Imp Forsaken

by Debra Dunbar

  Skip winced. “She took off into the woods, and they ran after her. I got the heck outa there. I was scared. I didn’t want them to do that to me. Two days later the whole place blows sky high. I haven’t seen those guys since, so I’m guessing they went up with the island. Good thing I wasn’t there when that meteor hit.”

  Yes, good thing indeed, Gabriel thought, a feeling of revulsion rolling through him. This man turned a blind eye to dozens of people possibly meeting their doom on this island. That was bad enough, but here he walked away from a woman, assaulted and running for her life. He never even reported it to the police. Gabriel looked into the man’s heart, and what he saw disgusted him even more. Beyond his fear of being punished, Skip felt little remorse. He’d not lost any sleep over a woman who may have been raped and murdered while he just turned his boat around and left. At that moment, he wished he were a demon so he could curse the man, but instead he could only walk away and trust in a just universe to provide a measure of karma. Where was the Iblis when he needed her? This was her job, four-nine-five report notwithstanding.

  “Her car’s over there. The rental place from the airport in Seattle still hasn’t come to pick it up. It’s been months. You’d think they’d want it back.”

  “Which one,” Gabriel asked. He might as well see if there was something to indicate who the woman had been. Perhaps he could make some token gesture to her loved ones, ease their pain like he used to so long ago.

  “The red Focus. It’s locked, though.”

  Gabriel left the dock and strode toward the car, surprised to see an angel waiting for him at the end of the dock. She stood patiently, wings hidden, her golden-brown hair blown about by the sea breeze. She clenched her hands before her and dropped briefly in respect, waiting to be addressed.

  “Asta. Is there a problem? I had not expected to see you again so soon.”

  She lifted her eyes to his and he saw the indecision there.

  “Ancient One, I have a moral dilemma concerning the task you have assigned to me.”

  Gabriel waited while the younger angel gathered her courage. A moral dilemma? Had there been conflicting orders between him and his brother?

  “The demon essence I delivered… it’s not what I thought. I can tell, and these aren’t small donated portions—they are entire demons, chopped up and stuffed into vials.” Her words choked, her voice full of disgust.

  Gabriel curled his lip. Demons were a violent bunch. It was horrific that they would slaughter one another for monetary gain, but that’s how they were.

  “Demons kill each other all the time,” he told her gently. “I was informed the supply was a donation, but I’m not surprised those creatures would do such a thing. What happens beyond the gates to Hel is not something we can control.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve seen the worst demons can do, but this turns my stomach. It’s wrong for us to profit from their evil. Wrong.”

  He couldn’t force her to do something she found morally repugnant. Gabriel would never do that to one of his angels. “Asta, I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. Don’t worry about continuing with the project. I understand your feelings on the matter.”

  Her shoulders sagged with relief, and she looked back up at him. “There’s more. I had some conversation with the gate guardian in Seattle where I picked up the supply. Before I was assigned to this task, Furlac was the angel acting as an intermediary.”

  Furlac. He did seem to get around. Before his death, that was. Gabriel frowned.

  Asta continued. “And he wasn’t couriering little vials either. The gate guardian spied on him once and saw what he was doing. He allowed groups of demons to come through the gate. They’d go off with one demon, and he would stay behind to speak with the other before leaving.” Asta waved her hands in agitation. “They were bringing the demons across the gates, participating in the harvesting of their spirit-selves right here among the humans. The killings may fall under a grey area of the law, as the demons were this side of the gates in violation of the treaty, but Furlac assisted their crossing!”

  “That is troublesome indeed,” Gabriel said when she paused, obviously wanting some confirmation on his part that he, too, found this shocking and reprehensible.

  “Contracting for another to commit a crime is still a crime,” she insisted, her voice strong. “The slaughter of demons aside, their organizing and facilitating a crossing of the gates is a direct violation of the treaty on our part.”

  She was right, and Gabriel felt a chill snake through him. If Tura’s organization was capable of this, what other unsavory things, what other violations of angelic law was he unaware of?

