Working for the Devil

by Lilith Saintcrow

  My house is shielded to a fare-thee-well; it would take the psychic equivalent of a thermonuclear explosion to get inside.

  A demon could do it, I thought. I blinked.

  My sword was in the other room. The living room. I’d left my blade with a demon.

  I sprinted down the hall and skidded on the hardwood, turning the sharp corner and bolting into the living room. My sword was where I’d left it, leaning against the couch. The demon sat still with his hands upturned on his knees, his eyes half-closed, a sheet of white paper in one golden hand.

  I scooped my sword up and turned on the balls of my feet, metal ringing free from the sheath. Green sparks flashed—my rings were active again, spitting in the charged air. I dropped below conscious thought and scanned.

  Nothing. Nothing there.

  I heard it, I know I heard Doreen’s voice. I know I did. I let out a short choppy breath. I’d heard her voice.

  My sword rang, very softly, in the silence. The metal was blessed and rune-spelled, I’d spent months pouring Power into it, shaping it into a psychic weapon as much as a physical one, sleeping with it, carrying it everywhere until it was like an extension of my arm. Now it spoke, a chiming song of bloodlust and fear filling the steel, pushing outward in ripples to touch the defenses on my house, making them shiver slightly.

  My left shoulder twinged sharply. I glared at the demon, who still hadn’t moved.

  “Are you expecting a battle?” he asked, finally.

  A single drop of sweat rolled down my spine, soaked into the waistband of my jeans. I tried to look everywhere at once.

  I heard it. I know I did.

  I sheathed my sword, backed up toward my altar, scooped up my bag, and slid it over my head. I needed my knives, would have to go upstairs.

  “I’m going upstairs,” I told him. “Someone’s playing games with me, and I don’t like it. I hate being played with.”

  “I am not playing,” he told me. He sounded robotic again.

  “You wouldn’t tell me if you were,” I pointed out, and backed out of the room. Looks like I’ll be ditching him right about now, I thought. Christ, I’m going to have to leave a demon in my house. This really sucks.

  I made it up the stairs and had my knives on in less than twenty seconds. Then, carrying my sword, I padded to my bedroom window. The chestnut tree that shaded my window had a convenient branch I could drop from.

  I had the window open and my foot out when Jaf’s hand closed around the back of my neck. “Going somewhere?” he asked in my ear. His fingers were hard, and too hot to be human.

  Oh, no, I thought.

  CHAPTER 10

  I wanted to walk to Gabe’s, and the demon had no preference either way. So we walked. The rain had stopped, and the pavement gleamed wet. At least it wasn’t darkmoon—that would have been bad all the way around. I get cranky around darkmoon, even with the Espo patch to interrupt my menstrual cycle and keep me from bleeding while I’m on a bounty or just can’t be bothered.

  I stole glances at the demon as we walked down Trivisidiro Street. Gabe’s house was in a bad part of town, but she still had the high stone walls that her great-great-something-or-another had put up. The real defenses were Gabe’s shields and Eddie’s rage. Not even a Chill junkie would intrude on a house held by a Skinlin and a Necromance. Skinlin were mostly concerned with growing things, the modern equivalent of kitchen witches; most of them worked for biotech firms getting plants to give up cures for ever-mutating diseases and splicing together plant DNA with magick or complicated procedures. Skinlin are as rare as sedayeen but not as rare as Necromances; most psions are Shamans. Another hot debate between the Ceremonials and Magi and genetic scientists: Why were Necromances and sedayeen so rare?

  The only real drawback to Skinlin is that they are berserkers in a fight; a dirtwitch in a rage is like a Chillfreak—they don’t stop even when wounded. And Eddie was fast and mean even for a dirtwitch.

  The demon said nothing, just paced alongside me with even unhurried strides. It was uncomfortably like walking next to a big wild animal.

  Not that I’d ever seen a big wild animal, but still.

  I lasted until the corner of Trivisidiro and Fifteenth. “Look,” I said, “don’t hold it against me. You can’t blame me for being cautious. You’re just here to yank my chain and take this Egg thing back to Lucifer, leaving me in the dust and probably facing down Santino alone to boot. Why shouldn’t I be careful?”

