Bone Gods

by Caitlin Kittredge

  “Too right, kidney pie,” Ollie said. “And I knew then that you were either even more of a little snot than I supposed or you had a pair of great brass ones.” He shifted in the dark. “I’m glad it was the latter, Caldecott, because you’ve kept my arse on the straight and narrow these past years, and you were a good copper, and you’re going to be all right now.” He reached out in the dark, caught her hand, and squeezed. “Now leave off your whingeing and use that cracking wit to get us out of here, will you?”

  “Survival,” Pete said, Ollie’s words sprouting a mad idea in her head. It was more than mad—it was fucking suicidal, and it was something that Jack would have smacked her into a wall for even contemplating. But it was that or kill him, and Pete’s answer to that was still the same. Couldn’t fucking do it.

  “ ’S what I said,” Ollie agreed.

  Pete dug her lighter out again and flicked it on. “Open up these boxes. I need chalk, or paint—even a marker will do. Something to draw with.”

  Ollie’s forehead crinkled, but he helped her, the rodent-chewed and broken-down cardboard coming apart in their hands. “Don’t mind my stupid question,” Ollie said, “but what d’you need to draw, anyway?”

  “A circle,” Pete told him. “There’s someone that I need to talk to.”

  She unearthed chalk and a wealth of discarded candle stubs in one of the boxes, along with bills for a band that had played Naughton’s club in 1989 and several Halloween decorations of the same vintage. Pete lit the candles, which guttered over the steel walls. “Stand back,” she told Ollie, putting the black candle at the head and the white at the foot.

  “You sure know what you’re doing?” he said, backing up to the corner of the freezer.

  “Yeah,” Pete said as she chalked a crooked ring between the candles. “I’m a bloody expert in all matters of the occult.” She didn’t know all the markings that Jack did, didn’t know the words his discipline had passed to him, but with this, all that mattered—really—was the name.

  Pete drew another circle around herself, doubling it for safety. She sat, folding her hands over her knees, and looked back at Ollie. “No matter what happens, do not cross the chalk and do not break the circle, you understand me?”

  Ollie’s eyes were wide. “Pete, what exactly is about to happen here?”

  Pete shut her eyes and tried to take a calming breath that only aggravated her rib. “Probably nothing good.”

  Jack would say that what she was doing was an obscenity. That it would probably kill her, and even if it didn’t, that it would rip her soul away from her surely as wind snuffed a candle flame. “But you’re not here,” Pete murmured as she chalked a final word in front of her toes. “Are you?”

  Jack had brought her here. Because she’d believed his lies, and she’d let herself think that he was the man who could save the world, if it came to that. She’d followed him too far down the rabbit hole, and now there was no way back, only through. The choices were down to one—fight or lie down and die. And Pete had known since long before she clapped eyes on Jack Winter that she wasn’t the dying type.

  She had to close the circle, imbue it with her will, and Pete pressed her thumbs into her forehead, trying to massage the twinge that rose when she reached down into herself and tried to push a little bit of talent into the chalk markings. Jack’s magic looked like blue fire, so Pete clung to that image, seeing faint blue flame rising from the twin ring of chalk marks. Her headache worsened, and she felt something warm and wet trickle from her nostrils. A hum built in her back teeth, vibrating all through her skeleton, and Pete recognized it as the same impulse that had rushed through her when she’d flung the hexes, simply sustained. It hurt like sticking her fingers into a socket, and she dug her nails into her palm to take her mind off it. There was an incantation for these sorts of things, dozens of them, in as many languages, but Pete didn’t know any by rote, so she used the name.

  “Belial.”

  Nothing happened, except an increase in her headache, verging from uncomfortable into the territory of concussions and blackout hangovers.

  Pete swallowed, her mouth dry as a wad of cotton, and tried again. “Belial. Prince of the demons of Hell. Pete Caldecott wants to talk to Belial.”

  The air shimmered before her, yawning into a black vortex, and Pete heard screaming and smelled the faint scent of fires, the sort of dirty smoke roiled by burning corpses.

  “Belial?” Pete said, the power gathering behind her eyes making her skull throb. There was a time when the sight would have terrified her, but now she just sighed. “Come on, Belial, quit fucking about.”

