by Ann Aguirre
Conversation was sparse; we ate while she IM’d with Jesse like I’d once done. I had no reaction to their relationship apart from minor happiness, which was all I could manage. Afterward, we showered in shifts and went to bed. I dreamed of Chance dying, over and over again. I felt his mouth on mine, the desperation in his eyes as he sank the blade into his chest. When I woke, my chest felt as if I were dying too, but I hid the pain beneath a tired smile.
Yesterday’s emptiness felt more profound. On impulse, I grabbed my athame and whispered, “Fiat lux.”
Nothing. I tried to pull my mother’s power. There was no tingle, no heat, no pain. I suspected my use of demon magick had sealed those pathways, and I was no longer a poorly trained witch; any magick that remained to me would be demonic in origin. I didn’t know if I could still use the touch, but I didn’t care enough to test it.
I have to call Min.
My hands shook as I input her number. When I heard her soft hello, I lost it. “Min? Min, I’m sorr—”
“I know,” she said, her voice raw with weeping. “I already know. He’s with his father now.”
She cut the call, whether because she couldn’t talk or she blamed me, I didn’t know. I stared at the Nokia in my hand, and then squeezed my eyes shut. No more, I thought. I can’t bear it.
“What now?” Shannon asked eventually.
Haunted, I raised my head. I wished she had her radio with her. Chance hadn’t been mortal. Not entirely. And the gate required the full strength of a mortal soul to open, so what happened when a demigod gave himself over to it? Surely he was bigger, stronger, than a normal human spirit. I wouldn’t believe there was nothing left, not even in the afterlife. He had been the son of Ebisu, for god’s sake. That had to count for something. If Shannon had her radio and tuned in, she could find him, and I could hear his voice again.
I’d know, at least, that part of him had survived the transition. For now, however, I had to concentrate on our current predicament. Using Shannon’s laptop, I checked on how complicated it would be to get a passport—when you’d never been issued one. Research indicated there would be all kinds of bureaucratic red tape, awkward questions asked. It wasn’t like I could tell the embassy that I’d slipped into London illegally via Sheol. I didn’t look forward to dealing with all the complexities of modern life.
Unable to face that just yet, I called Tia, who answered on the fourth ring. Belatedly, I realized it was probably the middle of the night at home, if it was morning here. “¿Que paso?” she demanded in a worried tone. “¿Quien es?”
“It’s Corine,” I answered in Spanish.
“Are you all right, mija? Did you find your friend?”
No. And yes.
Aloud, I said, “I need your help again. Can you wire me some cash?”
“¿Donde?”
I reached for the laptop and found an agent who could receive payments, then gave her the information. “There’s money in my room—”
“I know,” she interrupted. “It will be hours before Western Union opens. Will you be all right until then?”
“I should be.” We had enough for another night here, but only that. “You can wait until tomorrow to go. I won’t be able to pick up the money before then anyway.”
“I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry.” It was comforting to hear her voice, under the circumstances.
“Gracias. I’m sorry I woke you. I should have waited to call.” I paused, feeling like I had something important to tell her, but my mind was heavy, tired. “Can you get my passport? It’s in the—”
“Lockbox under your bed.” She knew everything that went on in her house.
“I’ll need it later.” Though my fake passport wasn’t good enough to get me out of the country, it would permit me to pick up the wire transfer.
“Sí, claro,” she said. “I will go to FedEx as soon as it opens. And then I will go to Banamex tomorrow.”
“Gracias por todo. Feel free to take whatever money you need—for whatever reason.” Then I remembered what I meant to tell her. “Your bracelet saved my life.”
“I knew it would,” she said with satisfaction. Before I could question her, she cut the call.
I handed the phone to Shan. “Ask Jesse to overnight your passport and radio.”
We couldn’t travel by rail or ship without ID, and I wasn’t sure if the fake driver’s license in my wallet would stand up to scrutiny by international authorities. This measure would serve as a stopgap solution while I figured things out. If need be, we could rent a house or a flat while we were here. Tia could send small, multiple payments easily via wire, until I had a respectable nest egg, a buffer against disaster.
Don’t think about Chance.
Shannon nodded. “My phone too, while he’s at it.”
The day passed in a blur. I got more cheap takeout, walked Butch, and rented the room for another day while praying Tia would come through. Faith sustained me; she’d never let me down yet. On schedule, the package from her arrived first thing in the morning. I studied my passport—the one Eva had made—and wondered how Chuch and Eva were. How the baby was. They seemed so far removed from this life, this crisis. I missed them, but they were better off keeping their distance from me.
I didn’t want to tell them about Chance. During the long wait, Shan brushed and braided my hair. She talked about her plans. Trying to distract me, I know, but the pain kept time with the beating of my heart, so it pulsed in my blood. Eventually, she wrapped her arms around my back and rested her chin on my shoulder.
“Thank you for coming for me,” she whispered.