  He said nothing. Laser-bright eyes glittered under straight eyebrows. His golden cheeks were hairless and perfect—demons didn’t need to shave. Or did they? Nobody knew. It wasn’t the sort of question you asked them.

  “Hello?” I snapped my fingers. “Anyone in there?”

  He still said nothing.

  I sighed, and looked down at my feet, obediently stepping one after another on the cracked pavement. We had to wait for the light here, Trivisidiro was a major artery for streetside hover and pedicab traffic. “All right,” I finally admitted, while we waited for the light. “I’m sorry. There. You happy?”

  “You chatter too much,” he said.

  “Fuck you too,” was my graceless and reflexive reply. The light changed, and I didn’t look, just stepped off the curb, already planning how to ditch him after Gabe’s house.

  My left shoulder gave one hot flare of agony. His hand closed around my arm and jerked me back as a warm rush of air blasted up the street. The telltale whine of hovercells crested, and a sleek silver passenger hover jetted past, going well over the speed limit, a sonic wash of antipolice shielding making me cringe.

  I should have sensed that, I thought.

  I ended up breathless and stunned, staring after the car. Sooner or later a cop cruiser would lock onto it and the driver would end up with a ticket, but right now my skin tingled and roughened with gooseflesh. The demon’s fingers unloosed from my arm, one by one.

  My breath whooshed out of me. I wasn’t focusing on my surroundings. I was too busy grousing to myself over being stuck with a demon. It was unprofessional of me—but more important, it could get me killed. I couldn’t afford to lose my focus.

  I closed my eyes, promising myself I would pay attention from now on, okay, Danny? It’s no skin off the demon’s nose if you fucking well get yourself run over by a frat boy in his daddy’s hover.

  I should say thanks, I thought, and then, If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be standing here, I’d be at home nice and warm and dry. And going on with my life.

  “Thanks,” I said finally, opening my eyes and taking a slightly calmer look at the world. “I know you’re just doing what you’re told . . . but thanks.” I won’t pull a stupid stunt like that again.

  He blinked. That was all the response I got from him.

  I checked the street and was about to step out, cautiously, when he caught my arm again.

  “Do you hate demons?” he asked, looking out over the empty street. The “don’t walk” sign began to flash.

  I jerked free of his hand, and he let me. “If what you tell me is true, it was one of yours that killed my best friend,” I told him. “She was sedayeen. She never hurt anyone in her life. But Santino killed her all the same.”

  He stared across the street as if he found the traffic signals incredibly interesting.

  “But no,” I continued finally, “I don’t hate demons. I just hate being jacked around, that’s all. You could have simply asked me nicely instead of sticking a gun in my face, you know.”

  “I will remember that.” Now instead of “robot” he sounded faintly surprised. “Santino killed your friend, then?”

  “He didn’t just kill her,” I snapped. “He terrorized her for months and nearly killed me too.”

  There was a long silence filled with city sounds—the wail of sirens, distant traffic, the subwhine of urban Power shifting from space to space.

  “Then I will make him pay for that,” he said. “Come, it’s safer now.”

  I checked ag
ain and followed him across the street. When we reached the other side he dropped back to walk beside me, head down, hands behind his back while he paced. My thumb caressed the guard on my sword, wanting to pop the blade free.

  If they were right, and I could kill Santino, this was the blade that would do it.

  Wait until Gabe sees this, I thought, and found myself smiling, a hard delighted smile that would not reach my eyes.

  CHAPTER 11

  I laid my hand against the gate, let the shields vibrate through me. Gabe’s work recognized me, and the gate lock clicked open. I pushed before it could swing closed, slipped through. The demon stepped through almost on my heels, and Gabe’s shielding flushed red, swirled uneasily. I bit down on the inside of my cheek and waited.

  Gabe’s shields settled, turned a deep blue-violet. She’d read what was with me, and wasn’t amused.

  “Come on,” I said, and the demon followed me up the long paved drive. “Keep your mouth shut, okay? This is important.”

  “As you like,” he said. It would be hard for him to sound any more flat or sarcastic.

  Just when I was starting to think I might like him, too.

