Once You Go Demon (Pure Souls)

by Killian McRae

  “Things?”

  She nodded, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Things.”

  “Oh, things … Yeah, Ramiel’s going to come as soon as I summon him. He knows how to do the sanction charm, but he says he needs all three of us here for it to work.”

  “Good thing your sister knew about that little clause in the Hell-Heaven Accords. ‘One earthly sanctuary where the other may not tread,’” she quoted authoritatively and, frankly, with a bit of jest.

  “Yeah, having affluent and knowledgeable relatives does come in handy from time to time.” Offering her a hand, Dee pulled her up, watching intently as she tested her weight on her feet. “Steph says it’s been a while since any Pure Souls actually made use of it. Ramiel said the charm has to be activated by elites. One of the archangels on our side, and I guess a fallen angel on their side.”

  “The Devil? But Lucifer’s banished.”

  Dee passed her a ‘did you pay any attention in school’ glare. “There are other fallen angels besides the grand divo. Hell has its own archangels, the Grigori. They’re more behind-the-scenes than our side. Lucifer’s kind of like their public face, is all. Anyways, the angel that performs the sanctuary charm has got to have magical acumen like a boss to handle it. Even Ramiel said he had to brush up on the incantation.”

  “Any way the charm can keep Jerry out, too?”

  Dee coughed a laugh. “Believe me, I’m not exactly happy with it either. I wish there was a better way to keep tabs on a centuries-old-demon-turned-Pure-Soul than asking him to move in. Honestly, though, I want to know where the bastard eats, sleeps, and suffers halitosis, dig?” He gave Riona a gentle push on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. He steps one arm hair out of line, and I’ll personally pound his flesh into paste. Now, go, get out of here. You need money? Have your coat?”

  Riona had already finished wrapping a purple suede bomber jacket around herself. “Yes, mom. And I’ll take my phone and call you if I think me and the other kids will be late.”

  In late November that formidable season called “Boston Winter,” AKA an affront to human survival, hadn’t yet come on in full. It was, however, standing outside the door with boxes of Chinese takeout and knocking insistently. The wind that smacked into Riona as she stepped out on to the brownstone’s stoop and started her way down the stairs ignored the fact that she wore clothing. It pierced through her cotton coverings and felt her up like she and Jack Frost had been dating for months and had decided to take things to the next level.

  Riona turned as a particularly harsh gust threw its arms around her. Whispering beneath her breath, she recited a warming charm that served her better than any frock she’d ever bought from London Fog. She side-stepped the movers crossing the street with the blue leather couch she recognized from Dee’s apartment. And right on top of it, like he was indeed the shit, Jerry Romani sat, beaming a smile that could light coal.

  “You know you could actually just kill the wind.”

  “I don’t screw with nature,” she growled back.

  He jumped down off the sofa just as it passed before her. The movers continued into the house, leaving them without an audience. “Luckily I’ll screw almost anything. Nature especially. Hava santas!”

  Like he was commanding an eager-to-please puppy, the wind listened and sat its ass down. Jerry radiated arrogance, obviously waiting to be thanked or held in awe, or even awarded with an actual puppy.

  “Did you know that I’m an awesome lip reader? It’s a skill you pick up quickly in Hell. In certain areas of damnation, it’s hard to hear what somebody’s saying over the screams of agony.”

  “Your point being?”

  “I read the warmth charm off those pink and lushies from twenty paces. If you’re having trouble staying warm …” He opened his arms invitingly.

  Riona only crossed her arms and cocked a hip. “I actually like a cool, autumn breeze.” With a wave of her hand, the draft picked up again, tussling her hair in its brisk fingers.

  The silent treatment came back on the docket. Jerry crossed his arms and grinned, as though he had just proven a point. “Don’t screw with nature, huh? I wonder if I could get you to change your mind on screwing anything else so simply.”