  The theatrics ceased, and in their place stood a small man in a black suit and white shirt, immaculate tie pressed and done with a ruby stickpin. Belial smoothed his greasy hair out of his pure black eyes and grinned at her with shark’s teeth. “Well, hello there, Pete. You wanted to see me?”

  CHAPTER 33

  Pete stood up. Belial wasn’t tall, in the body he chose to wear like a flash little overcoat, and she could nearly look him in the eye. “Suppose I did.”

  Belial’s tongue flicked out and wriggled, tasting the air. “Never thought I’d see the day, but awfully glad that I did.”

  Pete shot a glance at the circle. It was solid, but she started when she saw Ollie slumped unconscious against the wall. “What did you do to him?”

  Belial shrugged. “You wanted to talk. Figured we should do it without that fat gobshite eavesdropping.”

  “You’re a bloody bastard, you know?” Pete said.

  His pointed teeth glowed in the guttering candlelight. “I am a demon, luv.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Pete assured him. Belial took a step toward her, and Pete took one back before she could stop herself. She stopped her foot before it rubbed out the chalk line. The demon laughed, sending cold dead fingers up and down her spine.

  “So close and yet so far away. Jack’s taught you a thing or two, hasn’t he? Clever girl.”

  “You’re going to have to at least work a little if you want out,” Pete said. “It’s not fancy, but it’ll hold.”

  Belial shimmered, and when Pete blinked he was in front of her. He grabbed the back of her neck and drew them close enough to kiss. “You haven’t got the stones to hold me, Petunia. I’m not a trained dog. I’m here because you interest me.” He released her just as abruptly then fixed his tie. “Now why don’t you smooth out that frown and tell me what you want, before I get bored and take myself off to the cinema?”

  “If I’m so horrible at this, then why are you standing here?” Pete waved a hand. “There’s the door. Go fly away, and open it for me while you’re at it.”

  Belial chuckled again. “You may not have the finesse yet, but you’ve got bigger balls than Winter. He was crying and pissing blood when I came by his little summoning circle.”

  “Jack was dying,” Pete snapped. “And I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Oh yes,” Belial said. “You are.” He pressed his cheek against hers, inhaled her scent. This close, Pete could sense a glimmering of the thing beneath the skin—writhing, many eyed, many-voiced, screaming and clawing to be free. “I knew there was a reason Winter liked you,” Belial murmured. “You still smell sweet, no matter how many miles he puts on.”

  Pete shoved him back, hard. The demon only laughed. “What, are you embarrassed to admit you shagged a wrung-out junkie like Winter? I would be, too, were I a put-together little thing like you. I bet you keep your nightie on.”

  “Why don’t you just simmer down before I knock every one of those creepy teeth down your throat?” Pete suggested.

  Belial frowned. “You just summoned me out of the blackest pits of Hell to chat, then?” He wagged a finger at her. “No, you’re desperate. But not for the same reasons as Winter. Your reasons aren’t petty and reeking of cowardice. ’S why I’m interested.” He twitched his cuffs and examined the ruby ring on his left hand, breathing on it and rubbing it on his suit. “Spit it out,
luv. I’m getting bored.”

  “About a dozen people want me dead, another dozen want Jack, and I’ve been locked in a fucking freezer by a pack of necromancers,” Pete said. “That enough for you, you fucking bastard?”

  Belial cocked his head. “Lot of trouble for one little woman to get into. Prolific Petunia, harbinger of death and destruction.”

  “I need help,” Pete admitted. “I need the sort of help a demon can give.”

  “Surely you and Winter have a foolhardy little plan,” the demon said. “Some last ditch attempt to save the day and send the guilty to their judgement and the righteous to their reward?”

  “No,” Pete said. “Besides, you know exactly what happened to Jack. You’re the one who lost custody, after all.”

  “Winter licking the boots of the Hag and the rest of the Black beset by necromancy and terror?” Belial grinned. “Sounds like a Saturday night to me, Petunia. I don’t think you’re going to convince me otherwise.” His black glass eyes flicked up and down her body. “ ’Less, of course, you want to use that fine firm mouth of yours for something other than talking.”

