The Brimstone Deception

by Lisa Shearin

  At the moment, Ian was talking to our lead investigator, but he kept the Suburban in sight at all times. I smiled around my cup. Yasha wasn’t the only protective one.

  I was sitting curled up in the Suburban’s second row of seats in the exact middle. Just because the portal and Sar Gedeon’s murderer were gone didn’t mean I didn’t want as many exit options open to me as possible—or the protection of armored glass on every side. It probably wouldn’t stand up to demons, but it was what was available, so I gladly took it.

  Except for the partially open driver’s side window. I’d rolled that down myself. Just because I’d had the hell scared out of me didn’t lessen my curiosity. The lab folks were having a field day with this one. It wasn’t often they got to play with squid demon blood, and I didn’t want to miss a word of it.

  The rear passenger-side door opened. I had a visitor, an expected one.

  SPI’s director of demonology, Martin DiMatteo.

  I saluted him with my gargantuan paper cup. “Hi, Marty.”

  We’d only met once before on my first day on the job, and he was many levels of agency bureaucracy above me, but after what’d just happened, I had no fracks left to give.

  Not that he was intimidating or anything. I think the term “mild mannered” was coined with this guy in mind. Average height, average build, average looks. The only thing that wasn’t average was the complete lack of hair above the neck. Below the neck, he was covered by a navy blue suit with a non-descript tie. Even the tie’s pattern was muted.

  Martin DiMatteo gave me a cool nod. “Agent Fraser.” He got in and closed the door.

  I took a big gulp of my hot chocolate. Interrogation, here we come.

  “You can call me Mac, if you want to,” I told him. “Or . . . Agent Fraser if you don’t.”

  “I understand you’ve had quite the eventful day, Agent Fraser.”

  So much for friendly small talk.

  Though one element of my eventful day wasn’t going to be a topic of talk, small or otherwise. Ian had notified Vivienne Sagadraco about what had happened; and until after an official debriefing, she wanted us to keep the mage to ourselves. I had absolutely no problem with that. I didn’t want to think about what’d nearly happened to me, let alone have a chat about it. As the director of demonology, Martin DiMatteo would probably be hearing about it soon enough, but I was fine with him being told by the boss and not me.

  “I think we can safely call it the day from Hell,” I said.

  “Technically, no. A more accurate description would be a day from an anteroom of Hell, but then that doesn’t have nearly the dramatic flair.”

  “I don’t want drama in my life.” I nearly added “Marty,” but decided against it. I could only claim shock-induced familiarity for so long. “What’s the difference between a portal to Hell and an anteroom?”

  “One’s a direct flight; the other has a layover.” He didn’t crack a smile, or show any emotion whatsoever.

  “So it’s true what we say back home: to get to Heaven or Hell, you’ve gotta go through Atlanta.”

  Still no smile. I don’t think the guy understood humor.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “But if I’d been dragged through, I could have been taken to Hell from there.”

  “Yes.”

  Gulp.

  “There is no way directly into our dimension from Hell,” he continued.

  “That’s good.”

  “It’s the only reason any of us are still here.”

  Gulp again.

  “The vast majority of demons cannot cross over,” he said.

  “Let me guess, squid demons can.”

  “Actually, that’s what makes this incident so interesting. They shouldn’t be able to, and definitely not so far from open water. Then there was what happened this morning, both in our morgue and with that elf’s murder. Both highly unusual demonic behavior.”

  I’m glad only one of us considered all that merely interesting. I’d broken out in a cold sweat at the thought of what I was about to ask. “So demons don’t like to torture humans—or elves—and eat their hearts?”

  “They derive great enjoyment from that. However, they generally don’t do it here. Contrary to what most major religions believe, demons really don’t find us all that fascinating on an individual basis.”

  I probably didn’t want to know, but couldn’t help asking. “And as a group?”

  DiMatteo shrugged. “I’ve heard that we’re tasty and addictive, rather like buffalo wings. It’s our dimension that they covet. They consider our dimension—or any dimension other than their own, for that matter—to be much more hospitable than theirs.”

  “Must be the beaches,” said an unexpected voice.

  I danged near choked on my chocolate. “Bert?”

  “Mac.” He nodded in greeting. “I escaped.”

  “I see. Should you be here?”

  “You saw another portal—and the bastard who attacked me standing on the other side. Where else should I be?” He nodded to my visitor. “Marty.”

  “Bert.”

  “Where you should be is still in bed with Dr. Stephens fussing over you.” I spotted a flash of white on the back of his big hand. My mouth fell open. “Is that tape from your IV needle?”

  Bert looked down, grunted in acknowledgment, and ripped it off.

  “You really did escape.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Bert said. “I’m fine, Stephens didn’t believe me. That’s his problem, not mine.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but the portal’s gone. You came here for nothing.”

  “There’ve been two portals today, and you’ve been there for both of them. You’re batting a thousand, kid. If I stick with you, I’ll be there for the next one.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Did you hit your head on the table in the morgue? It’s more like I’ve got two strikes, and the next one means I’m out. I’d like nothing more than to take myself out of the game before that happens.”

