by E J Frost
So now I live alone. In the house that I’ve made for myself. With flowers in the yard. And a white picket fence if I ever bothered to install it. Where my living relatives will never come, because they don’t understand why I’ve settled ‘in the brick.’ Where I’ve drawn and anchored the ghosts of my ancestors. And where I’ve been perpetually lonely. “You wouldn’t understand,” I say.
“Try me.” The demon wipes his mouth and leans forward onto his elbows.
I look at him evenly. “What would you know about being lonely?”
“What several hundred years of servin’ humans who’ve treated me like a walkin’ talkin’ battery have taught me,” he responds.
“Oh.” Jarred out of my self-pity, I reach across the table to him before I think about it.
With a faint grin, the demon takes my hand. “You know, sweet meat, that’s the first time you’ve touched me.”
He’s right, and I start to withdraw my hand. The demon tightens his fingers around mine and rubs his thumb very gently over my knuckles. It’s a soft touch. Innocent, in a way the demon’s touches never are. Slowly, I relax and let him hold my hand.
“Rowena wasn’t the first?” I ask.
“Nope. More like the tenth.”
What he’s said begins to penetrate the warm haze of his skin on mine. The tenth to summon him. Several hundred years of servitude. “How old are you?”
“Human years? Dunnow. First time I was called topside was when az-Zahir was runnin’ things in what you call Cairo now. ‘Round the turn of the last millennium, I’d guess.”
I swallow a gasp. “The last millennium? You’re a thousand years old?”
“More.” The demon shrugs. “Time moves different down below. And there was a long time when I wasn’t—” He pauses. Frowns a little at the table between us. The chorizo on my plate sizzles. “As aware as I am now.”
“Aware?” I ask warily, not sure that I want to know anything about demonic awareness.
“Lemures don’t spend a lot of time thinkin’. They mostly swarm. And eat.” He picks an olive out of one of the bowls between us and pops it into his mouth. “Nothin’ as tasty as this, though.”
I definitely do not want to know what lemures eat. Or even exactly what a lemure is, although I have a vague memory from my Supernatural Creatures course. A line-drawing from one of my textbooks flashes across my mind’s eye. A disembodied alimentary canal attached to a huge, red eye. I put my fork down.
“You were a lemure?”
“Yup. Born and bred a demon. What were you hopin’, that you could appeal to the human side of me? Sorry, all demon.”
I draw my hand out of his. “Of course you are.”
His eyes glint in the restaurant’s atmospheric candlelight. “Aw, were we havin’ a moment there, witchy-poo?”
To think I felt a second’s sympathy for him.
“Fuck you.” I mouth the words so the other diners won’t hear.
Anytime. You ready now?
I shudder. He’s just reminded me viscerally of what he is. And of what I’ve agreed to do with him. How, where and when you want. Isn’t that the deal?
He masticates another olive. “Yup.”
“Then I guess the question is, are you ready now?” I say it aloud. Thought can’t adequately convey my bitterness.
The shark’s grin. “Perpetually.” He props his chin on his knuckles and watches me. “But I think you’re gonna need some warmin’ up.”
“No. Let’s just get it over with.”
“Mmm.” He blinks lazily. “I don’t think so. In fact, I think you’re gonna need a lotta warmin’ up.” He rubs the toe of his boot up my ankle. “Enjoy it, sweet meat. Isn’t that what women want? Lotsa foreplay?”
Not with a demon, I don’t. Wen-Long better call soon.
The conversation’s killed what little appetite I had, but the demon lingers over the meal, eating everything, including what’s on my plate. He makes a game of it, eating slowly and seductively. Until I’m squirming in my chair.
When he finally finishes the last of the squid, I sigh with relief, thinking that the torment is finally over. But he waves the waiter over and orders coffee.
“We’ll have ‘em at the bar,” he says to the waiter, who nods and reaches around to hold my chair.
I hate it when men do that. Like I’m incapable of getting out of a chair on my own. Grimacing, I slide out the other side. Turning my back on both of them, I stalk to the bar.
