by E. A. Copen
I tore my eyes away and glued them to the back of Victis’ head. “I was only wondering about all the tattoos. You didn’t have them before.”
“When I was in Naraka, you mean.” He took a package of baby wipes out of his bag and used them to clean some blood off his face.
Naraka. I hadn’t even wanted to say the place’s name. Of all the kingdoms in Hell, that place was the worst. It’s where he’d found me hanging on a rock with six-inch spikes driven into my hands. I stared at the white scars in my palms. That place was awful. It stripped everything from you; your dignity, your hopes, and your clothes. It was so hot they just burned away. I wasn’t coherent enough to notice much during the rescue, but it was difficult not to notice being rescued by two naked men.
“My physical body wasn’t in Naraka,” he continued and cleaned his hands with another wipe. “That was just a projection, one I create with my own will. I can make myself up with all the ink, but there’s generally no point in focusing too much on the aesthetics. They’re for protecting my body while I’m away.”
“Good. Now I can say with certainty I’ve never seen you naked.”
“That can always be arranged.” He shifted so he could drop his blood-soaked pants.
I should’ve turned away. After all, I didn’t have any interest in seeing him without his clothes on. But the tattoos left me curious. How far did they go?
“You want me to take anything else off, princess?” He winked at me.
I rolled my eyes. “Please don’t. I don’t want to throw up in the cab.”
He got his pants on by the time we reached the Brooklyn Bridge. It was iced over, and we had to slow down or risk sliding, but we made it across. Coming back might be another story. I hoped this trip to get my papers wouldn’t take long. Not only was the weather getting worse, but my leg was starting to ache. I carefully lifted the stocking holding me together to check on it. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but I was worried walking on it would just tear it open again. Thankfully, I’d planned on waiting in the car while he went in.
“So what happens once I have my papers?” I asked.
Josiah pulled on a plain white t-shirt to go with his black jeans. “All depends on you. What d’you want?”
The question struck me like lightning, making my muscles go rigid and my heart pump faster. Panic settled in my chest like a balloon full to bursting. The only thing I’d ever wanted was to kill my father and save my brother, but they were both dead now. I couldn’t avenge my brother either because he chose his path. I had nothing, and I knew no one. If I walked away, I’d be completely alone in the world with no purpose.
What did normal women do? Get a job. Get married. Raise a family, none of which I had any interest in. I couldn’t see myself showing up to sit behind a desk and answer phones every day. I needed more than that, and yet I didn’t know what. Something exciting, something that made my heart beat quicker and let me forget all the terrible shit I’d been through. But what?
“I don’t know,” was all I could say.
TEN
JOSIAH
SHE WAS LOST, DROWNING in possibilities while the past dragged her to the bottom of the deepest trench. It was written all over her face. I’d smoked and drank and fucked that feeling away enough times to recognize it. The year after I left Christian’s cult was a haze of self-destructive days, spent mostly on the verge of suicide. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t have a reason to live either. If she was in that same place, I couldn’t just let her go off on her own, everything else aside.
I placed my hand on top of hers. It was meant to be a comforting gesture.
Khaleda jerked her hand away and wrinkled her nose at me. Lip curled, body recoiled, she looked at me as if I were covered in oozing boils. “What the fuck?”
She doesn’t want to be comforted, ya big dumb fuckwit. No more than you ever did. Comfort isn’t purpose. A life’s purpose was something I couldn’t offer, but maybe I could get her through the next few days.
I pulled one of the cleaning wipes and offered it to her. “Clean up, will ya? You look like shit.”
She jerked the wipe out of my hand. “I hate you, you know that?”
I smiled to myself. Hate was as good a purpose as any, at least for a few days.
The Casablanca wasn’t in the worst Brooklyn neighborhood, but it wasn’t a great place either. Sitting in the two hundred block of Malcolm X Boulevard, it was within spitting distance of both an elementary school and a church. Plan your outing right and you could drink yourself silly, hit the confessional and then pick little Johnny up from school all in the same afternoon.
