by C. T. Phipps
Marissa responded by giving me another kiss and pulling me down onto the bed.
An Excerpt from To Beat the Devil by M. K. Gibson - On Sale Now
Chapter One
I was being followed by at least three demons. From the footfalls I guessed they had something else with them. Something big.
Shit.
I continued walking at a steady pace, trying not to let on that I was aware of the tail. Puddles of rainwater and piss splashed under my boots as I made my way through the night. Garbage littered the cheap side docks of Razor Bay. The garbage reek of the slums made it harder to separate the various smells. Walking made it worse. Stopping, I leaned against an old black steel rail overlooking the bay. I fumbled in my coat pockets for a smoke, lit up, and listened.
For the last couple minutes I had been altering my footsteps every few beats, intentionally aiming for puddles or stepping over trash. The footfalls mimicked mine, but just slightly out of time. Splashes and long pauses. Yeah, I was being followed.
Double shit.
I took a few drags of my smoke and stared off into what used to be old Baltimore’s Inner harbor, now a DMZ full of metal starlings and old sea mines left over from the wars. The Chesapeake isn’t what it used to be. But the ordnance and defenses serve a purpose. You can’t be too careful. Sometimes, the Lesser Deep Ones try to come up on shore. And the poor bastards who can’t afford to live further inland are always on guard. Trust me, a fast-moving tentacled bug beast from Lovecraft’s wet dreams is a great way to fuck up your day. But those are New Golgotha slums. Mostly just places to dump garbage while waiting to die. And the district of Razor Bay, the former Baltimore city and county, is one massive technological slum.
Hell, half the time we don’t even know who the local demon district lord is. Demon infighting ensures frequent assassination and ascension.
When I’m on a job, I usually take to the slums at night. It’s quiet. It’s dark. The streets are generally deserted, which lets me know when others are around. Sure, you get a few people who try and curry favor with the local bishop. But most poor people know to shut their mouths, stay indoors, look the other way, and never talk to the authorities. I heard a can clink against stone. Something was definitely out there coming my way.
Hmmm, am I becoming predictable? Did one of these dockside lowlifes sell me out? I looked around at the old, crumbling high-rise buildings. There were a few people closing their blinds and turning out lights just as I heard overt footfalls coming my way. Yeah. I got sold out. Eh, I can’t blame them.
I continued leaning on the railing and took a few more drags of my smoke. I closed my eyes, listened, breathed, and let my senses tell the story. Three sets of footfalls, one heavy and two lighter. And…a quadruped? I breathed in deep. Oh yeah, that stink isn’t from the slums or the harbor. That’s a kudja. A freaking hellhound. Triple shit. Oh, and that name isn’t a coincidence. Demons often inspire great writing. All you have to do is give up some of your soul.
Through the grimy gloom of dockside streetlights, I could see hellspawn coming my way. They were about fifty yards away and they didn’t seem to be in a rush. The tall one in back was the district’s local bishop and the enforcer of the district lord’s will. A bishop runs the district’s police force—well, what passes for one these days.
Shirtless, he wore an old gray raincoat and a black cloak of his office, complete with mantel, all cut in the demonic fashion to give freedom of movement for his wings. An inferium warblade sword hung by his side, which meant he was operating in official capacity and as an executioner. The Hell-wrought steel was necrotic to most living things and slightly radioactive. The best way to think of inferium was as purgatory plutonium.
The bishop’s hair hung long, lank, and black against his pureblood red skin and horns. Bishop Maz’Zael. The two smaller brown demons, hellion mutt mongrels, flanked the bishop. One hellion held the chains to the kudja, while the other held a flanged basalt mace. They all made their way toward me. I turned around with my back against the rail and watched them come.
“Evening.” I nodded toward them.
The group continued walking toward me—sauntering, actually. Seriously, they sauntered. Freaking demons. I already hated the cliché tough guy walk. But watching this group come at me almost made me laugh.