  “I dread asking you this, Asta. Can you manage to continue with this project of mine? If your moral sensibilities will not allow it, I’ll understand. I would appreciate any intelligence your sharp eyes can find.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded. “I will continue, my Sovereign.”

  He thanked her then turned his attention to the dusty, red Ford Focus as she vanished. The car looked like it had been sitting for more than a few months. Gabriel brushed the grime from the handle and easily unlocked to door to examine the interior.

  Inside, the car smelled of heat, vinyl, and lemon air freshener. There was nothing on the seats that would reveal anything about the woman who rented it, nor was there anything in the small trunk beyond some neatly boxed repair tools. Gabriel was about to lock the door and move on when he felt the pull of something under one of the seats. It tingled of electricity with a strange, fresh note he hadn’t felt in hundreds of years. Magic. Elven magic with that odd twist that humans gave to it. The angel bent down and ran his hand under the seat, pulling out a notebook, a folded leather square, and a ring.

  Putting the other objects on the seat, he examined the source of magic—the ring. It was gold alloy with an inscribed onyx stone. The stone itself was the source of the power, the gold just a setting for ease of transport on a human finger. The inscribed “X” and inverted triangle sealed the magic, holding it at bay until the wearer activated it in some fashion. Next, he picked up the notebook, paging through the columns of numbers and notations. He paused in surprise to see two angelic sigils. Furlac and Vaol. Anger built deep inside him as he saw other pages, clearly marked with unknown demon sigils. Tura might be dealing with elves and humans, but if Asta were correct, he and his group had dealt directly with demons. He waved a hand and carefully stored both the ring and log book before picking up the folded leather square.

  It held human money, some square plastic cards with a magnetized strip, and an identification card. Gabriel turned it over, mildly interested to see who this woman was that had been in possession of a magical ring and damning evidence of angel and demon collusion. Familiar brown eyes met his from the picture and he nearly dropped the small rectangle. The picture seemed to be of an attractive human woman, but he knew this was no human. It was the Iblis.

  23

  There was a storm brewing, and that sort of synergy always made me nervous.

  I would leave at dawn. Dar and thirty two of my household had already started toward the Wythyn border. We’d debated the visibility of a large group of demons tromping across the desert and through Dis verses the questionable wisdom of splitting into smaller groups. I had no stable leader besides Dar. With smaller groups, there was a strong possibility over half of them would get sidetracked and never make it to their destination. We wound up choosing the big-group approach, hoping anyone who saw would just assume they were a rowdy band of partiers, working their way through the demon cities in search of fun.

  Leethu had left too, with her five handpicked assistants. I’d barely recognized her. She Owned no elves, but had somehow managed to pull off a very convincing young male. The five demons posed as her human servants. Only dignitaries traveled with that many servants, and they would have had to be a highborn clan to afford to send them out with a single elf. The succubus had the whole thing worked out, including som
ehow securing a party invitation to Feille’s palace. I would have fucked the whole thing up within five minutes of walking through the gate, but Leethu lived for this sort of thing. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation as she carefully hid the potions.

  “You’d make a good drug mule,” I had told her. She would too. I was amazed she could squeeze that many vials into various orifices. I hoped they didn’t break in transit.

  Gareth hadn’t been able to procure everything I wanted. Thankfully I had all five non-detection spells, since Leethu’s assistants weren’t as skilled as she was in hiding their demon natures. The phantom hands garrote was within Leethu’s elven man-bag, and I had my chicken wand strapped to my leg, hidden by my pants.

  The rest concerned me. Six instead of twelve snare nets, only three of them bladed, which meant we might not be able to capture and kill all the elves chasing Dar’s team. Ten paralyzation potions meant we had to concentrate it in specific foods and drinks instead of a widespread application in the water supply. That also ratcheted up the danger for Leethu’s team, who would need to manage to slip them into beverages and foods practically under the nose of the intended victims.

