Something to rend the Black so thoroughly it was a dead vortex across all his senses. Jack tried to keep his expression neutral. Sanford didn’t have a talent, was nothing more than a groupie. What he actually knew about magic would probably be a wild guess, at best.
“Locke didn’t just collect esoteric shit,” Sanford said. “He found something much better. Something tangible.” He pressed his palms against the glass. “He found a way to pass through just like light through a window.”
Jack and Sanford turned as one when the front doors swung open again and a shadow rolled across the foyer, causing the light bulb to explode.
“Don’t sugarcoat it,” Abbadon said, standing in the doorway. “It sounds so much better when you just say it out loud.”
Jack could scream all he wanted inside his own head, that Sanford had fucked him and that Abbadon was going to take what he wanted out of his hide. Reacting, though, wasn’t going to do any good. He could always go through the window, if he didn’t mind shedding a little blood, but then where the fuck would he go? Miles from anywhere, in terrain he didn’t know, he might as well smear himself in marinade and leave himself for the coyotes.
Sanford’s jaw ticked when Abbadon approached. “Took you long enough,” he said.
Abbadon shrugged. “Jackie-boy isn’t going anywhere. He loves his little sperm receptacle too much to misbehave.” He reached out and patted Jack on the cheek. “That someone like you could actually love something, even a useless whore like that, is kind of sweet. Almost gives you faith in humanity or some shit.”
“Can we please get this moving?” Sanford said. “Tell him what needs to happen and get a move on.”
Abbadon sighed and gave Jack a conspiratorial look. “Humans. Always got their dicks out, waving them around. Fucking pain in the ass, am I right?”
“I’d like to know,” Jack said. “Since I’m apparently to be terrorized into helping you with whatever it is.”
“Like Bill Shakespeare over there was saying,” Abbadon said. “Old Basil Locke found a way to pass between the veils. Not just from Black to daylight—any stupid fuck can do that if they’ve got a little talent or are tripping hard enough. He found a way to cross back and forth.” Abbadon grinned at Jack, showing his full row of teeth. “Basil Locke found a portal to Hell.”
CHAPTER 23
Jack felt his lip curl. “You’re pulling my bloody leg.”
Abbadon shrugged. “Believe it or not. I do.” He looked to Sanford. “He does.” He approached Jack and put a finger under his chin. “And you do too. Deep down in that rotten little human soul of yours.”
Jack slapped the hand away. “I do believe I can do without you feeling me up.”
“Touchy.” Abbadon held up his hands. “I’ll make this simple. Locke did find a way to open a gate between Hell and here, but he could never manage it. The spirit and the flesh and all that crap. But I’m not human. I’m going to do it, and you’re going to help me.”
“And why, pray tell,” Jack said, “would I ever help you with something like that? I have to live in this world, mate. I don’t fancy a giant gaping maw into Mordor in the middle of southern California.”
“Because you don’t give a fuck about this world.” Abbadon drew close. “But you do give a fuck about sweet little Petunia, and as I believe Harlan here has already stated, we’re all prepared to take turns doing unspeakable things to her if you don’t follow what I’m about to tell you to the letter.”
Abbadon knew he had him—this was just twisting the knife in. Making him say the words, to know they’d bent Jack over properly. “Pete doesn’t have anything to do with this,” he said. “Of course I’ll do what you want. You know I will.”
“You’re wrong about that, you know,” Sanford said. He snapped his fingers at Gator. “Go get the bags.” He faced Jack again. “Petunia isn’t some poor little waif caught up in all this. She made that deal with Belial. She’s the one who caught the eye of the Hecate. Hell, Jack, if it wasn’t for her, you’d be dead in some tip with a needle still dangling out of your arm, and the world would be a better place.”
Jack shrugged. “Probably. But then who would be around to listen to you jabber on?”
Sanford grinned. “In this town, you can pay people to listen to you. What I need from you is a little more complicated. Abbadon and I have been chatting—have been ever since I had that crime scene tranced when I heard you were in town sniffing around the old murders, so you’re right—I did lie to you, shine you on when you came to me with your grand plan to spy on the fuck mages, and for that I apologize. But it was a lie of necessity, for the greater good. Not that you’d understand.”