Demons and hellions learned most of their topside manner and pop culture from old human movies and TV. As they got closer, one of the hellions growled at me. The other grumbled, “Hey meat. Out late tonight?” His voice was high-pitched and grating.
“I got lost on my way to church.” I chuckled to myself. The bishop grinned a little while the hellions looked perplexed. Hellions, while good for muscle, were little more than demons’ inbred cousins. And you can’t fuck your cousin over and over and expect good things to come from it. They were barely more intelligent than the hellhound they had with them.
“Evening,” I repeated, nodding to the bishop directly, blatantly ignoring the hellions. They growled a little at the disrespect. I rolled my eyes.
“Evening,” he answered back. He stood a safe distance away, keeping the hellions in front of him. He was easily seven feet tall and the Hell Steel sword could make up the reach between us. But his body language said he was being “respectful.” His heartbeat was steady against the irregular rhythm of the lapping waves in the harbor behind me.
“You should know, good citizen, we have received reports of an unsavory type prowling the area. A possible smuggler. According to the reports, the individual in question frequents this route on an atypical basis.” The bishop crossed his arms and stood askance, staring me down.
Damn. I guess I have been getting predictable. It figures. After making this particular route to avoid moments like these for the last few years, I guess it was only a matter of time. And here I was thinking I was kicking back enough to the locals to keep me in their good graces.
The bishop’s goons were starting to salivate. They came here looking for pain and blood. They saw me as a lone human and an easy target. Good. Let’s see if we can have some fun with this.
“So, Bish, why would you bother a respectable citizen like me?” I said, continuing to lean against the railing. I took another puff of my smoke and slowly crossed my legs to look casual.
The bishop showed a mouthful of white pointed teeth. “The reports were of a human male, around six feet tall, buzzed hair, brown antique motorcycle jacket. Also, he appeared to be chain smoking.”
I raised my eyebrow at that last one, feigned surprise, and took another drag.
“Oh,” the bishop continued, “apparently he is a smart ass. You haven’t seen anyone matching that description this evening, have you?”
I shook my head “no” in response to the bishop’s question. Then I took my pack of smokes from my motorcycle jacket’s pocket, removed one deliberately, and lit it off the one I already had. I exhaled the smoke, rubbed my hand over the stubble of my buzzed hair, and flicked the old butt into the bay.
“Wow, they could tell that he was a smart ass from their window? Impressive. Maybe you should hire them, help with your police force and all,” I said to the bishop.
“Perhaps,” he said. He drew his sword and rested it point down. I could smell the venom of the weapon. “Will you submit to a search?”
“Nope,” I said. “I’m a good citizen in good standing. I pay my regular tithe to the order and my Lethality License is up to date.”
Yellow-eyed bastard didn’t seem to care. “Oh well.” He shrugged. The hellions were getting worked up. I could hear their heartbeats getting faster. They were on edge and just waiting for the signal. The hellions would charge in, letting the hellhound off its leash. I would have to be fast.
“Sic ‘em,” the bishop said.
I quickly drew my pistol and popped three bursts of plasma into the first hellion. Two to the chest, one to the head. The heat cauterized the wounds almost instantly. Only minimal blood sprayed. The second came in and he was
fast. Even holding back, I was much faster. I sidestepped, grabbed the hellion by the scruff, and bounced his skull off the metal railing. His skull cracked and his teeth broke. As an afterthought I heaved him into the harbor, launching him an easy fifteen yards.
In the few seconds it took me to deal with the two idiots, I had completely blanked on the hellhound. Over 300 pounds of leathery skin and teeth flanked me, driving me into the ground. The beast had a lock on my left forearm and was trying like hell to rip my arm off.
Good luck getting through this coat, asshole, I thought, as the beast was atop me. On both forearms I wore tech bracers of my own design. With a flick of my free arm, a wide collapsible eighteen-inch blade sprang out, and I drove it deep into the hellhound’s side between the ribs and twisted, gouging a deep, wide wound. The blade retracted and I reached into my coat pocket, found the antique pineapple grenade, thumbed the pin off, and shoved the explosive into the gaping wound.
