Devil Take Me

by Jordan L. Hawk

  Dammit.

  “Everyone has his price,” the old man purred. “It hasn’t escaped me that you’re not exactly content with our bargain. Do me one final favor and walk free.”

  Although my traitorous heart leaped at the promise of a normal life, I trusted his promises about as far as I could throw them. What good would it do me to remove myself from the playing field? Even if I walked away from my position, the game would still exist, but I would no longer know who was playing. No more black-clouded stares advertising who might be selling a favor or who was in the market to buy. Who could pull that veil over their eyes again and ignore the fact that Calvary was crawling with Chosen? Not me.

  “I know what goes into the sausage—I’m not gonna close my eyes and bite in.”

  “A do-over, then? That’s a complicated solution, but not impossible. Time is relative.”

  I did my best not to show my surprise, but I’m sure it was evident in the tension of my jaw. Or maybe, like a shark scenting blood, the old man was able to smell my feeble hope. The vulnerability I felt only pissed me off more.

  “Unless you’re willing to rewind to the dawn of time and crawl back into the pit you came from, I don’t see what good it would do me. Live out my life as an ignorant sheep? No deal.”

  “Sayings become axioms because they contain a solid kernel of truth. Ignorance really is bliss.”

  “If that’s the best you can do, then save your breath.”

  He nodded, like he was hoping all along that I would drive a hard bargain. “The best of both worlds, then. I leave you the Sight. But perform one final task for me, and I’ll return your soul. No Chosen will ever request another favor from you.”

  I tried to imagine being free from that infernal pull, but I couldn’t quite manage. Half my life I’d had those silken bonds yanking at my guts. To be free… no. I’d been captive too long to even remember how freedom felt.

  Like the consummate salesman he was, the Devil didn’t hurry to sweeten the deal. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and waited for me to come to my own conclusion.

  Maybe I could white-knuckle against the pull for a few more years, even a few more decades. But I had no doubt that eventually I’d be so worn out and used up, I’d slip. I’d cash in a favor, and darkness would flood in to fill the gap.

  I always figured my soul was a lost cause. If there was a chance I could get it back, foul and blackened though it might be, I’d be an idiot not to consider it.

  “What would I have to do?”

  The old man’s smile reached his eyes. “You know that’s not how it works.”

  Maybe not. But you couldn’t blame me for trying.

  Hope is an insidious thing. Up until that point, I’d figured my only choices were to off myself and end up roasting on a spit for eternity, or to keep the darkness bottled up inside, where it festered and grew. No more favors, no more pull. A small thing, on his end, to simply cut the cord—a hell of a lot easier than turning back time.

  Tempting? Painfully so. But no doubt the price would be too rich for my blood. “No deal,” I said. “Go find some other patsy to do your bidding.”

  Anger flashed across his face, so subtle I wasn’t quite sure I’d seen it. But a heartbeat later, it was replaced by a genuine smile. “That’s a fine idea, Johnny. Then again, I’m not surprised. I always knew you were a lot smarter than you let on.”

  Funny, it sure didn’t feel that way.

  As he stood to leave, I very nearly grabbed him. But I recoiled at the last second. Even I’m not dumb enough to touch pure evil. “Wait a minute,” I said. “What are you up to now?”

  Indulgently, he turned to face me. “Me? Why, I’m simply following your suggestion. You might be the best man for the job, but that frisky young thing who works for you—Shawn, is it? I’m sure he’d rise to the occasion.”

  So many years I’d been resisting the call of the Mark, and all those years I’d steeled myself against the gut-twisting wrench of refusal. So many years I’d been building up my self-satisfied arrogance, too, and seeing myself as the only Chosen with balls enough to say no. Every last bit of it drained away when I thought of Shawn with his innocence torn away and his flirty eyes clouded black.

  So. This was why I’d never let anyone get close to me—I must’ve sensed they’d end up as collateral damage. I pushed through my arrogant stubbornness, my pride, whatever shreds of common sense I still possessed, and said, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  The old man was pleased. A favor is so much sweeter when it’s granted unwillingly.

