Working for the Devil

by Lilith Saintcrow

  My own cry rose with hers, breathless. I pumped Power into the shimmers, drawing from the city’s well, grateful I’d already suffered through the migraine of backlash—Eddie and Gabe would be crippled by their limited ability to draw on Nuevo Rio Power unless they had taken the time to acclimatize themselves.

  Gabe grabbed half the load on the shimmershields away from me, her mental touch light and deft. “Do something!” she screamed, as we plunged into the nighttime crowd. I thought she was screaming at me instead of Japhrimel, so I popped the shields down, freeing them from my conscious control; stopped short (stopping from a full head-on run is a skill, I’ll admit I stumbled) and turned, my sword sliding free of the sheath.

  “Danny!” Jace yelled.

  The crowd of Nuevo Rios exploded away from me, making signs against the evil eye. I met the first hired thug with a clash of steel—he didn’t have a sword, but he had a machete. I knocked the plasgun out of his hand with a flicker of my scabbard. Metal clashed and rang—he cut overhand, a sloppy move, expecting me to be dumb enough not to expect it—tall, thin Nuevo Rio man in an assassin’s rig, black leather straps with various knife sheaths and other things attached. I dispatched him with a short thrust and backed up as they converged on me, six dark-eyed, dark-haired men, one of them a vaudun, shaking his staff. The bits of metal and circuit-boards attached to it jingled. Neon ran on the wet street, the sound of sirens and screams of the crowd fading from my consciousness. Six against one, I thought, twisting my blade free from the body on the ground. I’m going to enjoy this. Watch that Shaman, he’s the dangerous one.

  I stood my ground, letting them come to me, pavement cracking underneath me, the dark pulsing heartbeat of the city resounding, a tapline open to feed me Power from the city’s ambient energy. The shimmershields crackled as more plasbolts raked the ground. The H-DOC on my wrist flashed, reading the layout of the fight, alerted by the spike of plasgun bolts. The cops wouldn’t interfere; this was a private hunt.

  A dark shape streaked past me, silver gun flashing. Japhrimel met the six with a popping clatter of gunfire. He punched one in the face, sending him flying back. I was left facing the Shaman, who locked shields with me and proceeded to blow a few circuits in my shimmershield with a swift, nasty attack of Power.

  He was good. I held my sword level, metal gleaming, rings sparking as I countered, grabbing all available Power in my range, the mark on my shoulder crunching with sudden pain as the demon let out a shattering roar. Jace drove past me, engaging the vaudun. Dammit, Jace, he was MINE! Jace made a quick motion, and something like a tiger made of solid light and dapples of shadow, Jace’s prime fighting construct, tore itself out of the air and descended on the other vaudun.

  Where are the rest of them? I thought, and heard another one of Gabe’s short sharp cries. Engaged over there, I thought, turning on my heel, my tapline into the city’s dark heart pulsing with Power. I kept the shields steady, juggling them as I bolted back for Gabe and Eddie. Jace could handle himself.

  The Skinlin was growling as he fought with another Shaman, this one a wizened old nut-brown man with streaks and dapples of red paint on his face. Gabe, swearing and spitting, her face contorted into a mask of rage, was dueling a tall mercenary—he wasn’t a Nuevo Rio, too pale, sandy blond hair, but he wore an assassin’s rig and used a short thrusting sword. Plasbolts whined. One splashed against the edge of my torn shimmershield, and the resultant Power-flare nearly knocked me to my knees. I staggered, my forward momentum pushing me, just like riding a slicboard—and I threw myself on the two Nuevo Rios edging for Gabe’s back.

  One of them clipped me on the shoulder with a thrown knife before I cut him down, pain blooming along my nerves like spiked oil, the other engaged me—he was a huge hulking mass of weightlifting muscle and black-market augmentations; I smelled salt-sweat-sweet Chill on him before I made my cut and a bright jet of arterial blood splashed out of his neck. He was still trying to come for me when I took off his right hand with the plasgun still clasped in it. I finished by whirling and opening his belly with two cuts, my own battle-yell stinging my throat and dyeing the air red. Chillfreaks, I hate Chillfreaks. I thought Nuevo Rios were more into hash anyway.

