A Devil in the Details

by K. A. Stewart

  The river of baseball fans parted to pass around me, the crazy man standing in the middle of the walkway. I thought about asking if they’d seen a hot dog vendor, but on some level I knew they hadn’t. I limped over to lean against a concrete pillar near the men’s bathroom, intending to rest my leg for a moment before I began the trek back down to my seat.

  “Hide-and-seek, peekaboo.” Warm breath wafted over my left ear, and I swung before I thought. It was a rather pretty backhand sweep, technically perfect in every way, but I sensed my target duck before I ever laid eyes on him. I pulled the blow a hairbreadth from slamming my hand into the pillar.

  Axel, in his blond Mohawk punker guise again, stood up from a low crouch, whistling. “A swing and a miss!” He grinned, lounging against a trash can. “Scared ya?”

  My heart thundered in my ears, and the adrenaline washed away all traces of pain in my right leg. I held the loose fighting stance for long moments, until it became clear Axel wasn’t moving. Idiot. Of course he wasn’t moving. He couldn’t hurt me unless I gave permission. I forced my hands to relax at my sides, just another guy standing near the bathrooms at a baseball game.

  “What do you want?” Man, I was sick of hearing myself say those words.

  “You were thinking about me. I came to see why.”

  For a moment, I felt cold. Then reality slapped me in the face, and I gave him a disgusted look. “You can’t read minds.”

  Axel snickered. “Well, no, but you should have seen the look on your face.”

  “Was that you? The hot dog guy?”

  His eyes, blue as any normal human’s when he wasn’t being all demonic, roamed the crowd around us. His nonchalance didn’t fool me for a moment. “Maybe I just like baseball. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Not for a moment.” I still didn’t believe it, and it didn’t escape me that he hadn’t answered my question. “I don’t want you here.”

  “Public place, Jesse. I’m a free-range demon here.”

  I glanced around quickly to see if anyone had heard him. Of course, what would they think? A couple of loonies having a talk over a trash can? Had one too many brews, maybe? “Leave these people alone.”

  He laughed. It was a joyful, rich sound. It was my laugh. Shouldn’t demons have nasty, evil laughs? “What, you’re going to take responsibility for the entire stadium? I indulge you too much by letting you extend your protection to your coworkers as it is. Even you aren’t worth giving up all of this.” His sweeping gesture took in the whole stadium, and maybe the world beyond. “You’re good, Jesse. You’re not that good.”

  “So . . . what? You’re here hunting souls?”

  The demon shrugged his lanky shoulders and sighed. “Nah, one of the others pretty much has the baseball market sewed up tight. I think you’ve met him.” I hated that grin; that smug I-know-more-than-you smirk. “I just came out to annoy you, taunt you, generally make myself a pest.”

  “Mission accomplished. You can go now.” Dammit, I spilled Marty’s beer for this? I knew I was glaring when I turned to walk away, and I didn’t care who saw it.

  “Whoa, hold on! I’ve done the annoying bit, but I still have some taunting to get in.” He grabbed my elbow, and something snapped between us like a bad static shock. With a hiss, Axel snatched his hand back, shaking it. “Damn protection spells . . .”

  Mira. All her gods bless her. I did my best to look as if I knew that was going to happen. “You know, those only work against people who mean me harm. You got something you wanna tell me, Axel?”

  The blond man snorted, flexing his fingers one at a time to see if they still worked. “I want your soul. It doesn’t get much more harmful than that.” He cradled his hand close to him now. It may have felt like a static shock to me, but he was hurt—interesting. “And yes, there’s a lot I want to tell you, but I can’t just blurt it out. There are rules, Jesse, and I’m as bound by them as you are. I shouldn’t even be doing this much, but there are certain things you need to know!”

  Across the concrete walkway, two small boys started tussling in the popcorn line. The noise drew my attention long enough to be sure the parents were going to separate them, and then I looked back to my pet demon. Axel’s gaze came back to my face. He’d been watching the kids fight, too.

  “If this is so against the rules, why would you risk so much to help me?”

