Working for the Devil

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “I need a plug-in to get information on who’s in whatever town I go to,” I said softly, swiveling back to look at Gabe. “The nightside will help me trace him, especially if he’s up to his old tricks. Dacon can do me up a tracker, but if Santino’s a fucking demon and notices me using Magi magick, he might be able to counter.” I paused. “Hard.”

  Gabe chewed at her lower lip, considering this. She looked over at Eddie, finally, and the Skinlin stilled. Motionless, barely even breathing, he stood in the middle of the clean blue-tiled kitchen, his blunt fingers hanging loosely at his sides.

  She finally looked up at me. “You’ll get your plug-in. Give me twenty-four hours.”

  I nodded, took another sip of my tea. “Good enough. I’m going to visit Dacon and the Spider, and I need to kit myself out. Has Dake moved?”

  “You kidding? You know him, can’t stand to walk down the street alone. He’s still in that hole out on Pole Street,” she answered. “You’ve got to get some sleep, Danny. I know how you are when you hunt.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll get much sleep for a while. Not until I rip his spleen out—Vardimal, Santino, whoever he is. Whatever he is.”

  “If he was a demon, why didn’t we know?” Gabe tapped her short, bitten nails against her swordhilt.

  I tipped my head back, indicating Jaf. “He says Santino’s a scavenger, and they aren’t allowed out of Hell. This one escaped with something Lucifer wants back.”

  “Great.” Her mouth turned down briefly. “One thing, Danny. Don’t bring that thing here ever again.”

  My rings spat green sparks. It was small consolation that Gabe understood how much more dangerous the demon was than me. I would have thought she’d be a little more understanding, knowing what it was like to be pointed and sneered at on the street.

  But then again, a demon was something different. “He’s not a thing,” I remarked acidly, and Japhrimel gave me a sidelong look. “He’s a demon. But don’t worry, I won’t.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I needed to shake out the fidgets and think, and I thought best while moving. I doubted the demon could ride a slicboard, so we walked. The demon trailed me, his boots echoing against pavement. My fingers locked so tightly around my scabbard they ached.

  Bits of foil wrappers and discarded paper cups, cigarette butts, the detritus of city life. I kicked at a Sodaflo can, the aluminum rattling against pavement. Little speckles from quartz in the pavement, broken glass, a rotting cardboard Cereon box, a pigeon hopping in the gutter, taking flight with a whir of wings.

  Two blocks fell away under my feet. Three.

  “That went well,” Jaf said finally.

  I glanced up at him from my boot toes. “You think so?” I settled my bag against my hip. “Gabe and I go way back.”

  “Gabe?” His tone was faintly inquiring. “And you’re . . . Danny. Dante.”

  “I had a classical humanist for a social worker.” I stroked my swordhilt. “I tested positive for psionic ability, got tossed into the Hegemony psi program. I was lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “My parents could have sold me as an indentured, probably in a colony, instead of having me in a hospital and automatically giving me to the foster program,” I said. Though a colony would have been preferable to Rigger Hall. For a moment the memory—locked in the cage, sharp bites of nothingness and madness against my skin; or the whip burning as it laid a stroke of fire along my back—rose to choke me. The Hall had been hell—a true hell, a human hell, without the excuse of demons to make it terrifying. “Or sold me to a wage-farm, worked until my brain and Talent gave out. Or sold me as a breeder, squeezing out one psi-positive baby after another for the colony program. You never know.”

  “Oh.”

  I looked up again, caught a flash of his eyes. Had he been looking at me? His profile was bony, almost ugly, a fall of light from a streetlamp throwing dark shadows under his eyes and cheekbones. His aura was strangely subdued, the diamond darkness folding around him.

  Like wings.

  I was lucky. I didn’t know who my parents were, but their last gift to me had been having me in a hospital and signing the papers to turn me over to the Hegemony. Even though the Parapsychic Act was law and psis were technically free citizens, bad things still happened. Psis were still sold into virtual slavery, especially if their Talent was weak or their genes recessive. And most especially if they were born in backroom clinics or in the darkness of redlight districts and slums.

