by Holly Lisle
He felt better as soon as he stepped out the door. The night air was cool and summer-scented—he recognized the heavy sweetness of gardenias and the lighter scent of night-blooming jasmine planted along the back of the bar's parking lot. One of those funky things that surprised women—that he knew some flowers by their smells. That was because of Francie, of course. She'd loved flowers.
He started feeling sorry for himself again, and though he knew the alcohol was talking, he let himself listen. He didn't even notice for a moment that a tall, gorgeous woman had joined him and was walking beside him, until she said, "Want a date?"
He jumped and turned to look at her. "No thanks."
"You sure?"
Dan gave her a more thorough assessment. His first impression had been "gorgeous." His second was "most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life." Her eyes were large and luminous, her lips full, her jaw firm and just square enough. Her hair flowed down to the middle of her bare back in a dark sensuous wave. Her tight sheath dress barely reached to midthigh. She balanced like a dancer on five-inch spiked pumps. She was, he thought, an order above the usual cut of streetwalkers. She was young enough, beautiful enough that she should, at least, have been a high-priced call girl operating out of an expensive apartment. The clothes said streetwalker, though. She was wasting all that beauty on sleaze.
"You aren't my type, " he said.
She shrugged and smiled at him. "Your loss," she said. "But if you've never had a succubus, honey, you don't know what you're missing."
He stopped and stared at her. "You're one of the Hellraised?"
"Guaranteed disease-free—you don't even need a rubber with me, sweetheart. And you wouldn't believe what I can do with my tongue."
He shook his head. "You're going to have to do it with someone else."
She rested a hand on his shoulder, and after just an instant, said, "I can be anything you want."
Her voice had changed. Dan turned to chase her away, and found himself face to face with Francie. Not the real Francie—he knew that. This woman was too tall, too voluptuous, and dressed in a way Francie would never have dressed. But the face was Francie's face. The eyes were her eyes. The smile was her smile. Dan felt a lump growing in his throat, felt tears beginning to burn in his eyes.
"Get away from me," he snarled.
Her face melted into the face it had been before. She shook her head and smiled a pitying smile at him. "Like I said, darlin'—your loss." She sauntered back the way she'd come, her hips swinging to a sultry jazz beat that only she could hear. He found himself watching her leave.
She would have been Francie for me, he thought. But she could never have been Francie.
He turned at last and trudged down the street toward home.
A few minutes later, cutting through the alley that led to the apartment complex, he heard footsteps. He looked over his shoulder.
Three of the Hellraised were back there. He could make out the horns on one, the dragging tail of the second, the long claws and pitchfork of the third.
Funny, though—he'd never seen one of the Hellraised carry a pitchfork. He'd decided, after watching interviews and meeting a few and passing them on streets, the pitchfork was just some cliche designed by artists who thought the Devil farmed.
But no. Evidently not.
The trio behind him started walking faster. Dan felt a little uneasy—he knew the Hellraised couldn't hurt him. But his gut didn't know that. He instinctively picked up his own pace a little, trying to make his strides longer but not faster, so they wouldn't know they were scaring him.
Well, they'd know, of course. They were the Hellraised. He tried to remember if he'd read anything about gangs of Hellspawn stalking people through alleys in order to scare them. He couldn't recall any incidents of that sort, but...
Their footfalls rang faster. He wished the alley wasn't so long, or that the next break in the brick buildings was closer. He kept wondering why they were following him.
Suddenly he heard them start to run.
Oh, shit, he thought. He bolted. They can't hurt me... they can't hurt me... he told himself over and over, while he pounded through the alley. They can't do anything to me at all.
But what if they could?
"Faster!" one of them yelled. "Before he hits the street."
He could see the street lights ahead of him. Beyond the alley he could hear the movement of traffic. But in the tunnel of darkness through which he ran, it seemed that only he and his pursuers existed. Adrenaline banished his drunkenness—his terror lent him speed.
"Kill him now," a different voice shouted.