  “Maybe I like you.” I rolled my eyes, and he smirked. “Maybe, if I can’t have you, nobody can. I’ve put a lot of work into you, Jesse James Dawson. I’ll be damned again if I let one of the others get you.”

  I was more inclined to believe that.

  “And just what do you want from me? Nothing you know is worth my soul.” I immediately wanted to kick my own ass. Never enter negotiations with a demon. Don’t even give them two fives for a ten. It starts bad habits, like a gateway drug.

  “Not your soul . . . maybe something smaller, something you can bear to part with. Harmless really.” His smile was oh so charming. If the goose bumps on my arms got any bigger, I was going to sprout feathers.

  Voices rose in anger behind me. The parents of the brawling children had apparently taken exception to each other’s existence, and the fathers were shouting obscenities at each other. One of them had on a #1 DAD T- shirt. Two security guards, in their neat blue pseudo-cop uniforms, hustled over to take control of the situation.

  “Maybe . . . a name. Your daughter’s name. Give me that, and I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

  I couldn’t keep my eye on the fight and Axel both, and it was making me edgy. My hand flexed at my hip where my sword should be. “You know her name already.”

  “Exactly! No harm in it . . . Just . . . give me her name, and I can tell you the things you need to know.”

  I may not be a religious man. I may not even be widely educated in the ways of magic. But even I know that the giving of a name, known or not, can have power. Every culture that is or ever was has agreed on that. “No deal. And stay the hell away from my daughter.”

  Not ten feet from us, a blonde in line for the women’s restroom drew back her hand and slapped the brunette next to her with a resounding crack. The two went down with shrill screams and the flailing of tanned arms and legs.

  “Okay, one of your companions, then. The blacksmith . . . He’ll never miss it. You have to give me something! You need what I know!” The blond man-demon was all but wringing his good hand in frustration and dancing from foot to foot.

  In disbelief, I watched one of the security guards draw a Taser from his belt and jab it into #1 Dad’s ribs. The combative man dropped like a stone, shrieking. The odor of urine wafted over the crowd as he wet himself.

  Angry murmurs grew louder all around me, and three large men detached themselves from the swelling throng to descend on the hapless security guards. The women, meanwhile, had rolled into the legs of their line-mates, adding at least three more thrashing, pummeling figures to the chaos. The two conflicts slowly oozed toward each other, a blob that sought to be whole again.

  I jerked my head back to the demon in time to see Axel lick his lips in satisfaction. “Such anger . . . so delicious . . .”

  Realization hit me, as usual, a bit late. “It’s you. You’re doing this.”

  “Give me something, and I’ll go away. . . .” The red glow sprang into his eyes again, and I was certain no one would ever notice in the chaos.

  A third fight sprang up at the top of the stairs, the combatants tumbling down the concrete walkway into the seats before I could even see if they were male or female. Shouts from below told the tale of the spreading conflict. Dear God and merciful Buddha all in one . . . It leapt from person to person like a grass fire. And like a grass fire, it would burn as long as it had fuel—an entire baseball stadium full of fuel.

  “Are you insane? You’ll start a riot!” I made a grab for Axel’s shirt, and he darted out of my reach faster than humanly possible. We played ring-around-the-rosy around the pillar for a few
moments.

  “Just a name, one name in exchange for all these people, and information you need . . . a bargain, really . . .” He poked his head around the pillar and grinned, caught somewhere between pleading and threatening. “You may as well give me the name. You can’t make me leave. . . .”

  “Yes, I can.” My keys had been in my pocket. I didn’t remember getting them out, but they were in my hand now. I thumbed the cap off my mini Mace key chain and took a deep breath. The next time he peered around the column, I depressed the trigger.

  I heard Axel shriek once, but with my eyes clenched tight shut I missed his actual exit. There was a faint pop as air rushed in to fill the space he abruptly vacated, and I knew he was gone. The angry shouts around me became startled exclamations, ending up as desperate coughing and gagging. The cloud of cayenne and cumin spread through the violent crowd, turning rage into an instinctive scramble for air and self-preservation.

