“Is Mira being there?”
“No, she’s at work,” I mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich.
“When she is coming home, perhaps to be having her call Rosaline? I think she would like to hear from Mira.”
“I’ll let her know.”
“I will be in touch.” He disconnected the call before I could say good-bye. It really was rather annoying. I’d have to stop doing that to people.
I finished my lunch because I knew I’d need the energy later tonight, but it just didn’t taste good anymore.
My next pass through the kitchen was business related. Nelson Kidd was never going to say, “Y’know what? I screwed up, so we’ll just let the demon have my soul.” And even if he did, I couldn’t live with myself after that. Deep down, I knew this. So tonight, I would be summoning a demon for negotiations.
Your average denizen of Hell is just that—stuck there with only other demons and Jerry Springer reruns for entertainment. Sure, there are a few texts floating around the world with actual demon names, and every so often some amateur magician tries to summon one forth. (It does work, although it rarely turns out like the summoner intended.) Other than that, vacation options from Hell are pretty limited.
However, once in a very great while, a demon gets enough power to come across on its own. Then, they wander around, gather up souls, and solidify their power base until someone like me comes along and puts the hurt on them.
Regardless of how they get to this plane, they’re usually rather pleased to be here. I’m guessing Hell’s not that scenic, and the chance to get out and stretch their appendages is welcome. On top of that, they get a chance at another soul. Who wouldn’t be happy to take the trip to the real world? But y’know how you always have that one tourist, usually sitting next to you on the plane, who just bitches and gripes about everything? They have those in demonkind, too, and they get real snippy about being ordered around.
Since I thought of myself as an air marshal on a demon’s vacation flight, it was only fitting that I equip myself with all the necessary measures to control a rowdy passenger. And I was all out of demon-begone.
It’s a simple recipe of Ivan’s devising, and all the ingredients can be found in an average kitchen cabinet—well, at least in our kitchen cabinet. In truth, we’re the only people I know who buy both cayenne pepper and cumin in bulk.
You take a bunch of cayenne pepper and a bunch of cumin. I operate on the idea that more is better, so long as it’ll still spray through the spritzer thingy. Dump that into a bottle of water, attach a spray nozzle, shake well. Squirt your pesky demon like a bad puppy and it usually departs posthaste. Do not stand downwind of your spray. It hurts just as bad in your own eyes—not that I would know anything about that, of course.
No, I don’t know why it works. Mira says those two spices are known to have protective properties even without magical additions. Good thing, since you could put all my magical talent on the head of a pin and still have room to spare.
I poured some into a refillable Mace canister on my key chain, amongst the rest of my strange collection of protective charms and antidemon gadgets. I tucked the larger bottle into my duffel bag.
My next task was to do a check of my armor. Perhaps it’s disrespectful to my Asian leanings, but I prefer metal around me to bamboo. There’s just something comforting about being encased in links of steel.
I hadn’t always worn armor. That first battle I went into with a sword and rampant stupidity. I was lucky, that time. I never got the chance to be so lax again. The second time, I won, but I spent six months in ICU after the Yeti tried to eat my lungs. That’s when I started charging fees and convinced Marty to throw together some protective gear. We’ve been tinkering with the armor ever since. He wants to put me in plate. I’m resisting.
The mail covered the big areas, chest, thighs, calves, upper arms. I wore thick leather bracers on my forearms, and steel-toed work boots. Beneath it all, I wore a layer of heavy padding, designed to keep the metal from ripping my skin to shreds. That alone added a good fifteen pounds to the already heavy outfit.
In the beginning, I had worked long hours to build up my strength to compensate for the extra weight. But the protection it offered more than made up for any loss in mobility. You can’t fight when your guts are flopping around down by your feet.
The only thing I hated about it was the smell. No matter what I did, my armor and padding always smelled of sweat and blood and sulfur. It wasn’t the easiest thing to wash. Maybe, with the arrival of warm weather, I could try to wash the padding again and hang it out to dry. It’d take a couple days, though, and there was no time to do it now.
