Working for the Devil

by Lilith Saintcrow

  A deep racking cough shook me. I wiped at my face with bladed hands—my hands weren’t even my own anymore. But they would do what I asked them to do. I finally raised my head to find Jace watching me. He didn’t look nervous, but the set of his shoulders told me he was tense.

  “I need some clothes,” I said huskily.

  “You got it,” Jace said. “Anything you need, baby.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Gabe examined my face. “Hades,” she breathed, then handed me my sword.

  I took it, cautiously. But no blue fire bloomed on the blade, and it didn’t hurt me.

  I glanced at Japhrimel, who stood expressionless by the window. Darkness pressed against the glass, the sound of rain tapering off. I wondered if the city was still burning. “Blessed weapons won’t react to you,” he said quietly. “Ease your mind, Dante. Your blade is still your own.”

  I looked at the curved length of steel, closed my eyes, and thought of Santino. Opened my eyes.

  Blue ran weakly along the slight curve of the blade. Anubis, I prayed, I beg of You, answer me. I let out a shaky breath. Felt my tattoo shift on my cheek, the emerald sparking. Relief burst inside me. It still worked. And if my blade was still blessed, I was still one of the god’s own chosen.

  “Well,” Gabe said. She wore her long black police-issue coat, a plasgun holstered under her left arm. I couldn’t see her sword. She put her fists on her hips. “Damn. Better than an augment, I guess.”

  It was her attempt at humor, and it failed miserably. I was still grateful for it, though. “And so cheap,” I said, my own failed attempt at levity.

  Silence stretched inside the wrecked bedroom, a thin humming silence. The bed was reduced to matchsticks and springs and strips of material, the chairs splintered. The curtains were torn, and there were a few impact-marks on the walls. I took this all in.

  “Sorry about the room, Jace,” I finally said, not meeting his eyes. My voice was indeed ruined, husky but still perfect. I sounded like a vidsex queen.

  “It’s okay.” He leaned against the door to the hall. His staff leaned next to him, the bones moving uneasily in the charged air, clacking against each other. “I wanted to redo it anyway.”

  Eddie, his arms folded, hulked behind Gabe, stealing furtive looks at me and then at Japhrimel, who looked just as he always had—except for the dark rings around his glittering eyes. He looked tired and somehow more human than I’d ever seen him. I felt his unwavering attention, his back to the window but his entire body focused on me.

  “Where are we at?” I asked, and didn’t dare look Gabe in the eyes. I didn’t think I could stand to meet her worried dark gaze.

  She cleared her throat. “I’ve managed to get a nice stockpile of munitions. Eddie can have three golem’ai ready for Manifest in two days. And he’s put together eighteen firestarters. Forty-eight hours, and we’re as ready as we can be.” She looked at Jace.

  “I’ve got Mob Circle passports for all of us,” he said quietly. “And my second is already handing out the weapons. We’ve declared war on the Corvins, they just don’t know it yet. Funny thing is, there aren’t any of the Inner Circle left in the city. They’ve vanished, probably gone with Sarg—um, Santino. I’ve given the orders to take out their holdings. As for us, we’ve got supplies, and world-class transport. I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

  “You’re staying here,” I said. “You’ve got to coordinate—”

  “I’m going with you,” Jace disagreed mildly. “If you don’t like it, tough. I’ve got my own score to settle with Sargon Corvin. Or whoever the hell he is.”

  I looked at him, my fingers tightening on the hilt. Gabe stepped back. Eddie slid his arms around her, and they stood, watching me.

  A kind of black fury welled up behind my breastbone. I swallowed, looking down at my sword. Blue light glittered along the ringing blade. “Get me a map,” I said, finally. “Let’s see if I can track Doreen’s blood. If I can’t, we still have Dake’s tracker. We can hope Santino hasn’t set up countermeasures.”

  I felt rather than heard Gabe’s sigh of relief. Jace nodded, took his staff, and left the room. Gabe followed, pulling Eddie by the hand. The Skinlin sidled past me. Gabe paused at the door.

  “Danny?” she said.

