Devil's Paw (Imp Book 4)

by Debra Dunbar

  “He couldn’t fix himself. It wasn’t just injuries to his physical form, he was dying. Whatever happened to him seriously damaged his spirit self. He couldn’t store energy, couldn’t repair his form. When we caught up to him on the mountain, he was beginning to dissolve. He didn’t have more than a few hours left before he would have come apart and died.”

  “What could do that?”

  Another devouring spirit that didn’t complete the job? “I’ve got no idea.”

  “Sam, sweetheart, I know you feel bad for this guy. There’s no victory in winning against an injured and dying opponent, but he needed to be stopped. Think of how much worse things would have been had he gotten to Hel.”

  Very true. “I was lucky he was so damaged and weakened. If he’d been at full strength, he would have beaten me. My Iblis shotgun was nowhere to be found, so I had to fight him as another devouring spirit. His power levels were much higher than mine, and his skill was greater. Thankfully he didn’t have enough power to back it up yesterday.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay, Sam. I wish you were here.”

  “Me too. I’m going to try and forget about all this and have some fun in Juneau today. I’ll call you when I change planes in Seattle.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be waiting here for you. And, Sam? You did good. I’m proud of you.”

  It warmed my heart to hear him say that. There was a time when I never thought he’d have praise for my actions again. “Love you, see you soon.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I did have fun in Juneau the rest of the day. I went whale watching on a small boat excursion where we saw a group of humpback whales arching their backs and flipping their tails above the water’s surface as they dove for food. The scenery was beautiful, even more so from my point of view since my senses picked up the pouring streams of energy and power rushing like rivulets from a melting glacier into this realm from the tiny wild gates that rent the landscape. Harbor seals fought for a sunny spot on top of a channel buoy, and I contemplated changing my form and eating a couple of them before I left Alaska behind. Instead, I headed back to town to lunch on halibut and drink beer for the afternoon. Before I left, I made sure to order some salmon and halibut to be shipped fresh in a few weeks to my home. I tried, but they wouldn’t ship me a live harbor seal. I did convince the owner to mislabel a few pounds of seal meat as cod and ship it to me with my order.

  The next morning I was in my hotel room, packing to leave, when I heard a knock on the door. Gina held out a box. It was one of those refrigerated packs, and I wondered if they had gotten my fish shipment mixed up and sent it to the hotel instead of home, to Maryland.

  “It’s probably my halibut,” I told her, pondering if I should eat it raw or try somehow to carry it on my flight. Wondering how long the ice packs would last through Seattle and across the continent, I opened the box and found a hand inside. A severed human hand.

  “Doesn’t look like halibut,” she commented with admirable calm, her nose twitching as she peered into the box. “Looks like a mafia threat to me. Have you gotten on the wrong side of some godfather?”

  I reached in to pick up the hand and saw the ring. On the middle finger was a gold ring surrounding an onyx stone inscribed with an X and an inverted triangle. I gasped and an emotion I’d never felt before flooded through me. I recognized that ring, and diving my personal energy into the flesh surrounding the ring, I realized that I recognized that hand. It was the mage. The mage who had attacked me back in Frederick on rent day.

  “It’s a ring of power,” Gina commented. “Although I don’t know exactly what it does.”

  “What? You recognize it?”

  The werewolf looked a bit embarrassed. “Back in the seventies, you know. I was young and experimenting with some questionable metaphysical philosophies.”

  I stared at her blankly. “What does that have to do with the ring?”

  She squirmed. “We did all kinds of crazy stuff. Sat in pyramids made of copper piping, smoked freeze–dried lettuce. I was reading a lot of books on alchemy and magic, and there was a sorcerer in one of them that had a ring like that.”

  This was turning into a shaggy dog story, and I couldn’t figure out her point. “So. . .?”

  “Nothing. The ring just looks the same. Basilius something. He never did get that alchemy thing to work, but there were suspicions it was all a front for something else.”

  I shook my head. None of that mattered. What did matter was that my angel had killed off the mage who’d threatened me, lopped off his hand and sent it in a box as a gift. I pulled it from the box and rooted around to see if there was anything else in there, like the note at the bottom.