He pumped his arms, picked up his feet, wished he had a job that got him off his ass more often. He was out of shape, and he could feel it almost immediately. Breathe, he thought. Breathe.
Something ripped into his side, threw him off his stride, flung him up against the brick wall while red screaming tearing pain burned through his ribs through his flesh and the night-black world flashed blood-red and pain-white.
Rough hands grabbed him and threw him against the wall again—his head bounced off brick and the night lit up with thousands of white pinprick stars that swirled inches from his face. He fought, kicking and punching; a hand clamped over his mouth and nose and he bit; someone screamed; someone else began punching him in the gut, rhythmically—in, twist, out... in, twist, out... over and over. He realized the man had a knife. Was stabbing him. He tried to push off the attacker, but the other two men held his hands. The fight went out of him. He sagged. This is it, he thought. I'm dead.
Twin beams of white light shot down the alley, illuminating the three attackers. A car coming. Too late.
Dan saw that his attackers were human, dressed in devil costumes. Their heads came up from what they were doing, they stared for just an instant at the oncoming car.
"Take him with us?"
"Leave him. No way he's going to make it."
"Run!"
Then they ran, leaving the knife still in his gut. He watched them flee. Saw the lines of costumes in the bleaching beam of the mercury headlights—zippers down backs, seams in legs and arms, a tear in one costume that showed a bit of blue denim underneath. Funny to notice such things when he was dying. Dying didn't hurt as much as he'd thought it would, either.
And he thought, Francie, it won't be long now.
The car stopped in front of him, bathing him in its headlights. Someone got out, slammed the door—he heard running feet, this time coming toward him. Then Puck was kneeling over him, staring at the damage, muttering, "No, you can't die, you can't die," and his words got further and further away, as if Dan were falling down a well.
Too late, he thought. I'm doing it anyway.
That seemed almost funny.
Funny.
Which described the way he felt. Warm and cold, and light.
As if he were floating. He looked around him, looked down, and realized he was floating. His body lay below him, and he reached for it, but couldn't hold on to himself. Couldn't get back. For a moment he hung there, staring down, watching Puck sending the imp running for help. Funny. He looked so stupid in his bloody Hawaiian shirt and his shorts, with his eyes open and staring. He couldn't even find it in himself to feel much regret. Francie was somewhere ahead of him, not behind him. He looked up. He could feel her presence. Francie.
The devil did something that didn't make sense to him. Soft golden light began pouring from his fingertips and from his eyes, as if for a moment they'd become headlights, too. Dan's gentle, gradual drift away from his body stopped. In fact, it seemed that he was getting closer to himself again.
No, he thought. Francie! I want to go to Francie!
Then he felt himself breathing, and heard again the noise of his heart beating and his blood rushing through his arteries and he felt tremendous pain in his head and chest and stomach, and he heard people running toward him, shouting.
Puck's eyes still glowed. His hands still glowed. The pain l
essened.
People he didn't know stood around him, staring down at him.
One of them whispered, "It's a miracle."
Puck said, "Can you hear me, Dan?"
Of course I can, he thought. Don't be ridiculous. But when he tried to speak, he realized his mouth and vocal cords wouldn't respond. Couldn't.
"Dan. Come back." Puck's voice sounded almost angry.
Then he heard Janna's voice, saying, "Dan, sweetheart, you have to pull through this for me. Come on, Dan."
How had Janna found him? How had she known that he needed help? He didn't know, but she'd come. She was with him.
He thought, I am back. I'm back. I'm going to live.
Then the pain got worse one more time—became almost unbearable, as if he were running through a white-hot fire, as if it were burning his lungs and chest and belly to charcoal.
And he screamed.
Chapter 33
Janna made sure she told all the reporters that Dan was her boyfriend. She made sure they knew she was the one who'd knelt beside him in that dark alley and cradled his bloody head on her lap. She expected the early morning news all across the country would have that picture of her, blood-drenched and angry, standing by her man in spite of the danger to her own life.