Gator returned with a leather case, dropped it, and retreated to the corner of the room. Sanford opened it and gestured Jack over. “Locke’s ritual is pretty complete. But to open a gate, you need a key. A blood key, and it can’t just be any old blood.” He grinned. “Demon blood. And there’s one particular demon that’s very attached to you. When you fell into my lap, and brought Don with you, it was perfect. I couldn’t have pitched a better serve.”
Belial. Of course. That collector bullshit would be a fine cover to trap and use your very own demon. If you were stupid enough to open a portal to Hell, you were certainly the type who’d think a demon would sit still for a flaying.
“Let me ask you a question,” Jack said. “What exactly do you think is going to happen when you drain Belial and open this Hell-hole, and about ten thousand of his closest friends come pouring out to make sushi from your liver?”
“They’re not going to do shit,” Abbadon said. “I belong in Hell, and Hell is where I stay. The Princes won’t stand against me when they see what I’ve become.”
“Become a great twat, you mean,” Jack muttered.
Sanford thrust chalk into his hands. “Belial comes when you call. Get him here and we’ll consider your part in this done.”
“We’ll even overlook that little stunt you pulled at the ranch,” Abbadon said. “And you can go on to have babies, get old, and die, secure in the knowledge that you helped put right one of the greatest travesties of this age or any other.”
Jack knelt and started to chalk a circle into the floor. Sanford would just hand him over to Abbadon if he didn’t, and Abbadon would just find new and inventive ways to torture him. “Let me ask you a question,” he said to Abbadon. “You ever get tired of the sound of your own voice?”
“It was all I had for so long,” Abbadon said. “Can’t be too picky.”
The marks to summon a demon weren’t particularly different from the marks to call anything—a ghost, a hex, whatever you wanted. Jack let his hands work the familiar symbols while he devoted his brainpower to thinking over the clusterfuck he’d walked into. Pete wasn’t who Sanford and Abbadon were really interested in—she was leverage, and they’d leave her be until Jack kicked up a fuss about doing what they needed done. Basil Locke’s door into Hell sounded like a fairy tale on the surface, but all good fairy tales had a grain of truth.
If Abbadon did open a doorway into Hell from the daylight world, what would spill out? He was insane to think he could stand against the Princes and all of their legions, but there were more than a few citizens of Hell who’d welcome the chance to turn the world into their own private resort.
Sanford checked his watch. “You almost done there? I heard you were supposed to be good at this.”
“D’you want it fast, or d’you want it right?” Jack sat back on his heels, chalk dust gritty on his fingertips.
Abbadon sniffed. “Quit stalling, Winter. What do you care if Belial bites it, anyway? He did to you exactly what he did to me—locked you away in Hell and put his claws into you so deep you can never escape.”
The freak had a point, even if Jack was loath to admit it. Belial was a snake. A different breed of snake than Abbadon, but they shared common blood. Wasn’t it Belial’s fault he was in this situation? Or Pete’s fault.
Pete had done w
hat she’d done out of desperation. Belial had taken advantage of her. Snakes were good at finding the vulnerable underbelly.
Of course, if Pete hadn’t been trying to keep him out of Hell in the first place, she’d never have had to make a deal with a demon. So it’s all your fault, Winter. As usual.
He stood and tossed the chalk away. “There. Can I go now, headmaster?”
“Stay,” Abbadon purred. “Stay and see what’s going to happen. Trust me, Jack—you’re going to want to be able to say ‘I was there.’” He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder, nails digging through the leather. “Do it.”
Jack felt a tremor run through him, the same heart-stopping cold that had gripped him when he’d killed Parker, but he shook it off. “Belial,” he said. “Demon of Hell. I call upon you to appear.”
The words weren’t really important, but Jack figured it couldn’t hurt to give Abbadon a show. For a long moment, nothing happened at all. The Black remained a void. Jack didn’t know if his talent would even work in this place, this dead spot that sucked all the magic around it in like a hungry, dying star, but then he felt the slithering of a presence shifting into his sensory plane, the velvety sensation of a demon’s talent against his sight.