  “What proof do you have that a class-five demon was with the elf’s killer?” DiMatteo asked Bert.

  The necromancer gave the demonologist a flat look. “Seven foot tall without the horns. Tail as long as Mac here is tall. Turn-ons include chest branding, heart eating, and soul sucking. Yeah, it was a Class Five.”

  DiMatteo either ignored the sarcasm or he didn’t get that, either. “Were there bony protrusions like a ridge down the length of its back?”

  Bert shook his head. “Smooth back.”

  “Slender build or heavy?”

  Bert looked confused.

  “Swimmer or linebacker?” DiMatteo clarified.

  “Somewhere in between, but more toward swimmer.”

  “The horns. Were they upward-, forward-, or backward-facing? Forward would be like a bull. Backward is like a goat. Upward is . . . up.”

  That question gave Bert pause. “I’m not sure.”

  “Think.”

  “It’s important?”

  “Critical.”

  “Upward, but curved and slightly tilted toward the back.”

  Martin DiMatteo would have raised his eyebrows in surprise if he’d had any. Two little crinkles appeared where his eyebrows would have been.

  “Are you certain? Not like a goat or bull?”

  Bert closed his eyes, mentally reviewing his “game tape.” He opened them. “Upward. The base was about as thick as two of my fingers. They narrowed to a sharp point. They also had circular ridges like growth rings down the length.”

  The demonologist sat back on the seat next to me with a genuine smile. You’d have thought Bert had just handed him the best present he’d ever gotten. “Then it wasn’t a Class Five.”

  “Well then, what class was it?”

  “Demon lords are above the BCS.”

  “BCS?” I asked.

  “Brinkman Classification System.”

  “Someone got close enough to demons to classify them?
”

  “Affirmative. But he’s not around anymore.”

  No doubt.

  I swallowed. Hard. “A demon lord sounds bad.” My voice sounded tiny. I’d just had firsthand experience with seeing one, at least a silhouette, which was more than I ever wanted to see again.

  “That would depend on your perspective, Agent Fraser. If what Bert says is accurate, and I don’t have reason to doubt him, now that I’ve extracted more details, this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “After Sar Gedeon got up close and personal with that thing, his lifetime was over. And if Gedeon’s killer used a demon lord as their hired muscle, what does that say about what the killer is?”

  “Precisely.” The demonologist added a delighted eye twinkle to go with his smile.

  He was getting happier than a pig in mud.

  I was getting even more scared and creeped the hell out than I already was.

  “Demon lords—and ladies—only leave Hell for special occasions,” DiMatteo said. “This particular lord must consider it to be very much worth his while. They are proud, arrogant, and utterly self-absorbed, and would only consider subjecting themselves to Hell’s aristocracy.”

  I felt the blood run out of my face. “So the killer is a—”

  “Not necessarily the aristocracy, but a being that the demon lord could tolerate partnering with until he gets what he is in this to obtain.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Unknown at this time. Whatever it is, ‘catastrophic’ would probably be the best description for how bad it would be if he got it.”

  12

  DR. Stephens wasn’t all that disappointed—or surprised—that Bert had flown the medical coop. It was obvious that the necromancer was a less than ideal patient.

  Besides, now he had me.

  The squid demon bouncing my head off the garage’s concrete floor earned me a CAT scan and a stay for overnight observation in SPI’s infirmary.

  I was in the same bed—with fresh sheets—that Bert had occupied until he pulled a Houdini. Bert had said earlier that I had looked like I needed to be in that bed worse than he did. If I’d had a lick of sense, I’d have just crawled in then and saved myself the pain, possible concussion, and definite emotional trauma.

  All of the tentacle constricting hadn’t interrupted the blood flow to my legs long enough to do any permanent damage. My feet still felt a little tingly, which wasn’t exactly conducive to standing, let alone running after or away from anything. The scrapes and cuts from being dragged across the concrete had been cleaned and spritzed with some kind of miracle spray that not only took the sting out, but dried to provide a bandage that wouldn’t move or come off. It needed to be reapplied every twelve hours.

  Because of all that, Alain Moreau—and more importantly, Vivienne Sagadraco—after they had come to talk to me about what had happened—and what had almost happened—had ordered mandatory bed rest and observation for at least the next twelve hours.

  They’d both listened in grim silence as I’d recounted my experience. They’d asked few questions, all of them to clarify details, then the boss had told me to get some sleep, and they’d left.

  If they knew who or what my attacker was—and I strongly suspected they had an inkling—they weren’t telling me. Probably because I needed to sleep, and sleep would’ve been hard to come by if Dr. Stephens had to sedate me during the panic attack I would’ve had if they’d told me what they knew.

  If ignorance was bliss, I was fine with being stupid and happy for as long as possible. I knew it wouldn’t last, so I’d enjoy it while I had it.

  It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening of one of the longest days I could ever remember; and to tell you the truth, I really didn’t mind the thought of spending the night at headquarters. And since Dr. Stephens had come in and told me I didn’t have a concussion, I wouldn’t have either him or one of the nurses waking me up every hour, to make sure I could wake up, and shining that little penlight in my eyes.