  His power thundered through my veins. I wanted it to feel horrible, all that darkness threading through my cells, filling all the gaps between my molecules… but it didn’t. It felt amazing.

  Once I was bursting with delicious darkness, he said, “You’ve heard of Helen Cross?”

  I’d be the last guy to watch her TV show, read her magazine, or sip her fair-trade organic ginger tea—but I’m not entirely oblivious. “Yeah. And?”

  “You’ll need to kill her.”

  My blood ran cold. No one ever asked for such a massive favor—the cost was simply too high. The Devil, though? Since he kept the books, his credit was infinite. “You can’t… I won’t—”

  “Obviously I can. I just did. And as for you? You’re holding on by a thread. It won’t be long until it snaps.”

  “I still have free will.”

  “Indeed you do. Poison her quietly or gun her down in a public blaze of glory. Makes no difference to me.” He strolled to the doorway, turned back, and said, “But whatever you do, no harm comes to Helen’s bodyguard or the deal is off… and I keep your pathetic soul.”

  Chapter Three

  ADAM

  HELEN KNOWS everything. I’m not sure how or why, but I’ve learned the hard way that nothing gets past her.

  Her dressing room is more of a suite, with a chaise, a private bath, and a twenty-story view worth its weight in coke.

  “Adam, come over here.”

  I joined her at the window, and she slipped an arm around my waist. We gazed out over downtown Calvary together.

  “It goes without saying,” she told me, “that you and I must be deliberate in everything we do.”

  “I am deliberate. Even if my reasons aren’t always apparent, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” I wondered what poor choice I was about to be accused of making. The new caterer, most likely. Not because there was butter in his scones and animal products were strictly forbidden… but because I didn’t exactly discourage his lingering looks. He’d be tasty… even better than his buttery scones. But if she was ramping up to have me fire him, of course I’d do it. Delicious men come and go, but like pastry, it was never any difficulty to procure more.

  “I’ve noticed some irregularities lately—small things, at first. An empty seat in the audience. A change in sponsorship.”

  Not the caterer, then. But I’d already lost interest and moved on.

  “My Nielsen rating hasn’t changed—and rankings don’t lie. The Helen Home Show is as popular as ever with the masses. On the individual level, though, someone is turning people against me.”

  “I’ll have someone handle it.” Since we had several PIs on retainer, and since Helen seemed unusually grave about the sabotage, I asked, “Who would you like me to call?”

  She was quiet for a long moment. Pensive. And then she said, “No need.”

  “You went poking around, yourself?”

  “If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”

  That slogan was the concept that started it all. Most catchphrases are empty strings of words, but not Helen’s. In a time when liberated women relied on instant coffee and microwave dinners, Helen encouraged them to pour their own candles. And the public ate it up.

  Doing it right had become not just a slogan, but an empire.

  She released my waist but laced her fingers through mine and squeezed. Her hand was cool and dry, as always,
and slightly chapped from her rigorous housekeeping regimen. Yeah, she didn’t just talk the talk. She knew firsthand that you really could polish copper-bottomed cookware with salt and a cut lemon.

  “I had lunch with the Wives’ Club today… and I’ve figured out what’s going on.”

  When Helen had first landed her show, she received a grudging invitation to one of the reigning oligarchy’s stuffy events. The golf outing was a glorious disaster. Not only did she have the gall to trounce the mayor, but after they retired to the clubhouse for cigars and bourbon and she emerged from the cloud of smoke, she was ill for a week. The men were truly odious. Their wives, however, were pleasant and genteel. They also knew a lot more about their husbands’ businesses than any of the men realized… and they shared it much more freely.

  “You remember Sylvia?” she asked.

  “The blonde married to the shipping baron?”

  “No, that’s Stella. Sylvia’s husband syndicated nature shows.”