Belial didn’t shimmer or appear in a puff of smoke—you blinked and there he was. He caught sight of Abbadon and lowered his head. “Fuck me.”
Abbadon clapped his hands together. “Haven’t even started yet. Trust me, when I fuck you—you know it.”
Belial looked over at Jack. “Did I tell you, crow-mage, or did I tell you?”
“You did,” Jack agreed. “Fact is, I don’t owe you shit. You were never going to let Pete out of that bargain she made, and you’re never going to leave us be.”
Belial shook his head. “Ye of little faith, Jack. Have I ever welshed on a deal? Have I ever tried to bend you over?” His voice rose. “No. Because I’m not like that thing over there. I’m not an animal.”
Abbadon stepped to Belial, mindful of the chalk, and cracked him across the face. “That’s enough out of you, shit for brains.”
Belial ran his tongue over his bloody teeth, and spat. “So what’s the plan, dogfuck? Going to poke me with sticks and feel better about your sorry-arse lot in life?”
“Better,” Abbadon said, and snapped his fingers at Sanford and Jack. “Get it down.”
Sanford went to a pulley system anchored in the wall and unhooked the rope, snarling at Jack. “Help me.”
Jack gripped the rope. He was close enough. He could throw a hex on Sanford and be out of here before anyone had time to get across the room to him. Except Abbadon didn’t need to touch him to fuck him up. And running now would only help him, not Pete and not the kid. Nor Kim, and Kim’s spawn. Abbadon still needed a new body.
He watched the iron chandelier lower to just above waist height, one of those flat black affairs shaped like a wagon wheel. Small pyramid points rose from the iron rods, and chains dangled from between the spaces for candles.
Abbadon grabbed Belial by the back of the neck. “See that, demon? Get a good look, because that’s your final resting place.”
“It’s cute how you think this is actually going to all work out for you,” Belial said. “Like you won’t get torn apart by the dogs of Hell the moment I get out of here.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Abbadon pushed Belial down, face first onto the metal rack. Jack couldn’t help wincing when he heard the iron spikes bite into flesh. Belial let out a soft grunt, but that was all. Tough bastard, Jack thought. Were it him, he’d be screaming.
“Lift,” Abbadon said. “Hang ’im high.”
“Great flick,” Sanford said. “Gary Cooper is the man.”
“Harlan, shut the fuck up,” Abbadon said. “Nobody cares, nobody’s interested. Just shut up and hoist this fucker.”
Sanford muttered, but he tugged at the rope, and Jack helped him raise Belial back to ceiling height. The demon didn’t make a sound, just stared impassively as his blood droplets painted a mosaic on the floor.
Why didn’t he fight? Jack shot Belial a sidelong glance. Why didn’t he break out, throw down with Abbadon, whip it out and see who was bigger once and for all?
This place was poison for magic. Maybe it was poison for demons as well. That had been Basil Locke’s big secret—turning a patch of ground into a dead zone for creatures that could rip his face off, and use it to build his doorway.
He had to hand it to Locke, smart bastard. Not that it was going to help him, or Belial, one fucking ounce.
Abbadon stepped back and looked to Sanford. “Now we wait for the piggy to bleed out, and then we knock on Hell’s back door and see who’s home.”
“I know that,” Sanford said, spine straightening. “I’m the one who found Locke’s work, after all.”
“’Course you did,” Abbadon said. He pointed at Gator. “Your boy there is looking a little green. Need to send him to the nurse’s office?”
“Ignore him,” Sanford said. “He’s a pussy without his big boyfriend around.”
Abbadon knelt and smeared Belial’s blood into a rough circle. There was a lot of it, more than a human could lose and still be walking and talking. “It’s all physics,” Abbadon told Belial. “You think you’re floating in a soap bubble, impenetrable by anyone except your filthy blood. But all you have to do is twist the magic, use it to tether yourself to Hell. And then you can pass straight through, you and anyone else. Locke was a genius, when you think about it.”