  Then it was over. I stood, panting, watching the blood gurgle, hearing the last choking gasps as the Chillfreak died, his eyes dimming, the spark exiting his chemical-abused body. “Anubis et’her ka.” I breathed. That was for Lewis, you sack of Chill shit. The thought slid across my mind and was gone as soon as it came.

  The plasbolts had stopped. Eddie’s growling still sounded from behind me, and I heard Gabe taking in harsh tearing gulps of air. Clatter of steel. Running feet. A long, low howl of abused breath, snarling, a flare of familiar Power. Jace.

  I stared blankly down at the body in front of me. The street was now deserted, but eyes glittered in the shadows. If we left the bodies, they would be stripped and harvested in minutes.

  Chillfreaks, I thought, and shuddered. I hate the motherfucking Chillfreaks.

  Three things I hated: the Mob, Chillfreaks, Santino. Each one of them had stolen something from me—Santino stole Doreen, the Mob had helped steal Doreen, and Chill and the Mob had stolen Lewis and fucked up too many bounties to count.

  Japhrimel’s hand closed around my wounded shoulder. I flinched—I hadn’t even sensed him behind me. That was starting to weird me out. “You’re hurt,” he said quietly, and his hand bit down, a hot snarling mass of Power forcing its way into the wound. I gritted my teeth, feeling muscle knit itself together—I’d been so pumped on adrenaline I’d barely noticed the strike. “My apologies.”

  “Why? You had enough to deal with.” I looked down at the body on the pavement. True death had occurred, but the nerves were still glowing with false life—what Necromances called foxfire. The soul was gone. “I hate Chillfreaks,” I muttered.

  Lewis, his beaky face splashed with blood, leered up in my memory. I’d been collared, on a rare excursion with my social worker, when a Chillfreak had killed him; I’d only been a kid. Unable to protect him—he’d told me to run, and I had. The cops had arrived too late.

  Lewis had taught me to read, left me his books and his love of the classics. I had been lucky to have such a gentle social worker, one who was so genuinely interested in me, even if I’d been unable to tell him the truth about Rigger Hall because of the collar. When he died I’d been given a social worker who could have cared less that I was in hell and helpless; she was too busy collecting her checks and getting strung out on synth hash to pay any attention to the kid she was supposed to be looking out for. When Rigger Hall had closed down and the news of what Mirovitch had done to the kids became common knowledge, I never even got an apology from the stupid bitch. After that I refused to see any social workers at all.

  I returned to the present with a jolt as Japhrimel sighed.

  “I am to protect you,” he said, slowly, as if I was a stupid third-grader.

  “Up until I face Santino,” I told him, “I’m capable of taking care of myself.” I looked up.

  Eddie held Gabe, kissing her forehead. “You okay?” he said, his blood-dotted face thunderous with worry. She nodded her assent.

  I looked hurriedly away. I didn’t want to think about why it hurt me to see them together sometimes.

  “Danny?” Jace sounded breathless. “Danny!”

  “I’m fine,” I said, my sword whipping through the air, blood splashing from its shimmer. Power smoked along the blade, a habitual cleaning of the bright steel. I slid it back into the sheath. “Dammit, Jace. You took the Shaman. He was mine.”

  “Sorry,” he said, in a tone that suggested he wasn’t sorry at all. “Let’s move, kids. My instinct tells me that was only the first wave. Leave the bodies for harvest.”

  “You mind not giving orders on my hunt?” I snapped, and looked up at the demon. His face was set, his eyes sparking with radioactive green. “Thanks, Japhrimel.”

  He nodded. “Where now?”

 
; “Back to Jace’s house. This kind of changes the situation a little.”

  “They were serious,” Gabe said. She’d finally stopped clinching with Eddie. “Five million credits. Holy fuck, Danny, what’d you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything; I’ve been forced into this,” I snapped, and set off down the pavement after scanning the bodies. We should have stopped to search them, but I was too shaken to pause. I wanted a drink. “Come on.”

  CHAPTER 29

  I poured a full glass of brandy, handed it to the demon, and took a long pull off the bottle. It was good stuff, silken-smooth, igniting like a thunderball in my belly.

  Jace slugged a hit of vodka. Eddie cursed as Gabe swabbed at his arm with peroxin. I waited a few moments, exhaled, took another pull from the bottle, my other hand white-knuckled on my sword. My bloody sleeve flopped.

  “Careful with that, Danny,” Jace said. “I need you sober.”