Scumslag had come to get her—just like in the contract. Got her onsite on time for one hell of a photo op.
The photos would cover the front pages. They also ought to get rid of that female lawyer who'd been hanging around him. If she realized Janna had claimed Dan, she would also realize that she couldn't compete.
She hadn't even panicked when Scumslag materialized in her bedroom again, and when he told her to get dressed and drive to that bar, she hadn't wasted a second in responding. Never let it be said that I can't make the best of an opportunity. Scumslag said her "rescue" of Dan was the first step in her rise to fame and fortune.
She hadn't enjoyed getting bloody, and as soon as Dan turned all clingy and grateful she was ready to get rid of him, but she acted her part perfectly. The loving woman willing to do anything to protect her man.
Dan certainly believed.
Chapter 34
SUNDAY, JUNE 12TH
After the second attempt on his life, Dan found himself with a day off. Sandy stayed over and covered for him and the weekend afternoon DJ was going to come in early. After Dan called Bernie to tell him what had happened, Bernie decided that having Dan away from the station might be good for the station, no matter what he was doing for the ratings.
"If the wackos decide to blow us up," Bernie'd said, "the fact that we were number one when they did it is going to be small consolation."
So Dan woke at seven, hungover, hurting, and with the tune of the song "Mandy" running through his head. He eased out of his waterbed, grateful that Puck and Fetch had done such a miraculous job of fixing it. Puck's miracle with him had been less than pain-free. He would have the scars from the knife for the rest of his life. Forty-seven of them. And even though Puck had healed the lethal wounds, he hadn't managed to take away the bruises or a lot of the pain; Dan's entire chest and gut felt like one big bruise. Hurting the way he was, he didn't know that he could have slept at all on a regular bed. Or the couch. Or the floor. Thank Puck for the waterbed.
He limped to the shower, wondering how people who broke their ribs managed to breathe. His chest was on fire and he wanted to hunch over and creep along an inch at a time, and all he had was bruised cartilage. In the shower, surrounded by the steam and enjoying the hot water pounding on his back, he began to feel better. A lot better.
When he caught himself singing a Donny and Marie Osmond song about being "a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll," though, he turned the hot water off entirely and stood in the icy cold spray until he came to his senses. He didn't think he could stand to feel that good.
"What next?" he muttered. "'Stairway to Heaven'? Something by Tiffany? 'Just When I Needed You Most'? Or maybe a song by Boyz II Men, the Osmonds of the nineties?" He'd never been an aficionado of insipid pop. Not ever. So where was this regurgitation of the sappiest music of all time coming from?
Then he heard them. Out in the living room.
The Bee Gees.
"Aw, come on!" He threw on his bathrobe and limped out of his bedroom.
Puck sat on the couch, eyes closed, a blissful expression on his face, listening while the castrati disco gods of the seventies squeaked and squealed.
"Puck?"
"Mmmmm?" The devil didn't open his eyes.
"What are you doing?"
Puck pointed to the stack of vinyl on the turntable. "Listening to my music."
"There's such a thing as going too far," Dan said. He turned the volume down on the stereo. "You can listen to good music. You don't have to develop a taste for this... dreck."
Puck sat up. "Excuse me, but this is what I like. This is what I've liked for a long time. This is my music."
"This is what you listened to in Hell?" Actually, Dan could see that. He guessed even music got what it deserved.
"What I listened to. Not what everybody listened to. I wasn't going to listen to elevator music."
"Elevator music?"
"Yeah. Ozzy Osborne, Black Sabbath... like that." He got a smug look on his face. "I listened to counterculture," he said, and Dan was almost certain he could hear a note of pride in the devil's voice.
Chapter 35
Meg stepped into the restaurant, glanced over her shoulder just to be sure she hadn't been followed, and said, "I'm meeting someone," to the maitre d'.
"Certainly, madam. Would you care to wait at the bar until your party arrives?"
"If you don't mind, I'll just wait here."