My left tech bracer, which was wedged into the beast’s mouth, emitted an electric shock, and the hellhound roared, letting me go. I rolled away and balled up. Quickly I tapped a servo relay on my belt and the density of my coat turned from semi to max. The grenade went off in a muffled crump. I dialed back the coat and stood, dusting myself off. Hellhound guts painted the wet asphalt. Blood mingled with rain, and it all flowed into the harbor.
The bishop was about ten yards away, his sword still drawn. He looked me up and down. I stared back, dead in the eye.
“Bishop,” I said, “you are out of idiots.”
“There are always more.” He started swaying the tip of his sword in an intricate pattern.
I looked around and windows were open, but lights were off. Locals were watching, but they did not want to announce it. All right, let’s give them a show. I drew both pistols, dialed down the damage to a hard stun, and leveled them at the bishop.
“Your move, Sally,” I taunted him.
I began a slow circle to my left. The bishop held his sword in two hands, watching me and grinning. Quick as a viper, he lunged at me. I spun away and fired a quick succession of blasts at his back. The plasma discharge staggered him and set his cloak and coat on fire. He shrugged off the burned garments, freeing his leathery wings. The wings denoted his demon heritage, vastly more purebred than a simple hellion. His red skin and scales looked slick in the lamplight. Blue-white Denochian script tattoos stood out along his chest and arms, intricate and chaotic patterns that denoted his family lineage and battles won in Hell.
Probably Heaven as well.
The bishop looked every inch of a classic devil, from the protruding white bone accents along his body and horned head to his tail, reverse-jointed legs, and cloven hooves.
Adorable.
The bishop came at me in a flurry. Not mindless chopping, but controlled and practiced motions. While he had height and reach, I had speed and strength. He attacked rhythmically and I evaded. We continued this for several minutes and the bishop was beginning to lose his patience and get winded. His attacks were becoming wilder, more ferocious. I used my pistols to deflect the blade and fire off the occasional shot near his cloven feet, making him misstep and stumble. As much as I was starting to enjoy this little dance, I figured it was time to put it to an end.
I put my pistols back in their holsters and charged up my tech bracers. As the bishop lunged, I spun to one side and grabbed his sword at the hilt with one hand, wrapping my other arm around his arms at the elbows and locking him into place. Once the bracers reached full charge, I released his arms quickly. He brought his sword into an overhand chop and I slapped a palm against his chest. The bracers released an electro-pulse like a massive taser through my synth-skin glove. The bishop’s jaw locked open in a soundless scream. He went rigid and fell over. The body spasm caused him to drop his sword. I couldn’t help myself; I had to kick the weapon into the harbor. Blame it on the movies. I heard a few hoots and hollers of excitement from the dark windows surrounding us. The locals were enjoying seeing someone make a district’s bishop look foolish.
I actually stood, arms wide, and gloated for a moment. I turned to face the high-rise slums and loudly voiced in a bad Gladiator impersonation, “Are you not entertained?!”
That was when the bishop got up and shoulder tackled me from behind into the nearest building. My face made solid impact with duracrete. The bishop grabbed me by the back of the neck and repeated the blow; I felt my nose break and my cheekbone fracture. Blood gushed and I could faintly hear a gasp or two from the windows. That was what I got for showing off.
A surge of adrenaline hit my system a second later. I pushed off the building wall very hard and threw my head back. The back of my head connected with the bishop’s jaw with a loud crack. He reeled back, his wings extending to buffer his fall and provide balance. I turned left and threw a straight overhand right to the bishop’s nose. I felt it break. Purple-black demon blood spurted from the point of impact.
We stood there huffing, facing each other with matching fractures and bleeding openly. I brushed the remnants of concrete from my face and body while the bishop spat out a cracked tooth and some more blood.
“So,” the bishop started, staring me down, “now what?”