  “Fuck you,” I said. “Why does the Corvin Family want me, Jace? What aren’t you telling me?” You swore you were free and clear of the Mob when you met me, and I believed you. Silly me.

  He shrugged. “Don’t worry about the Corvins, sweetheart. I’ll take them down if they so much as touch you.”

  “You still work for them, don’t you, Jace? That’s why you didn’t want to talk about it. Once Mob, always Mob. You can’t take them down.”

  Jace’s face was bloodless under a mask of sweat, grime, and a spatter of blood high on his left cheek. “I bought myself free of the Corvins, Danny. They don’t own me.” He took another slug of vodka, smacked the shotglass down on the counter. The sharp sound crackled in tense air.

  I took another hit off the bottle, turned to look at the demon. “Jaf?”

  He shrugged, too. Goddamn shrugging men.

  He’s not a man, he’s a demon. The thought struck me with almost physical force. I stopped, staring at him. When had I started thinking about him as if he was human? That didn’t bode well. I tipped the bottle up to my lips again, but Japhrimel set his untouched glass down on the bar and took the bottle from me, his fingers hot against mine. “No, Dante,” he said softly. “Please. I will not allow you to be harmed.”

  Well, that’s comforting, I thought. And oddly enough, it was. “Okay,” I answered, letting go of the bottle. The brandy settled into a warm glow behind my breastbone. “So the Corvins want me alive. What the fuck for? And—” A horrible thought struck me just as I finished turning to face Japhrimel.

  He set the bottle down beside his glass, watching my face. “Dante?”

  I stood stock-still, frozen, my entire body gone cold. Abra told me Jace is working for the Corvins . . . The Corvins want me alive, and they’re paying so much . . . someone else is leaning on them, someone big . . . Jace and the Corvins. He’s one of them. Once Mob, always Mob.

  “Danny?” Gabe must have caught my sudden stillness, because she was staring at me, too, her dark eyes wide. “Danny?”

  I swallowed. “I’ve got to go up to my room,” I said, hearing the queer breathlessness in my voice. I sounded like a young girl viciously embarrassed at her first party. “Excuse me.”

  I was halfway to the door before Japhrimel fell into step beside me. He said nothing.

  “Danny, what’s wrong?” Gabe called. “Danny!”

  I found the grand wide staircase and started to climb, the premonition beating under my skin. Premonition—and shock. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

  But he betrayed me once, didn’t he? Left without a word—what do you want to bet he was called down here by the Corvins and that’s why he left? Abra warned me . . . she knew. And now he’s so willing to help . . . so very hospitable, stay in my house, it’s safer there, he said he bought himself free of the Corvins but I know the Mob, you never get free. Even if he bought something from them, they can squeeze him until he hands over an ex-girlfriend, can’t they?

  My brain shied away from the cold, logical conclusion. I didn’t want to believe it.

  The demon stepped behind me, soundless, his musky aura closing me in, a shielding I ignored because I didn’t have time or concentration to spare to shake it aside. He only touched me once, a subtle push on my blood-crusted shoulder when I almost got lost in the hallways. When we reached the blue room, I shoved the door open and bolted inside, trembling. Stopped.

  The room, instead of blue, was now white. Heavy fragrance drenched the air.

  Flowers. White flowers. Lotuses, roses, lilies, scattered over the room as if a snowstorm had dropped its blossoms. Gooseflesh raced up my arm, spilled down my back; my teeth chattered and my nipples drew up hard as pebbles. The flowers lay on every flat surface, even the floor, the smell was stifling, heady, and cloying. They piled on the bed, fluttered near the window, and I could see the bathroom was full of them, too.

  Santino had sent blue flowers to Doreen. Great sprays and cascades of flowers in every shade of blue. I still couldn’t look at irises or blue roses or cornflowers without shuddering.

  “Dante?” Japhrimel definitely sounded alarmed now. He closed the door, then stepped aside, his long coat brushing his legs with a soft sound. “My shields are intact; only the house servants could have—”

  “They were probably delivered and brought up by the staff.” I sounded like I’d been punched in the stomach. “Look, I need to change. And pack my bag.” I flattened my free hand against the door to brace myself. “Can you get me out of here without Jace’s shields reacting?”

  “Of course,” he said, lifting one shoulder and dropping it. All things should be so easy, that shrug said. “What is this?” he asked. “Did your former lover perhaps—”

  “Santino sent all his victims flowers,” I said numbly.

