by Nazri Noor
He put a hand to his forehead – God, he looked so punchable in that moment – and sighed laboriously. “Again with this obsession with money, with earthly matters.”
I swallowed my mouthful of burrito, grimacing as I choked down a mouthful of coffee that was only slightly more drinkable than what we had back at the apartment. “If I don’t concern myself with earthly matters, I die, Raziel. Nephilim or no, I need to eat. Plain and simple.”
He shut his eyes, raised his head to the sun, then nodded sagely. “Then I acquiesce. You are so right.” One of his eyes opened, rolling around slowly to stare at me with its creepy, inhuman perfection. “I’m only saying, you don’t want to be too embroiled in all this sort of thing. The acquisition of excess wealth, a lust for the material. You know who acts like that?”
I nipped at the end of my burrito, wishing I could have been eating the damn thing in peace. It wasn’t bad, as breakfast burritos went, but I could sense that Raziel was about to launch into one of his lectures, and those always left a bad – okay, more of a boring taste in my mouth.
My words came through a mashed mouthful of breakfast foods and melted cheese. “The demon princes,” I grumbled.
“Exactly,” Raziel said, his eyes fluttering open as he raised a triumphant finger, wagging it warningly in my face. He wrinkled his nose. “The demon princes. Nasty pieces of work. How many of them have you met, now?”
I had to chew over that for a moment. “Personally, of the Seven? I’ve met three of them. Huh. Would you look at that. I should either be dead or imprisoned in one of the prime hells by now. What are the chances?”
Raziel nodded. “You’re very fortunate that they’ve taken a liking to you. Well, that they tolerate you. Actually, no, that isn’t quite right either.”
I set down my food, counting the princes off on my fingers. “I met Beelzebub before coming to Valero, right around the time I met you. I think he was trying to corrupt me into turning to their side.”
Raziel scoffed. “Please. The Lord of the Flies? The Prince of Gluttony? It was far more likely that he saw you as a kind of rare delicacy. He probably wanted a taste of some nephilim nibbles.” He shuddered.
“Dude,” I said, grimacing, despite knowing that he was right. “Gross. And Mammon, well, Mammon’s just plain strange. Prince of Greed my ass. More like – like – Prince of, uh, Weirdness. Am I right?”
“Have you considered a career in standup comedy?” Raziel said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “No. Mammon has bizarre proclivities, not least among them its penchant for collecting living specimens for its infernal menagerie.”
“Don’t remind me,” I muttered. “I was supposed to go in that zoo myself.”
It was from back when I awakened, when the sigils of heaven’s punishment first branded themselves into my skin. Mammon was a cruel and willful creature, beautiful and beastly, the severity of its majesty almost terrifying to behold. And just as the portfolio demanded, Greed was, above all the other princes, deeply obsessed with the idea of collecting rare and exotic artifacts. It didn’t matter if they were powerful grimoires, living supernaturals, or useless pieces of enchanted cutlery. Mammon wanted it all. And for quite an inconvenient length of time, Mammon wanted me, too, as an addition to its aforementioned infernal menagerie.
“And Belphegor makes three,” Raziel said.
“And Belphegor makes three.”
“Pray that he is the last of your dalliances with the Seven. I cannot imagine how much more horrible it would be to have the other four breathing down your neck.”
I almost choked and had to force down another swig of coffee. “That’s not funny, dude,” I said. “Even as a hypothetical.” Because I knew that one of them was the fallenest angel of all. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to go up against Lucifer.
“What’re we talking about?” Florian’s shadow blocked most of the sun from our table. He had his shirt back on, his fingers twiddling in the general direction of his burrito. “Is that for me?”
“Go nuts,” I said, swallowing the last of mine. “So did you find anything?”
He shook his head, chewing noisily. “I tapped into the root network all across the city, as wide a net as I could cast. And nothing.” He wiped at the corner of his mouth with the heel of his palm. “Surprising amount of dead bodies under Valero, though.”