He smiled at her and said, "You'll find comfortable chairs over there, and you'll have no trouble seeing the door."
She nodded, walked into the little waiting room, and took a seat.
She was still angry—she was angry that people had tried to kill Dan, but her anger extended far beyond that. Those killers felt they could make liberal North Carolinians stop supporting equal rights for the Hellraised by eliminating him. Once again religious fanatics and right-wing hate groups wanted to dictate the actions of others, but this time they were going to fail. She was going to turn the whole thing around on them.
She saw Puck drive into the parking lot a few minutes after she did. He came in wearing a pair of dark glasses that hid his eyes—the last sign that he was one of the Hellraised. He spotted her quickly and strolled over. His expensive silk suit, elegantly cut to emphasize his broad shoulders and lean waist, and the professional cut of his hair, which fell boyishly across his brow while still giving an impression of style, went a long way in disguising the fact that he was still quite ugly. If you look rich, Meg thought, ugliness starts looking a lot like good breeding.
"He hasn't arrived yet?"
"Not yet."
"Then we have a little time to discuss this."
"Not much. Stay within earshot, but out of sight. I don't want him to realize you've been in the restaurant the whole time. When I say I've asked a friend to join us, wait five minutes, then come over. I want him prejudiced in your favor when he meets you."
Puck nodded. "I'll just get a magazine and wait until the two of you are seated—then I'll find a convenient place."
"Fine."
Puck moved off, settled into a chair, picked up a magazine, and seemed to disappear. Meg saw him sitting there, but he managed somehow to give the impression that he was a part of the decor, not someone who ought to be noticed. It was a pretty good trick, she thought
She waited only a few minutes more. Then a good-looking man in his mid-thirties came through the doors. He was alone, and like Meg, he checked just to be sure he wasn't being followed. Sandy-haired, bearded and muscular, he looked vaguely uncomfortable in the dinner jacket and tie that he wore. Meg could imagine him in hiking boots, khaki shorts and a Save Our Wetlands T-shirt. Probably carrying a picket sign. In fa
ct, she thought she recognized his face from one of the multitude of mailers she'd received from Forever Wilderness.
She sighed. Politics does indeed make strange bedfellows, she thought.
She stood, and he glanced over at her and gave her a tentative smile. "Ms. Lerner?"
She smiled back. "The same."
"Kyle Haversham. I'm president of Forever Wilderness, Inc."
They shook hands, followed the maitre d' to a table, then ordered. They engaged in small talk until the entrees arrived, or rather, Kyle engaged in small talk while Meg basically engaged in small listening. He discussed his success in locating and acquiring a large tract of forested land in Connecticut; the pending legislation that would mandate an annual tax on all firearms—Haversham hoped fervently that it would pass and Meg forced a smile and agreed with him; and the recent criminalization of tobacco use in California.
"That's one law I'd like to see spread everywhere," Haversham said.
Meg nodded. Politics, she thought. Strange bedfellows. She said, "Certainly," and hoped her smile didn't look as forced as it felt. Evidently it didn't, for Haversham kept talking.
"These conservative North Carolinians shout about the right to personal choice, but I don't see where smoking is a right. It's like seat-belt laws—if people can't be trusted to act in their own best interests, then the government needs to step in and act for them."
Meg wondered if she could throw up on Haversham on her way out without blowing her deal. How could he be so blithe about giving the government more power to encroach in the lives of its citizens? But of course he assumed it would only encroach in the ways he wanted.
With the arrival of their meals, though, their conversation took a turn toward business.
"The Vaillaird Bank consortium has been in touch with you about buying your Fender County holdings," Meg said.
"As far as I know, it's been in touch with every officer of Forever Wilderness. We aren't interested in selling."
Meg nodded. "I know. And I do understand your position. You intend to hold the land as a wild preserve in perpetuity, which I think is noble. And a wonderful cause. I donated to your organization once," she added, feeling like a creep for using such a cheap ploy to curry favor. She intended to do worse, though, if she had to.