I dropped the tailgate on my truck and laid each piece out, looking them over for any imperfections, not that I expected to find any. Marty did good work. He had even oiled the leather straps and replaced one buckle that had started to wear thin.
My shirt looked like a wadded-up ball of steel until I shook it out into the supple, shining work of art that it was. It was dull, tarnished steel, though at one time, Marty had worked gold-tinted links into the neckline and cuffs of the sleeves. Most of those had been damaged and replaced over the years, and now it was an almost uniform charcoal gray. The newest links shone brightly against the dull chain of the original armor, but aside from that, the repair was seamless.
The new plated leg guards I eyed skeptically. Marty had cut the thin steel plates down to narrow strips, barely three inches wide, and attached them so they’d fall two on the outer calf, two on the inner. That left a lot of gap, covered only by chain. I wasn’t sure how well they’d work, in practice. At the very least, I could run through some katas and see what they did for my range of motion. But that would be later—much later. I crammed them into the bottom of the duffel bag, and piled the usable armor in on top of them.
My sword got some attention next. I drew it and examined the edge closely. I’d never do that in front of Marty; I’m sure he’d take it as my questioning his work. It was wicked sharp, and the blade was as straight and true as the day it was crafted. Marty had rewrapped the hilt, using the dark blue cord I preferred. It made me sad to think of putting this one aside for a new one, no matter what piece of genius Marty might construct for me. This sword had been with me since the beginning.
To most, it might appear ordinary, even plain. The guard was an octagonal piece of bronze, and the pommel was a simple round knob. The blade was unadorned. Even the scabbard was merely functional as opposed to decorative. But I found beauty in simplicity, and she’d always been true to me.
I practiced drawing and sheathing it a few times, finding my center, and focusing on just what I was doing at that moment. I felt better with it in my hand. Sure, I could use other weapons, but I was most comfortable with the katana. It made me feel more balanced. I laid it again in the front seat of my truck, then went to attend to some of the more mundane aspects of my life.
Technically, I had another hour before Kidd’s reflection period was up. He could wait while I threw some laundry in.
That’s right, ladies. I do laundry. I figure it’s a fair trade, since Mira actually works full-time and looks after Annabelle. I’d offer to cook, too, but face it: Mira runs circles around me there. If it were left to me, we’d have pizza rolls for every meal. I’d be okay with that, actually. She would not.
By the time I got the laundry sorted and a load thrown in the washer (how in the world does one five-year-old child go through that many socks?), I had three hours to myself before Mira and Annabelle came home. If I was going to call Kidd, I needed to do it now.
9
The phone rang so many times, I started to believe Kidd had packed up and left town. His agent had been most determined, after all. When someone finally answered, there was a jarring clatter as the receiver was dropped and possibly kicked across the floor in someone’s haste.
“Wait, wait, don’t hang up! I’m here!” The voice was distant, tinny, but the receiver was rescue
d, and I could hear Kidd’s heavy breathing as he tried to calm himself. “I’m here.”
“Run for the phone?” I received an affirmative grunt in reply. “Your time is up, Mr. Kidd. Have you reached a decision?”
He was quiet for a few moments. Maybe he was giving himself one last chance to butch up and take his punishment like a man. In the end, he sighed. “I cannot continue this way, Mr. Dawson. Please help me.”
It was what I expected. “All right, here is the plan. Tonight, after dark, I am going to pick you up, and we’re going to drive out into the middle of nowhere. Then, you’re going to call your little friend’s name, and he’s going to come pay us a visit. At that point, we’ll negotiate the terms of the challenge. The challenge itself won’t happen tonight, but we’ll lay the groundwork.”
There was a long hesitation on his end. “How long should it take?”
“You have a date, Mr. Kidd?”
“No, I . . . My team is flying in tonight. We’re playing a series here this week, and I’ll need to report back to the hotel. They keep the players on curfew.”
That might make things a bit tricky. Things would take as long as they took, and not a moment less. It wasn’t something I was willing to rush. “I’ll try to have you home before you turn into a pumpkin, all right?”