  “Hm?” I steeled myself, looking at the glitter of blue fire along the steel. Power. The changes had settled into me, and I felt the same humming force that lay over Japhrimel flooding me. So much Power—I didn’t even need the city’s well of energy now. My brain shuddered away from the implications. I could tear this whole damn house apart.

  “You’re still my friend,” she said, firmly. “No matter what you are, you’re still my friend.”

  Startled, I half-turned to look at the door, but she was gone, dragging Eddie after her.

  That left me alone with Japhrimel.

  He studied me across the burning air. Finally he moved slightly, clasping his hands behind his back. “I am not sorry,” he said.

  “Of course not,” I said. “You’re a demon.”

  “A’nankimel. Not demon. Fallen.” His eyes did what his hands didn’t, touched my face, roamed over me. “I will not give you up, Dante.”

  “I don’t belong to you,” I flared.

  “No,” he agreed. “You do not.”

  I swallowed dryly. “Why? Why did you do this?”

  “If you were merely human, Vardimal might kill you.” Japhrimel cocked his head to the side. “Now you are neither human nor demon. Neither man nor demon may kill him, that was the immunity given to him by the Prince in return for his services.”

  That brought up another question. “What’s Lucifer going to think of this?”

  For a long moment, Japhrimel examined me. Then one corner of his mouth quirked slightly up. The slight smile made my heart pound. “Ask me if I care.”

  “Do you care?” My breath caught on the last word.

  “No.”

  Well, that about summed everything up. Except one thing.

  I stepped around a pile of splinters that had once been a chair. Approached him cautiously, my boots grinding against the plaster dust and small bits of wreckage on the floor. I held my katana to the side and stopped less than a foot from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. His eyes held mine, but he didn’t move.

  “Did you mean any of it?” I asked him. “What you said?”

  He nodded. “Of course, Dante. Every word.”

  His eyes glittered feverishly, and a faint, almost-human flush crept up his cheeks.

  I believed him. Gods help me, but I believed him.

  “You’re going to have to tell me what all this means and what exactly I am now,” I said finally. “After I kill Santino.” There’s a whole lot about my life that I’m going to sort out once that motherfucker’s dead. The thought was welcome—it sounded like me. At least I sounded like myself inside my own head.

  “When he is dead, I will explain everything,” Japhrimel agreed. “My apologies, Dante. But I am not sorry.”

  I licked my dry lips. “Neither am I,” I said harshly. He deserved the truth. “I . . . I just . . . it’s a shock, that’s all.” It took more courage than I thought it would, but I reached up and rested my fingertips on his cheek. “I never thought I’d even consider dating a demon.” I was still searching for levity and failing miserably.

  His shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch. We stood there for a few moments before I took my hand away, and his green gaze met mine. His eyes seemed strangely dark now.

  “Now come on,” I said. “We’ve got a demon to kill, and the Egg to get back, and Doreen’s little girl to save. We’ll do some planning.”

  CHAPTER 44

  They ate dinner in the ornate dining room while I examined the map and checked my gear. I’d lost my scabbard, but Jace had an antique katana hanging on his study wall, so I took its scabbard. It was better than nothing.

  We weren’t anywhere near ready yet, but
I felt a whole lot better about the deal.

  I settled cross-legged in front of the fireplace, the chill of climate control playing over my face, staring at the map. It unrolled in front of me, Hegemony territories in blue, Freetowns in red, Putchkin in purple, and the wastelands where nobody lived in white. There was precious little white—mostly around the poles and one spot in Hegemony territory, the Vegas Waste where the first and only nuclear bomb of the Seventy Day War had dropped.

  Why do all these rooms have fireplaces? I thought. It’s Nuevo Rio, it never gets cold here.

  Gabe and Eddie held a fierce whispered conference, silverware clinking against plates. Jace said nothing, staring at his plate as if it held the secrets of the universe. Japhrimel stood by the French doors leading out into the courtyard-garden, slim and dark and utterly impenetrable.

  I held my hand over the map, trying to feel anything. Nothing. Nothing at all.

  I sighed. Then I drew one of my main knives out of my coat.

  Silence fell.

  I set the blade against my hand.