  I walked up to the house, my footfalls echoing on pavement. The grounds were ragged, but still evidently a garden. Eddie kept the hedges down and the plots weeded.

  I went up the steps to the red-painted door. Gabe’s house had layers and layers of shielding—her family had been Necromances and cops for a long time, since before the Parapsychic Act was signed into law, giving psis protected status and also granting citizenship for several other nonhuman races. Gabe’s trust fund was humongous and well-managed; she didn’t even have to work as a Necromance, let alone as a cop. She had this thing about community service, passed down from her mother’s side of the family. I admired that sense of responsibility in her; it made up for her being a rich brat.

  I knocked, courteous, feeling a flare of Power right inside the door.

  Eddie tore the door open and glowered at me, growling. I smiled, keeping my teeth behind closed lips. The demon, fortunately, said nothing, but a slow tensing of his diamond-flaming aura warned me. The same aura lay over mine, tensing as if to shield me, too.

  The shaggy blond Skinlin stood there for a long ten seconds or so, measuring us both. His shoulders hulked, straining at his T-shirt, and the smell of wet earth and tree branches made the air heavy around him. I kept my hands very still. If he jumped for me he wouldn’t stop until one or both of us was bleeding.

  Gabe resolved out of the shadows, her sword out, soft light sliding on the blade’s surface. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a demon,” she said, her low soft voice a counterpoint to Eddie’s growling.

  Gabriele Spocarelli was small and slender, five foot two inches of muscle and grace. Her Necromance tat glittered on her cheek, the emerald spitting and twinkling a greeting that my own cheek burned, answering. She wore a scoop-necked silk sweater and a pair of torn jeans, and looked casually elegant in a way I had always secretly envied. I always wondered what she saw in a dirty misanthropic hedge-wizard, but Eddie seemed to treat her well and was almost fanatically protective of her. Gabe needed it. She got into a lot of trouble for a homicide detective—almost as much trouble as I did.

  Almost.

  “I’m kind of surprised by that myself,” I said. “Truce?” I reached up slowly and pulled cloth away from my shoulder, exposing about half of the red, scarred brand that was the mark of a demon familiar. “I’ve got a story to tell you, Gabe.”

  Gabriele considered me for a long moment, her eloquent dark eyes passing over the demon and back to the mark on my shoulder. Then her sword flickered back into its sheath. “Eddie, can you get us some tea?” she asked. “Come in, Danny. You’ve never pulled a mickey on me before; I suppose you’re not pulling one now.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Eddie started, his blond eyebrows pulling together. Why does he never seem to shave? I thought, letting go of my shirt. I felt better with the mark covered up.

  “Oh, come on, Eddie,” she said. “Live a little. Tea, please. And you—whoever you are—” Her eyes flicked over Jaf. “If you bring trouble into my house, I’ll send you back to Hell posthaste. Got it?”

  I saw the demon nod out of the corner of my eye. He said nothing.

  Good for him.

  Inside Gabe’s house, the scented dark pulled close. She’d been burning kyphii. I closed my eyes for a moment and filled my lungs. She wasn’t the most powerful Necromance around, but she had a quality of precision and serenity most Necromances lacked. Necromances don’t often like hanging out with each other. We tend to be a neurotic bunch of prima donnas, in fact. To find someone I actually liked who understood what it was like to see the dead . . . that was exceptional.

  She led us into the kitchen, where Eddie had the kettle on. He had my regular cup out, too, the long sinuous black mug reserved for me. “Tea?” I asked the demon, and he spread his hands, helplessly. “He’ll have tea. I’ve told him not to open his mouth, it’ll get us all in trouble.”

  “Good thinking.” Gabe set her sword down on the counter. I prefer a katana-shaped blade, but Gabe went for a two-handed longsword that seemed far too big for her slim hands. And believe me when I say I never want to face her across that edged metal. “So you said, about that case . . .”

  I dug the file out of my bag and handed it to her. “The Prince of Hell wants me to track down this guy. His name’s Vardimal—our old buddy Santino.”

  “The Prince of—” Her eyes stuttered past me, fastened on Jaf.