“He was a crazy bastard,” Belial said. His voice was soft, softer than Jack had ever heard it, and there was a definite knife edge of pain. “If you could open a doorway, don’t you think he’d have done? What, he just left this precious gift for you shiftless gits?” He gritted his teeth as more blood poured out. “You can bleed me dry, Abbadon, but in the end you’re going back to Hell, and back to the same spot we put you, because that’s the way of things. The natural order has moved on. You’re a relic, and you’re…”
He gave a scream as Abbadon dipped his finger into the demon’s blood. It fizzed and boiled, and Belial’s skin rippled with boils before quieting. Pink foam leaked from his nose and the corners of his mouth.
“Tell me what I am again,” Abbadon said. “I dare you, fuckstick.”
“Enough,” Sanford said. “Now that we have the circle there come the words, and then the key to open the door.” He gestured. “Gator, get over here.”
Jack perked up. Finally, an opening. Sanford was smart, but his hard men weren’t, and nothing was more dangerous than a dumb, pissed-off thug. “Wouldn’t do it,” he said.
Abbadon and Sanford both glared at him. “Shut up,” Sanford said. “You’ve done your bit. You be a good boy and maybe I’ll drive you home with your virtue intact.”
“Really, mate,” Jack continued, locking eyes with Gator. “You didn’t seriously think that you were going to skip out of here with all your fingers and toes. Not once the men started appearing from thin air and the blood magic began.”
Gator looked at him, back to Sanford. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Think about it. Key? That’s human sacrifice, mate. That’s you.” Jack folded his arms. “You’re not leaving here alive, Gator. Neither of us are.”
“Be quiet,” Abbadon hissed. “It doesn’t matter. What’s he going to do, shoot me?”
Gator’s mouth dropped open, revealing a plethora of cavities behind his gold grin. “You motherfuckers!” he spat. “After everything I done for you. All the shit that I cleaned up for you, Harlan…”
“Oh, good lord,” Sanford said. “You’re replaceable, Gator. Parker was the one I was upset over losing. You’re an overweight kiddie-fiddler with delusions of Satanism from Assrape, Louisiana. You think I can’t find another one of you—a dozen—any time I wanted?”
Gator pulled his gun, which was all the distraction Jack had hoped for. Gator was panicked, and his shots went wide, picking holes out of the wall
of windows, but he turned tail and ran, still shooting, shots spanging wildly off the plaster and tile, until his gun clicked empty and he simply fled.
Sanford stared after him. “Well, shit,” he said.
“No matter,” Abbadon said. He looked at Jack. “What exactly did you hope to accomplish with that, Jackie?” He raised a hand. “Never mind. I didn’t have my heart set on that fat fuck.” Abbadon looked at Sanford, and Jack thought that really, a man as smart as Harlan Sanford should have seen this coming.
Still, he screamed and tried to run, just like they all did. Abbadon grabbed him, shoved him over the line of the blood circle, and thrust a fist into his back. Sanford choked, a little blood sprayed from between his lips, and his eyes bulged. Abbadon let him drop, the gaping wound in his back wide as a cannon shot.
“Now,” Abbadon said. “Now the veil is lifted. Now I return to my rightful place, and leave this stinking world behind. By the blood of my enemies, I open the doorway between the two worlds, the way back to the land of my birth and my blood.”
Abbadon held up his own wrist, and a void appeared, dribbling his own blood into the circle. “The doorway opens. I am released.”
“You forgot something,” Jack told him. He knelt on the floor, smearing the small spot into a symbol. The demon blood caused feedback all through his body, into his sight, but he ignored it.
“What’s that?” Abbadon said.
Jack licked the crimson spots from his fingers and stood. “You’re not the only clever bastard who can do blood magic.”
Banishment was much more difficult than summoning. To call something to you was simple—demons wanted to be called, wanted you to be desperate enough to need them. Getting rid of them once they had a foothold was much harder. Something like Abbadon, vastly powerful and strong-willed, would be impossible with his own blood, but with Belial’s, it was like hitting the bastard with a tank.
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