  My eyelids were getting heavy, and I thought with a little silent cheer that I might actually get some much needed sleep.

  It’d been only two days ago that we’d been racing against entirely too little time to protect the supernaturals of the tristate area from death by cursed diamonds. Those who depended on glamours and other magic to hide what they really were from humans would have had that protection stripped from them; they would have been the lucky ones.

  Needless to say, during the forty-eight hours leading up to that, no one had gotten any sleep. Halloween had been on a Saturday. Sunday, I’d still been too keyed up to sleep. Today was Monday and I was running on fumes.

  Yes, I was in a hospital room, but I could mostly feel my legs, and there wasn’t any permanent damage to them or to the insides of my skull. Whether I merely felt safe being in a secure complex with one of our commando teams on duty and the other on call, or I was simply exhausted, or a combination of both, I slept like a baby.

  The nurse on duty, God bless her, didn’t wake me up during the night or even the next morning. I got to wake up on my own. Aside from a brief bout of heart palpitations from waking up in a strange bed, it was a night well spent.

  I really wanted to smell coffee, but instead, my nose twitched at the scent of flowers.

  The nurse—or someone—had been in during the night and made a floral delivery. A cut crystal vase holding at least three dozen roses stood on the bedside table. Their petals went from a pink blush for the outer petals to a pale golden glow in the center. They looked like tiny sunrises. I made a soft sound. I loved roses, and these were the most beautiful I’d ever seen.

  And there was a card.

  I leaned over to get it and winced at stiff and seriously sore muscles. I saw a stretching session in my immediate future.

  I opened the small envelope. Even the paper felt expensive.

  Rake.

  I’d check with the nurse, and if she hadn’t brought them in, I’d have Kenji check the security cameras for one stealthy and determined goblin.

  I read the card.

  Dearest Makenna,

  Lunch (or dinner) awaits your pleasure, as do I.

  Be well and be careful.

  Yours,

  R

  Very nice. Caring, polite, yet not pushy. Brownie points earned.

  Sleeping in, floral delivery . . . the SPI infirmary was starting to feel more like a hotel. I was wondering if I could get room service and schedule a massage when there was a knock, and Ian came in with a familiar pink box and a cardboard tray with two cups of life-restoring coffee.

  Ask and ye shall receive.

  I wasn’t going to push my luck with the massage request.

  A box of anything from Kitty’s more than made up for it.

  Katherine Poertner—or Kitty to her friends, and I was fortunate to count myself as one—was the owner and pastry chef extraordinaire of Kitty’s Confections. She was a veritable wizard in the kitchen. Though to be perfectly accurate, Kitty Poertner was a witch. As far as those of us at SPI with a sweet tooth were concerned, Kitty’s superpower was her baking skills. Everything that came out of Kitty’s kitchen made people happy. She brought joy to the world—supernatural and mundane—one cookie at a time. Pink boxes turned up so often on SPI break room tables and in meetings that a lot of the folks here had started referring to her as the Goodie Goddess.

  One thing Kitty didn’t bake was gingerbread.

  Between Thanksgiving and Christmas every bakery and coffee shop in the city was selling anything and everything gingerbread.

  Kitty wouldn’t touch the stuff.

  In her defense, she had a good reason. Her entire family had a ton of bad karma to live down. Kitty’s great-great-great-grandmother made Hannibal Lecter look like a cannibalism dilettante. She’d chow down on adults in a pinch, but she preferred children. She lured them in with sweets, most notably gingerbread.

  Yep, she was that witch.

  A cannibalistic chi
ld abductor was a heavy load on a family tree.

  Ian saw the flowers on the bedside table. Everything else in the room was stark white. How could he miss them?

  “Danescu?”

  I tapped the tip of my nose twice in reply.

  Ian held up the box, roses ignored, but, I was sure, not forgotten. “Lemon-blueberry scones fresh out of the oven.”

  My favorite.

  I made a sound halfway between a moan and a . . . Okay, it was moan. Meg Ryan’s deli experience had nothing on Kitty’s scones. And from the size of that box, there were four warm wedges of pure heaven inside.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I said rapidly as I reached for the box with shamelessly greedy hands. “This is even better than Krispy Kreme when the ‘HOT’ light’s on. I’m getting all kinds of presents this morning. If I didn’t have to wrestle with a squid demon to get them, I’d do it more often.” I opened the box and looked down. “One’s missing.”

  Ian pulled the lid off his coffee to let it cool. “Pickup and delivery fee.”

  I remembered the previous pickup Ian had done—me off of a garage floor—and my appetite wavered, but didn’t vanish. I was too hungry for even a near-death experience to ruin. “And a fee that was well earned and deserved,” I told him. “Want another?”

  If Ian had gotten my reference—and I was sure that he had—he wasn’t going to bring it up, at least not now. That took considerate to a whole new level.

  “I won’t turn it down,” he said. “We’re both going to need to tank up today.”

  I stopped mid bite. “Aw, jeez. Can I at least eat one before you tell me who got slaughtered last night and how?”