  “I note you refer to the man’s business in the past tense.”

  She released my hand and toyed absently with my hair, twirling it into a point at the nape of my neck. “I spent nearly a year having her plant the seeds of him putting the Helen Home Show in second-run syndication, only to have him shot in a ‘hunting accident.’”

  “Unfortunate.”

  “Oh, yes. Big coincidence. Especially since every single man on that trip, other than him, was Chosen.”

  “What are you saying? The sabotage is coming from one of us?” The rabble might operate that way, clawing each other down to procure their place at the top of the heap. But a rising tide lifts all boats. Chosen worked together. And if one of them strayed from the path, it was my job as the head of security to ferret him out—not Helen’s. “What possible reason could they have to turn against one of their own?”

  Helen sagged into her makeup chair and began dusting her cheeks with blusher to camouflage the pallor of her worry.

  “Well?” I prompted.

  “I heard a rumor going around that there’s an issue with my… values.”

  For once, I found myself speechless. Chosen can be found everywhere, from whorehouses to tabernacles. Our currency was as neutral as it could possibly be—we traded favors for power. Nothing else mattered.

  I considered Helen at length in the mirror while she primped her hair. Then I demanded, “How does morality come into play?”

  “It’s nothing to do with morals, Adam. It’s the fact that I encourage people to be self-sufficient.”

  “And suddenly this is an issue? Why now?”

  “Because now my influence has grown wide enough to cause some serious ripples. And the syndication deal would let my show run evenings and weekends. It would broaden my audience exponentially.”

  Weaving your own pot holders was one thing. Thinking for yourself was quite another. These small victories Helen encouraged people to enjoy couldn’t possibly be enough to erase the seductive inertia of compliance. Allowing authority figures to dictate every aspect of your life felt familiar. It felt safe. Most people simply didn’t have it in them to rebel.

  “From now on,” she said, “conserve the Mark. If you want something, buy it, bargain for it… blackmail, for all I care. But keep your favors. We’re going to need them.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time she stockpiled for nothing. Every spring she rotated enough canned goods out of the cellar to feed Calvary’s every last vagrant, wino, and bum.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I murmured.

  “Adam.” She squeezed my hand, and I realized she wasn’t just being dramatic. She was scared. And Helen wasn’t afraid of anything. “Do this… for me.”

  I sighed dramatically. “Sure, Mom. Whatever you say.”

  Chapter Four

  JOHNNY

  SHOW ME someone who hasn’t heard of Helen Cross, and I’ll show you someone who’s been living under a rock… on the moon. Helen gazed out from the covers of all the housewifey magazines, cool and elusive. She put in an appearance at every highbrow event, from fundraisers to mall openings. She’d funded a new wing at the Calvary Fine Arts Museum. And even though, technically, Helen lived outside city limits in a twelve-bedroom country estate with its own private lake, she was still the city’s most famous resident and its shining star. She wasn’t a celebrity—she was a brand.

  Her TV show was a pretty big deal. Since I sleep during the hours when decent housewives are taking a break from their daily routines, I’d never actually seen an episode. But even the lowlifes propping up the Inferno bar referred to it, albeit to sneer at Helen’s success and talk smack about how they’d like to screw that smug look off her face. The Helen Home Show taped downtown, where the old early-century high-rises dominated the riverfront. Like Calvary, they’d been elegant once, with curving Art Deco woodwork, crystal chandeliers, and marble steps with bright brass railings. But also like Calvary, their years had left them dilapidated and tired.

  Scoring tickets to Helen’s taping was easy enough. I might be unwilling to cash in my favors among the Chosen, but I had no problem hitting up the sheep. Maybe it had been a few years since I used the Inferno to make me look important. Anyone who’d set foot in the joint wouldn’t have been particularly impressed with me for owning it. The security guards at the front desk, though, could be had with a halfhearted brag and a handful of drink tokens.

  Everybody has their price.