  His black coat made a slight sound as he moved. He had a habit of clasping his hands behind his back while walking, which gave him a slow, measured gait. “So what do you do?” I asked. “In Hell, I mean. What’s your job?”

  If I thought his profile was ugly before it became stonelike and savage now, his mouth pulling down and his eyes actually turning darker, murderously glittering. My heart jumped into my throat, I tasted copper.

  “I am the assassin,” he said finally. “I am the Prince’s Right Hand.”

  “You do the Devil’s dirty work?”

  “Can you find some other title to give him?” he asked. “You are exceedingly rude, even for a human. Demons do not conform to your human idea of evil.”

  “You’re an exceeding asshole, even for a demon,” I snapped. “And the human idea of evil is all I’ve got. So what is such an august personage doing hanging out with me?”

  “If I keep you alive long enough to recover the Egg, I will be free,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “You mean you’re not free now?”

  “Of course not.” He tilted his head up, as if listening. After a few moments, I heard a distant siren. My left shoulder twinged. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m going to see Dacon. He’s a Magi, he’ll just love you.” My jaw ached and my eyes were hot and grainy. “After that I’m going to get some sleep, then I’ll visit the Spider. And by then Gabe should have everything together, and I’ll start hunting.”

  “I suppose you will try to escape me as soon as possible,” he said.

  “Not tonight,” I promised him. “I’m too tired tonight.”

  “But afterward?” he persisted. “I don’t want to lose my chance at freedom for your petty human pride.”

  “You say ‘human’ like it’s a dirty word.” I tucked my free hand in my pocket. My rings were dark now, no longer glittering and sparking. Out here, in the flux and ambient static of city Power, the atmosphere wasn’t charged enough to make them react. Instead, they settled into a watchful gleam.

  “That’s the same way you say ‘demon,’” he shot back, immediately. Was he scowling? I had never seen a demon scowl, and I stared, fascinated.

  I’m not going to win this one, I realized, and dropped my eyes hurriedly back down to the pavement. “You stuck a gun in my face.” It was lame even by my standards.

  “That’s true,” he admitted. “I did. I thought you were a door-guard. Who knows what the best Necromance of a generation has guarding the door? I was only told to collect you and keep you alive. Nothing else, not even that you were a woman.”

  I stopped short on the sidewalk and examined him. He stopped, too, and turned slightly, facing me.

  I pulled my free hand from my pocket, stuck it out. “Let’s start over,” I said. “Hi. I’m Danny Valentine.”

  He paused for so long that I almost snatched my hand back, but he finally reached out and his fingers closed around mine. “I am Japhrimel,” he said gravely.

  I shook his hand twice, had to pull a little to take my hand back. “Nice to meet you.” I didn’t mean it—I would rather have never seen his face—but sometimes the little courtesies helped.

  “Likewise,” he said. “I am very pleased to meet you, Danny.”

  Maybe he was lying, too, but I appreciated the effort. “Thanks.” I started off again, and he fell into step beside me. “So you’re Lucifer’s Right Hand, huh?”

  He nodded, his profile back to its usual harsh almost-ugly lines.
“Since I was hatched.”

  “Hatch—” Then I figured out I didn’t want to know. “Never mind. Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

  “You’re very wise,” he said. “Some humans pester us incessantly.”

  “I thought you liked that,” I said. “Demons, I mean, as a whole.”

  He shrugged. “Some of us have leave from the Prince to answer the calls of the Magi. I have not had much traffic with humans.”

  “Neither have I,” I told him, and that seemed to finish up conversation for a while. I was glad. I had a whole new set of things to worry about—how Dacon would react, and how the news of me hanging out with one of Hell’s citizens would get around town really fast, especially if I saw Abra. I couldn’t leave the demon behind—he might get into trouble, and besides, I didn’t think he’d take to waiting in an alley while I went into Dake’s club.

  CHAPTER 13

  I was right. “Absolutely not,” he said, his eyes turning almost incandescent.

