Mandy M. Roth - Magic Under Fire (Over a Dozen Tales of Urban Fantasy)

by Unknown

  “Weren’t you the one catching hell for drinking on the job last time?”

  Abigor shrugged. “Technically, I’m not on the job right now. I’m just taking a break. Capturing souls with a Corona in one hand — yeah, they didn’t like that too much.”

  Rules got bent all the time, Samael knew. After all, what could Lucifer or his lieutenants Beelzebub and Asmodeus do, except bust their minions back to Hell? Samael would prefer to stay topside, but he’d done guard duty in the Pit and survived to tell the tale. At least he wasn’t one of the souls stuck upside-down in a lake of boiling blood for all eternity.

  He took a meditative swallow of ale. No beer in Hell, though. No steaks or air-conditioned movie theaters or the smell of wet earth after the rain.

  No redheads with laughing hazel eyes and distracting dimples, either.

  He was silent for awhile, his gaze fixed on the glittering carpet of light beneath him.

  “You look like a demon with something on his mind,” Abigor remarked, just before he cracked open another beer. “Or someone, that is. The last time I saw you this moony, you’d just met that brunette up at the Observatory. Or was it the blonde down on Melrose?” He shot a glance at his watch and grinned. “It’s been what, five years since the last one? I guess it’s about time for you to be scratching that itch again.”

  Samael raised an eyebrow but didn’t bother to reply. Sometimes it could be downright annoying to have someone around who’d known you for an eternity or two.

  “I still don’t see the point,” Abigor added. “Seems like too much work to me. Hookers are so much easier. They don’t give a shit as long as you pay them what they’re asking. No weeping and wailing if you’re not there when they wake up in the morning — unless crying’s your kink, of course.”

  “You’re pure class, Abbie,” Samael drawled. Abigor hated that nickname.

  His companion scowled. His mortal form was that of a large black man with a shaved head, and the frown only made him look more forbidding. Forbidding to mortals, of course. Samael had worked with Abigor for several centuries by now. He was used to the other demon’s frowns.

  And the ribbing. Samael sometimes wondered if he went so long between liaisons because he didn’t want to deal with the inevitable ration of shit Abigor gave him.

  “Not much use for class in our line of work,” the demon said. “But hey — you want your class and your ‘relationships’ and your amusing house wines? Go for it. I know they — ” and Abigor jerked a significant thumb downward — “don’t give a fuck as long as the job gets done.”

  True enough. Abigor’s choice remarks were the only feedback Samael had ever received in regard to his relationships with mortal women. If those liaisons didn’t interfere with his real reason for being topside, then no one seemed to care.

  Why, then, did he feel a most un-demon-like trickle of disquiet down his spine when he thought of Felicia McGovern? He wanted her, but this went beyond that. It was one thing to want more of her flesh than the creamy throat he’d spied above her loose-fitting shirt. It was quite another to desire the sound of her voice or the flash of a dimple next to her mouth.

  It had been a long time. That was all. Had he gone this long before? A year here, a year there, but five? He couldn’t recall. Days and nights blended together and became one long, flashing kaleidoscope of memory when time had no true meaning.

  “The job will get done,” Samael said. “It always does.”

  Abigor clapped a hand on his shoulder and offered him another beer. “I know, brother. I know.”

  “SO?” Lauren prompted. “How was it?”

  Felicia pretended to consider. “More fun than a root canal but probably not as much fun as having bamboo shoots shoved under my fingernails.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Okay, it was probably more fun than being waterboarded.”

  Lauren gave her a pained glance. “I know some of these things can be kind of shady, but this one came highly recommended.”

  “By whom? The head of the NSA?”

  “You mean you didn’t meet anyone? Not one guy worth a phone call?”

  Not for the first time, Felicia wondered why Lauren cared so much. Then again, her agent had gotten married a scant ten months ago. Now she seemed convinced that her life’s mission — besides getting her clients the juiciest contracts possible, of course — was to make sure everyone single around her got paired off as well.