  On those rare occasions when the ex-demon managed to still his tongue for more than a nanosecond, the fact that the sexy sinner in front of her wasn’t actually the man she loved went to the back burner. If not for those azure orbs Jerry had imported along with his soul, she’d have been tempted to partake of the more than willing spirit currently occupying the discarded shell of the man she loved. Reality—usually in the form of one of Jerry’s ill-timed and tired pick-up routines—always brought her back to the here and “no” before she allowed herself to follow through on any of the warm-and-fuzzies. When he spoke, and instead of Marc’s sarcastic bite came Jerry’s shmultzy chit-chat, a big mental reset button got pushed.

  But when he was quiet, the results were even more annoying. Getting locked into Jerry’s peepers, into eyes which she had looked at once while he delivered her pleasure after mind-blowing pleasure, memories of a different sort surfaced. She dismissed the attraction and the longing for comfort, knowing anything they did together would only lead to complications and more heartache.

  Besides, the thought of sleeping with Jerry while he inhabited Marc’s body was more than just a little bit creepy.

  Jerry sighed. “You know, back in the good old days, women were all about the magic. All I had to do was make a chick’s favorite flower grow from a seed in my hand, and her toga fell off like gravity was taking revenge. You modern women perplex me. It’s like you expect me to do actual human things to impress you. Cook you dinner or buy you feminine products or something.” He interlaced and flexed his long, nimble fingers, sending off a wave of crackle and snap. “Not my usual cup of tea, but if that’s what it takes …”

  Her hands flew up in the air, making a clear path for her words. “Please, just stop. It’s pointless, okay? It ain’t going to happen between us, no matter how many chicken pot pies you make or tampons you buy.”

  Jerry’s hands sought out her wrists, pushing her out of her Tribute-to-Texas stance and pulling her hands to his lips. “You forget, though, how well I ‘cook.’”

  When he made to press his lips against her knuckles, she fisted both her hands and drove those knuckles right up in to his nostrils, sending him jumping back. “I’m not sure you’ll ‘cook’ nearly as well as before, being that you’re now trapped in someone else’s ‘kitchen.’”

  He rubbed his popped proboscis and grinned like a gleeful gremlin. “Oh, the witch makes a good point. Will I be as fantastical and legendary in this body as I was in my last? How much was skill, and how much was sculpture? I think you’d find, dear heart, that the difference of the journey is just as much the captain charting the course as the ship that takes you there. Not to mention the whole prophecy thing. If we’re meant to be together, you won’t have a choice, will you?”

  “As long as I’m human, I have free will. And if you keep pursuing me like this, it’s going to be my free will to shove my Irish fist down your throat until I can tickle your rectum with my pinky.”

  His eyebrows arched. “Kinky.”

  With a roll of her eyes and a huff that would have made the Big Bad Wolf proud, Riona turned on her heel and marched away.

  Chapter 3

  The distance from the last pew in the chapel to the door totaled twenty-three steps. Riona had managed, on each of her previous visits to St. Stephen’s, to make each one of those required steps following mass before interacting with any other patrons became unavoidable. Today, however, her mind wandered. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the kindly, senior priest in charge of afternoon masses roused her from her reverie, looking at her with a hint of amusement.

  She shied her eyes away and sat up on the pew. “I’m sorry. I must have drifted off.”

  He took a seat beside her, motioning for her to stay. “My sermo
ns often have that effect. There’s no rush. Besides, I’ve been hoping to talk with you.”

  Riona pointed at herself while confusion filled her features.

  “Do you believe in signs, Miss …?”

  “Dade.” Riona held her hand out to him. His skin was both rough and soft, and felt familial in hers. “Riona.”

  He laid his hand over his chest. “I’m Father Philips, and I’m supposed to give you a message.”

  Great. Another one of Ramiel’s planted miraculous messages from the Lord. The good thing about archangels was that they couldn’t lie. They could dance the soulja boy around the truth, avoid it like a prostate exam when desired, but if you hit them up with a straight yes-or-no question, they couldn’t lie. Oh, they could choose silence, but the last time Ramiel had laid off his tongue, dinosaurs still roamed the Earth and Larry King had just started shaving. So when she flat-out accused the angel of arranging for a series of “divinely inspired” interventions to halt her mourning, he didn’t deny it. But how had he known she’d been coming to this church specifically?