I scratched my head. “I don’t get it. The demon husks, they travel through the soil when they disintegrate, don’t they? Isn’t there some way you can track them back to whichever hell they call home?”
“That’s the thing. There are no traces of them whatsoever. I’d remember the stink of demons, too.” He wrinkled his nose, staring dispassionately at his half eaten breakfast. “All too well. I feel like I can’t get it out of my nose.”
Raziel coughed softly, waiting for us to give him our attention. “You two have to remember. The Seven are the most powerful of demonkind. The other princes and nobles of the courts of hell may govern their own little domains and territories, but if one of the Seven wants to hide their machinations from you, it wouldn’t be very difficult to accomplish.”
I banged my fist on the table. “That shit’s just not fair.”
Florian shrugged. “You’re talking about demons. What about them is fair?”
“So they can see us?” I said, thinking of Belphegor. “Any time they want, they can track us, but we can’t see them back?”
Raziel shook his head gravely. “I know. It’s terrible. All the more reason for you to find some way to disguise yourself, to hide the aura of your soul from those who mean you harm.”
“Then that settles it,” I said, getting up and collecting my trash. “Come on. I have an idea.”
Florian finished off his food with one enormous bite. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the Black Market. I need to see a lady about some underpants.”
19
“You’ve got to be joking,” Beatrice said, scoffing as she turned away from me, her nose high up in the air.
I clenched my teeth as my fingernails dug into her shop counter. Man, I really could have used some backup, but Raziel predictably took off before we’d even made it to the manhole in the middle of Silk Road. He muttered something about how inappropriate it was for angels to be seen browsing in the Black Market. Typical.
“Oh, come on. Don’t we deserve a chance? We’ll make it a fair trade. We give you enough of Florian’s concoctions, which you can very easily resell with all of your connections down here. You know all these people. What have you got to lose?”
Beatrice frowned at me, held out her hand, and stabbed the center of her palm with one lacquered fingernail as she punctuated every angry word.
“Time. Money. Both are precious to me. Why should I bother trotting around the Black Market trying to offload these allegedly delicious liquors your friend makes when I could be making money directly from a sale or service? It sounds like a pyramid scheme. And let’s not forget the fact that you casually mentioned how no one has actually tasted the damn things. You’re expecting me to go on good faith here, Mason.” She slammed her palms onto the table, rising up on the balls of her feet, glaring. “Poison. You could be foisting bottles of trash juice off on me, and I would never know. This is a classic scam. I am a businesswoman. A business. Woman.”
I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. “Okay, fine. Then what about some potions you can use in your work? Florian is really good with brews of all sorts. He’s basically an overqualified alchemist. You can infuse your clothes with his dyes, strengthen their enchantments with the filters he makes with his own bare hands.”
You caught me. I was totally pulling that out of my ass. I didn’t know the first thing about either alchemy or enchanted tailoring. And from the way Beatrice’s mouth was shuddering with the beginnings of derisive laughter, she could tell, too.
“Don’t insult my intelligence and experience, Mason. I am a trained seamstress and have har
d-earned degrees in both mundane and enchanted fashion design from the most esteemed colleges. The most! I’ve apprenticed under entities who can weave magic from their very fingertips.”
“But – ” I started to say. No dice. Beatrice barreled on. I’d hit a tender spot, apparently.
“Using decoctions and dyes with my craft would be all well and good if I had any evidence of the quality of the product. Which I clearly don’t. Plus I’m not in the market for those, anyway. If I needed raw materials, I’d go with my regular people down here at the bazaar.” She cocked her head at me, her lips in a flat, disapproving line. “There is no demand for your supply, I’m afraid.”
The double doors to her shop creaked just then, the little bell above them ringing as they swung open. I checked over my shoulder, relieved to find Florian’s smiling face as he shambled into the workshop, his eyes taking in Beatrice’s wares with open wonder. He wasn’t going to be the most effective backup, but he was better than nothing.