“Is there . . . anything I need to do? Or bring?” He got a few points for at least being willing to help.
“Just show up, and when I tell you to, speak the name.”
“You want me to call it? Can’t you—?”
“No.” I cut him off right there. No way would a demon’s name ever pass my lips. I didn’t need that kind of attention. It was bad enough I had about a dozen of the vile monikers swimming around in my mind. Nobody should have to have that filth in his head. “I suggest you get some rest today, Mr. Kidd. We could have a long night ahead of us.” I hung up without waiting for a response. Old habits are hard to break.
There was no telling how long the negotiations would actually take. The lesser demons, the Scuttles and Snots, weren’t real picky about terms. The Snots rarely got past saying, “Rawr, me smash!” They just wanted a chance to fight, to work themselves up their brutal hierarchy, so they’d agree to something fast and dirty. It was the Shirts and Skins, the powerful ones, who could give lawyers a run for their money. They’d want every single detail nailed down, preferably to their advantage.
I’d have no way of knowing which I faced, until Kidd said the magic word and the demon made its grand entrance. I hate surprises.
And speaking of surprises, my doorbell rang. I answered it to find our across-the-street neighbor standing on my front step. I smiled. “Hey, Dixie.”
Dixie is that neighbor who knows the neighborhood’s story of the last fifty years and more. She can tell you the names of the original builders of most of the houses, she knows what happened to the grand-children of a man who hasn’t lived here in thirty years, and she can probably tell you what everyone on the block was having for dinner that night. Every neighborhood has a Dixie.
Widowed, her children grown and gone, she’d adopted Mira and me, and she doted on Annabelle worse than my own parents.
The white-haired woman smiled back, tucking a pair of muddy gardening gloves into her belt so she could shake my hand. “Hello there, Jesse. I was wondering if I could ask you a favor.”
“Sure, anything.”
“Jack’s not going to be able to come by to mow the lawn until next week, and it’s looking positively shaggy. Do you think you could . . . ?”
I chuckled. “Yeah, sure. Just lemme change clothes.” I was Jesse Dawson, champion of lost souls and amateur groundskeeper.
Appropriate lawn-mowing clothes donned and sunblock applied (the last thing I needed was to try and wear mail over a sunburn), I headed across the street to mow Dixie’s lawn. It wouldn’t take long; she had a nice riding mower and a yard the size of a postage stamp. The only problem was skirting the artful but inconveniently placed flower beds. There were four.
As I motored carefully around the yard, I became aware of eyes on me. Glancing around, I saw only Dixie’s enormous tabby tomcat perched atop the birdbath. Garfield was an aloof creature, merely tolerating my presence on a good day, but today he watched me with uncanny alertness. Seeing that he had my attention, the large cat flicked his tail once, and the eyes glowed red for a heartbeat.
“Oh no no . . . Axel . . .” Dammit. “Come on, the lady’s cat?”
He gave a feline leap as I neared and settled his large bulk quite comfortably in my lap. My skin crawled, and it took everything in me not to chuck the creature under the mower deck. “You said no more local wildlife,” he said, in my voice. “This is not wildlife. This is possibly the most disgustingly domesticated creature I’ve ever seen, besides you.” It wasn’t fair that he didn’t even have to raise his voice to be heard over the mower.
The last thing I needed was for the neighbors to see me talking to myself. I muttered under my breath. “Yeah, but she’s gonna be heartbroken when the cat keels over dead.”
“I can leave it alive, if you want, when I vacate.”
I looked down at the cat in my lap. “You can?” He nodded. It was an odd gesture, coming from a cat. “Then quit killing my squirrels, too!” I maneuvered around a large oblong flower bed in the middle of the yard.
“What’s it worth to you?” My contempt must have shown on my face, because he chuckled. “You have no sense of humor, you know that?”
“I’ve been told. What do you want? You’re not normally this clingy.”
“Just keeping an eye on my favorite demon slayer.” He actually began washing his ears in true catlike fashion, then blinked at his own paw. “Eugh, why do they do this?”