  “Okay, fine, keep your hat on.” I looked across the rain-slick street. A few sleek cigar-shaped personal hovers drifted in a parking pattern overhead, and there were several slicboards leaning against the side of the old warehouse, reactive paint glowing on their undersides. I scanned them out of habit and noticed one had a hot magtag; evidently some kid had jacked it. I clucked out through my teeth. Kids stealing slicboards, what next? Then again, since hovers had palmlocks and bodyscans built in standard now, a slic was all a kid could steal.

  Pole Street rang with neon and nightlife around us. I shivered, hunching my shoulders, and sighed. “If you want to go in with me, you’re going to have to do what I tell you, okay? Let me do the talking and don’t start a fight unless I start one first. Okay? And try not to kill anyone—just hurt them bad enough to keep them down.”

  He nodded, his dark hair stuck to his head with dampness. A fine drizzle had started around Trivisidiro and Eighteenth Street, and followed all the way out into the Tank. A block down from us, a group of freelance hookers huddled under an overhang, the neon running wetly off their pleather sheaths and go-go boots. A cop cruiser slid by like a silent shark, bristling with antennas and humming with riotshields. It drifted to a stop by the hookers, and I wondered if they were scanning for licenses or looking for a little fun.

  I licked my dry lips, nervous. “Actually,” I said, “can you look scary? It would help.”

  He bared his teeth, and I had to fight down the urge to step back.

  “Okay,” I said. “You win. You just look scary and I’ll do the talking.”

  We crossed the street, the demon keeping step slightly behind me, and stepped up on the pavement on the other side. There were two bouncers there—shaved gorillas with black-market augments, three times my size. My fingers itched.

  Don’t let there be any trouble, I prayed silently.

  I came to a stop right in front of the bouncers. The one on the left paled visibly, seeing my tat. The one on my right looked the demon over, his fat cheeks quivering with either terror or silent laughter. I inhaled deeply, tasting night air, hash smoke, and the salt-sweat-sweet smell of Chill. Did Dake know one of his bouncers was on Clormen-13? That shit was nasty, it made addicts psychotic after a while. Taking down a Chillfreak was hard work.

  I tilted my head so my tat was visible to both of them. “Dacon Whitaker,” I said, pitching my voice loud enough to slice through the pounding bass thudding out the door.

  The bouncer on the right nodded. I saw the telltale glint of a commlink glittering from his right ear, and his throat swelled. He had a subvocal implant, too.

  Great. Dake knew I was coming.

  “He’s indisposed,” Shaved Gorilla #1 said. He had muttonchop and some very nice custom-made leather pants straining at his massive legs.

  “Either he sees me now, or I tear his club apart and bring the cops down here. He can be charged for interfering with a legitimate hunt.” My lips peeled back from my teeth. “I’m doing a bounty, and I’m in a bad mood. It’s up to him.”

  The demon’s hot silence swelled behind me. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

  “Come on in,” the gorilla on the right said. “Go up to the office, the big man says.”

  I nodded and passed between them, the demon moving close. Together we plunged into a swirling migraine attack of red and orange light, skitters of brightness from the blastball hanging from the ceiling, hash smoke and the reek of alcohol mixing with the smell of sweat and the psychic assault of a warehouse full of people, sunk in the music, most of them dancing. A thin edge of red desperation curled over a smile, a razor-flick against a numb arm.

  I was used to the sensory assault, barely paused, my mental shields thickening. There were ghostflits in the corners, riding the air, a few of them silently screaming.

  People think that when they die, the Light opens up and takes them. A majority of the time, that’s what happens. But sometimes—often enough—the soul is chained here. Sometimes confused, or held by violent death, and sometimes just unable to leave without a loved one, the souls of the dead crowd toward the living any place there’s Power enough to feed them and make them more than just a cold sigh against the nape, more than just a memory.

  Back before the Parapsychic Act, there was about fifty years of psionics being bought and sold by corporations like chattel—even Necromances. And before that, Necromances were generally locked in asylums or driven to suicide by what we saw—what nobody else could see. Some, like Gabe’s ancestors, made it through by keeping mum about their talents, blending in. Others just assumed they were crazy.