  Trust no one

  Angelic script. Gregory’s handwriting. He’d believed me. Gregory had believed me about the angel, the humans, and a mage attacking me downtown after rent day. He’d believed me, and he’d taken it upon himself to hunt down my attacker. How had he found the guy?

  I admired my gift. For it really was a gift — a tribute. Gregory had delivered up my enemy to me, sent me a trophy. If that wasn’t a declaration of his feelings, then I didn’t know what was.

  “This is the best present anyone has ever given me.” I ran my fingers over the severed hand and felt his energy, the angel’s energy like a signature, like a kiss. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get the hand past airport security and home, but the ring I could keep as a symbol of an angel’s love. I pulled it off the clammy, cold finger and shoved it onto my warm, live one. It was a bit loose, but I could fix that.

  “All righty then,” the werewolf said, eyeing the ring with a smirk. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay here with us in Juneau. Be sure to come back soon.”

  ~26~

  I should have been working on my four–nine–five reports as I flew into Seattle, but the only thing occupying my mind was the nagging sense that I was missing something. I could believe that Raim devoured Baphomet, but he’d not seemed to even know he was dead. If Raim didn’t kill Baphomet, who had? And why would the devouring demon have jetted across the country to kill three demons on the east side of the U.S.? There were plenty of demons on the west coast to devour. Why was he down in Mexico, where he killed the angel? Raim said he had devoured the angel in self–defense. He’d obviously protect himself if he was under attack, but Gregory had said the angel wasn’t one of his enforcers. Why was a random angel walking around among the humans, and what had gone on between him and Raim?

  We were betrayed.

  Raim’s words surfaced. What in the fuck had he and Baphomet been up to? Baphomet’s steward had said something about sending Lows and other demons over. I’d assumed they were for Raim to devour, but how would that have benefited the other demon? I didn’t know what kind of scheme they’d been working, but I was beginning to think there was a third partner — a third partner who was conspicuously absent.

  I stood before the gate to my connecting flight, staring at the arrivals and departures board in indecision. This wasn’t my problem. The devouring spirit was dead, my name was free and clear of any possible accusation in the angel’s death, Gregory was sending me little love gifts, and Wyatt waited for me at the other end of this long flight. I had shit to do; four–nine–five reports to complete and horse manure to dump on the cars parked on Third Street. Let the angels deal with it. Let someone else deal with it.

  “I need to change my flight,” I told the woman at the gate counter. “Is there anything in …say four or five hours?”

  I really wanted to go home, but I had a bad premonition that if I didn’t keep digging and find out what was really going on between Raim, Baphomet, and this third demon, it would come back to bite me hard. And I was sick and tired of things biting me hard. So I scooped up my new tickets and headed out of the Seattle airport to rent a car for four hours. And I called Wyatt.

  “Hey babe.” I smiled to hear the warmth in his voice. “I’ve got a bottle of vodka in the freezer for tonight. Call me wh
en your plane lands in Baltimore and I’ll make sure I’m ready and waiting.”

  Damn. The idea of Wyatt ‘ready and waiting’ was causing all sorts of titillating, naughty thoughts to race through my head. Damn, damn, damn I wanted to go home. “Flight delay,” I told him. “I’ll probably be on the last flight in to BWI.”

  Wyatt laughed. “Hey, it’s not like I go to bed at nine o’clock or anything. I’ll wait. I miss you. I can’t wait to see you.”

  A wave of longing hit me. “I miss you too. What are you doing with the girls tonight? Are they slumming it at your house while you spend the night with me?” I hoped so. I didn’t want to have to worry about Nyalla hearing what I anticipated would be our exuberant love making.

  “They’re at Mom’s.”

  Ugh. Wyatt’s mom hated me. That I appeared to be an older, wealthy, cougar–type was bad enough, but add the fact that I was Ha–satan into the mix and she was predestined to hate me.

  “Amber told her Nyalla was a college friend from Finland who couldn’t afford to go home for the summer. Mom welcomed her with open arms.”