That drew me out of my self-imposed distance. I turned and hugged her. “Of course. You’re my best friend.”
We cried together then, as we hadn’t given ourselves time in the alley. Reaction set in. Everything we’d seen and lost. She was the only person in the world who knew what it was like in Sheol. At least we still had each other. My nose ran, my eyes swelled, and her sobs rang in my ears.
“I feel old,” she said finally, easing back to wipe her face with her forearm. “Like, ancient. Jesse used to talk about the age gap between us, but between the kidnapping, the time with the Hazo, your rescue…I feel like I lived a whole life there, you know?”
“I think maybe we did. It seemed longer to me too.” A month, Jesse had said.
No, Shan was right. It had been a lifetime.
Exhausted from the emotional catharsis, we napped. I didn’t mean to; it just happened, and I dreamt of Chance again. This time without the blood. This time I saw him in the spray of cherry blossoms, where his father fell in love with Min. He was smiling. Beckoning. I woke smiling, my feet on the floor. Only there was no sunlit orchard waiting, just a cheap rented room and Shannon asleep on her side.
Tia called my cell, startling me. “The money should be there, Corine.”
I thanked her and went off with my cooked passport and my dog, hoping for the best. An hour later, I returned with two thousand dollars, and Shannon was signing for her package down at the front desk. It was large and bulky, due to the antique radio. My heart literally skipped a beat, and then steadied. Her ability drained her, but fortunately, we had snacks in the room, so I could ask Shan to use her gift without feeling guilty.
I had to know.
Upstairs, she unpacked the box and found more than she’d requested. Her radio, her fake passport, some clothing—T-shirts and underwear mostly—her phone, which ha’d a picture of Jesse Saldana as the wallpaper when she booted it up, and a prepaid MasterCard. As a cop, Jesse would know it was illegal to send cash via FedEx, so he’d tried to help Shannon as much as he could without knowing the specifics of her predicament. It had to help, just knowing she was safe.
“I already know what you’re going to ask,” she said.
I produced the adapter, plugged the radio into it, and then connected it to the wall in confirmation. “It’s killing me. I can’t sleep, can’t do anything without knowing. I dream about him, Sh
an.” My voice broke.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Let’s do this.”
She clicked on the radio that let her summon and talk to the dead. At once, a chill swept through the room, so strong I saw my breath. I tucked my hands beneath my arms as I folded them and waited for Shannon to work her magick. I’d seen her in action before, but it had never mattered so much.
“Chance, Corine needs to hear from you.”
Like always, she fiddled with the tuning dial as the tension rose in the room, until the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. It felt like fingers stroking, stroking, and a shiver ran down my spine. At 1122 on the AM dial—also Chance’s birthday—the static resolved. I bit down on my lower lip.
“Are you here?” Shannon asked. “Chance, can you hear me?”
Those fingers stroked down my nape again. The radio spoke in a hauntingly familiar voice: “Even death will not keep me from you.”
The gem at my throat blazed with heat—and this time I wept tears of joy.
DEMON CASTES
Aronesti—the Snatchers. They feast on the flesh of the dead, and when summoned will often manifest in cannibal killers. They are winged, humanoid with withered features and terrible claws. Most likely, they gave rise to the Harpies of legend.
Birsael—the Bargainers. They are the most commonly summoned demons. They love making deals with humans; they thrive on mischief and misfortune. In Sheol they are shape-shifters and can take whatever form they desire.
Dohan—the Drinkers. These demons can be summoned only via blood magick. They require a sacrifice, and can be bound to enhance a dark practitioner’s power. They appear human, apart from their unusual eyes. On the rare occasions when they passed into the human world corporeally, they gave rise to vampire lore, as they subsist on human blood.
Eshur—the Judges. They do not respond to summonings of any kind. They are outside the other castes and sit in judgment of their peers. The Eshur cannot be bribed; they are emotionless and bound to duty. They are tall and thin, blue-skinned, with vestigial horns.
Hazo—the Warriors. They can be summoned only to sites where great battles have taken place. A human possessed by a Hazo spirit becomes a berserker, incapable of stopping short of dismemberment, impervious to pain. The Vikings perfected a rite that guaranteed possession by a Hazo, and by all accounts, the warrior enjoyed a symbiotic relationship with his demon—the only known circumstance in which the possessed does not lose all control of his or her form. In Sheol they are enormous, red-skinned with black shoulders, ridged skulls, and faintly ursine features. They have fangs that are almost tusks and razor-sharp talons. They favor heavy weapons, are fiercely aggressive, and can be gated if sufficient power is expended at the summoning site.
Imaron—the Soul-stealers. Honorable. Law-abiding. They have the ability to drain skills, thoughts, experiences, memories, all the way up to life itself. If an Imaron drains a victim, only a husk remains. They are gray-skinned, with narrow skulls, double rows of teeth, and a distinctly alien appearance. It is not possible to discern gender via visual inspection.
