by J. Kenner
The song was a trick I’d learned with my stepfather. Because Joe was an expert at reading faces. He used to always be able to tell when I’d been getting into stuff I had no business getting into. And inevitably, I’d ended up with a smack on my backside.
But once I’d learned to fill my head with mundane things—children’s songs, stupid nursery rhymes, ditties from Schoolhouse Rock—the smacks were less and less frequent. I watched myself in the mirror once and realized why: even as my head blanked out with the mindless ditty, my face went blank as well.
With any luck, my little trick worked on heaven’s messengers, too.
“Lily . . .”
“What was I supposed to do?” I snapped. “That thing was on me, and he pulled it off, and then we fought it together. I stabbed it, and I thought I’d killed it. Then he stabbed it again, and poof, a big puddle of demon.”
“He, who?”
“Deacon Camphire.”
His eyes narrowed, and I swear if my life were a movie, creepy music would have crescendoed. I swallowed and took an involuntary step backward, the dark images I’d seen in Deacon’s mind stirring now within my own head. “He helped me, Clarence. What’s wrong with that? Why is that bad?” I heard the high pitch of my voice and hated myself for it.
“Helped? Oh, no, pet. Deacon Camphire wasn’t there to help you. I don’t know what he was really up to, but he damn sure isn’t an ally.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, afraid that I knew exactly what he meant. “What’s wrong with Deacon?”
He looked at me, his expression curious.
“Dammit, Clarence,” I pressed, when his lips stayed stubbornly closed. “Tell me. What’s wrong with Deacon?”
“Everything,” he announced, flatly. “He’s a demon, Lily. A filthy, lying, stinking demon. He’s bathed in the fires of hell, and the stench of the evil he’s done clings to him, as pungent as rotting flesh. A demon,” he repeated. “Exactly the kind of creature you were created to destroy.”
11
“A demon,” I repeated, something acidic roiling in my stomach. I stifled a shiver and forced myself to keep up the children’s-song serenade, because these were the kinds of thoughts I was certain I’d be broadcasting loud and clear otherwise. Deacon is a demon. I didn’t want to believe it—couldn’t get my head around it—but at the same time I was utterly certain it was true. That flash of rage. The creeping, tingling sensation, like something dark and sinister had come to call. Something sensually compelling, but totally dangerous.
“What’s the matter? Not expecting eye candy to be one of the bad ones?”
I kept my mouth shut; that one hit a little too close to home.
Clarence snorted. “Gotta get rid of those worn-out expectations, Lily. Things aren’t always what they seem, pet.”
“Like you?” I snapped, wanting to hurt him. Because as inexplicable as it might be, his news about Deacon had cut me deep. I’d been an idiot, pulled into an emotional trap, and I hated myself for my weakness.
“Me?” he asked, apparently oblivious to my inner turmoil, and thank God and Schoolhouse Rock for that. “With me, what you see is what you get.”
“Yeah? Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re hardly my idea of a heavenly messenger.”
“What would be your idea?”
“I don’t know. Good manners, for one. More paternal. Softer. And a hint of holiness wouldn’t hurt, either.”
His mouth twitched with amusement. “Straight out of central casting. Did it ever occur to you that I’m here because of you?”
“What do you mean?”
He snorted. “Come on, pet. You’d turn an angel’s halo black inside ten minutes. And you really gonna listen to a priest? You gonna ask questions and hound ’em, and get your head properly around what’s going on? Oh, no, kid. I’m here because I’m the only one the big guy figured you’d listen to.”
I frowned, taken aback. Because the truth was, he was right. Clarence irritated me to no end, but it was a familiar, comfortable irritation. Like dealing with Jeremy or one of his ilk.
“Like I was saying—you gotta make an effort to look beneath the surface.”
I had to grudgingly agree. I let my mind wander back to the bar, to the way I’d slid so seamlessly into Alice’s life even though it hadn’t been seamless at all. I’d stumbled in my duties. I’d tended Leon with paramedical training that Alice most likely didn’t possess. And no one had noticed.