  Oh, well, at least he was thorough.

  “Yeah, the good word and the good book, and how I’ll be saved if I just believe in Him and let go of my sadness and all that.” Her sarcasm was set to automatic. “I know. Like, on an almost first-hand experience level. You can save the spiel for some other soul.”

  The priest laughed.

  “Oh, Father. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just dealing with a lot these days.”

  “It’s okay. I was told you’d be as likely to tell me to go to Hell as to hear me out.”

  So Ramiel did know her pretty well after all. “Really? And who told you this?”

  He looked to the air, as though grasping for an answer. “You know, I don’t know his name. But he told me all about you. This may surprise you, Miss Dade, but we don’t get many young people wandering in here these days. He told me to look out for a woman of about thirty with hair red as the sunset and an attitude that would frighten off a raging bull. You … you don’t seem surprised about me saying all of this.”

  She stifled a laugh. “You don’t seem surprised that I’m not surprised. So we can forgo all pretense. What were you told to tell me?”

  “’You are worthy of the scroll.’” He looked just as confused as she was at that. “Also, I’m supposed to tell you that this isn’t where you’ll find peace. I have to admit, Miss Dade, I have a hint about what the first part means. However, I don’t take kindly to random ‘men’ coming in to my office and telling me to drive a newcomer to my church out on to the street, telling her to never come back for the sake of all humanity. But let’s just say this young man was very convincing.”

  “Yeah, he can be like that sometimes.” She smiled, remembering how Ramiel had pinned her to the floor and held her hands over her head, like a tormenting big brother, until she had agreed to move to the caelestes portus, the safe house. Why that same conceited, determined prick didn’t just come to her directly with this 411 was more than a little curious, but angels and common sense didn’t grab coffee too much. “I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

  “Heavens, no. Just threatened to toast my toes over Hellfire if I didn’t give you this.” Reaching into the inside of his jacket, Father Philips fished about. His hand withdrew a fist-sized book bound in white leather, with gold lettering stamped across the front. “Now, mind you, in my profession, I’ve become accustomed to looking for messages from the Lord in every nook, cranny, and metaphor. When the message was relayed to me and urgency was expressed that I should write it down, the only thing within reach was that copy of the New Testament. I hope I didn’t desecrate your message with my Bic.”

  “It would have to be written in blood to have any effect,” she explained. Oh, the random trivial things she now knew about curses, charms, and wicca … Opening the Bible, she examined the handwritten text inscribed inside the cover. “Any idea what this is?”

  He feigned surprised that she would even ask.

  “Ah, I see. Thou shalt not Google thy message from thy Lord.”

  Father Philips shifted about on the pew, raising his hand to his collar and straightening it out. “It appears to be an address for The Center for Divinity in the Action of Now.” Under his breath, and with the flash of an eye roll, he added, “Hippies.”

  “That Buddhist Meditation place where they tell you to kiss donkeys and smile at bullfrogs?” She shared in his confusion, until she leant it a bit of thought. Riona may have left behind her time as an atheist; she knew intimately now that there was divinity in the world. However, outside the Abrahamic faiths—Marc had taught her the fancy word that referred to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—she hadn’t paused to think about other religions. Why shouldn’t Buddhist doctrine have just as much truth as the others?

  Or, maybe Ramiel had decided that if the church didn’t have anything that flattered her figure, she could try on a different dress at another shop around the corner?

  Father Philips stood, but leaned against the edge of the pew. “Miss Dade, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. I hope you know that you’re always welcomed here, no matter what. Just because we don’t drink of the same stream doesn’t mean we can’t find nourishment in each other’s water.”

  Coming out of any other man, she’d had thought it an obtuse suggestion of oral sex. From this kindly man of the cloth, however, Riona found herself feeling a sense of welcome that had alluded her for quite some time. Perhaps that was why, on her way out the door, she noted the time of mass on Saturday.