  I held my breath as long as I could, and even then I choked on a cloud of pepper when my body finally demanded oxygen. Eyes watering fiercely, I watched as the remnants of the crowd fled, leaving behind the wounded.

  The blonde lay on the cement floor, a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth as she gagged and coughed, too dazed to get out of the demon Mace spray. Her opponent was nowhere to be seen. Leaning against one of the massive support pillars was #1 Dad, keening like a wounded rabbit, cuffed and forgotten in the upheaval. Someone nearby was making horrible retching noises.

  I wondered where the security guards went, until a strong hand grabbed my arm. “Sir, you’ll have to come with me.” Well, that’s what he tried to say, under the coughing and choking. I got the gist of it.

  Twice in as many days, I had run afoul of security guards. Oh sure. I use a little Mace, banish a demon, break up a potential riot, and I’m the one who gets arrested. Mira was going to kill me. Somewhere, someone was finding this hilarious.

  18

  As it turned out, I was not arrested. Given that the fortuitous “breaking” of my Mace canister happened to end a rather ugly situation, the stadium authorities were willing to forgive and forget. I was, however, strongly encouraged to wait for my friends in the holding cell in the bowels of the stadium, and not to come back for the rest of the season. That one hurt. It hurt a lot.

  From the conversations I overheard down there, the security guard with the Taser was in deep kimchi, too. Poor guy. I would try to explain to his bosses that he was under demonic influence, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate the help.

  Marty and Will, bastards that they were, watched the entire game before they came down to retrieve my scrawny ass. It gave me a lot of time to brood, while pretending to meditate.

  Axel had been part of my life for the last two years, give or take. I couldn’t remember exactly when he’d turned up, inhabiting random local fauna, exchanging witty pleasantries over breakfast. But he’d resisted my best efforts to get rid of him. Once his continued presence was established, we’d set limits, laid down ground rules, and I thought no more on it. Not once had I seen him act . . . well . . . like a demon. Maybe I’d become complacent, forgetting that there was a fiend of Hell wrapped in whatever little furry body he’d chosen to possess for the day.

  The thought chilled me to my very core. That thing had been in my yard. Hell, before Mira warded the entrances, he’d been in my house! He’d been around my family, my friends, my neighbors. What had he whispered to them, in weak moments? What seeds had he planted when I wasn’t looking?

  You can’t save the entire world, Jesse. No, dammit, but I could try to save my little part of it.

  While my brain slowly worked itself into a short circuit pondering all the what-ifs and mighta-couldas, I was forced to admit that there were worse physical ways to spend an evening. The “cell” was really just a corner of one of the offices, isolated and quiet. There was a cot to lounge or sit on as I chose, and a convenient soda machine. I could hear the game on the radio in the security office, and every so often, one of the guards wandered by to check on me.

  One of them even tossed me a book to read, some action adventure spy epic by some author I’d never heard of. It was full of explosive action scenes and heroes walking away from easily lethal injuries—complete and utter fiction. I guess people found it entertaining. It was a bit ridiculous, by my tastes.

  I should have known my pseudo- incarceration was going too well. Normally, I operate on the assumption that at any given moment, someone is going to walk up and kick me in the nuts. When Travis Verelli walked through the door smiling, I knew I was right.

  “Mr. Dawson, I can’t possibly tell you how good it is to see you.” The little weasel beamed at me as he set his briefcase on the desk to open it. I would almost call him giddy. He did own some casual clothes, apparently, having donned a pair of khakis and a preppy- looking sweater for the ball game. The loafers were still there, though. Guess he still hadn’t learned to tie his shoes.

  “I’m glad I could make you happy.” I laid the book aside and stood up. This was an enemy. You don’t face an enemy lying down. That’s not bushido; that’s just common sense.

  “I mean really, inciting a riot? Dispersing a toxic chemical? I couldn’t have planned this better myself.” He produced a form from the case and handed it to me. “I was going to surprise you with this, but since you’re here . . .”

  Warily, I looked it over, then looked up at him in amazement. “A restraining order? Does Kidd know you’re doing this?”

