Working for the Devil dv-1

by Lilith Saintcrow

  "Hesu Christos—" he began, and I was on him, driving him to the floor, my sword within easy reach. I had him in an armlock. Japhrimel hushed the naked, screaming girl on the bed by the simple expedient of clapping a hand over her mouth. He dragged her to the door and tossed her out, then tossed a few more Nuevo Rio notes after her. How much money does he have? I thought, and leaned into the armlock.

  Captain Jack, weedy from hash overuse, his ribs standing out, still possessed a great deal of wiry strength. I was actively sweating by the time he finished cursing and heaving, his sweat-slick skin sliding under my fingers. He'd gotten old. His dreadlocked brown hair was streaked with gray, bits of glittering circuit-wire wrapped around dreads and twisted into runic shapes, dusty from the plank flooring. He called me something filthy. I got my knee in his back and applied a little pressure. He settled down a little.

  "What the motherfucking hell do you want?" he snarled. The demon, his face expressionless, leaned against the door, his arms folded across his chest.

  "What I always want, Jack. To see your sweet face," I leaned over and purred in his ear. "Taking a vacation from Saint City, pirate? I'm on a legitimate hunt and you've got warrants. If you don't want your ass hauled in and cored in a Nuevo Rio prison, you might want to consider being a little more polite."

  "Bitch," he hissed. His long thin nose pressed into the dusty planks; spittle formed on his thin lips. He'd pawned his golden earring, I saw it was missing. The tattoos on his shoulderblades—twin dragons, with no significance or Power—writhed on his skin. He was a bottom-feeder, with only enough psi to avoid being taken into wage slavery, not enough to qualify for a trade or even as a breeder. "Whafuck? Don't got nothing on you, I ain't seen you in years—"

  "It's not me I'm asking about," I said quietly. "I want to know why Jace Monroe blew into town three years ago. Give, Jack, or I'll break your fucking arm and haul you in, I swear I will."

  He believed me. "Christos," he moaned. "All I know's Jace was in the Corvins… bought himself out six months ago, foughta running street war with them. He's… big man now, lots of credit and a mean network. On the way to becoming a Family himself, he's filed… agh, lay off—for incorporation."

  "Sekhmet sa'es," I breathed. "And? Why did he come here? There must be rumors."

  "Corvins made him a deal: Either he come in or they ice some bitch he was seeing. Lay off, willya? You're breakin my fuckin arm!"

  "I'll break more than that if you keep whining. Who's he working for now?"

  "You! Goddammit, woman, he's working for you! That's the word! Let up a little, come on, Valentine, don't!"

  "Quit your bitching. Who's leaning on the Corvins to put my ass in a blender? Huh? Who?"

  "Some big dude!" Jack moaned, his eyes rolling. "Don't know! Five million credit and a clean slate for bringing you in. Whole city's lookin' for you—"

  "That makes you the lucky one, doesn't it." I eased up a little on the pressure. "You must have heard rumors, Jack. Who's pushing the Corvins?"

  "Same as always, the big dick Corvin. Jace was their front man in Saint City, man. Goddammit, lay off!"

  "Jace was their front man three years ago?" That was something I hadn't guessed.

  "Hell, he's been working for them his whole life! Ran off about six years ago, worked mercenary, they let him go for a while and then sank their hooks in good when he started seein' some bitch up Saint City way. I ain't been back there for five goddamn years, Valentine, I don't know who he was screwin' up there! Lucas will know, go bother him!"

  That was unexpected news. "Lucas Villalobos? He's in town? Where?"

  "Man, do I look like a fuckin' vid directory?"

  I shoved. He screamed, the sound of a rabbit caught in a trap.

  "Las Vigrasas! He hangs out at Las Vigrasas on Puertain Viadrid, goddammit, motherfuck—"

  I looked up at the demon. He nodded slightly, understanding. It sounded like Jack was telling the truth.

  I gained my feet, scooping my sword up; watched Captain Jack struggle up to hands and knees, then haul himself into a sitting position, facing me. "Hesu Christos," he moaned. "Look at this mess. You used to be such a nice girl, Valentine."

  "Yeah, I had to grow up. Sucks, doesn't it." My lip curled. "Thanks for your time and trouble, Captain."