“Hey, man,” Florian said, grinning and nodding at me in greeting, his hands in his pockets as he approached the counter at an extremely relaxed pace. “I did my rounds, had a look at the places here. I think I’ve picked out a few businesses that might be interested in our stuff.”
If he noticed Beatrice, he made no indication of it, but I had the oddest suspicion that he was focusing on me on purpose and ignoring her deliberately. And damn it, it actually worked. Beatrice’s demeanor had changed entirely. She was leaning over her counter, her chin in her hand as she tucked a lock of hair away from her face, her lashes fluttering.
“Mason,” she trilled. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to this muscular friend of yours?”
“Oh, of course. This is Florian, the dryad friend I was talking about. Florian, this is Beatrice Rex. But you already know that, what with her face being right on top of the store.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Florian said politely, extending one hand.
“Same,” Beatrice said, shaking his hand and holding it just a little too long, her head tilted, like she was assessing him.
“Florian. What is that, German? Strange name for a dryad, isn’t it?”
“Oh, you know so much?” Florian folded his arms and grinned. “Name five dryads. Quickly.”
Beatrice laughed. “You’re so funny. Mason, you never told me you had a funny friend.”
I rolled my eyes. “So, Beatrice, remember the guy I was talking about? The one whose goods you said you would never dream of trading, because they might be – what were your words again – just bottles of trash juice?”
Her mood shifted again, the sharpness of her scowl cutting into my flesh. The daggers firing from her eyes could have honestly pinned me against the wall.
“I said no such thing,” she answered, her voice soft, but her eyes still burning holes into my head. She turned to Florian, laying one hand gently on his forearm. “All I was telling your friend Mason here was that it would involve an exchange of a lot of product to meet the value of the shimmerscale. It’s a very, very expensive reagent after all.”
“Quite rare,” Florian said, nodding, his eyes never leaving her face. “And beautiful. And precious.” I couldn’t really tell if he was talking about the shimmerscale anymore. The toss of Beatrice’s hair and her tittering laughter told me I was right.
She waved her hand across her shop. “I will gladly offer you a choice selection of some of my garments in exchange for a sample of this – did you say it was specialty wine? Or liquor? And Mason did mention that you might be talented at brewing special dyes and decoctions I might use for enchanting, as well. Maybe we can come to an arrangement. I could trade you some of my pieces in the shop. A few of these things might look good on you.”
What the – before Florian showed up, all she’d done was berate me about even bringing up the possibility of bartering. And didn’t she say that she wasn’t interested in new suppliers? I frowned as I glanced Florian over, head to foot, and back again. Was he really that hot?
“I don’t think I’d fit in anything you’ve got stocked here,” Florian said, stretching and curling his arms for Beatrice’s benefit, the weird woodsiness of his genetic structure making him creak softly with every bicep flex.
“Well, I suppose I could stitch up something nice for you, tailor made. But I’d have to measure you first, of course.”
Florian leaned into the counter, this time making it creak instead of his body. “Any time,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “It’s a date.”
I tried to keep my amazement to myself. Florian had actual game. Who the hell knew? Say what you will about him, but I was starting to believe more and more that his lackadaisical, laid-back nature was more of a front than anything. An ancient intelligence lingered behind those lazy, half lidded eyes, one that had plenty of time to build a trove of tricks and secrets for the nuances of nature magic – and for other purposes as well.
“Hi,” I said, waving at them meekly. “I’m still here.”
“Sure you are,” Beatrice breathed, her chin in her hand, her eyes steadily focused on Florian’s everything. She turned to me, blinking slowly, her expression sliding into indifference and boredom. I tried not to look so offended. “So, you two come back to me with some bottles, and I’ll see what I like. But I can promise you right now that I am not willing to trade away the entire cost of a shimmerscale enchantment.” She smirked at me. “You’re still going to have to cough up the ten grand I need to stitch you a couture jockstrap.”