  I forced my way through the crowd, each person a padded sledgehammer blow, laid completely open by hash and trance music. I recognized the track—it was RetroPhunk’s “Celadon Groove”.

  If I could stand being around a crowd again, I could dance to this, I thought, and felt a sharp twisting pain. I hadn’t danced for three years. Not since Jace.

  Don’t think about that. My head came up; I scanned the crowd. Like most psis, I disliked crowds, especially riot-crowds or large groups all stoned on hash. Sure, I could jack in and ride the Power created by that much wide-open emotional energy—but I had no need of it. Other psis knew enough to keep their thoughts to themselves, but most normals were sloppy broadcasters, hammering at even the best of shields with the chaotic wash of sense-impressions and thoughts. It was like walking through a field of unmuffled hovers; even if you had earplugs the noise still settled against the pulse and bones, and hurt.

  No. Maybe it wasn’t the dancing or the crowd that hurt, maybe it was only my heart. I hadn’t thought of Jace in at least six months.

  Writhing bodies pulsed on the lit-up dance floor. I saw couples twisted around each other, a few shadowed booths in back full of bodies that could have been swooning in love or death. A sharp strain of desperate sex rode the air. My nostrils flared and my rings sparked. I could have jacked into the atmosphere and used that Power for a Greater Work, if I’d needed to. I slid between two tarted-up, rail-thin yuppie girls so doped-out on hash it was a wonder they were still vertical; nodded to the bartender.

  Behind the bar was a moth-eaten red velvet curtain that the bartender—a skinny nervous man in a red jumpsuit, a cigarette hanging from his lips—pushed aside. A safety door was slightly open, a slice of yellow light leaking out and into the smoky air.

  The music shifted. My skin prickled with heat and uneasy energy.

  Goddammit, that bastard at the door warned Dake and now he’s getting ready. I wanted him off-balance.

  I jumped forward, darted through the door, and ran lightly up the stairs. I wasn’t in the best shape—my stomach was still bruised and tender from puking and my entire body felt just a fraction of a second too slow—but when I spun into Dake’s plasglass-walled office, my sword already drawn, he did look surprised. He was up to his pudgy elbows with venomous green snapping Power, and was just turning away from the open iron casket on his desk.

  Dacon was a Magi,
albeit a weak one. He’d been a few years behind me at Rigger Hall, and I still thought of him as the same pudgy-faced kid with his uniform all sloppy and his mouth loose and wet from too much synth hash. He’d barely managed to produce a low-level imp to qualify for Magi-accreditation, and his tat was a plain round Celtic symbol with no taste. All in all, he wasn’t the best for this type of work, but he was the only Magi I could conceivably bully into doing me a tracker for a demon without having to pay an arm and a leg for it.

  Even though Dake was a lousy Magi when it came to calling up demons, he was pretty good at the offensive magicks. He couldn’t fight much physically, but with enough of a Power charge he was fast and nasty. That, I suspected, was why he rarely if ever left his nightclub. I hadn’t heard of him being on the street in years. He was as close to a shut-in as it was possible for a psion to get.

  And that was also why he was the perfect choice to do a tracker for me. It was a passive offensive piece of magick, which meant it was right up his alley—and he didn’t have to leave his nightclub to do it.

  “You son of a bitch,” I said, pleasantly. “You were planning on giving me a little surprise, weren’t you, Dacon? Just like the little bitch you are.” My blade spat blue-green, light running along its razor edge. The runes I’d spelled into the steel sparked into life, twisting fluidly along the length of the blade. And the demon’s aura laid over mine sparked and swirled.

  Dacon squeaked, his round pale face suddenly slick with sweat. I felt more than heard the arrival of the demon behind me, and Dacon nearly passed out, swaying, his expensive Drakarmani shirt wet and clinging under his armpits. “You—you—” he spluttered, and the green glow arced between his fingers. Sloppy of him.

  “Me,” I answered. “Of course. Who else would come and talk to you, Dake? Nobody likes you, you have no friends—why are you so fucking surprised?”

  Dake’s eyes flicked past me. He wore a pair of shiny pleather pants straining to hold his ample legs in. “You have a . . . that’s a . . . you’ve got—”