The demon joins me after a moment and drapes an arm around the back of the stool I’ve appropriated.
“So, you don’t like men holdin’ your chair for you,” he observes.
“No, I don’t. And I don’t like them opening doors for me, either.”
“Is this a girl-power thing or d’you have somethin’ against common courtesy?”
I snort. “Courtesy. That’s rich, coming from you.”
“Yeah, well, no one’s spent much time teachin’ me manners. But I’ve learned plenty other things from humans.” He leans into me and whispers warmly in my ear, “You never did tell me what you like in bed.”
“Anything but demons,” I snap.
He chuckles obscenely and flicks the tip of his tongue against my ear. “Bet I can change your mind.”
I’m saved from coming up with a tart response by a woman’s voice. “Excuse me. Can I buy you a drink?”
I look up from the demon’s nuzzling to find Miniskirt standing on my far side. She’s looking at the demon like he’s Matt Damon, Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt all rolled into one. Her vacuous expression makes me want to gag.
I knock Jou with my shoulder. “I think this is for you.”
The demon drags his face out of my ear and favors Miniskirt with a long, appreciative glance. “Sure,” he says, his voice deep and smooth as chocolate. “How ‘bout tequila?”
I slide off my stool. The promise of coffee would have kept me, but I’m not sitting here doing tequila shots with the demon and his groupie.
He stops me with a low growl, “Where’re you goin’?”
“Home,” I say. I’m not watching while you seduce another lost soul.
He reaches out, cups my face with his hand and lifts my head so I’m looking directly into his dark eyes. Told you, this is just fucking around. You’re the main event.
Fuck around to your heart’s content, I fire back.
His eyes flare slightly, and in their depths, a neon-blue glint. You gonna be there when I get back? Hunting you down’ll make this a long night, and I’m not in the mood for those kinda games.
Yes. I don’t welch on my promises. Just don’t . . . I glance back over my shoulder at Miniskirt. Don’t bring anyone home with you this time. I can’t cope with that again.
‘Long as you wait up for me, that’s a deal.
“Fine,” I say. I have just a few things I should be doing. I’m low on almost everything, but it’s probably too late for an excursion into the woods tonight. And I have a major memory charm I should be working on. I grimace at the thought. “I’ll find something to keep me occupied.”
You could wait for me naked. Get in the mood.
I roll my eyes. I’ll wait up, but I’m going to be fully clothed. “Whatever.”
The demon slides his hand around the back of my neck and draws me to him for a deep, slow kiss. It rocks me down to the toes of my new boots. Energy flares like a starburst in my belly. I grab the edge of the bar to keep from falling over.
When he releases me, I’m breathing hard. My mouth’s tingling. Toes curling inside my boots. I stagger away from him.
He leans against the bar and grins. See you later, sweet meat.
Regaining my balance, I push furiously through the crowd of people waiting for tables. There has got to be some way to send him back to Hell.
I vent my anger on the walk home. Slamming the heels of my boots into the unprotesting concrete. Slashing at the air with my hands. Sparks fly. Fallen leaves whip around me in a tiny tornado
. Thunder rumbles through the cloudless night sky. I’m so involved in my anger that I’m to the front steps of my house before I realize two figures have risen from my porch swing as I’ve approached.
I pull up short on the bottom step. The smaller of the two figures steps forward. His teeth flash gold in the shadow of his hoodie.
“Wen?” I ask cautiously.
“Hey.” He smiles broadly, gold caps gleaming in the streetlights, and extends his hand. His skin crawls with gray-and-black tattooed faces that peer at me as we shake. I pull him close for a hug. I’ve never been on hugging terms with Lin’s brother before, but I’m definitely feeling huggy towards him tonight.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” I say.
“Things sounded bad, so I figured I’d better come myself. Jus says he can sense the demon. Is he nearby?”