  “Dante?” Japhrimel’s tone was cool, but the snarl below his voice warned me.

  “Calm down,” I said. “Easy. Blood’s what I’m tracking, let me work.”

  He said nothing else, but I felt the weight of his eyes on me.

  I drew the blade against my palm, willing the blood to come out. The new golden skin was a lot tougher than human skin; I almost had to force my flesh open. A thin line of smoky-black blood welled up.

  My breath hissed out between my teeth. The slash began to close almost immediately.

  I closed my eyes and my hand, slippery hot blood burning in my palm. Held my hand over the map.

  “Doreen,” I whispered. Doreen.

  I had found her while on the Brewster job, the one that had made my reputation as a hunter, not just a Necromance. I’d taken the contract and tracked down Michael Brewster, psychopath and serial killer; brought him back from the Freetowns to the Hegemony justice system, getting shot at, knifed, almost gang-raped by a Circle of Magi, and nearly burned alive in the process. It had been Doreen’s distraction at the warehouse that had bought me enough time to escape the Magi and go to ground, and I’d hunted Brewster down with increasing panic after that. The day after he was processed into lockdown, I flew back on the red-eye hover transport and sprung her from that whorehouse in Old Singapore, using most of the bounty credit to pay off her tag fee and threatening the pimp into letting her go.

  She’d been in bad shape. I guess that when the rogue Circle couldn’t have me, they went for her. One psion almost as good as another, and a sedayeen couldn’t even fight back like I would have. Might have, if I hadn’t been spell-tied and chained.

  Who was I kidding? I knew I wouldn’t have been able to escape that without her help. Leaving her there was a shoddy fucking way to repay her for that, but I’d had no choice.

  It had taken a long time for either of us to get any real sleep after I brought her to Saint City—she would scream in the dark for months, nightmares torturing her until I woke her up. My bare skin on hers, her mouth meeting mine, our hair tangled together in the safety of my bed.

  You saved my life, she would often say, I owe you, Danny.

  And I’d always reply, You saved mine too, Reena. I wouldn’t have survived that job without her. Or the years that followed, while I learned how to work the mercenary field and started tracking down criminals. The house I bought with the bounties became our house: she had always wanted a garden and after Rigger Hall I had wanted a space all my own. As a Necromance I needed space and quiet, the house was the only piece of Doreen I had left.

  And Doreen had given me the greatest gift of all: she had taught me how to live again.

  Her pale hair, cut short and sleek; her dark-blue eyes. She’d worked in a Free Clinic in the Tank District and also patched up mercenaries and psis when they played too rough. Quiet and serene, her mouth always tilted into a smile, her eyes always merry. The Saint City psionic population closed around her like a protective wall. Psionic healers—sedayeen—were pacifists to a fault, they couldn’t stand to hurt anyone. The pain they inflicted would rebound on them. They were helpless. So we all watched out for her—but it had done no good.

  The flowers, blue flowers. I knew now that they were Santino’s gift to the “mothers of the future,” but back then, all I had known was the threat to Doreen’s life.

  And Gabe had been the only cop who believed me about the danger Doreen was in.

  I had moved Doreen from safehouse to safehouse, but the flowers always found her. Gabe and I had taken turns standing guard, frantically trying to dig up the murderer who seemed intent on stalking her. Once we blew his human cover—once we knew it was Modeus Santino we were looking for and his company was seized—he went underground, and we had a week of breathing room before the flowers showed up again and the last desperate endgame started. Always one bare step ahead, moving her around, hiding first in one part of the city, then another—

  —and Santino had probably known all the time, I realized. Had probably simply played cat-and-mouse with us, allowing us to spirit her away, drawing out the final coup, finally moving in for the kill—his “samples”—in that warehouse. Gabe had been called away on another case, Eddie had gone for supplies, and it was only me and Doreen, hiding in a shattered hulk of a pre-Hegemony building.

  Slippery blood in my palm. I felt the Power take shape.

  My cheek ignited, the emerald singing a faint thin crystal note. I reached into that place I had not touched since her death, the place inside me where her gentle presence had gone.