  She hesitated. “Well — ”

  Lauren pounced. “A-ha! Spill it.”

  “There’s nothing to spill.” Fighting the bubble of annoyance rising in her, Felicia went to the window where she’d positioned her easel to catch the best of the morning light. Had she gone a little too yellow in her flesh tones? Maybe it was just the uneasy ochre-tinged sunlight outside. Another fire had popped up overnight, this one in the hills above Glendale. “Okay, there was this one guy who seemed moderately interesting. But he must have been a gate crasher, because they didn’t have any record of someone named Sam there that night.”

  “But you got his number.”

  “No.”

  “You gave him yours?”

  Felicia picked up an easel and began mixing more paint. Weird light or no, the studio exec was looking distinctly jaundiced. “No.”

  An audible sigh. Lauren crossed her arms and came closer, although she kept a respectable distance between the fresh paint and her expensive suit. “You know, Fel, in some ways you’re the most capable person I know. And in others — ”

  “ — I might as well be five. I know.” Despite the peppermint tea the night before and the healthy seven hours of sleep she’d gotten, Felicia could still feel the phantom edges of a headache lurking at the base of her skull. Much more questioning from Lauren, and it would probably grow into a full-blown three-aspirin monster. “It’s all right. I really don’t have time for that sort of thing right now anyway.”

  To Felicia’s surprise, Lauren nodded. “You’re right — you don’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Lauren flipped a few strands of her expertly highlighted bob away from her face. “You’ve got the contract, if you want it.”

  “If I want it?” Felicia didn’t have to ask which contract it was. The negotiations had been going on for so long she’d felt certain they were never going to end. Or maybe they would, but not in her favor. “I get to paint the governor?”

  “Not just the governor, but his whole family.”

  At a price tag that would keep her going for the next couple of years. Not that she’d ever allow herself to coast like that. More to the point, Lauren would make sure enough new contracts were lined up that Felicia would be lucky to get a week off before she had to plunge into the next painting.

  Still, she’d be a complete idiot if she didn’t admit she was a very lucky woman. She’d abandoned false modesty about her work back in her undergrad days, but Felicia knew that in this business, talent made up only a small part of actual success. Several friends whom she’d thought of as equally talented were still hustling to get their first gallery show.

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Thanks, Lauren. I really do appreciate all the work you put into making this deal.”

  Her agent waved a hand. “Of course I’m going to hustle for ten percent of a pie this big. Frank and I are thinking about going to Tuscany next spring. I’ve got to start saving up.”

  “That’s why I love you, Lauren — it’s that altruistic streak.”

  Of course Lauren didn’t seem fazed at all. “I’ll let you get back to work. I just wanted to deliver the good news in person.”

  And pick my brain about the speed dating, but Felicia just nodded. She didn’t want to get back into that again, not when she kept feeling that disappointed stab in her midsection whenever she thought of Sam and the way he had disappeared on her. Stupid, really, to get so knotted up over a guy she’d talked to for only a few minutes. Maybe she couldn’t completely control her physical rea
ctions to a man, but at least over the years she’d learned how to channel that energy into something worthwhile.

  Repressing a sigh, she picked up her paintbrush and returned to the neglected portrait.

  IT WAS easy enough for Samael to get her address. He didn’t pretend to be omniscient — he left that sort of thing to the Man Upstairs — but her name was unusual enough that a quick online search turned up a portfolio of her work, as well as her agent’s contact info. And the agent seemed all too happy to spill the details when he went to her office and introduced himself.

  “Sam, is it?” asked the agent, a sharply attractive woman in her late thirties. The quick up-and-down glance she sent in his direction seemed to say she didn’t mind giving the hairy eyeball to a strange man, despite the rock on the ring finger of her left hand.