Klothod—the formless legion. These are the only demons that have no physical form, even in Sheol. They were cursed by King Solomon to live solely as shadows. If a demon is summoned from its physical form and remains in the human world too long, it is possible for its physical body to die, at which point it becomes a Klothod. This is the only circumstance in which a demon can change its caste, but it takes centuries for the summoning-stasis magick to go inert, permitting it to occur.
The Knights—high-ranking individuals who command in Sheol. Each named knight comes from a particular caste, ruling over the rest of the demons in a functional oligarchy.
Luren—the Tempters. These are the most beautiful of all the demons, preternaturally seductive. Their skin is more burnished; they do not grow body hair. They possess pheromones to tempt their prey and feed on sexual energy. They are rumored to have Nephilim blood—meaning that they are the result of interbreeding between demons and angels. They respond only to summonings involving sex magick, and will not possess an unattractive host. The Luren gave rise to legends about incubi and succubi.
Mhizul—the Miserable. They feed on all negative emotions, their favorite being despair. Their appetites reflect in their appearance, as they have the look of wretched lepers, with pale, peeling skin, yellow eyes, and long, dirty nails. They are the lowest of the low, even more despised than the Klothod. In summonings, they respond to practitioners who have suffered a recent loss, not any particular type of magick. Often a summoner who is clinically depressed finds himself unable to summon any other type of demon because the Mhizul find the call irresistible.
Noit—the Dark Brood. These demons are like evil children. They are small, no more than four feet high, and have skin that varies in tone from pale to brown, with shadings of green in between. Their heads are oversize, eyes protuberant. They thrive on mischief and misfortune as much as the Birsael, but they do not bargain. A Noit, once summoned, will do whatever it can to wreak havoc for its summoner, choosing the worst possible interpretation of any order or request. A host possessed by a Noit demon may be diagnosed as a manic depressive who never falls into the depressive stage. Oddly, they love cats. These demons gave rise to the lore regarding brownies and gnomes.
Obsir—the Hidden. These demons do not respond to summonings. They serve the Eshur, investigating crimes within Sheol. Other demons find it difficult to describe the Obsir because it is hard to hold on to the memory of an encounter with them. It is known that they exist, but nothing else has been recorded, other than their notes pertaining to various trials.
Phalxe—the Liars. They are of average height and build, pale-skinned, rather innocuous-looking, like bald humans. These demons thrive on deception and confusion; they are inveterate manipulators who have supernatural powers of persuasion. Great con men who pulled off the most improbable scams and Ponzi schemes have often been possessed by a Phalxe spirit. In Sheol they are always plotting something, but the other castes are wary of their schemes. To summon a Phalxe demon, the practitioner must soak aloe in black cat oil for nine days and then perform a specific rite. On manifesting, the Phalxe demon will promise practically anything in hopes of getting the caster to break the binder before an iron-clad agreement has been struck. Only a fool trusts a Phalxe demon.
Saremon—the Progeny. These demons are descended from Solomon’s line through humans who interbred with demons. They are humanoid in appearance with extras like fins or spines or horns to show their more interesting lineage. They rank fairly high in the caste system, just below the knights and the Eshur. They seldom respond to summonings and can be called only by a practitioner who carries some of the Binder’s blood. They are largely uninterested in events in the human realm and are committed to developing their own arcane powers. For obvious reasons, magick users covet the guidance of the Saremon, who own the greatest collection of spells in existence, the fabled Bibliotheca Magus.
Xaraz—the Outsiders. This is not a caste in the sense that it encompasses a certain type of demon, but in the sense that they have all become outcasts. If a demon is judged guilty by the Eshur, he or she loses all status and becomes Xaraz. These demons, therefore, may have once belonged to any of the other castes, so their appearances will be varied. They are driven from Xibalba and are not permitted inside the city. Instead, they dwell in shantytowns populated with other exiles. On closer inspection, one notes the evidence of their crimes magickally scored into their flesh. They are the most wretched creatures in Sheol.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
For obvious reasons, the cocktail Corine had at the ball is more exotic than the real Devil’s Punch. I thought it best to preserve the mystery and not reveal the ingredients in what she was drinking. She was in Sheol, after all. However, here’s the actual recipe if you want to knock one back after finishing this book.
Ingredients:
2 oz. tequila
1 oz. orange liqueur
>
1 oz. Limoncello
1 oz. sour mix
dash of orange juice
Preparation:
1. Pour the ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice.
2. Shake well.
3. Strain into a sour or highball glass.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ann Aguirre is a national bestselling author. She has a degree in English literature and a spotty résumé. Before she began writing full-time, she was a clown, a clerk, a voice actress, and a savior of stray kittens, not necessarily in that order. She grew up in a yellow house across from a cornfield, but now she lives in sunny Mexico with her husband, children, two cats, and one very lazy dog. She likes books, emo music, and action movies. You can visit her on the Web at www.annaguirre.com.
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