  —Slight sound, scraping, a high thin giggle in the dark. Doreen whirled, her pale hair ruffling out. I leapt to my feet, sword ringing free of the sheath, spitting blue fire. I shoved her and she fell, scraping both palms and crying out thinly. Rumbling sound—the freight hovers, rushing past the warehouse; here in the shattered part of town they ran a lot closer to the ground.

  Explosions. No—projectile fire. And the whine of plasbolts. I tracked the sounds—one gunman, firing at us both. No—Doreen was trying to get up, but he was firing at me, he wanted her alive. I pushed her toward the exit.

  “Get down, Doreen. Get down!”

  Crash of thunder. Moving, desperately, scrabbling . . . fingers scraping against the concrete, rolling to my feet, dodging the whine of bullets and plasbolts. Skidding to a stop just as he rose out of the dark, the razor and his claws glittering in one hand, his little black bag in the other.

  “Game over,” he giggled, and the awful tearing in my side turned to a burning numbness as he slashed; I threw myself backward, not fast enough, not fast enough.

  “Danny!” Doreen’s despairing scream.

  “Get out!” I screamed, but she was coming back, hands glowing blue-white, still trying to heal.

  Trying to reach me, to heal me, the link between us resonating with my pain and her burning hands—

  Made it to my feet, screaming at her to get the fuck out, Santino’s claws whooshing again as he tore into me, one claw sticking on a rib, my sword ringing as I slashed at him, too slow, I was too slow.

  Falling again. Something rising in me—a cold agonizing chill. Doreen’s hands clamped against my arm. Warm exploding wetness. So much blood. So much.

  Her Power roared through me, and I felt the spark of life in her dim. She held on, grimly, as Santino made little snuffling, chortling sounds of glee. The whine of a lasecutter as he took part of her femur, the slight pumping sound of the bloodvac. Blood dripped in my eyes, splattered against my cheek. Sirens—Doreen’s death would register on her datband, and aid hovers would be dispatched. Too late though. Too late for both of us.

  I passed out, hearing the wet smacking sounds as Santino took what he wanted, giggling that high-pitched strange chortle of his. His face burned itself into my memory—black teardrops over the eyes, pointed ears, the sharp ivory fangs. Not human, I thought, he can’t be human, Doreen, Doreen
, get away, run, run—

  Her soul, carried like a candle down a long dark hall, guttering. Guttering. Spark shrinking into infinity. I was a Necromance, but I couldn’t stop her rushing into Death’s arms . . .

  I came back to myself with a jolt. Tears slicked my cheeks. Japhrimel knelt on the other side of the map, his fingers clamped around my wrist. My finger rested on the map, far south of Nuevo Rio, in the middle of a field of white and the paler non-Hegemony blue of ocean.

  An island in the middle of a cold sea. Almost in Antarctica. The last place anyone would look for a demon.

  “That’s where he is,” I said, husky, my voice making the map flutter against the floor, held down by my finger. “Right there.”

  Japhrimel nodded. “Then that is where we will go,” he said. “Dante?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, wiping at my cheeks with my free hand. “Let go.”

  He did, one finger at a time. I looked over at the table.

  Gabe’s fork paused in midair. She watched me, her pretty face pale, her emerald flashing as the tat shifted against her cheek. Eddie stood, his chair flat on the floor as if he’d tipped it over. Jace had pushed his plate away and was staring at me, blue eyes wide, fever spots of color high in each pale cheek.

  “Finish your dinner,” I said. I sounded like Japhrimel, the same flat voice, loaded with a full-scale plasgun charge of Power. “Then get some rest. We’ve got work to do soon.”

  CHAPTER 45

  The house slept.

  Gabe and Eddie were asleep, and Jace had finally stumbled off to bed, rubbing his eyes. They would need their rest.

  I didn’t want to sleep. Instead, I walked slowly through the empty halls of Jace’s mansion, my footsteps echoing. I didn’t know where I was headed until the front door loomed up ahead of me, and I put my hand flat against it. The Power contained in Jace’s walls resonated, slightly uneasy, and I calmed it as I would a rattling slicboard.

  “Where would you go?” Japhrimel asked in my ear, appearing out of the darkness with only a sigh.