  “That’s right. I had to leave in a hurry — I was on call that night — and I didn’t have time to get Felicia’s number. But then I Googled her and got your contact information, and — ”

  “Say no more, Sam.” Another arch look. “Normally I wouldn’t do this, but since I know Felicia regretted not getting your number…” She lifted her shoulders, then bent down and retrieved a pen from her desktop. “I don’t think she’ll mind too much.” With a flourish, she scribbled a phone number on a piece of scratch paper and handed it to him.

  “Thanks,” he said, and gave the paper a quick glance before shoving it in his jeans pocket. Now no matter what happened, he had the number committed to memory. “Do you mind if I tell her where I got her number?”

  “Not at all.” Her lips curved under their layer of expensive lacquer. “Just let her know she can thank me later.”

  THE PHONE RANG, and Felicia muttered a curse. Always at the wrong time. Just as she had finally gotten that damned flesh tone right….

  After shrilling for what seemed like an interminable stretch of time, the phone went quiet. Thank God for voicemail. It was so much easier to ignore a call when you didn’t have to listen to an answering machine broadcasting a message.

  She set her brush down on the tray at the base of the easel and reached up to knead the tight muscles at the base of her neck. Vaguely, she realized it had gotten to late afternoon without her even noticing. The quality of light had changed enough that she knew she should stop working. Oh, she’d paint under artificial light if she had to, but she was getting really close now. No point in screwing up the painting just because she wanted to sprint across the finish line.

  The phone rang again, and Felicia felt a spasm of guilt. Most people knew to email her instead of calling, but what if it was the nursing home trying to get hold of her for some reason?

  When she picked up the phone, she heard the fast dial tone that indicated she had a message. She typed in her access code and waited, back tense with misgivings. Ever since her mother’s diagnosis, she’d steeled herself for the inevitable phone call, the one she dreaded and yet, in some dark little corner of her soul, wished would come sooner rather than later.

  No brisk nurse’s voice or cool doctor’s tones came to her ear, however. Instead, she heard the baritone of a man she thought she’d never encounter again.

  “I’d say you were a hard woman to find,” Sam’s message ran, “but you’re really not. Your agent gave me your number. Want to try again without a time limit?” Then he left her a phone number.

  He sounded relaxed, casual, as if he weren’t the one who had pulled the disappearing act. Her first instinct was to erase the message without even writing down his number. But what would that prove? She’d already admitted to herself that the guy had gotten under her skin. And he’d been interested enough to track her down through Lauren. His actions spoke of a certain tenacity she found admirable. There could have been a perfectly logical reason for his hasty departure from the speed-dating party.

  She was done painting for the day, anyway. And what better way to celebrate her new contract for the governor’s portrait than to go out to dinner with the first man she’d found remotely interesting in longer than she could remember?

  Well, when you put it that way…. She grinned, then played back the message so she could write down Sam’s number.

  THIS TIME, she’d made an effort, he could tell. Although her clothing was still plain — a dark sleeveless shirt and knee-length skirt — it fit her better. Now he could see the curves of her body, the graceful tracings of her collarbones beneath the thin silver chain she wore around her neck. She’d pulled some of the hair away from her face, although a few loose tendrils still kissed her cheekbones. Silver hoops glinted from beneath the fiery masses of her hair.

  She’d insisted on meeting him here at the restaurant rather than allowing him to pick her up at her home. Fair enough; he respected her caution rather than being annoyed by it. Too many times over the years he’d seen young women lose their lives in situations they might have survived, had they only been a little less trusting. Just because he was a demon didn’t mean that he enjoyed seeing innocent blood spilled.

  “Chianti?” he asked.

  She lowered her menu a fraction of an inch. Samael had the impression she’d been trying to hide behind it. “Well, this is an Italian restaurant.”

  He fought back a grin. “I meant, would you like to get a bottle?”