I shake my head and glance at the other man standing on my porch. Tall and lanky with a wild swatch of hair that rises from his head in a frizzy wave.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Justinian Fryer?”
The crackpot from Philly. I’ve seen his picture on his website. It doesn’t do the hair justice.
Wen glances from me to his companion. “You two know each other?”
The tall man shakes his head.
“Only by reputation,” I say. “Are you still speaking Dan-enochian these days?”
Justinian clears his throat. “That wasn’t me. An un-un-unfortunate affiliation.”
Sure it was. I purse my mouth sourly. “Wen, can I talk to you?”
Without waiting for a response, I drag Wen-Long down my front path and along the sidewalk until we’re out of earshot. Just to be sure, I cast a quick cantrip on my porch. All Justinian-the-diabolist’s going to hear is a really annoying buzzing.
“Look, Wen, I really appreciate you coming—” I begin.
Wen holds up his hands. The tattoos extend all the way around to his palms and the moving faces glare at me. “Jus has a bad rep, I know. But he knows his stuff. And he’s got a really good idea to help you get rid of this demon. Honest.”
I glance back at the figure on my porch. Justinian’s sunk back down into the porch swing and is shaking his head like it’s filled with bees. Guess the cantrip is working. “Wen.”
“Give him a chance. Worst that happens is that he’s full of shit and we’ve wasted two bus tickets.”
“Bus tickets,” I say flatly.
“Yeah. I can’t drive. You know.”
I nod. Lin’s told me that the dead manifest to Wen very unexpectedly, and he goes into a kind of trance until they finish what they have to say. Driving during a manifestation would be deadly.
“And Jus doesn’t have a license,” Wen continues.
Well, that makes two of us.
I glance at the man on my porch again and sigh. “Okay, I’ll listen to his idea. And I’ll pay for train tickets back. Least I can do.”
Hopefully my credit card will stretch that far.
Wen puts his arm around my shoulders. I guess we’re on arm-around-the-shoulders terms after I hugged him. “It’s going to be okay.”
I try not to look too skeptical as we walk back up to my house.
Since I didn’t get my after-dinner coffee, I invite the necromancer and diabolist into my kitchen while I brew. Justinian perches nervously at my kitchen table while Wen tries to coax Izzy down from the top of my refrigerator.
“So, what’s this great idea?” I ask, once the machine is perking. To Wen I say, “That’s the demon’s, by the way.”
Wen glances over his shoulder at me, just as the salamander stops playing coy and jumps down into his hands. He holds the little lizard uncertainly, as though he expects to be bitten. Izzy promptly rolls over, exposing his creamy belly.
“He likes to be scratched,” I say with disgust.
“Really?” Tentatively, Wen begins scratching the lizard’s belly scales. Izzy goes into the same paroxysms of delight he did when the demon scratched his tummy. Lizard slut.
“Just hold him over the sink if he starts drooling fire,” I tell Wen. I’m pretty sure the stainless-steel will hold up better than the linoleum.
Justinian flicks his eyes between me and the lizard, as if he’s not sure which one of us is more alarming. I give him a minute to decide. When he doesn’t seem to be moving on from my infernal houseguest, I snap my fingers at him. “Great idea? Hello?”
“Oh, right. Kevin says the demon wants your soul.”
I nod.
“Well, I think you should g-g-g-” His face purples with the effort of getting the word out. “Give it to him.”
“That’s your great idea?” I lean back against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “Not to nit-pick, but I have this issue with eternal damnation.”
Justinian rocks back and forth on his Air Jordans. “I k-k-know. I didn’t mean give him your whole soul. Just a tiny piece of it.”
“A piece?” I don’t like the sound of this. “How big a piece?”
“A shadow of it. Have you ever heard of a d-d-doppelganger?”
I cast my eyes at the ceiling, trying to remember. Doppelgangers were definitely covered during at least two classes at college. “Vaguely,” I say. “Aren’t they a double? A magical double?”
Justinian nods. “So we make you a doppelganger and invest it with a bit of your soul and we g-g-give it to the demon instead of you.”