  Chapter 4

  He had been drawn to this particular empty cell for a while, and Lucifer half-suspected that he knew why. FedEx didn’t have overnight to Hell, but Big Boss had ways of getting his messages down under when the mood struck him.

  A six-by-eight postcard, with much too perfect writing elegantly looped on the backside, sat in the middle of the rocky floor. The glossy image on the front showcased so much cheesy Americana, a lactose-intolerant man would have been bent over, tossing his Thin Mints. Block letters spelled out BEANTOWN, the interior of each filled with a cartoonish vignette of one of Boston’s many tourist traps. It did not escape notice that the Old North Church’s colors caught the eyes as just a bit brighter than the ones surrounding it. The feature was a signature as good as anything that could be etched with a quill.

  “Sire?”

  Lucifer did not turn away from the missive to take in Hermosa’s face. Like all of his reclaimed souls, the Devil knew his minions by their every feature, voice included.

  “What do you want?”

  Hermosa’s hellshell bubbled with putrid ooze in its underworld manifestation. Never again would he have the chance to lope the earthly plane; the fricking Keystone Witch had guaranteed that. Despite a presentation for which any Hollywood FX artist would have won an Oscar, the demon looked uptight in his terror.

  “This was his cell, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  Hermosa examined the box with bars, barely big enough for a demon to turn a circle. After a few moments, Hermosa shrank back as though the space had developed a hacking cough.

  “Oh, minions be damned!” Lucifer’s eyes milled. “What the deuces are you afraid of?”

  “It’s just … No one knows, sire. No. One. Knows. There’s few surprises in Hell, and this …”

  Normally being sentenced to Hell was as bad as things could get for an expired mortal. One fate, however, even demons dreaded: having one’s entire soul obliterated and their existence wiped out by the Almighty. Despite the Devil’s not insignificant powers, only Big Boss could pull off the routine. Though He had rarely been known to flex it, even Lucifer had to wonder if that’s what had happened to Jerry Romani. After all, there had never been a mortal soul that had found a way to escape Hell under his management, and no one who traipsed along the River Styx had reported running across the traitor demon in any reaches of the Underworld.

  If Big Boss had wiped o
ut the demon, Lucifer didn’t really give a … Well, damn. True, he would have given the defector a new appreciation for the word “torture,” but knowing the sot’s soul had been evaporated would have also suited him just fine. If he knew that’s what had happened.

  Hermosa tried to return to his errand. “You asked to be notified when Marcello Angeletti’s soul was about to go on the stove. Well, it’s going.”

  Lucifer’s chin bobbed. “Good, good. How long are we firing souls these days before they come to me for embodiment?”

  “Um, after the twenty days of aging, we cook them for thirty-eight days.”

  He flexed his free hand, counting out silently on his fingertips. When he reached the end of his calculation, his smile stretched. “Oh, that’s really too perfect. Too, too perfect.”

  “Sire?”

  Lucifer pounded the postcard in to Hermosa’s chest. “Read it.”

  After a few silent moments during which only the demon’s mouth flapped but no noise emerged, Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Out loud, you dimwit.”

  “Oh, um … ‘As far as I’m concerned, Gaius’s internship went splendidly, don’t you think?’” He flipped it over and examined the front. “Greetings from Boston? Sire, do you mean to say that Gauis is going to be …”

  “My successor?” Lucifer examined Hermosa’s confused expression. “Not if I have anything to do with it. Unfortunately, my father has one advantage I don’t. He knows how everything turns out in the end. Time doesn’t exist for Him. I think that,” he pointed vaguely at the postcard, “is one of his fucked up omens, a self-serving outlet of his so-called kindheartedness.”

  “Huh?”

  “Hermosa, how long were you topside as one of my minions?”

  The demon scratched the side of his corpuscle-laden head. Where hair should have grown, only a scant smattering of bristles breached flesh that was as purple as it was rotten. “Let’s see. I knocked myself off in aught-six, after my wife ran off with that carny. About … a century, then?”