I've never seen anyone grind up a frog before, I thought, and shivered. I dropped the tracker in a small leather pouch and settled it carefully around my neck. "Okay, Dake. Thanks."
I did not tell him I owed him one.
He blinked at me. "You're not going to kill me?" he whined.
The thudding bass beat of the music downstairs made me nervous. "No," I said. "Of course not, you idiot. Why would I kill you?"
As if he was a goddamn normal instead of a Magi who should know better.
"I know how you feel about Chill," he stuttered, "and if you think I—"
No shit you know how I feel about Chill, everyone knows how I feel about that shit. "I don't think, Dake." I turned on my heel and started for the door. "I know. And you'll get yours soon enough. The Chill's going to eat you, Dacon. There's no detox for it. You're a stupid motherfucker."
"It's not my fault!" he yelled after me as I swung out the door. "It's not!"
"Yeah," I said, and stamped down the stairs into the womblike starred dark of the club below. "Sure it's not, Dacon. Nothing ever is."
Hot salt spilled down my cheeks as I pushed through the crowd of people and finally, blessedly, achieved the coolness of the street outside. One of the bouncers—probably the Chillfreak—sniggered something behind me, and for a single heartbeat I considered turning around and separating him from his liver.
I wrestled the urge down, still striding along the cracked pavement, my shields resounding. I waited until I turned the corner to stop, head down, my ribs heaving. I had jammed my sword into the loop on my belt, not trusting myself with edged metal right now.
"Are you injured?" the demon asked.
I almost flinched. The hard impenetrable darkness of his aura swirled once, counterclockwise, brushed against my aura's sparkling. Checking for damage. I shivered, my shields thickening reflexively, pushing the touch away. It was bad enough to smell like a demon, I didn't want him pawing at me. Even on an energetic level.
"I'm fine," I forced out through a hard lump in my throat. "I just wanted to… I'm fine."
He didn't say anything else. Instead, he only stood there. Another human being might have asked me useless questions, tried to say something comforting. Apparently a demon wouldn't.
I finally wiped my cheeks and scanned the street, deserted except for me and a demon. "Okay," I said. "We've got our tracker. Let's go."
"Is he a friend of yours?" The demon tipped his chin back, indicating the vague direction of the club with one elegant motion. His eyes were darker now, strange runic patterns slipping through the depths of green light.
"Not any more," I said, casting around for a callbox.
There was one down at the end of the street, and I set out for the lighted plasteel box. The demon followed me, moving as silently as a manta ray slipping through dark water.
I passed my hand over the credit square, flushing my palm with Power. The door clicked open, and I stepped into the callbox. It was one of the older ones without a vidshell. Thank the gods for small favors. "Hold the door," I said, and the demon put out his golden hand, held the folding door aside.
I picked up the handset and dialed the copshop.
"Vice, Horman speaking," Detective Lew Horman snarled on the other end.
"Horman? It's Danny." My voice sounded normal. A little husky, but normal.
"Aw fer Christ's sake—"
I didn't know he was a Christen. "Don't blaspheme, Detective. Look, I've got a word for you."
"What the fuck now, deadhead? I ain't Homicide!" The high edge of fear colored his voice.
"You know the Chill that's been soaking the South Side? I found out a major distributor."
That got his attention. He literally gasped.
I waited a beat. "Of course, if you're not interested—"
"Goddammit, you deadhead freak. Give it up."
"Dacon Whitaker, out of his club. One of his bouncers is a Chillfreak and so is he now."
"A fuckin magician's a Chillfreak? I thought they didn't—"
"They don't last long, but they're nasty while they do. I'd take some para backup with you. Don't mention my name, okay?"
"Quiet as the grave," Horman snorted.
I let it pass. "You owe me one, Horman," I said, and hung up without waiting to hear his reply.
The demon still said nothing.