I gave him two middle fingers, turned, and sprinted toward the nearest alley. I may be able to go toe-to-toe with most demons, but I still had a job to do that night, and he was keeping me from it. How did that Robert Frost poem go again? And miles to go before I sleep…
The bishop pursued. I heard the clip-clop of his hooves on the pavement, his wings giving him the occasional boost of several extra steps per leap. I turned multiple times until I reached a windowless dark alley. Only a single street light in the distance. Perfect.
I pulled both pistols and waited. Come on you bastard, time is ticking, I thought. In a few moments the bishop caught up to me. He turned down the alley and walked toward me.
“God damn, Maz!” I yelled at the bishop. “Did you have to go all nine levels of Hell on my face?”
Bishop Maz’Zael laughed out loud. I quickly held up my pistol to my lips and tried to quiet him. “Shhh! You idiot, you want people to hear?” But in a few moments I realized I was laughing as well. Maz came close and gave me a giant demon hug. A demon hug is like a bear hug, only more diabolic with a faint whiff of decadence and sulfur.
“You big baby,” Maz said to me, putting me down and looking me over. “Besides, it looks like you are almost healed. Damn, how do you do that?”
It was true, I was almost completely healed. And I know it infuriated him. No reason to tell him all my secrets.
Speaking of secrets.
“Hey, who tipped you off I would be coming through this way tonight?” I asked.
“Some hopeless case thought it would put him in my good graces. And I let him think that. I always let them think that. Secret is, if you never really show favor, they try, try, try again to win you over.”
Lessons in demonic manipulation. What a night. At least now I knew that this route was compromised. As I felt the last of my jaw realign and my nose finish resetting, I stared up at my friend.
“Did you have to ram my head into the wall?”
Bishop Maz waved his hand dismissively. “It had to look good. Word of mouth has to spread with those bottom feeders by the docks. After that show, they will step in line. And well, honestly …” Maz stopped mid-thought to grin like only a demon can. “It was fun. I am a demon, after all,” he said, winking at me.
I stared at him, itching to perform fast and violent acts upon him. Perhaps pull my weapons and pistol whip him just on principle? Maybe a nice puncture wound to go with it?
“How did me beating the crap out of you help you with the locals?” I asked.
Maz raised his eyebrow. “Beating me? We had a draw and you ran away. The locals know your infamous status. They also know they’re nowhere near your level. If their beloved champion could only get in a few licks and run away, then what could they possibly
do to the bishop? No, my friend, you helped me make their miserable lives just that much worse. My word is once again law.”
Crap. He was right. Damn demon used me and I walked into it. “And here I thought we were friends,” I said in a sarcastic tone.
Bishop Maz shrugged. “Whatever.”
I shook my head. I was applying human emotions and way of thinking to a creature that never was human. Even at my age, I am still learning. We may be “friends,” but Maz would sell me down the river if it meant an advantage for him. But it at least made him predictable. I filed that insight away to revisit later. I decided to change the topic to important matters.
“Are you going to get in trouble for the loss of the hellions tonight?” I asked.
“No, the archbishop doesn’t give two soulless shits about the loss of hellions. Those two in particular were serving as informants to another district’s bishop. In fact, since I staged a way to have them killed without doing it myself, by influencing a human to do it for me, it should curry favor. I may get a promotion.” The demon smiled.
“So they were spying on you?”
Maz shrugged. “Probably.”
I laughed. The demon didn’t.
“Were you telling the truth about your LL? Otherwise it would be a lot of paperwork and I would probably have to organize a squad to kill you. You understand, of course. The death of a deputized hellion killed in the line of duty by an unlicensed wouldn’t fly in my district.”
“Yeah yeah. I was telling the truth.” I nodded as I lit up another smoke. “But even if I was lapsed, couldn’t you backdate a MP for me?”
“I could, if you paid. But I wouldn’t. A murder permit would mean you had intent against those specific hellions. The intent to have them killed could be linked back to me, and interpreted as me setting it up. I’d be exposed, and then suddenly my cleverness would look petty and pedestrian.”