With it being the day before Thanksgiving and all the snow, the block was deserted but for the hardcore drinking crowd sliding into the Casablanca for a drink. Mostly middle-aged men, old enough to have drank away their better years, but still young enough to fear growing old. My kind of crowd.
Khaleda had Victis stop in the street to let me out. Plan was, they’d drive around the block a few times and I’d go in, get the papers and leave. Women. Always trying to hurry everyone else. Still, she needed some stitches and I was knackered from all the magic, so maybe it was for the best.
Cold wind bit at my nose and the tips of my ears as I stepped out of the cab into the street. I turned the collar of my coat up to keep the wind at bay and tucked my head low. It was a short trek up the sidewalk, but I was plenty chilled when I opened the door to bask in the relative warmth.
The bar was more of a long, cramped room with sparse but slightly rustic décor. Wooden chandeliers full of soft electric lights meant to look like flame swung and turned in the wind that followed me in. Mismatched stools and a couple of chairs sat in front of a slab of a bar. Aside from the bartender—a kid in his mid-twenties—there were only three patrons in the bar.
I didn’t know what August Jessup looked like, or if he was even there. The demon I’d conned had promised me he’d be there, but he was a demon. Their word wasn’t exactly binding.
I stood in the doorway, holding the door open until everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up. “Cold enough for ya gents?”
The bartender scowled. So did the two fellas at the bar. The third man, who’d seated himself at the only table, pulled his cap down further and tried to disappear. Found you.
I let the door swing shut and went to join him. Just to make sure, I stopped by the table and put my hands in my pockets to warm them. “August Jessup?”
An older man with sagging skin over sharp features raised dark eyes to me. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. “Tell me Josiah Quinn’s not your real name.”
“Unfortunately for both of us, it is.” I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. “I’m told you’re the best forger in the city.”
“Best on the Eastern Seaboard,” he boasted. “And the most expensive. You have money?”
“I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t.” I brought out the picture I’d grabbed from my bag earlier. It was a candid shot of Khaleda taken just a few days after she’d come back. She was half drunk in the photo, but it was the best I could do. “This is her.”
He frowned down at the picture, grunted and took a swig from his beer. “She your girlfriend? Too pretty to be a sister.”
“She’s a friend. The documents need to hold up internationally.”
He gave me a measured look, sizing me up. Was I good for it? Was I a cop? “I can do that, but seein’ as I’m taking such a risk, I’m going to need half the payment up front.”
“I’m not carrying it around with me, mate. That’d be suicide in this economy.”
The door to the bar opened and two big fellas stepped in. They were both wearing jackets too expensive to be slumming it in this part of town and walked like they were carrying. Another man followed them into the bar. He was twice as wide and stood tall enough he had to duck to come inside. He folded his hands in front of him and planted himself in front of the door. The two suits scanned the plac
e, settled on me and started forward.
I turned back to August. A blue sheen passed over his eyes and he sported a big grin full of perfect teeth. He lifted the photo of Khaleda. Bright blue fire sprang up between his fingers, melting the photo.
Fuck me, this was a setup.
ELEVEN
JOSIAH
I LIT A CIGARETTE.
The thugs stopped a few paces behind me, blocking any chance of an exit. To my left, the other two patrons turned on their stools to face me. The bartender put down the glass he was working on polishing and leaned back to cross his arms over an inscribed iron cross hanging around his neck.
“Which one are you then?” I asked the monster across the table from me. Maybe the meat suit’s name was August Jessup, but whatever was riding him was something else.
He let the ashes of the photo fall to the table. “My name is Commander Decimus Tullius, primus of the Ordo Aracani, legatus of the Manus Dei.”
“Aces. With all those titles, you’ve got the credentials to tell the rest of your people to fuck off.”
The two big fellas behind me shifted forward.
Commander Decimus waved his hand, calling off his dogs. “We’re not here to fight.”