  “I thought demons loved a deal,” Pete said. Her head hurt so much her vision was doubling, and her voice sounded unreasonably loud in her ears. She wasn’t going to be able to hold the thin, slippery strings of power that girded the circle much longer. “I thought they loved bargains more than anything. I didn’t think they were quite so interested in flesh.”

  “Me? I’m very interested,” Belial said. “You know what Hell is, Petunia? It’s fucking boring. We’ve got fleshpots and opium dens, torture chambers and souls to rip apart over and over again, to fuck and taste and deform to our pleasure.” He sighed, and felt his body over as if it were quite new. “You don’t have a fag, do you?”

  “I’m out,” Pete said. “And you wouldn’t get one anyway.”

  “Pity,” Belial said. “We have all of that, and I’m still bored out of my fucking skull. What I love is not the deal but when the deal comes due. And the sweeter the bargaining, the better it is for me. But you, Pete—you’re entirely too good to make that kind of bargaining. Your lily-white soul is just going to wilt and die in Hell.” He sniffed. “No fire in you. Just a misplaced need to run about playing savior.” Belial yawned. “Snore. Think I’m going to push down your little spellwork here and head off. I am sorry if I cause you a brain aneurysm or something when I break the circle.”

  Pete wanted nothing so much as to punch Belial in his smug gob. She’d thought he would salivate at the idea of getting his hands on even the possibility of a bargain with her, and he was acting as if she were an unattractive girl in a chavvy nightclub. Fucking demons. “I’m not saving anything,” she said. “I’m just trying to keep Nergal’s fucking dragon in his place, so that all the Black, including your charming existence, can carry on.”

  He paused with his shiny black shoe just short of the chalk, then turned to look at her. “What about a dragon?”

  “Oh yeah, you know all about Nergal,” Pete said. “The Hecate told me. The biggest, baddest bastard on the block, until the rest of you decided to take him down a peg. The Morrigan’s after his child. She’s aiming high.”

  Belial’s grin was unconscious this time, pure sadistic joy spreading across his features. “Oh, delicious. The Hag was always the worst of them. Old gods. Old farts, you ask me. Barking over table scraps, what was left over when the daylight world moved on. But this—this actually shows some spine. Well done.”

  “Have we a bargain or not?” Pete demanded. Belial hadn’t been wrong when he’d hissed at her that she was scared. She was terrified—anyone with sense was terrified of demons. Pete rather thought that if she were throwing her weight around with no trepidation whatsoever, she’d be a fucking idiot.

  “Depends.” Belial shrugged. “What wonders have you to entice me with, Petunia?”

  “I don’t have anything,” Pete said softly. “Just myself.”

  “Mmhmm,” Belial said. He tapped a forefinger against his own nose, once. “Tempting as that is, I think I’d rather have you in one piece, and willing to do something for me.”

  “I don’t have a talent like Jack’s,” Pete said. “So unless you want me to go and fetch you takeaway…”

  “I enjoy your sarcasm, Petunia, I really do,” Belial told her. “But unless you want me to tear your throat out and paint myself in your entrails, shut the fuck up and let me finish.”

  Pete wondered if it was a measure of some kind of madness to want to kick a demon square between the legs. A particularly smug and annoying bastard of a demon, but a demon all the same.

  “Good girl,” Belial said. “I don’t want you used up and spent like a fiver at a strip club. I want you alive and vital, and ready to turn that quick mind and that pert little body of yours to my ends.” He winked. “Having a favor with a Weir is never a poor life choice.”

  “You think I’m stupid?” Pete said. “An unspecified favor. For you. Sure, I was born fucking yesterday. Let’s do it up.”

  “I think you wouldn’t have called me if you were in a position to sass me,” Belial said. “I’ll help you smush your little plague lizard, and make the world safe for puppies, rainbows, and small children cavorting and licking lollipops, and in exchange, when I say it, you’ll do me one favor. It’s a very good deal, Petunia.” His fingers slipped into her hair, smoothed it back from her face. “You don’t even have to touch me.”

  Pete stared at the demon, and Belial stared back, that infuriating smile playing at the corners of his narrow lips. He had her backed against a wall, and he knew it.

  “Right,” she said. “If we’re walking that road, I want something just as vague and abusive from you.”

  His nostrils flared. “I’d jump at the chance to abuse you, Petunia. Say what it is you want.”