I took my hand off the phone and looked out the wavering safety-glass at the dark street, pools of streetlamp glow shivering on wet pavement. "Fuck," I said finally, and clenched my hand. "Fuck!"
My fist starred the safety glass in a spreading spider-web, I pulled back and let another one fly. This punch left a bloody print on the cracked glass.
Then I stopped, gasping for breath, fighting for control. My pulse pounded in my ears.
When I had swallowed the last of my rage, I opened my eyes to find the demon studying me. His eyes were even darker. "What did you do?" he asked, mildly enough.
"I just turned Dake in to the cops," I told him through gritted teeth.
"Why?" It was a passionless inquiry.
"Because he'll kill people with that Chill shit."
"A drug?"
"Yeah, a nasty drug." A drug that makes mothers abandon their infant babies at the hospital, a drug that eats people whole, a drug that makes punk kids shoot social workers on the street in broad daylight, a drug that swallows whole families and smashes psions. A drug the Hegemony won't get serious about outlawing because the Mob gets too much taxable income off it, a drug the cops can barely stem the tide against because half of them are on the take anyway and the other half are so choked with paperwork they can't stop it.
Between Chill and the Mob, it was hard to tell which I hated more.
"Why not let those stupid enough to take it, die?"
I considered him, my bleeding hand curled tightly in my unwounded hand. Dake had been at Rigger Hall; I suppose I couldn't blame him for wanting some oblivion. My own nightmares were bad enough; just the thought of that place made my shields quiver.
Valentine, D. Student Valentine is called to the headmaster's office immediately.
And the Headmaster's chilly, precise, dry little voice. We've got something special for those who break the rules today, Miss Valentine. The smell of chalk and spoiled magick, the feel of a collar's metal against my naked throat and collarbones…
Thinking about it made the scars on my back ache again, an ache I knew was purely psychic. Three stripes, running down my back; and the other scar, the burn scar, just at the bottom crease of my left buttock. Dake probably had his own scars… but that was no excuse to drown them in Chill. After all, I managed to live without drowning mine, didn't I? It was no excuse.
Was it? Or had I just turned him in because I was having a pissy day?
"Because I'm human," I informed him tightly, "and I operate by human rules. Okay?" I wasn't about to tell him about Lewis bleeding to death on the sidewalk, dead by a Chillfreak's hand, his antique watch and Rebotnik sneakers stolen to hawk for more Chill. It was private. And anyway, why did he care why I hated Chill? It was enough that I hated it.
He shrugged. "Your hand."
I stared at him. "What?"
"Give me your hand."
After a moment's consideration, I extended my hand. He folded his fingers over it, still holding the door of the callbox open with his other elbow. My entire hand fit inside his palm, and his fingers were hard and warm.
A spine-tingling rush of Power coated my entire body. His eyes glowed laser-green. The pain crested, drained away.
When he let go of my hand, it was whole and unwounded under a mask of blood. I snatched it back, examined it, and looked up at him.
"I will endeavor to remember human rules," he said.
"You don't have to," I found myself saying. "You're a demon, you're not one of us."
He shrugged. Stood aside so I could exit the callbox.
I let the folding door accordion shut behind me. The light inside the
callbox flicked off.
"Okay," I said.
"What next?"
I took a deep breath. Looked at my hand. "Next I go home and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow I'm visiting Abracadabra—a friend. I'll see if she can give me a direction to go in and some contacts. Better not to use the tracker until I'm sure I need it."
"Very well." He still didn't move, just stood there watching me.
A gigantic lethargy descended on me. Why did it all have to be so hard? The pressure behind my eyes and throat and nose told me I was a few minutes away from sobbing. I set my jaw and scanned the street again.
Empty. Of course. Just when I needed a cab.
"Okay," I said again. "Come on."
He fell into step behind me, silent as Death Himself.
CHAPTER 14
I lay on my back, holding my sword to my chest, looking up at the dark ceiling. My eyes burned.
I slept with my rings on, and the shifting blue-green glow sliding against the ceiling told me I was agitated.