“Too bad.” I blew out a heavy mouthful of smoke. “Six on one could be interesting. Made short work of your lion friend, by the way. And the two you sent to break into the flat.”
He twisted his thin lips into a sly smile. “Now, that’s a lie. Victis was just fine when I saw him a few hours ago, although I suspect he’s been compromised. Your succubus friend dominated his mind and robbed him of his free will not so long before you relocated to that disgusting motel in Chinatown. The three of you shared a short exchange before you went to see your associate, Mr. Monahan, where he discussed his desire to rule the city. How am I doing?”
A spell. That’d be the only way he could’ve known all that. Even if he’d had me followed, he wouldn’t know about the rooftop. Danny and I had been alone. It’d have to be a damn good spying spell if I didn’t know about it.
I leaned one arm over the back of my chair and said nothing. Usually, when you say nothing, the idiot making the offer can’t help himself. He just kept talking to fill the space.
“You see, Josiah,” the commander continued, “I could’ve had you killed at any time. While you were in transit to the hotel. While you were asleep on the bed. While you were consorting with demons.”
“You’ve made your point.” I finished up the ciggy and crushed it out on the table, wishing I’d thought to get a drink before all this started. “You’ve been watching me, waiting to make a move. Why not just kill me then?”
He was silent.
I sighed. “You want something from me. The God Squad doesn’t sully itself chatting with half-breeds like me unless they need something they can’t do. What’s the matter? Hands tied? Your little quid pro quo agreement with the man downstairs got you in a bind?”
“You know the agreement.” He folded his hands on the table. “Heaven doesn’t interfere with events on Earth directly, and Hell abides by the same rules. We influence. We whisper and suggest. No more, no less.”
If only everyone abided by that agreement, maybe humanity wouldn’t be such a dumpster fire. Unfortunately, they only stuck to the letter of the law and not the spirit. Even with the agreement in place, everyone walked all over it. Possession was supposed to be off the table for both sides unless they had expressed consent. Problem was, angels would whisper, make deals and promises to get what they wanted. If that failed, they’d torture their victims with nightmares until they snapped and agreed. At least demons laid it all out. Let me in, or I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll empty your bank account.
“And this sorry bloke you’re inhabiting let you in willingly?” I gestured to his meat suit.
The commander grinned. “August Jessup was eager to make amends for his wrongdoings. It’s amazing what a quick view of Hell can do to convince most people. Not you, though. You go to Hell and treat it like it’s a vacation. You and that sorry excuse for a Horseman in New Orleans.”
“If you’ve got a problem with the Pale Horseman, I suggest you take it up with him,” I said, standing. “I’m not his nanny.”
Big hands thumped onto my shoulders and forced me back into my seat. I landed hard enough to hurt my tailbone.
Commander Decimus frowned. “What you two did in Hell caused us a problem. A civil war has erupted down there. There are those in Heaven who want to take advantage of the turmoil and strike now, before the demons have a chance to organize. They’d like nothing more than an all-out war.”
That couldn’t be good. If Heaven and Hell clashed in a full-on war, they’d have nowhere to do it but on Earth. With that much magic being thrown around, they’d wreck the place. As much as I hated humans, I was pretty keen on saving the planet, seeing as how I was one of the sorry bastards living on it. Heaven couldn’t be allowed to declare war on Hell. I wasn’t ready for an apocalypse. I still had things I wanted to do.
I shifted in my seat. “You don’t agree?”
He spread his hands and leaned back. “I’m a traditionalist. I don’t like change. I say keep things as they are. Let Hell sort itself out and cut a deal with the new Devil when he or she rises. I’d rather re-negotiate a treaty than bury half my men for Michael’s glory hunt.”
“And what’s any of this got to do with me or Monahan?”
He pressed his lips into a thin line and squinted, considering. “The title of Devil isn’t something that needs to be fought for and won, nor can it be earned. There is no prerequisite to hold it, only a need for power. Power enough to command legions of demons. Power Mr. Monahan is rapidly acquiring.”