  “Apparently this is the Devil’s errand boy,” I said, trying to strangle the mad giggle that rose up inside me. It didn’t work; I snorted out half a laugh and shivered. “I’ve had a really rough day, Gabe.”

  She flipped the file open, even though she knew what it contained. Her face turned paper-white.

  “Gabriele?” Eddie’s voice held only a touch of a growl.

  Gabriele fumbled in her pocket, dug out a crumpled pack of Gitanes, and fished one out with trembling fingers. She produced a silver Zijaan and clicked the flame into life. The smell of burning synth hash mixed with the pungent spice of kyphii. “Make some tea, Eddie,” she said, and her voice was steady and husky. “Goddamn.”

  I perched on a stool on the other side of the breakfast counter. “Yeah.” My own voice was husky, maybe from the smoke in the air.

  Gabe slapped the file closed, not even looking at the demon’s addition—the single sheet of paper with silvery lines marking Vardimal-Santino’s name in the demon language. “You really think . . .”

  “I do,” I answered. “Honestly.”

  She considered this, took another drag off her smoke. The emerald set in her cheek flashed, popped a spark out into the air; my rings answered with a slow steady swirling. Eddie poured hot water into the cups. I sniffed. Mint tea. “What do you need?” Gabe finally asked.

  “I need a paranormal-Hunt waiver on my bounty hunter’s license.” That was fairly standard and carried no liability for her; all I’d have to do was have her sign off on the paperwork. Now came the big stuff. “I need two H-DOC and omni-license-to-carry, and I need a plug-in for the Net.” I licked my dry lips. If I was going to go after a demon, I needed all the policeware I could beg, borrow, or steal. The H-DOC and the plug-in would give me access to Hegemony cop computers and the treaty-access areas of Putchkin cop nets, and the omni license would be nice to have if I needed a plascannon or a few submachine guns to make sure the demon stayed down.

  “Christ,” Eddie snorted. “And a partridge in a pear tree. Want her fucking left kidney too, Danny?”

  I ignored him, but the demon shifted his weight, standing right behind me. My left shoulder throbbed, a persistent fiery ache.

  Gabe’s dark eyes half-lidded, and she inhaled more smoke. “I can get you the para waiver and one H-DOC and maybe an omni, but a plug-in . . . I don’t know. This doesn’t constitute new evidence.”

  “What if I
made a donation?” I asked. My rings spat and crackled. “This is important.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” she snapped. “What the fuck, Danny?”

  I accepted my tea from Eddie, who slammed a pink flowered ceramic mug down for the demon. My mouth quirked, turned down at the corners. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just . . . Doreen, you know.”

  “I know.” Gabe flipped over another page. “I can’t get a judge to sign a plug-in for you on the basis of this . . . but I can ask around and see what the boys can do on the unofficial side. Might even be able to get you some backup. What do you say?”

  “I work alone.” I jerked my head back at Jaf. “The only reason I let him tag along is because I’ve been forced into it. You should have seen it, Gabe. It was awful.”

  She shuddered, a faint line beginning between her perfect charcoal eyebrows. “I have no desire to ever see that, Danny. Graeco Hades is enough for me.”

  I had never asked who her personal psychopomp was. Now I wondered. It wasn’t a polite question—each key to unlock Death’s door is different, coded into the deepest levels of breath and blood and consciousness that made up a Necromance. It was like looking in someone’s underwear drawer to the nth degree.

  I blew across the top of my tea to cool it. Gabe flipped grimly through the rest of the file. Her fingers shook a little; she tapped hot ash into a small blue ceramic bowl. Eddie hovered in the kitchen, running his blunt fingers back through his shaggy blond-brown hair, his eyes fixed on Gabriele’s drawn-back lips and tense shoulders.

  “Gods above and below,” she said, finally. “Can that thing actually track Santino?”

  I half-turned on the stool. Jaf’s eyes met mine. Had he been watching the back of my head? Why?

  “Can you track him?” I asked.

  He shrugged, spreading his hands again to indicate helplessness. I glared at him. “Ah.” He cleared his throat. It was the first almost-human sound I’d heard from him. “Once I am close enough, I can track him. The problem will be finding the part of your world to look in.”