“You know, you can keep an eye on me quite well from the birdbath. Or from the house. Or from another state. Anywhere but from my lap.” It was like Marty or Will crawling into my lap. Ew. Guys just don’t do that.
“But I’d miss our little talks.” I swear the cat pouted.
“Don’t you love me anymore?” I know I gave him a scathing look then, and he actually purred. “You’re a collector’s item, you know. A dying breed. Fewer and fewer of you all the time. It’ll be a pity to see you all go the way of the dodo.”
“Well, I don’t plan on keeling over any time soon, so you can stop fretting your pretty little head.” I wheeled around the heart-shaped flower bed, making a mental note to get the Weed Eater and finish trimming around it later.
“I’ll bet your friend Miguel said that same thing to his wife, that last day.”
I slammed the mower into park, torturing the motor and engulfing us in a cloud of acrid exhaust. I turned it off, eyeing the orange tabby suspiciously. “What do you know, Axel?”
“Nothing I’m willing to share for free.” His fluffy tail swayed in a lazy rhythm, eyes half lidded in amusement.
“This isn’t the time to start playing the ‘I’ll swallow your soul’ game, Axel.”
“Who says I’m playing? This is what I do, Jesse; I bargain.” His purr went up about three notches, rumbling against my legs. “Just because you’re a friend doesn’t mean you get a discount.”
I snatched the fat tabby up by the scruff of his neck, dangling him at eye level. “So help me, Axel, if you know where he is, or what happened . . .”
“Careful, Jesse. You don’t want that sweet little old lady to come out here and see you abusing her precious puddy tat, do you?” The golden eyes gleamed red again. “I give nothing for free. You want to know what I know, let’s talk deal.”
“Tell me, and I won’t snap your furry neck.” I shook him once, and he answered with a low feline growl. Who knew Garfield had it in him?
“You can’t hurt me in this body. You know that. What’s it worth to you, Jesse, to avoid dear brave Miguel’s fate?” The cat sneered at me, fangs bared.
“I’ll dunk your furry ass in holy water—how about that for a deal?”
“I don’t think
I want to play with you anymore. You’re not nice.” He took a swipe at my face with a loud hiss. Startled, I dropped him before I remembered Garfield didn’t have claws.
The chubby cat retreated to the shadow under the birdbath, tail lashing furiously. “Your arrogance will get you killed. When your soul is being tortured Down Below, remember I offered to help.”
“Get back here, you conniving little—!” I lunged off the lawn mower in his direction.
Garfield the cat regained control of his massive body as Axel escaped, and he let out a caterwaul to end all caterwauls. Puffing up to twice his previously huge size, he streaked for the nearest tree. I didn’t even know the lazy thing could move that fast. The cat huddled in the branches, visibly shaking.
Cussing under my breath, I put the lawn mower away and fetched Dixie’s ladder to retrieve poor abused Garfield. I placed my feet carefully on the metal rungs, keeping an eye on the terrified feline, but my mind was on Axel.
The demon bantered, he taunted, but he’d never been nasty to me before. He’s a demon, you dipshit! I cussed myself, too, while I was in a cussing mood. I was a million times an idiot for even half trusting him. I killed his kind on a regular basis, so what was I thinking?
The better question would be what was he thinking? Did he know something about Miguel, or was he just trying to trap me in my own curiosity?
No deals, no deals, no deals. I chanted it to myself like a mantra. Even minor bargains with demons could snowball. One tiny deal, one seemingly harmless trade only opened the door. Best not to start. But dammit, I wanted to know what he knew. That is, if he actually knew it. The conundrum was enough to scramble my brain.
A horn honked as I clambered down from the tree with a rather disgruntled Garfield wrapped tightly in my T-shirt. I waved as best I could to Mira and Annabelle. Anna was babbling a mile a minute as they got out of the Explorer, and she bounced her way across the street, clinging tightly to her mother’s hand.
A Devil in the Details Page 9