  If you don’t work in television, you might not notice the sets are all fake. Seen through the camera’s lens, it all looks real—the walls, the furniture, the windows. But see them for yourself in person, and the charade reveals itself for the illusion it is. The walls don’t go any higher than the camera can see. And the backdrop behind the windows is a photograph lit by an electric light with a quiet fan waving the branches of the fake trees.

  To the naked eye, everything looked overlit and dwarfed by the machinery that ran the show. Sure, it was the same kitchen countertop and chintz curtains you’d see on TV. But surrounding it all was a forest of scaffolding and lighting and electronics—plus a red light to let you know when they were taping and another signal to tell you when to applaud.

  Theme music piped through the speaker system, the applause light came on, and all the sheep started to clap. I told myself to follow along but couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I’ve always been lousy at blending in.

  I was dredging up the will to put my hands together when I saw… him.

  It takes a lot to stir these old loins. But this one? Plenty of people had good bone structure. It was his attitude that really snared me, the “I don’t give a fuck” that was evident in the way he moved, even the way he stood. I figured he must be a producer of some kind… hell, maybe even a fluffer. But then I saw the way each of the security guys checked in with him, deferential, serious—and I realized that this was the one the old man had warned me about.

  The bodyguard.

  A good dozen people milled around the set—camera guys, lighting guys, and a jerk in a powder-blue leisure suit telling them all what to do. But in that anthill of activity, the bodyguard was a center of calm. When he moved, he moved with purpose, gliding through the frantic mob like an anaconda cruising down the Amazon.

  He paused just outside camera range, crossed his arms, and leaned back against a broad concrete column to survey his kingdom as I surveyed his tight body. It looked good in his form-fitting oxford and dress slacks, but it would look even better without them. I don’t normally indulge in scratching that primal itch… but when I do, it’s with guys like him, arrogant bastards who don’t give a flying fuck that the only thing we’re doing together is getting off.

  Activity peaked as a stage door opened and the star of the show stepped through, and even above the hubbub, the bodyguard sensed my eyes on him. I kept watching him—a challenge. He took me up on that challenge and looked right back. And then, across the studio floor, the lighting shifted and I saw it. Faint black clouds roi
led around in his eyes.

  I was surprised at how disappointed I felt that he was Chosen.

  It only made sense, though. The old man had given me specific orders not to hurt him. But even if he hadn’t, I would have figured it out. Sheep have no reason to be so damn cocky.

  The Applause sign blinked, the On Air signal lit, Leisure Suit waved his arms, and the cheerfully ignorant crowd around me went crazy. I knew I should clap, but I couldn’t find the wherewithal to care enough to do it. The bodyguard watched me sitting there, too jaded to join in. It seemed to please him—he smirked. He shifted his stance and canted his hips so that, in his expertly fitted slacks, his endowments were even more obvious.

  And then Helen took the stage, and the crowd’s energy spiked in an orgasm of celebrity worship. Late fifties, maybe older, wearing a cardigan and pearls. Hair pulled back in a casual twist, as if she was effortlessly elegant, even at home. With her on it, the set became a home, a daylit kitchen where everything matched and the pots and pans were definitely not bolted to the walls so as not to rattle and interfere with the boom mic.

  I hadn’t intended to give her more than a passing glance, what with the sexy bodyguard eye-fucking me from the sidelines, but her charisma was so palpable, it distracted me even from him.

  Once the crowd settled in, she remarked on the change of seasons and all the homemaking opportunities that change brought about, and then settled in to show them how to make draft stoppers out of bath towels. The crowd hung on her every word as if she was demonstrating how to turn lead into gold. I hardly realized I was wondering which of my bath towels I might spare when she looked into the camera closest to me, and I saw the black clouds churning lazily through her eyes.

  Since when did the old man send someone to kill one of his own?

  I must not have hidden my surprise very well. When I picked out the bodyguard, his smirk had spread into a full-on grin. Welcome to the party, it said. We’re all damned here.