As if I don't already know, I thought, and my fingers clasped the sword more tightly.
Downstairs the demon sat in front of my fireplace. My shields buzzed and blurred; he was adding his own layers of protection. Even my home wasn't mine anymore. Of course, on the plus side, that meant a better shielding for my house.
If I'd been born a Magi, I would have at least some idea of how to deal with a demon in my house. I probably would have even been excited. Magi worked with circles and trained for years to achieve regular contact with Hell after passing their Academy test and calling up an imp. They paid the rent by working as consultants and doing shielding for corporations, like Shamans. They also ran most of the training colleges and did magickal research. Finicky eyes for detail, most Magi; but when dealing with demons you wanted to be a perfectionist when it came to your circles and protections. The Greater Demons were like loa, only more powerful—they didn't exactly have a human idea of morals. And while the loa might mislead, it was an axiom of Magi practice that demons outright lied sometimes for the fun of it—again, because their idea of truth wasn't the same as ours.
I sighed, burrowed my back deeper into my bed. I was retreading the same mental ground, going over and over what I knew of demons, hoping I would somehow think of something new that would make me feel better about this.
If I was a Christer, I'd be peeling the paint off the walls screaming, I thought sardonically. Some normals were still Christers, despite the Awakening and the backlash against the Evangelicals of Gilead; the Catholic section, of course, would have tried reading from old books and blessing water to get rid of a demon. Sometimes it might have worked—even normals were capable of belief, though they couldn't use it like a tool as a Shaman or a Necromance could. And the Christers had even believed that demons could get inside people, not understanding the mechanics of shielding and psychic space very well.
None of this got me anywhere.
How the hell did this happen? How did I end up working for the fucking Devil?
I didn't have a clue. There had been no warning, from my cards or runes or any other divination. Just a knocking on my door in the middle of a rainy afternoon.
So did they sneak up on me, or are my instincts getting rusty?
Or both?
I stared at the greenshift shadows on the ceiling, my mind ticking, sleep a million klicks away.
Breathe, Danny. Start the circle like you were taught. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe deep, deeper, deeper—
The ritual was comforting, born of too many sleepless nights. Outside my window a gray rainwashed dawn was coming up. I yawned, settled myself more comfortably between white sheets.
I wondered if the cops had visited Dake yet. Or if Dake had dumped his stash in panic, guessing I'd turn him in even though we went way back together. Back to the Hall.
Don't think about that.
Mirovitch's papery voice whispering, three lines of fire on my back—the whip, the smell of my own flesh searing—
Do not think about that. I shifted on the bed, the sheet moving, my fingers white-knuckled on the swordhilt. "Don't think about that," I whispered, and closed my eyes. "What you cannot escape, you must fight; what you cannot fight, you must endure. Now think of something useful if you're going to stay awake."
You weren't warned because they haven't been preparing this, the deep voice of my intuition suddenly whispered. This doesn't have the feel of a well-planned expedition.
It was a relief to have something else to think about. So even the Devil was scrambling to keep up with current events, so to speak. Maybe he'd gone to use this Egg or look at it, and found out it was gone. Hell was a big place; you couldn't keep track of every artifact and demon.
Which means Santino probably has Lucifer by the balls. And how does this Japhrimel fit in? He's Lucifer's agent. Why wouldn't Lucifer come out on this job himself?
It would do me no good to fret over it. I was well and truly caught.
I closed my grainy, burning eyes, consigning the question to my unconscious mind. With any luck, the bubbling stew of my subconscious would strike me with the answer—right between the eyes—soon enough.
Even Japhrimel has no idea what's going on, I thought. Even Lucifer. They're playing blind. Which is why they need me.
They need me. I'm calling the shots here.
The thought was enough to press a smile to my face as I kept breathing, deeper and deeper, waiting for dawn. When I finally fell asleep, the sky was turning gray with morning.