  The demon stilled, his eyes turning incandescent.

  “He knows,” I continued. “He knows I’m here, and looking for him. And I’m a Necromance. He’s picked me as his next victim.”

  “Dante—”

  “That means I won’t have to worry about finding him,” I said. “He’ll find me.” I laughed, but the sound was gaspy, panicky. The world roared underneath me, spinning carelessly away, almost like a slicboard but my feet slipping, slipping—

  “Dante.” He had me by the shoulders. “Stop. Breathe. Just breathe.” His fingers bit in, and he shook me slightly. My teeth clicked together. I tasted apples, and the sour smell of my own fear.

  A whooping breath tore between my lips. My left shoulder gave a livid crunching flare of pain, shocking me back into myself. I found myself shaking, my hands trembling, the demon’s chin resting atop my head, his smell enfolding me. His arms closed around me, the feverish heat of Hell flooding my entire body. I was sneakingly grateful for it—I was cold, so cold my jaw clenched, my teeth chattered, and goosebumps rose everywhere. He had my sword—had I dropped it or had he just taken it from my numb fingers? That was three times he’d taken my blade. Was I really getting sloppy? When I was younger, I never would have dropped my blade.

  “Breathe,” he murmured into my hair. “Simply breathe. I am with you, Dante. Breathe.”

  I rested my forehead against the oddly soft material of his coat, filled my lungs with the musk smell of demon. Alien. It steadied me. The lunatic urge to sob retreated.

  “Calm,” the demon said. “Steady, Dante. Breathe.”

  “I’m okay,” I managed. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Very well.” But he didn’t move, and neither did I.

  “We have to find a place to stay,” I said, “and I have to . . . I have to . . .”

  “Leave it to me,” he answered quietly.

  “I’ve got to pack.” I sounded steadier now. “Anubis et’her ka. Se ta’uk’fhet sa te vapu kuraph.” The familiar invocation bolstered me.

  He didn’t move until I did. I rocked back on my heels and he let me go, his arms sliding free. His face was blank, set, his eyes burning holes. The mark on my shoulder throbbed insistently. He held my sword up, silently, and I took it from his hand.
“Thanks.” I was shaky, but myself again.

  Japhrimel nodded, watching me. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he examined my face as if the Nine Canons were written there. Heat, a purely human heat, rose to my cheeks. “It is my honor,” he said quietly. “I swear to you on the waters of Lethe, Dante Valentine, I will allow no harm to come to you.”

  “Santino—” I began.

  A swift snarl crossed his face. I flinched.

  “We will find a way to kill him, you and I. Pack your bag, Dante. If you are determined to leave this place, let us go quickly.” He sounded utterly calm, the kind of calm that could draw a razor through flesh with only a slight smile.

  “Sounds like a good idea,” I managed. The flowers stirred. More thunder rumbled above the city, and a slight cool breeze stole in through the open window, ruffling petals, swirling the cloying stench of dying blooms against my face. I swayed in place. Japhrimel reached out, his golden fingers resting against my cheek for a moment. The touch made my entire body glow with heat. “Japhrimel—”

  “Dante,” he replied, his glowing eyes holding mine. “Hurry.”

  I did.

  CHAPTER 30

  The bodega was deep in the stinking well of Nuevo Rio, a small storefront marked with the universal symbols of Power: signs from the Nine Canons spray-painted on the front step, a display window showing small mummified crocodiles nestled among grisgris bags and bottles of different holy waters, lit novenas crowding on the step, each keyed to a shimmer of Power. The smell of incense from the fuming sticks placed near the door threatened to give me a headache, along with the breathless sense of storm approaching that hung over the city. I adjusted the strap over my shoulder, then rubbed at my dry, aching eyes. Japhrimel leaned on the counter, bargaining with the babalawao in fluent Portogueso. The woman had liquid dark eyes and a Shaman’s thorn-spiked cruciform tattoo on her cheek; the cross shape and thorns told me she was an Eclectic Shaman—rare here in Rio for a native to be an Eclectic. She eyed me with a great deal of interest, stroking her staff at the same time. The staff thrummed with Power, as did her tiny bodega, and I counted myself lucky that I didn’t have to fight her. She was tall, and moved with a quick ferret grace that warned me she was very dangerous indeed.