  Well, at least someone got the open arm treatment. I grumbled under my breath, jealous that Nyalla was fitting in so well while I still struggled occasionally with humans. I missed the girls though. I’d been making plans to take them to a wine festival this weekend, and maybe hit up some of the museums. I wondered if Nyalla rode? I could put her on Piper and teach her. It would be fun.

  “So, do you think you can go? We’ve hardly had any time together. We’ll stay an extra day or two.”

  “Huh?” I’d been lost in daydreams of girlfriend time, of jogging with Candy, of falling asleep in Wyatt’s arms.

  “Vegas.”

  “Your horse?” I asked, confused.

  “No, Las Vegas. Next week. The gaming company interview I told you about?”

  Vegas. It had been a while. I was sure they’d forgotten by now. Either way, I’d need to play it safe and avoid Caesars Palace. “Sure. Sounds fun.”

  I thought about my call with Wyatt as I drove from the airport to the waterfront. I’d avoided telling him exactly why my arrival in Baltimore was delayed. He’d approve. Wyatt always loved a good mystery, was obsessed about tying up all the loose ends and working out the details. I wasn’t sure why I kept it from him. This whole thing with Baphomet and the devouring spirit just seemed personal. Their project might have nothing to do with the deaths, but I wouldn’t rest easy until I’d found out.

  The gate guardian was cross–legged on the sidewalk, guitar case open for donations as he serenaded passerby with a suspiciously expensive guitar. An array of Chinese food containers sat beside him, the telltale stain of sweet and sour sauce along the edges. He sprang to his feet when he saw me, only to sit back down as I showed him my brand.

  “Figures,” he grumbled. “Nearly half a century you’ve managed to avoid me, and now you’re off limits.”

  “Do you know I’m also the Iblis?” I squatted down next to him on the pavement.

  He nodded. “What are you doing here? I thought you were out by the Baltimore gate.”

  “I’m investigating the deaths of some demons.”

  He looked shocked. I didn’t blame him. Demons didn’t usually give a crap about murders and deaths, even among their own.

  “I need to ask you some questions about the demon you stopped from going through the gate — the devouring spirit.”

  A wary expression descended over his face. “I already spoke to my boss about that. He’s got my report.”

  “He’s dead, you know.” His eyes grew wide, and I hastily clarified my statement. “The demon, I mean, not your boss.”

  “That’s good news.” He sighed in relief. “That guy almost killed me. I wasn’t expecting that sort of thing — not a devouring spirit. Took me off guard. And then he came back a second time. If the boss hadn’t posted one of his enforcers as a guard, I would have wound up a red smear on the pavement.”

  “The first time he came though, you said he was desperate? Injured? Do you remember what his injuries were? Anything he said?”

  The gate guardian picked up one of the food containers and peered into it, a thoughtful expression on his face. “He wasn’t saying anything coherent — just a lot of yelling and screaming. He tried to launch an energy attack, but it wouldn’t come out. I don’t know if he was completely depleted or if the part of him that transforms raw energy was damaged.”

  “His spirit self?”

  He nibbled on a piece of pork, generously coated with thick red sauce. “Parts of him were missing.” The guardian shuddered. “It was like he tried to eat himself. Or maybe someone else tried to eat him.”

  I’d also wondered if it was self–inflicted, but Raim hadn’t seemed that insane to begin devouring his own spirit–self. Impossible as it sounded, could there be a third devouring spirit here, among the humans? Was it possibly this other partner of Raim’s and Baphomet’s?

  “And the second time?”

  The gate guardian paused, meeting my eyes. “That’s the weird thing. He was just as damaged the second time. Not just the spirit–self injuries, I know those don’t heal, I mean his flesh. He had scrapes and cuts, and his neck was a bloody mess. I don’t understand why he didn’t fix all that right away. Unless the fixing part of him was broken too.”

  Raim claimed it was. He’d said he couldn’t repair his form, and I’d seen first hand the terrible injuries his spirit self had sustained. What had happened to him?

  “So you didn’t cause his injuries? The enforcer didn’t?”

  He shook his head. “He was that way when he got here.”

  Who, or what, could have caused that kind of damage? We were betrayed. Could it have been this third partner? If so, he packed one hell of a wallop to do that to Raim.