The house was full of the smell of demon, amber musk and burning cinnamon creeping through the air like gas. I came downstairs after a long shower and fresh clothes to find his scent rippling and dyeing the psychic atmosphere with golden darkness.
He handed me a cup of coffee. He looked just the same as he had last night, except a little of the robotic blankness was gone from his face. Now he looked thoughtful, his green eyes a shade darker and not quite meeting mine.
I blew across the steaming mug and yawned, contemplating the kitchen. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted in through the window. The rain must have fled, because golden sunlight edged the wandering Jew hanging over the sink. "Morning," I finally said, slipping past him to stalk to the toaster. "How are you?"
"Well enough," he replied. "Did you sleep well?" He actually sounded interested.
"No. I hardly ever do. Thanks for the coffee." I dropped two slices of wheat bread into the toaster and pressed the button for "just short of charcoal."
"Where is your sword?"
I shrugged. "I don't think I need it in a demon-protected house, do I?" I yawned again. "When we go out to hunt I'll be taking my sword. I won't put it away again until I've brought Santino down. I haven't started yet—this is just saddling my horse." My rings sparked again. This time the shower of sparks was pure gold.
I smell like a demon now, I thought with a sort of grim amusement. That should make things fun.
"I see." He still sounded thoughtful. He hadn't moved from the kitchen door.
"Before we go," I continued, "I need you to tell me exactly what having a demon familiar means. I was going to ask Dake, but we didn't have time last night. So I'm forced to ask you."
"I'll do my best not to disappoint you," he said sardonically.
I swung around to look at him, the coffee sloshing in my cup. I fished a butterknife out of the drying rack next to the sink. "You're starting to develop a sense of humor," I said. "Good for you."
"We will get exactly nowhere if we cannot reach an agreement," he pointed out. "I am responsible for your safety, and my physicality is now tied to you by the grace of the Prince. If I allow you to be harmed, it will be most unpleasant for me." His lean saturnine face didn't change, but his voice was colored with a faint sneer.
"Mmh." My toast popped up as I was getting the peanut butter down. "Guess it's bad luck all over you, huh?" I set the coffee cup down after a quick, mouth-burning gulp. It was, at least, de
cent coffee.
"On the contrary," he said. "It is very good luck. It appears you need a familiar and I need my freedom. You appear tolerable, at least, despite your foul mouth. And you are occasionally thoughtless, but not stupid."
I looked over my shoulder. He had his hands behind his back again, standing military-straight, his long black coat buttoned up to his chin. "Thanks," I replied, as dryly as I could. "Have you had breakfast?"
He shrugged. "Human food is pleasant, but I don't need it."
I was just about to say something snide when the phone rang. I hooked up the kitchen phone and snarled into it. "What?"
That was my hello-good-morning voice.
"And a good bloody morning to you too, Danny," Trina chirped. She was the agent for the Parapsych Services Unlimited Message Agency; most psions in Saint City used them. Since I did bounties as well as apparitions, Trina managed my schedule and acted as a buffer between me and the cranks and yahoos who sometimes decided to prank-call psions. I didn't have the time or energy to keep track of when I was supposed to be where, so Trina would coordinate with my datpilot and datband as well as monitor my datband while I was on a bounty. Magick was a full-time job; even Necromances needed secretaries nowadays and it was cheaper to just freelance-contract with an agency. "Quick word?"
"What, another job?" I looked down at my toast, picked up my coffee. "How much?"
"Fifty thousand. Standard."
That would take care of another few mortgage payments. "What kind?" I swirled the coffee in the cup, the steam rising and twisting into angular shapes.
"A probate thing. Shouldn't take more than a coupla hours. Old coot named Douglas Shantern, died and the will's contested. Total estate's fifteen mil, the estate itself is paying your fee."
I yawned. "Okay, I'll take it. Where's the body? How fresh?"
"Lawyer's office on Dantol Street has his cremains. Died two weeks ago."
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