“It’s not just me, is it? I mean, no one really looks beneath the surface anymore, do they?”
He didn’t answer, his silence an invitation to continue.
“I waltzed into her life. No one even knew she was gone. No one mourned her. Nobody said their last good-byes. They just ordered another round and watched her ass fill out a pair of black jeans. Only it wasn’t her ass in those jeans, not really. And nobody had one fucking clue.”
My jaw was tight and I blinked back tears for this woman I hardly knew. A woman hardly known by the people with whom she’d spent every day of her life.
“You get it, then.”
I nodded. Sadly, I did.
I frowned, remembering the way Leon had lain crumpled on the floor, and remembering the man who’d put him there. Even with that temper, there’d been no hint that Deacon was anything more than a man. Certainly not a demon. Certainly not the incarnation of evil.
In the alley, he’d spoken to me with genuine concern in his voice, and he’d helped me fight the Grykon. Only the fact that I’d seen the inside of his mind let me believe what Clarence said. And, yeah. I believed it.
“Why?” I asked Clarence. “Why would he help me?”
“Come on, Lily. You’re not stupid. Why do you think?”
“He played me,” I said, clenching and unclenching my hands at my sides, not sure if I wanted to slide a knife deep into Deacon’s heart or simply never see him again. “The son of a bitch played me—or, rather, he played Alice—and I had no fucking idea.”
“That’s the way they operate, kid. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“You’re not mad? You’re not going to—you know.” I glanced toward his waist, where I knew that blade was sheathed inside his coat.
“Not if you’re giving it to me straight. He doesn’t know who you are? What you are?”
“He doesn’t. I swear. But—” Deacon’s last comment about staying out of his head popped into my mind before I could stop it, and I saw Clarence’s face pinch, his expression shifting from anger to fear before smoothing out to basic, boring bland. A lot like my studied new expression, actually, and for one quick, quirky moment, I wondered what he was trying to hide.
“What exactly did he say?” Clarence asked, his frozen face shifting back to its usual animated self.
“Only that I needed to stay out of his head,” I said, adding a mental song blast just to be on the safe side.
“What did he mean?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. “I was kinda guessing that maybe Alice was like you.”
His head cocked slightly to one side. “Why would he think that? You been getting in anyone’s head, pet?”
“He thought Alice was like you,” I said. “I’m not really her, remember?” I spoke over a backdrop of “Conjunction Junction.” And I said it firmly, the way I’d learned to lie.
I also said it over a backdrop of guilt because here I was, rolling off yet another lie, made all the worse because I was lying to God’s right-hand dude. But I couldn’t help myself. I was less than one day into this freakish new life, and I desperately wanted to keep it. I wanted to be Superchick. I wanted to fight demons. I wanted the chance to even my own karmic scorecard.
And something in Clarence’s eyes made me think that if I told him the truth about what was happening in my head, all bets were off.
I forced the thoughts back deeper behind the veil of children’s songs. Clarence was looking at me, his expression thoughtful, and I had to hope he hadn’t been able to snea
k in around the edges of my mind.
“You think he was bullshitting?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. We know he was pulling my chain. But it doesn’t matter because Alice is dead. And there’s nothing funky going on in my head.”
“Then you’re golden, kid. But you’ll tell me if anything pops up there, right? Can’t believe we didn’t know that about Alice, but if she really can poke around in a demon’s head, that could come in pretty damn handy.”
“Can’t you?”
He shook his head. “One, I ain’t on the front lines. And two, I only do human psyches. Limitations of my gift.”
“Oh.” Wasn’t that interesting? The kind of nifty little tidbit of info I could file away for a rainy day.
I thought about the nature of my job and lined that up with the nature of Deacon. “So, um, am I supposed to kill him?”
“Deacon?” He shook his head. “No.”