I rubbed my forearm meekly. She was right, in the end. It was silly to assume that anyone would take ten grand worth of nonexistent liquor in exchange for, well, just about anything.
“You know, the problem is that you boys are going about this all the wrong way.” Beatrice reared back, pushing a finger into her chin in thought. “You should be taking your products directly to people who actually need them.”
Florian nodded. “I agree. Which is why I went wandering around the Black Market to check out the local places. I found a couple of bars, maybe some restaurants that might be interested.”
Beatrice shook her head. “You’re not thinking big enough. The person you should be talking to doesn’t even operate in the Black Market.” She pointed up at the ceiling, her fingernail gleaming like a jewel. “Upstairs. In Valero.”
I stared at her, eyes wide, as I tried to process her meaning. “Do you really think they’ll be interested?”
She leaned her forearm on the counter. “Trust me. You want to talk to Dionysus. Head to the Amphora. If you impress him with your stuff, you’ll never want for money ever again.”
“That’s a fantastic idea,” Florian muttered. “Who is Dionysus again?”
I frowned at him. “Shouldn’t you know this stuff?” I gave Beatrice a quick, small salute. “And thanks, Beatrice. That really is a good lead.”
“Not a problem,” she said, thumbing the side of her nose proudly. “Just don’t forget my finder’s fee. Ten percent of the sale.”
“No percent,” I growled.
“Dinner, on me,” Florian said, waggling his eyebrows again.
Beatrice laughed. “Sold, to the highest bidder.” She flipped her hair. “But don’t bring Mason.” Her eyes traveled slowly down my body. “Not unless he’s ready to get measured for the jockstrap.”
I blushed so hard that my hair could have burst into flames.
20
I’d heard plenty about the Amphora from my old friends, how it held special enchantments. Half of the bar was for the guests, while the other half was actually spillover from Dionysus’s own domicile. That was where he liked to keep his retinue of naked dancers, just a ton of revelers taken over by the seduction of his wine and his influence, carefully selected from the Amphora’s own clientele. Maenads in skimpy outfits served the drinks, acting as both the waitstaff and as bouncers. I’d heard stories of how terrifying the god of wine’s worshippers could be when he whipped them into berserk frenzies.
; But none of that happened in the daytime. In fact, Florian and I were pretty lucky to be let into the Amphora at all. Sure, I wasn’t of drinking age, but it was still nice of them to make an exception since we were visiting outside business hours. We were just there to talk, we told the woman at the door, undoubtedly one of Dionysus’s loyal maenads. This one was dressed in regular civilian casuals, a comfy T-shirt and jeans, but the ruby glimmer of her nail polish put me in mind of the kind of strength maenads possessed when Dionysus commanded them to kill, how they used their bare hands and teeth to rip everything in sight into bloody shreds.
“Behave.”
That was the very first thing I whispered to Florian as the maenad led us into the bar. He didn’t need to be told, I was sure, but I didn’t want him accidentally flirting with anyone that the god might object to. We were in his domain, after all, simply his guests, until we were suddenly his enemies.
And there Dionysus waited, sitting on a deep red couch, legs crossed, one hand on his lap, the other clutching an ornate golden goblet. He swirled its contents as we approached, favoring the two of us with a friendly, if somewhat sticky smile.
“Well, well,” Dionysus cooed, his voice inflected with both the casual camaraderie of the gently soused and the boisterous confidence of a man who knew that he held all the cards. “Are these new friends, come to pay Dionysus a kindly visit? Or perhaps they are potential new partners in my thriving business, eh?”
I wasn’t even going to question things anymore. The entities had their ways of knowing everything that happened in Valero, and I strongly suspected that he already knew exactly why we were there.
Florian and I each took seats opposite the sofa, and I smiled at Dionysus. “Maybe both,” I said, thanking the maenad who served us glasses of water.