  “Well, technically, that’s just the paperwork requesting one. The judge is still reviewing it. But I expect he’ll finalize it tomorrow, especially in light of tonight’s little . . . incident.” He perched himself on the corner of the desk, looking like the cat that ate an entire flock of canaries. “And no, Mr. Kidd is unaware of my actions. The beauty of it is, he’ll never be asked to make a statement of his own. Famous people slide through the cracks that way.”

  “You’re requesting it on what grounds? I haven’t done anything!”

  He held up one finger. “Technically, you just haven’t done anything I can prove. We’ll call this a preemptive strike. I can attest that I am in fear for my client’s safety. Might even throw my own safety in there, too, given that you’re a violent man, and all.”

  “I’ve never threatened you harm.” I wanted to, though. Oh how I wanted to.

  He shrugged, picking some lint off his sweater. “That’s your word against mine. And I’m fairly certain when I show off the black eye I got in my altercation with you, the judge will be most obliging.”

  I was floored. Yeah, Axel was evil, but he kinda couldn’t help it. This guy . . . He was in a class by himself. “You’re going to get someone to punch you, and claim that I did it.”

  “A crude tactic, I agree, but most effective.” He stood up, snapping his briefcase shut. “You can keep that, by the way. I have another copy.”

  I tore the paper into tiny bits just to be petty, letting them flutter to the cement floor. “You know what? I hate getting in trouble for something I didn’t do.”

  He barely had time to blink before the punch landed, sprawling him on the ground in a tangle of gangly limbs and office chairs. He flailed about in total shock for a few moments, one hand clapped to his face.

  I eyed my bruised knuckles with a grimace. “Oh, come on, I didn’t even hit you that hard.”

  “You broke my node, you don of a bitch!” His voice came out nasal, and blood trickled between his fingers. He fumbled a handkerchief out of his pocket.

  “Did I? Damn. I was going for a black eye.” Yeah, it wasn’t my smartest moment. Not the best example of bushido, either. I should never have attacked a weaker man. There’s no honor in that.

  Verelli finally clambered to his feet, red-spotted handkerchief clutched to his abused proboscis. “I’ll have you up on charges. I’ll—”

  “Get a restraining order? Do that. Now you need one.” Later, I’d regret it. Later, I’d kick myse
lf all over for being so impulsive. But just now, it felt really damn good. “And if you come anywhere near my friends and family again, a broken nose will be the least of your worries.”

  The agent made a scurrying retreat, briefcase clutched to his chest, and I slumped on the cot. Way to go, Jess. I was so screwed. Verelli would most definitely bring assault charges against me, and not even Cole was going to be able to keep me out of jail this time. I banged my head against the wall a few times.

  Somehow, the game ended without the police coming to clap me in irons. My friends—and I used the term loosely, at this point—came to get me somewhere around eight o’clock, and awarded me the Great Foam Finger Award for “sticking it to the man.” While security was willing to buy that my little toxic vapor incident was an accident, my buddies were not. They’d have just shit if they knew about my decking Verelli. I elected not to mention it, and I ushered them out of the stadium as quickly as possible.

  “Dude, you made the news! There were camera crews all over the place for the rest of the game!” Will, in particular, seemed rather jubilant over events. “There were chicks fighting, and shirts ripped off and boobs everywhere. It was great!”

  I cringed. “Mira’s going to kill me.”

  Marty was perhaps a bit more sympathetic, being the other married man of the group. “They didn’t use your name, as far as I know. You should be in the clear.”

  Oh, if only he knew. I might have been off the hook for the riot, but there was one very disgruntled sports agent out there with an ax to grind. And Mira was not going to be amused when the cops showed up at the house to arrest me. In fact, I’d probably be safer with them than with her. Being bashed in the skull with a cast-iron skillet is not a noble death. And I had at least a good hour to ponder my bleak fate as we sat in the parking lot, waiting to get out.

  Marty, having been up for nearly twenty- four hours, crashed in the backseat and began snoring almost immediately. If you’ve ever seen the backseat of a PT Cruiser, you will appreciate it when I say that Marty is a musician. It means he can sleep anywhere.