My stomach turned over and knotted itself into a pretzel. So that was Danny-Boy’s end game. I’d felt how strong he’d become, strong enough to rival me and I wasn’t entirely human. I wasn’t powerful enough to march into Hell and take over, not even if I’d wanted, but there were ways to gain that power. Both he and I knew that intimately. Our old mentor, Christian Lenore, once sought to become a god, drawing power to him through ritual and sacrifice. For someone like Danny, someone smart with a natural talent and a raw drive for success at any cost, attaining the Devil’s mantle wouldn’t be so impossible.
What are you doing, Danny? Why become the next Devil? Whatever happened to magic for magic’s sake? The Danny Monahan I’d known eighteen years ago would’ve never wanted to rule anything but himself. But then, Christian broke us all. Christian had a penchant for showing us what we couldn’t have, giving us a taste, and then taking it all away until he felt we earned it. Danny couldn’t be the same person he was, not after Christian twisted him. Neither of us were.
“You think Monahan wants to be the next Lucifer?”
“We don’t think,” Decimus said. “We know. Last week, we captured one of his demons and interrogated it. Daniel Monahan is more powerful than you know. It’s not just the demons in Manhattan, Josiah.”
Of course not. He’d need a whole legion of them, maybe more if he planned on storming Hell. Question was, why were they following him? He was a human. Yeah, he had powers, but demons generally considered humans little more than meat. Following a human into battle was unheard of, not without a significant deal. I’d have guessed Danny was possessed himself except I’d just come from seeing him. He showed no hints of being possessed, nor did his magic feel like it had been touched by demonic forces. It only felt stronger.
I tapped my fingers on the tabletop. “What’s he got on all these demons to make them fall in line? He’s good with magic, but not that good.”
“Think about it, Josiah.” Decimus leaned forward again. “Anyone who wants a shot at Lucifer’s crown needs soldiers, yes. He needs to be powerful, true. But he also needs a universal currency, a means by which he increases his power exponentially.”
The sour taste of bile touched my tongue. Souls. He was talking about souls. Gods had a tendency to
stockpile them, powerful demons and angels too. The more souls someone held, the more raw power they had at their disposal. Find a way to break them down, infuse them into yourself, and there’d be nothing you couldn’t do. If the demons were following Danny, he must’ve had a significant stockpile.
But how? Removing souls was no easy task. As far as I knew, only the Four Horsemen could do it. There were ways to broker deals with underworld deities for more, but they wouldn’t move them in the quantity someone like Danny would need to have a go at Hell.
I shook my head. “No. He’d need thousands of souls. If he had that much, d’ya think he’d be here? Where’s a human get that many souls? It’s fuckin’ impossible.”
Decimus snapped his fingers and held out his hand, prompting one of the guys at the bar to get up and slip a piece of paper into his waiting palm. “I can tell you exactly how many souls Daniel Monahan has at his disposal.” He unfolded the slip of paper and read, “Nine million three-hundred and one thousand and seven.”
“Nine million?” I almost choked on the word.
He lowered the paper. “Otherwise known as the current population of New York City. The number’s likely to get higher as the weekend goes on. The airports have shut down, stranding thousands. Roads will be blocked due to the snowstorm. That doesn’t even take into account anyone who’s traveled here from out of the city for the holiday. There could be closer to ten million here now.”
Christ on Christmas. Ten million souls. How, though? All those people were still alive. Unless... No. He’d need a circle at least five miles wide, bigger than any circle I’d ever seen. The amount of blood it would take to power a circle that size was staggering.
“He’s going to kill everyone in the city, Josiah,” said Decimus, curling his long fingers into fists. “And soon. He absolutely must be stopped.”
It finally occurred to me what this was all about. I threw back my head and let out a laugh. “Oh, you fuckwit! You can’t lay a hand on him, can you? He’s a bloody mortal! All the power of Heaven and you can’t do shit to save one city. So you come to me, eh? The half-breed bastard Nephilim. Back him into a corner. Make him do your dirty work, right?”