I tried hard to stifle my sigh of relief. “Why not? He’s a demon. I kill demons.”
“That he is, and that you do. But he’s not one to trifle with. He’s strong, Lily. Damn strong. And until you have a few more kills under your belt, I think it’s safe to say he’s a damn sight stronger than you. He’s taken out too many on our side for me to blithely put you in his path. Our endgame is too important to risk our resources going after scum like Deacon Camphire. You understand?”
I nodded, assuring him that I did, and filling my head with children’s songs so he couldn’t see the relief that flooded through me.
The truth was, the revelation about Deacon had flummoxed me. That he was a demon, I believed. That there was evil inside him, I believed. And perhaps I was being naive, but I didn’t want to believe that was the end of the story. I’d seen the fight inside him—the struggle for good. More than that, I knew that Alice had gone to him. Had trusted him. Had believed that he could—and would—help her.
Maybe he’d been playing Alice, too. Hell, maybe he’d planted the images in his head so that I’d think he was fighting evil, when in fact he was the very epitome of it.
Maybe that was why Alice didn’t show. Maybe she’d learned that he was playing her.
I didn’t know.
But I couldn’t dismiss him out of hand as easily as Clarence could.
I needed to poke and prod and learn and see.
I needed, I thought, to know what made Deacon Camphire tick.
12
You haven’t lived until you’ve transported a non-angelic amphibian mentor on the back of your motorcycle. My life, thank God, is now complete.
Actually, I didn’t mind the trip too much. Talking on a bike is strictly for emergencies only, so I enjoyed a bit of in-my-head time. Or, rather, I enjoyed it once I let my mind wander to complete nontopics. I didn’t think Clarence could hold my waist that tight and mumble in fear while poking around in my mind, but I certainly wasn’t sure.
So instead of thinking anything important, I thought about nothing. About the quiet Boston night, and the chill in the air, and the wind on my face. A world of possibility and purpose had opened to me, and I felt free and happy.
At least, I felt happy for a moment. Then the guilt set in. A new world was opening up to me, but Rose was stuck in the same shit-hole, only now her sister was dead. I’d tried to protect her like I’d promised, but I’d done a piss-poor job of it. The only thing better about her sitch was that Johnson couldn’t hurt her anymore. But his death hadn’t really saved her. It had only kept him from damaging her more. I had seen that much just by looking in her eyes.
My guilt was all the more pronounced because even though I cried for Rose, I couldn’t shake the giddiness that came from this feeling that I belonged. That I’d finally found a calling and all my past fuckups were about to become ancient history.
The gig was dangerous, sure. But it was important. And despite the fact that it was scary as hell, it felt good to be me right then, even in someone else’s body.
Good enough to bring on heaping shovelsful of guilt.
“Turn here,” Clarence said, as I slowed at a blinking red light I followed his directions around twists and turns, until we finally parked my bike in a dim alley. I looked around at the Dumpsters overflowing with bits of rotten food and other odoriferous things, and wondered why we were in such a grim place.
“Time to get you ready,” Clarence said, turning away and then walking deeper into the alley. Fetid water pooled in potholes, the surface still and oily. The smell of mold and fecal waste hung between the brick walls, and I followed carefully, hoping to avoid the actual source of the stench.
My heart pounded as I picked my way carefully around the refuse. Not in trepidation, but in anticipation. I’d been in similar conditions mere hours before, and considering the odd circumstances of my new life, I fully expected another beast to leap at us from the shadows.
Clarence hurried down a darkened street, then turned down another alley that was, remarkably, even filthier than the last. I picked my way around the piles of trash, debris, and biological refuse, trying very hard not to breathe in the process.
He moved quickly, stepping around a pile of something slightly green and highly rancid as he moved closer to a steel door. He slid aside a metal plate to reveal an illuminated keypad. “And here we are.”
“High tech,” I said.