  "Fuck you," he spat, his watery brown eyes rabbiting over to the demon and halting, wide as credit discs. He crossed himself—forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder—while I watched, fascinated. I'd never seen Captain get religious before. "Nominae Patri, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti—"

  Does he think Japhrimel's going to disappear in a puff of brimstone? I thought, feeling a sardonic smile tilt one corner of my mouth. "I never knew you were a Novo Christer, Jack. I thought fucking so many prostitutes would have made you irreligious."

  He kept babbling his prayer. I sighed, backed up a few steps, eased for the door. It wasn't wise to turn your back on Captain Jack.

  I made it to the door before he broke off long enough to glare at me. "I hate you, Valentine," he hissed. "One of these days—"

  Japhrimel tensed. His eyes flared. I reached behind me for the doorknob. "Promises, promises," I said, twisting the knob and opening the door. "If you go running to Monroe, tell him he'd better pray his path doesn't cross mine."

  "They'll catch you!" Jack screamed. "The whole city's lookin' for you!"

  "Good luck to them," I said, and ducked out of the room. Japhrimel followed me.

  "Shall I kill him?" he asked quietly as we made our way down the hall. The entire bordello was silent, waiting. "He threatened you."

  "Leave him alone. He hates me for a good reason."

  "What would that be?"

  "I killed his wife," I said, checking the stairs. Looked safe enough. "Come on. Let's go find Lucas." My jaw set, and fortunately, Japhrimel didn't ask me anything else.

  CHAPTER 33

  Las Vigrasas was a bar. The street it crouched on lay under a drift of trash, furtive shadows sliding from place to place, danger soaking the air. I shivered, peering at the front of the bar from our safe place across the street. Japhrimel had suggested watching the place for a few minutes, and I'd concurred.

  I scanned the place carefully. No real Power here, this was a blindhead bar. It was asking for trouble, walking in there. Some places weren't very hospitable to psis.

  A lonely sign with a peeling L's Vig asa painted on it swung slightly in the freshening breeze. The air was so muggy, even the breeze didn't help much. Bullet holes and plasgun scorches festooned the buildings.

  I took a deep breath. "What do you think?" I asked him.

  I can't believe I'm asking a demon his opinion, I thought. What the hell is wrong with me? Then again, he's my best backup, at least until I find this Egg thingie.

  "I think this is a dangerous place," he said softly. "I would ask you to be careful, but—"

  "I'll be careful," I said. "Look, don't hesitate in there. You see someone go for me, take them down."

  "Kill them?"

  "If necessary." I paused. "I trust your judgment."

  His eyes sparked briefly, turning bright laser-green, and then just as swiftly darkened. "You do?"

  "I guess so," I answered. "You haven't let me down yet."

  He didn't answer, but his eyes held mine for a long moment.

  I finally eased out of the shadows and crossed the street, skirting mounds of rubble and trash. I didn't have to look—Japhrimel seemed melded to my shadow. Three steps led up to Las Vigrasas's swinging door; I heard rollicking shouts from behind it, a barrelhouse piano going. I pushed the door open, grimacing inwardly at the feel of greasy wood against my fingers. A roil of smell pushed out—alcohol, vomit, cigarette smoke, the stench of an untended lavatory, unwashed men.

  Eau de Nuevo Rio bar, I thought. I wish Gabe was here.

  That startled me. I wasn't used to hunting with anyone in tow, but it had been nice to have Gabe around. At least she was honest—or I hoped so. Then again, sh
e had suggested staying with Jace, and contacted him.

  It truly sucks to doubt your friends when you only have one or two of them, I realized.

  I strode into the bar, Japhrimel behind me. Cigarette smoke hazed the air. The dark and sudden quiet that fell over the raucous drunken pit warned me. Oh, what the hell, I thought. In for a penny, in for a motherfucking pound. My emerald spat, sizzled, a green spark drifting down to the floor.

  A long bar crouched on the left side of the room, tables and chairs scattered to my right. I stepped down, my boots making quiet sounds against the wood of the stairs and then a muffled deadened sound as I stepped onto the oiled sawdust.

  Dark eyes watched me. Several Nuevo Rios, lean tanned men in clothes very much like mine, plasguns and old-time projectile guns openly displayed. There was a smattering of Anglos—I scanned the bar once, and found a familiar slouched set of shoulders. Lucas stood with his back to the door, leaning against the bar.

