would no more go outside without defense from the evil eye or random curse than they would go out without clothing. So Nuevo Rio was heat and the smell of tamales and blood, copper-skinned normals with liquid dark eyes speaking in Portogueso, old crumbling palatial buildings standing cheek-by-jowl with new plasteel skyscrapers, pedicabs and wheelbikes making a crush of traffic on the streets. Sweat, heat, and more heat; I could see why the city seemed to move so damnably fast and slow at the same time. Slow because the heat made everything seem like it took forever to do; fast because the natives seemed unaffected by the thin sheen of sweat on everything.

  I bolted the food, hoping I wouldn’t get sick. I had the standard doses of tazapram in my bag, but I rarely needed them. Most Necromances had cast-iron guts. You’d think that a bunch of neurotic freaks like us would have delicate stomachs, but I’d never met a queasy Necromance.

  When I finished, licking hot sauce from my fingers, the demon glanced down at me. “Did he hurt you?” he asked, incuriously. But his shoulders were tense; I saw it and wondered why. Of course, if anything happened to me Jaf was screwed . . . I wondered if he thought Jace was that dangerous.

  I shrugged. “Not really.” Not physically, anyway, I added, looking away from the demon’s green gaze.

  He handed me a cold bottle of limonada and watched as I opened it with a practiced wrist-flick. We stepped out into the flow of foot traffic, the demon still uncomfortably close, moving with weirdly coordinated grace so he didn’t bump or jostle me. “Why was he holding you?” Japhrimel asked in my ear, leaning close so he didn’t have to shout.

  “I don’t have any idea,” I said. “I think he’s upset at me.”

  “Do you?” Even though the street was crowded, we were still given a few feet of breathing room. My emerald glowed under the streetlamps, and my rings swirled with color, my shields adjusting to the different brand of Power pulsing out from the people and pavement. “Why did he leave you?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. I came home from a job and he was gone. I waited for him to come back for a few weeks and . . .” I glanced up as slicboards hummed overhead. The hovertraffic here was chaotic outside of a few aerial lanes, taxis screeching through banzai runs, gangs of slicboarders whooping as they coasted through the smoggy air. “I got over it.”

  “Indeed.” The demon bumped my shoulder slightly. I wished I’d thought to tie my hair back—a stray breeze blew a few strands across my nose. “He seems very attached to you, Dante.”

  “If he was attached, he wouldn’t have left. Don’t you start in on me, too.”

  “Understood.” He sounded thoughtful. We started to walk, oddly companionable.

  I stopped to watch a three-card-monte game, half-smiling when I saw the man’s brown hands flick. Streams of liquid Portogueso slid past me. The demon leaned over my shoulder, his different heat closing around me and oddly enough making the sweaty smoggy atmosphere a little easier to handle.

  Down the street from the monte, a babalawao drew a vevé in chalk on the pavement. The crowd drew back to watch, respectful, or hurriedly slipped away, giving her a wide berth. The woman’s dusky hair fell forward over her dark shoulders, her wide-cheeked ebony face split with a white smile as she glanced up, feeling the demon’s glow and my own Power.

  I nodded, the silent salute of one psionic to another. She was too engaged in her own work of contacting her guardian spirit to do much more than give the demon a brief glance—and anyway, Shamans aren’t nearly as scared of demons as they should be. To them, the demons are just another class of loa. I didn’t think so—if demons were just another type of loa, Magi techniques for containing a spirit should work for the spirits like Erzulie and Baron Samedi. They don’t—only the Shamanic practice of going through an initiation and gaining an affinity for a loa of your own does.

  I watched the vevé take form under her slender fingers, a curl of incense going up. A rum bottle stood to one side, and a wicker basket that probably held a chicken.

  “What will she do?” the demon asked, quietly, in my ear.

  “She’s probably fulfilling a bargain with a loa,” I replied, tilting my head back and turning so I could whisper to him while still watching the babalawao. My knuckles ached, I was gripping my sword so tightly. “Just watch. This should be interesting.”

  Little prickles of heat ran over my skin. It was uncomfortable, but being this close to a contained burst of Power would help me adjust to the city. I’d studied vaudun, of course, at the Academy. The Magi training techniques borrowed heavily from Shamanism, vaudun, and Santeria in some areas; vaudun and Santeria had been interbreeding ever since before the Parapsychic Act. Eclectic Shamans like Jace picked up a little here, a little there, and usually had two or three loa as incidental patrons; this babalawao would be sworn to two loa at the very most, and would probably intensely dislike being compared to Jace—who was, after all, only a gringo Sh
aman trained by the Hegemony, not heir to an unbroken succession of masters and acolytes like the babalawao would be. Even though the basic techniques were the same, this woman’s Power felt different; here in Nuevo Rio she was on her home ground, and her Power was organic instead of alien.

  I wish I’d thought to learn Portogueso, I thought, and blinked.

  The vevé to call the loa done, the woman took up the rum bottle, her bracelets and bead necklaces clicking together. She took a mouthful of rum, swirled it, then sprayed it between her lips into the air, the droplets caught hanging, flashing over the vevé.

  Power spiked, scraping across my shields and skin, prickling in my veins.

  A cigar laid across the chalk lines started to fume as the woman flipped open the wicker lid and yanked a chicken from the basket. The bird made a frantic noise before she cut its throat with one practiced move, blood spraying across the vevé.

  “She’ll cook it tonight and eat it for lunch tomorrow, probably,” I told him. A swirl of air started, counterclockwise, the chicken’s body still scrabbling mindlessly. The blood slowed from a spray to a gush and then to a trickle, and the babalawao’s voice rose, keening through a chant very similar to a Necromance’s. But this chant would complete the job of making the offering to the loa. The rum droplets vanished, eaten up by Power. I felt insubstantial fingers touch my cheek, saw a vague shape out of the corner of my eye—a tall man, with a top hat over his skull-white face, his crotch bulging, capered away through the crowd. A breath of chill touched my sweating back. I didn’t mess around with loa.

  Power tingled over my skin, a wash of fever-heat, the sickening feeling of freefall just under my stomach. The Power-burst would force my own energy channels to change to acclimate to the different brand of Power here if I just gave it enough time. I kept my breathing even. Just a few minutes, I told myself. It’ll go away. Just need to relax long enough for it to work , that’s all. Stay cool, Danny. Just stay cool.