I glance at Wen-Long, who is holding the wriggling, fire-drooling lizard over the sink. Wen grins. “Good idea, huh?”
Better than the alternative. “What happens to me when the demon takes that bit of my soul back to hell?”
Justinian shrugs sheepishly.
“You don’t know?” I try to keep my voice from shooting up to an annoying girly pitch. Fail.
“I don’t know anyone who’s tried this.”
“Any other ideas?”
He shakes his head. “None that work.”
Great. The smell of the coffee penetrates my consternation. I take three cups out of the cupboard and pour. I reach for the sugar jar automatically, and freeze with my hand just above it. Did the demon really put Peter’s soul in there? I’m not up to finding out. I pull a bag of sugar out of a cabinet and put it on the table.
Wen-Long shifts Izzy onto his shoulder in order to take his cup. The salamander curls around the necromancer’s neck and rubs his little wedge-shaped head underneath Wen’s chin. The faces tattooed around Wen’s neck goggle. I have to chuckle. I’m not sure what it’s weirder to have in my kitchen, the necromancer or the salamander.
I turn to practicalities. “Has either of you ever made a doppelganger before?”
Justinian and Wen trade glances.
“I’ll take that as a no,” I say sourly and console myself with a sip of coffee. Ah, hazelnut decaf. Is there anything better after a long night of being terrorized by a demon? I let the coffee warm me for a minute before I say, “I guess we’re hitting the books.”
Chapter 19
An hour later, we haven’t found anything more useful than a very general discussion of medieval doppelgangers in Lecouteaux’s Shapeshifters and Doubles in the Middle Ages. Nothing that could tell me how to make one. Every textbook I could dig out of my attic and every book on the occult that’s made it into my library is spread across my dining room table. Justinian has his head bent over A Journey Beyond Our Senses, and is deep into his third cup of coffee. Wen’s lying on the floor, propped up on a couch cushion, with Bigfoot Inside: A Metaphysical Approach to Supernatural Beings, held open over his head by a pair of spectral hands and a dozing salamander sprawled across his stomach. I push Keeler’s Guide to Mysterious Beings into the “nothing useful” pile, rub my gritty eyes, and pull The Rose Twin: A True Account of Another Self out of the unread stack.
The tinkling of silver bells makes me pause as I’m flipping through the index.
“Your cup’s in the drainer,” I call to the pixie.
Lilliwhite appears in
the doorway, hovering a few feet off the ground, a tinsel and gilt blur. No coffee-cup, but she is clutching something in her hands.
“Tsara?” She beckons with a tilt of her tiny head.
I close the book and rise. Justinian looks alarmed, although whether by my otherworldly visitor or by my approach, I’m not sure. He’s kept a careful distance from me since coming into the house. I smile to reassure him. “Do you want another cup?”
He shakes his head. The tension around his eyes remains. His ears are probably still buzzing. I should be remorseful, but I’m not.
“I’ll take another,” Wen says from the floor.
A spectral hand lifts his cup to waist-height – the advantages of being a necromancer, I guess – and I collect it as I pass. I follow the pixie into the kitchen, sliding the pocket door closed behind me and waving Lilliwhite to the far end of the kitchen. The pocket door’s thin.
“That one wears the dark crown,” Lilliwhite says, as we reach the relative privacy of my sink. “He whispers to the dead.”
“Wen’s a necromancer,” I say, pouring two cups of coffee. “He’s okay. What about the other one?”
“The fire spirit doesn’t like him.”
I nod. I noticed that, too. The salamander’s made its preference for Wen very clear. “Earth doesn’t know him,” I say, remembering his Air Jordans. “The Mother rejects him.”
“What is he doing here?”
“Trying to help me with a problem.”
“The fiend?”
I smile ruefully and lean back against the sink. Not much gets by Lilliwhite. I suppose that’s why her king chose her as a spy. “Can you sense him? The warlock says he can.”