  I knew better than to think he didn't know who had just come in from the cold.

  I made it two steps across the sawdust before the bartender spat something in Portogueso, a long deadly-looking shotgun in his brown hands. He wore a stained apron and a sweat-darkened white shirt, oddly luminescent in the gloom.

  Japhrimel said something in reply, and the air temperature dropped by at least ten degrees. Nobody moved, but there was a general sense of men leaning back. I waited, eyeing the bartender, my peripheral vision marking everyone in the room. Lucas wore a Trade Bargains microfiber shirt, like me; run-down jeans and worn engineer boots. But he also wore a bandolier, oiled supple leather against his shirt; his greasy hair lay lank against his shoulders.

  The bartender spoke again, but his voice quivered slightly. I watched the shotgun.

  Japhrimel said nothing, but the air pressure changed. I felt like a woman holding a plasgun over a barrel of reactive—my pulse ran tight and hot behind my wrists and throat, my nape tingling, my skin bathed with Power.

  Five seconds ticked by. Then the bartender dropped his shotgun on the bar. The wood and metal clattered. I tensed, bile whipping my throat. Do all these places have to smell so bad? I thought, and then, If I didn't have Japhrimel with me, someone would have tried to kill me by now.

  It was awful handy, having a demon around.

  The bartender raised his hands, backing away from the shotgun. His pupils dilated, the color draining from his face. Pasty and trembling, he slumped against the fly-spotted mirror sporting shelves of dusty bottles. Glass chattered.

  I pantomimed a yawn, patting my lips with the back of my hand. My rings flashed. I walked across the sawdust, skirting a table where three men had a card game set out. I glanced down at the table—poker. Of course. A pile of metal bits lay in the middle of the table. One of the men caught my eyes and hurriedly looked down at his cards.

  I made it to where Lucas leaned against the bar. A glass full of amber liquid sat at his elbow.

  "Valentine," he said, not turning around. His voice was a whisper, the same whispered tone Necromances affected after a while. It made me shudder to hear. "Thought you'd come looking for me."

  "I hate being predictable," I said carefully. "I want information."

  "Of course you do. And I'm the only honest fucker you can find in this town that won't sell you." He shrugged, one shoulder lifting, dipping. "What you paying?"

  "What you want?" I kept my katana between us.

  "The usual, chica. You got it?" His shoulders tensed.

  "Of course, Lucas. I wouldn't come here otherwise."

  Letting you walk inside my mind isn't a price I want to pay, but I have no choice.

  He turned around then, slowly, and I took a step back. Japhrimel's fingers closed around my shoulders, and I found myself with the demon plastered to my back, my sheathed katana raised to be a bar between me and Lucas Villalobos.

  He was five inches taller than me, compact with muscle, his lank hair hanging over a pale, wasted face. His eyes glittered almost-yellow in the uncertain light.

  The scar ran down his left cheek, a river of ruined skin. Was that where his tattoo had been burned away? I didn't know, he never told. I gulped. Lucas was a lot older than he looked; something in the hooded twinkle of his eyes and the almost-slack set of his mouth made that age visible. He wouldn't die, though. You could gut him, slit his throat, burn him alive, but he wouldn't die.

  Death had turned His face from Lucas Villalobos. Nobody knew why, and it was worth your life to ask.

  "You want to know about Jace Monroe," he whispered. His smell, dry as a stasis cabinet, brushed against my nose.

  I preferred the stink of the bar. Power pushed at Lucas would simply be shunted aside; he didn't cast spells. No, he merely killed; hired himself out for protection work and assassinations. It was expensive to have the Deathless on your side—but worth it, I'd been told.

  I never wanted to find out. Even going to him for information scared me. This was our third time meeting, and I sincerely hoped as I did every time that it was our last.

  Nobody else in the bar spoke. Japhrimel was tense behind me, heat blurring through my clothes. The smoky smell of demon began to drown out every other scent in the bar—and for that, I was grateful. My mouth tasted like cotton—and bile.

  "Tell me," I said simply.