  Worse yet, we only had thirty slippery skin amulets for forty demons. I declined one, as did Leethu and Dar. Leethu felt her team wouldn’t need them as much as Dar’s, but it still left thirty amulets for thirty-two demons. They drew straws, and I felt sick thinking of the two demons, both Low, who got the short straws. The amulets wouldn’t protect against everything, but they would help the demons shrug off nets and numbing arrows. A good blow with a bladed weapon, or head shot with an arrow, and the amulets wouldn’t do any good at all. Still, it was like going into a sword fight naked instead of in light leather. I rubbed my chest, worry over my household threatening to overwhelm me.

  Storm or not, I needed to get out. I was in an empty house, every creak from the wind reminded me I was here alone, reminded me I’d sent those I was supposed to protect off to their possible deaths.

  Wind buffeted my house, unsheltered by any trees. To the north lay the end of the Western Red Forest. To the east, a four-hour hike to Patchine. South, the landscape flattened to sandy plains before merging with the huge desert that encompassed the entire lower third of the landmass. My eyes turned to the west, the place of my childhood. It was still a two-hour hike—maybe longer having to skirt the swamplands, but I could get there before the slow-moving storm hit.

  I ended up having to hustle, to turn farther north since my human form didn’t navigate the terrain as well as some of my demon ones. If only I could change to my first form and fly, or at least manifest wings on this human one, I could beat the storm, but I was afraid any major form change would land me back into pond scum. I couldn’t assassinate Feille as pond scum.

  Fat drops of rain had begun to fall, the increased wind threatening a deluge, when I arrived and knocked on the little wooden door. It opened a crack, and a wrinkled face peered out. She’d always reminded me of an apple left in the sun too long.

  “Who is it?”

  Oh, for fuck sake! It’s not like she hadn’t sensed me coming. She’d probably known three days ago from her tea leaves or something. Ridiculous old woman.

  “It’s Niyaz, Oma. May I come in and shelter from the storm?”

  The old woman clucked, and the disapproving noise sounded oddly amused. “Don’t you dare think such impolite thoughts about me, little dragon. Did your foster parents not teach you manners?”

  Warmth bloomed inside me, and I felt at home before I even crossed the threshold. Nothing had changed in over nine-hundred years. The elderly dwarf had the same red-brown, lined face, the same twinkle in her stern gray eyes. Her long, silver braids nearly brushed the floor. Oma always had the most beautiful hair—thick and full. I sighed, looking about the small room, seeing a roaring fire in the stove, table and chairs in the center, and a metal-tipped staff a quick grab away by the door. That thing hurt like fuck. I was convinced she had some kind of spell on it for it to hurt so much. Oma had always insisted on manners and respect and wasn’t shy about discipline when it came to the young demons that followed her around as if she were the Pied Piper. I’d been her most devoted shadow for hundreds of years.

  “Sit,” she ordered, pointing to the table. I noticed one thing had changed. A carved stone ring, which practically covered the joint of her thumb with its width.

  “Oma!” I squealed, impulsively hugging the dwarf. “You have wed. Who is he? A younger dwarf? You scoundrel, you.”

  I felt her cheeks heat up as she pummeled me with her fists, trying to disengage from the inappropriate contact. “His name is Khoar. He’s five thousand years old. Now let me go and sit down so I can stir my soup.”

  Cradle robber. Oma was thirteen thousand. Not that age really mattered to dwarves. Love was love.

  The dwarf turned her back on me to stir a bubbling pot, and I sat at the table, in the same spot I’d always chosen as a little imp. The table was scarred from years of carvings and attempts to “fix” the damage by inexperienced, young demons. Oma always left it that way. I got the feeling it was the same thing as hanging children’s drawings on a refrigerator door for her.

  “Sooo, will this hot young man of yours be home soon? I’d like to meet him.”

  Oma turned her head and glared at me from under bushy, silver eyebrows. “He won’t be above ground for another week. Some of us actually have gainful employment. And I sincerely hope you’re not staying long enough to meet him.”

  Mining involved long stretches of time away. No, Oma would definitely not want me around for that reunion. Even if she’d married a century ago, they’d still be newlyweds, bonking every chance they got.