  “Kept saying he needed to go home,” the guardian continued, returning his attention to the Chinese food. “Kept saying that he’d be fine if he could just get back to Hel.”

  I frowned. His corporeal form was disintegrating. The only place he could exist without a physical form would be Aaru, which wasn’t an option for him. How would returning to Hel do him any good?

  “What about the collar?”

  The guardian started, dropping a chunk from the chopsticks back into the container. “A collar? Like we use on bound demons up in Aaru? No one uses those anymore. No one binds demons anymore.” He glanced at my arm. “Well, up until recently, anyway. I didn’t notice a collar on him, but his neck was a bloody mess. Couldn’t see anything past all the ooze and scabs.”

  I was striking out here. Searching my mind, I remembered Baphomet’s steward’s question to me.

  “Have you been especially busy lately? Lots of demons, Lows even, attempting to cross?”

  He squirmed, looking back down in the container. “No more than usual,” he mumbled.

  He lied.

  “It’s okay. I know you’re busy. Hell, I’ve kept you busy myself over the last half–century or so. I know you guys lack resources, aren’t given proper training or support. I know you all are just dumped here, and that asshole–angel doesn’t want to hear excuses. I’m not going to rat you out, I just want to know if there have been a lot of demons lately. Perhaps ones that come and never go back?”

  He squirmed even more, practically burying his face in the container. “No. Just the usual amount.”

  I looked down at the vast supply of sweet and sour sauce and thought about the gate guardian at home. How often had I bribed her away for lunch while Dar or another demon crossed the gates? Glancing over, I caught sight of the guitar. It was nice. Expensive.

  “The Chinese food place is four blocks from here. I doubt they deliver to a homeless guy on a street corner.”

  His head jerked up, fearful eyes met mine. “I’m very quick. And an angel watches the gate for me while I’m gone.”

  An angel? Still, I doubted an angel watched it every time. There had to be some unattended moments. “One of
the other enforcers?” I asked. “He’s in this area?”

  The guardian broke eye contact, his gaze darting around the streets as if he feared we’d be seen or overheard. “He’s not an enforcer,” he grudgingly admitted. “Sometimes angels slip over for other reasons. I’m not in a position to question — there are many things in Aaru beyond my level that I’m unaware of. I don’t know who he is, but he’s a nice guy. Friendly.”

  And kind enough to talk to a lowly gate guardian, to watch his post while he slips out for some coveted treats.

  “When is the last time you saw him?” I wondered if this same angel was the one found dead in Mexico.

  The gate guardian shot a guilty look at his containers of Chinese food. “I don’t know. A couple weeks ago maybe?”

  Again, he lied. The containers were still warm, condensation on the lids. They weren’t a couple of weeks old, and from his nervous glance, he was covering for his friend.

  Two angels working together, one dead and one still alive and busy? Or perhaps this one was just a nice guy doing a lonely gate guardian a favor?

  Feeling like I’d reached a dead–end with this guy, I left. I wasn’t done, though. There was more to this than a devouring spirit — I felt it in my bones. I needed to get to that North Lake house in Seattle, where Baphomet had been living, and search it top to bottom. And if I found something, I’d summon Gregory and spill everything to him. If I found anything, I’d enlist his help in finding out whoever was really behind these deaths.

  ~27~

  I had a mere two hours to search Baphomet’s house before I had to head back to the airport, so I started at the top and worked my way down. Unlike Raim’s house, Baphomet’s showed the careless clutter usually found in the places demons lived. Baphomet’s was amplified by the fact that he held onto his properties through multiple trips, and he tended to collect things. He’d been the same back in Hel — hoarding tons of weaponry, artwork, and basically anything that sparkled. There must have been twenty boxes of cheap dime–store jewelry in his bedroom, several decades of shoe fashion lined the hallway, and there was a perplexing amount of craft supplies, neatly organized in plastic tubs in a spare bedroom. Unfortunately, nothing hinted at what Baphomet might have been doing that would have gotten him killed. I doubted it was plastic canvas Kleenex holders, or crochet prayer shawls.