  He shrugged. "Not much to tell. He was born into the Corvins, I think. Far as I know, he's Deke Corvin's youngest son. Word is, he planned his escape for a long time, hoofed out to Saint City, and started doing mercenary work. Then something happened he didn't count on." Lucas shrugged, picked up his glass. Drained it, his Adam's apple working. "Idiot fell in love with a girl. Old man Sargon moved in for the kill, fouled up a job of hers, then let Jace know that if he didn't come back and fly right, he'd take out a contract on the girl. Jace caved, came home like a good little boy." Lucas's yellow eyes mocked me. "Stupid bitch didn't even bother coming out to Nuevo Rio to find out what had happened."

  "I'm sure she had her reasons," I said, matching his quiet tone. Our words dropped into the profound silence of the bar like stones into a pond. "Who's running the Corvin Family from behind, Lucas?"

  "Nobody I know of," he whispered, setting his empty glass down with finicky precision. "Sargon runs the Corvins, with an iron fist. Jace just bought himself free legally—and extralegally, the streets are still bleeding from his nightside war with the Corvins. He's incorporated under a Mob license of his own. Surprised?"

  "Not really," I said. "Once Mob, always Mob. Who's looking for me, Lucas?"

  "Whole damn city," Lucas returned. "You're worth hard cash, good credit, and a clean slate to several interested parties. Jace is combing the sinks for you and your pet demon there. Boy's got a real hard-on for you."

  "I'm sure it will pass," I said. "Give me something real, Lucas."

  "I don't have anything else," he said. "Someone wants you alive and unharmed. Every bounty hunter worth a credit is pouring into the city. You can't hide forever."

  "I don't want to hide," I said. "I'm after Santino."

  If I'd thought the place was quiet before, it went absolutely still now. Nobody was even breathing once I spoke that name.

  Lucas went even paler. "Then you're on the track to suicide," he whispered. "Take my advice, Valentine. Run. Run as fast as you can, for as long as you can. Steal whatever bit of life you can. You're already dead."

  "Not yet I'm not," I said. "You can tell whoever you like. I'm gunning for Santino, and I'm going to take him down."

  Lucas made an odd wheezing sound. It took me a moment to realize he was laughing. Cold sweat broke out on my back.

  Lucas finally wiped tears away from his hooded yellow eyes and regarded me. "You can't kill that fucker, Valentine. Not from what I've heard," he said. "Now get out of here. I don't want you near me."

  "What about payment?" My fingers tightened on my katana.

  "Don't want it. Get the fuck away from me before I decide to take you in myself."

 
"Good luck," I said dryly. "I don't want any debt to you, Lucas."

  "I'll see you in Hell, Valentine. Get the fuck out of here, now." His eyes slid up, regarded the demon. "Go out and die well."

  I didn't wait to be told twice. I backed up, cautiously, Japhrimel moving with me, oddly intimate. Then he slid to the side, and I turned around. He walked behind me as I retraced my steps. I looked back over my shoulder once, when I reached the stairs, and saw Lucas pouring into his glass from a bottle of tequila. He filled it to the brim, then lifted the bottle to his lips and took two long gulps, not stopping for breath. He looked shaken. Now I had officially seen everything.

  CHAPTER 34

  The stink of the street outside was almost fresh after the close, reeking air of the bar. I filled my lungs, walking quickly, Japhrimel matching me step for step. He didn't speak, and neither did I. We reached a slightly better-lit part of town. He touched my shoulder and pointed out a small restaurant; I didn't demur.

  It was a little hole-in-the-wall cantina, and I ordered two shots of tequila to start off with. The waitress eyed me, nervously touching the grisgris bag around her neck. I didn't care anymore. Finally she took Japhrimel's money and hurried off.

  I sank back into the cracked red vinyl booth, then leaned forward and rested my forehead on the table, trembling. Thunder muttered in the far distance.

  "Dante." His voice was calm. I could feel his eyes on me.

  "Give me a minute," I said, my words muffled.

  He did.

  I took in deep ragged breaths, trying to force my heart to stop pounding. Jace was a Corvin. He'd never told me—and I'd never guessed. Not even when Abra had told me Jace was Mob had I guessed he was a blood Corvin.

  The second-to-last job I'd gone on before he left—that had been the Morrix fiasco. I'd barely escaped alive. I'd told Jace about it and he'd been worried, of course—any time your lover gets shot during a routine corporate-espionage, you can legitimately get worried—but he must have had a better poker face than even I'd guessed. He had lied to me about his origins, and I'd swallowed it like the fool I was.