  I watched her ladle soup into a huge stoneware crock and again ran my fingers over the scars on the table. I'd made these so long ago that it felt like a different person had done so. Was that me? It seemed I'd lived several lives since then.

  "Eat," Oma commanded, sitting the bowl of soup forcefully on the table and pushing it toward me. It sloshed over the rim, thick and steaming.

  Eat me. Her word triggered the memory of Gregory's command. I'd forgotten to try, in all the frenzy of the last two weeks.

  "Thanks," I said, picking up a spoon.

  She eyed me with upraised eyebrows, surprised at the courteous word from a demon. I took a sip, feeling the liquid burn its way down my throat. It was so much better than the elven food, much better than the food my household had been serving. Spicy. It had a vinegar bite and bits of root vegetables with tiny shreds of meat. Dwarven cooking ruled, and Oma was the best. No wonder she'd scored some boy-toy hottie as a husband.

  Oma made a disgruntled sound and turned back to her stove, but I could see her faint smile of pleasure at my eager consumption of the soup. I emptied the bowl, and with a surreptitious look at the dwarf's back, I reached down into my spirit self to explore the red purple of Gregory's energy. It had always been separate and unyielding, resisting any attempts to combine it or remove it from my system. Wrapping myself around it, I let loose the hunger and turned it in upon myself, targeting the angel's spirit that I'd stolen.

  Nothing. It was like gnawing on a smooth piece of granite. I didn't even scratch the surface. Once again, I tried to shift the energy, move his spirit and perhaps consolidate it into a more manageable, edible chunk. Unsuccessfully, I once again tried to "eat" the red-purple, to devour it, but the angel essence resisted my efforts.

  "Niyaz, what are you doing?" Oma's stern voice jolted me back to reality.

  "Uhh, nothing." Fuck this was embarrassing. It was like being caught masturbating by my grandmother.

  "You are too old to be playing with yourself. You're not a baby anymore. You've eaten, now get out there and go home. You've got things to do beyond hiding out in an old woman's house, eating her dinner."

  "But the storm…." I protested, sounding like a much younger version of myself.

  "There's always a storm around you, Niyaz. I would have tho
ught you'd be used to it by now."

  I hesitated, looking at the door then at the dwarf. It wasn't just the storm, I needed guidance, and who was more knowledgeable than a thirteen thousand year old dwarf?

  "Oma, I don't know what to do. I'm broken and damaged; I've made a commitment to a high level demon that I regret, and I can no longer meet my end of the contract. I've put my entire household at risk to protect demons who'd just as soon see me dead as thank me, and to provide freedom for a bunch of slaves that may not even want it."

  She nodded, waving her spoon in a circular motion. "And?"

  “And I have deep feelings for a household of humans and werewolves on the other side of the gates. I worry about their safety and wellbeing in my absence, and I fear I'll never see them again with their short lifetimes. And… and… and I'm in love with an angel."

  The spoon hit the ground. Oma stared in amazement. Finally, after nearly one thousand years, I’d managed to surprise her.

  "I know! An angel. He was going to kill me, but he bound me and things heated up from there. We're not bound anymore, but I miss him."

  Oma picked up her spoon and composed herself. "Niyaz, of all your sibling group, you were my favorite. Even more than that little rat friend of yours. Ask. You didn't come here to admire your childish artwork and eat my soup. Ask."

  "How can I succeed at all this? I'm broken, facing tasks far beyond my skills and abilities. I humbly ask for your help, Oma."

  Dwarven assistance could come in many shapes and forms. Sometimes it was advice, sometimes it was a tool or item, sometimes a gift of skill or physical assistance in a task. More often than not, a request for help was refused. Dwarves were big on self-determination—they didn't often provide assistance and never offered.

  Oma walked to the table and picked up my bowl, peering nearsightedly into the bottom. With a horrible noise deep in her throat, the dwarf spat into the bowl, holding it away from her face to observe the new contents. I held back a gag of revulsion. I might be a demon, but that was just gross.