“You expected the door would open by virtue of a miracle? Our battle may be celestial, but our resources are state of the art.”
He punched in a code, and the thick door swung silently inward, revealing a pitch-black hallway. “Shall we?”
Reluctantly, I followed him over the threshold. What little light accompanied us in from the alley was snuffed out with the thunk of the door shutting behind us. The air around us lay still and stale, the lack of even the slightest breeze accentuating the claustrophobic conditions. I swallowed, my skin suddenly clammy as the memory of the last time I’d awakened in pitch black settled over me.
Perhaps I wasn’t as ready as I thought—I heard Clarence in front of me, then heard the metallic clang of a breaker switch being thrown. Above us, a bay of fluorescent lights twinkled on and a fan at the far end of the hallway whirred to life, stirring the air and fanning away a few of my trepidations. Graffiti adorned the walls of the narrow hallway, but the filth and stench of the alley remained outside.
We moved down the long hall, our steps echoing off the concrete walls and floors. Soon, the glare of fluorescents gave way to the dim light of yellow bulbs mounted at intervals along the walls. We continued through puddles of jaundiced light, turning, then turning again as we thrust deeper and deeper into the labyrinth.
At last, we reached an ancient elevator door, I leaned close, my hands clutching the mesh of metal as I looked down the shaft that seemed to end in darkness. The cable hung in front of us, seeming quite inadequate for the job it was required to perform.
“You were saying about high tech?”
Clarence shrugged, a broad Gallic gesture. “Eh. Renovations. Who has the time?”
I was tempted to point out that God did. Now, however, hardly seemed the time for jokes.
“Good decision.”
“You really have to stop doing that.”
“Then you need to quit thinking so loud.”
I frowned, but he only chuckled, then pointed to yet another access device hidden beneath a metal plate. “Your turn,” he said.
I calmed my jangling nerves, then pressed my hand against the cool glass. A biometric scanner did its thing, and after a brief whirr and click, the tiny metal room began to rise from the pit, finally coming into view, then clanking to a stop in front of us. Clarence took the initiative and pulled open the gate. He stepped to one side and gestured broadly. “Ladies first.”
I drew in a breath, looked upward toward the flimsy cable, and stepped inside.
God was on my side, right? At least, he was for now.
The elevator was controlled by an ancient dial mechanism, and Clar
ence took the helm, shifting the stick downward from 1 to B3. The car jerked, and immediately we started our descent, the world—or at least the building—moving vertically in front of us, like a dull filmstrip from second grade.
Despite the high-tech entry procedures, there was nothing spectacular about the building. The floors we passed were abandoned, but clean, the debris at the entrance little more than camouflage. But there was no stained glass, no statuary. Nothing to suggest there was anything holy about the place. Instead, it was like a bunker, and I hugged my arms tight around me, feeling more out of place with each foot we descended into the bowels of the building.
Though it seemed to take forever, the elevator finally creaked to a stop. I didn’t have to ask Clarence if we’d reached our destination; I could see clearly enough that we had. A raised platform, like a boxing ring, stood dead center in the massive room. Around it, various training accoutrements—a punching bag, an exercise bike, a weight bench. Were it not for the mace, the broadsword, and other various medieval-style weapons mounted on the wall behind the ring, the place would have reminded me of the cheap gym Joe had gone to before my mother died.
The smell reminded me of my childhood, the tang of old sweat and leather. A hard wave of regret tugged at my heart, and I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting a longing so intense I thought my knees would buckle.
I took a breath, forcing myself to concentrate, to focus. My old life was gone. And if I wanted to keep whatever tenuous hold I had over this new existence, I needed to focus. I needed to fight—both myself and the demons that made the earth a living hell.
“No rest for the weary, huh?” I asked Clarence, with a brief nod to the setup.
He’d been watching me, his expression unreadable, and I wondered if he’d seen my memories, if he’d felt my loss. I didn’t ask, and after a moment, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Are you tired?”