  “You want a favor from me, you do what I ask to help me, until such a time as we’ve put the Morrigan’s nasty little plan to rest or I’m dead,” Petunia said. “In which case you’ll drag me to Hell anyway, so it won’t matter.”

  Belial shook his head at her. “Look at you, brokering deals like any streetwise black magic hustler. I think Winter’s taught you a thing or two about the dark side, Petunia.”

  “And another thing,” Pete told him. “My name’s not fucking Petunia.”

  “Duly noted,” the demon purred. “I’ll be your obedient pet monster, and you’ll be my card up the sleeve.” He stepped forward and extended his hand in a businesslike fashion. “I’ve made a deal, Petunia Grace Caldecott, of my own will and you of yours. And you, Petunia Grace Caldecott, of London, child of Connor Caldecott of Galway and Juniper Morrow of Salisbury, freely bargain with me, Belial, a Named demon of Hell and Prince therein. So be it.”

  Pete grabbed the demon’s hand before she could hesitate, lose her nerve, and run screaming for the hills. Belial might as well have been reciting daily specials in a café for all the effort he put into the phrase, but the enormous power it carried landed on Pete like a sack of sand.

  This was a deal with a demon. This was the point she couldn’t turn back from. No turning back. Only through.

  “So be it, Belial.”

  He held her hand fast, and with his free digit tilted her head to stare into her eyes. “This is one of the sweetest days of my long and varied life, make no mistake. Getting the crow-mage, that was fantastic, don’t get me wrong. Like having Ursula Andress in her prime suck your cock while being serenaded by a live performance of the entire Hunky Dory album. But this…” He grinned at Pete. “This is just a little sweeter.”

  “I agreed,” Pete reminded him. “You can shut your gob now.”

  “Well, then,” Belial said. “Consider it a bargain, freely made and freely worked. You’ve officially dabbled in the deviant side of magic, Pete. Does it give you a naughty tingle?”

  Pete moved as far from him as she could within the confines of the circle, letting the power trickle away. Belial had her now. He wouldn’t
hurt her simply for sport. “Can you just open up the door and get us out of here?”

  “Giving orders already. Good woman.” Belial gestured at the door and it flew off the hinges and clear across the kitchen.

  Pete ignored his showing off, and bent down next to Ollie to tweak him on the earlobe. “Wake up, Heath.”

  Ollie groaned. “Jesus, me head.” He saw the demon and blinked. “Who the fuck is that? Am I having that bloody dream again with the funeral director and the parrot?”

  “Oh, he’s funny, the fat man,” Belial said. “I think I’ll enjoy him a great deal.”

  “Says the bloke dressed like he’s trying out for a Duran Duran cover band,” Ollie muttered.

  “Ollie,” Pete said. Ollie caught on, thankfully, and shut up.

  Belial walked over to the door, which had crushed Sean, who stared up at him with bulging eyes, legs trapped under the steel. “Never understood necromancy,” Belial said. “Mucking about with dead things. Got plenty of the dead in Hell, and I don’t go about fondling them. Disgusting.”

  Pete cleared her throat and pointed behind the demon, where more of the pasty thugs that clung to Naughton like maggots on a corpse had appeared in the narrow back hall.

  “How the fuck did they get out?” the first asked.

  “You didn’t lock the fucking door, did you?” the other said.

  “Gents.” Belial spread his hands. “You can go, or you can die. Shouldn’t be too hard, even for a brain trust such as yourselves.”

  The necromancers considered for a moment, and the first shook his head. “Ain’t worth it, mate. That’s a fucking demon.”

  “Fuck off,” the second said. “That’s not a demon. Just a git in an undertaker suit.”

  Belial smiled, and showed them his teeth. The second said, “Oh, shit.”

  “Forget it,” said the first. “I’d go back to hustling in Tower Hamlets. ’Least I’d be alive.”

  He turned tail and ran, leaving the other standing alone, his eyes growing steadily larger as the demon advanced on him. Belial grabbed the necromancer by the front of his black windcheater and lifted him off his feet. The demon wasn’t much larger than Pete, but he moved with the speed and sharpness of a veldt predator, hands with their long black nails puncturing through the necromancer’s jacket and into his flesh.