  A narrow look from beneath her eyelashes. Like her brows, they were a few shades darker than her hair, deep russet rather than fire-red. Then she said, “Sure, why not? This is sort of a celebration.”

  “Celebration?”

  “I just got a big commission. I’m a painter.”

  “I know.”

  For a second she looked at him blankly, and then a light of comprehension dawned on her face. “Oh, right. You found me through my website.”

  He nodded. The waitress came over at that point, and he gave her the order for the bottle of wine. After she left, he added, “You’re very good.”

  Although the restaurant’s lighting consisted of a few dim sconces on the walls and a votive strategically placed on each table, he thought he saw a faint flush painted across her cheeks. “Thank you.” She placed her hands on the tabletop, fingers laced together. Her nails were cut short, and she wore no rings.

  Something about the plain nakedness of her hands aroused him more than any scarlet-painted fingertips or flashing jewelry could have. He imagined those slender, graceful fingers gliding down his body, wrapping around him….

  He felt himself stir, and reached for the glass of ice water the waitress had left for him. Maybe Abigor was right. He’d let it go too long this time. The buildup of human hormones must be making him a little crazy.

  The waitress came along with the bottle of Chianti, and he allowed himself to be distracted by the ritual cork removal and the requisite tasting of the wine. He’d selected a mid-priced bottle on purpose. He didn’t want Felicia to think he was trying too hard to impress her.

  She lifted her own glass and drank a little, then set it back on the table. “So what do you do?”

  Human small talk. Luckily he’d engaged in enough of it over the years that he had all the plausible replies down pat. “I work in private security.”

  “Like a bodyguard?”

  “You could say that.”

  A tiny frown line appeared between her brows. “‘You could say that’? Either you are or you aren’t.”

  Apparently Felicia McGovern hadn’t quite mastered the whole small-talk thing. Samael picked up his wine glass and drank. Not bad. It might even be amusing. “If you want to get technical, I suppose you could say I’m sort of a bounty hunter.”

  “A bounty hunter.” For a second she stared at him, and then she shook her head. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He shrugged. “Bounty hunter” was close enough. He couldn’t exactly tell her that he spent his time dragging the souls of murderers and rapists down to the pits of Hell.

  Actually, it might have been more rewarding if he were paid a bounty on each soul. He had it easy, though. At least
he got to live topside.

  This version of a human body he wore didn’t require sleep, but it still needed to be fed and showered and all the rest. For that purpose, he had a nice condo off the Miracle Mile. The title was in his name, but he hadn’t bought it. Nor did he ever have to check the balance in his bank account or on his one credit card.

  It didn’t do to be greedy — Mammon had had his ass kicked back to guard duty in Hell after he’d tried to buy himself a Lamborghini — but as long Samael behaved himself and didn’t go wild, no one asked any questions.

  “No joke,” he said. “There’s more need than you might think. Lots of desperate people out there.”

  Her expression sobered. “I guess there are.” Then she seemed to give herself a little shake, and added, “Was that what happened last night?”

  He knew he should have been relieved that she’d given him such an easy out for his behavior, and one he’d already thought of himself. For some reason, though, he found himself wishing he hadn’t backed himself into a corner where he’d have to lie to her.

  As he looked down into her earnest face, he realized he’d made a misstep. He knew she was interested, or she would never have returned his phone call. But he had a suspicion she would have been even more interested if he hadn’t played hard to get and left her to her own devices back at the speed-dating party.

  Still, he didn’t see any way to avoid lying without making himself look like an even bigger ass. “Yes. I was on call, so….” He trailed off and hoped she wouldn’t ask him why she hadn’t heard a phone go off or seen him take a text message.

  If she harbored any lingering suspicions, though, she didn’t give any sign of them. “It must be hard to not be able to call your time your own.”

  “Sometimes.” Was that a glimmer of sympathy he saw in her eyes? Probably just a trick of the lighting. He’d never been one to evoke sympathy in others. “All jobs have their downsides.”