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The portal—for it was indeed a portal, of the mostly-invisible air-rippling sort—shimmered for a moment. Sounds poured through it: screaming, pounding feet, and a distant metallic clanking.
“What…” started Vander as his eyes widened.
We heard running sounds. Panting. And shouting, lots of it. A whole army of mouths. They did not sound happy.
Then, two bodies came tumbling through the shimmering air.
The first was a shortish man of obvious Asian descent holding a rolling pin, shouting obscenities.
The second was… Dagan.
The elderly Asian man, upon catching up with Dagan, hit him over the head rather hard with the rolling pin.
Vander looked at me and I at him.
The Asian man, whom I was fairly sure was Chinese, yelled something sharp and unpleasant, whacking Dagan in the nose with the pin with surprising strength and dexterity. Dagan covered his nose, which was distinctly broken—though not, it appeared, as a result of the rolling pin—and attempted to get away. There was blood covering the lower half of his face, ostensibly from the broken nose, and both of his eyes were black and blue. For whatever reason, Dagan was having an enormous amount of trouble dislodging his rather small assailant.
Eventually, Dagan saw us, whilst he was tumbling on the ground with the man.
“Bram!” he said conversationally, then ducked another blow of the rolling pin which could have been quite severe across his forehead. He backed up to the other side of the room and caught his breath. He did not have a long respite for the man was on him an instant later.
“Dagan,” I responded, crossing my arms. “Your girlfriend has been looking for you.”
“Osenna?” He and the man rolled sideways, the rolling pin coming out on top.
“He a friend of yours?” I asked, pointing to the angry senior citizen.
“Not exactly,” said Dagan.
“Pig! Pig! Pig, pig, pig!” shouted the man.
“Only English he knows,” Dagan explained, almost apologetically. He threw off the little man and hauled himself to his feet with exaggerated effort. His clothes were scorched as though someone had tried to set him on fire, an event I deeply regretted not being present for.
“Pig,” I repeated, and nodded my approval. If one needed to find a single word in the English language to describe Dagan, “pig” would certainly do. In the event “disreputable” and “lecher” proved too difficult to pronounce.
“So, then,” I said. “Who is your not-friend?”
“The cook. Zhe Ping.”
“Pig!” shrieked Zhe Ping, and he truly was shrieking now. But he was also panting and trying to catch his breath, giving Dagan another respite.
“And he is hitting you with a rolling pin because…?” I prompted. Vander just continued to stand there as if in disbelief.
“He thinks I slept with his daughter.”
“Ah.”
Dagan stood there, in the corner of the room, with his arms outstretched towards Zhe Ping as if in supplication. Luckily for him, the elderly man appeared quite exhausted and did not immediately rekindle his attack.
“In the middle of the market square fountain.”
Vander made an unsettled choking noise in the back of his throat. I was, as might be expected, utterly unmoved.
“Did you?” I asked.
“Yes.” Dagan shrugged, pulling his sleeves down to his wrists. “It was all perfectly consensual, of course. I can’t imagine what he’s so upset about.”
“Of course, you can’t,” I muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
Dagan gave me a leery once over, perhaps wondering what type of unholy sensations a vampire-demon coupling might produce, and then looked away in that rather abrupt and dismissive way of his. A lesser creature might have felt a sudden need to regain his attention.
Something flashed in his hand as I looked away from him, and when I looked back, I discovered a scarf dangling from his hand, wrapped upwards of five times around his wrist.
“And what, pray tell, is that?” I asked.
“Not a damn thing,” replied Dagan, grinning at the wall.
“Is it, perhaps, the type of thing someone from your homeland might kill to retrieve?”
“Definitely.”
“Fantastic.” I looked at Vander, who was funneling all of his mounting irritation into a rather spectacular glare aimed at Dagan.
The door squealed open behind us.
FOURTEEN
Bram
A man with a toolbox entered the room and then stopped midstride once he got a glimpse of what was going on.
“I’ve got other shit to fix in this building. I don’t have time for this,” he grumbled, dismissing Dagan and Zhe Ping as though they were nothing out of the ordinary. Might I remind you that Zhe Ping was still holding his rolling pin in quite a strident manner and Dagan was quite nearly covered in his own blood.
“I can’t just keep coming up here,” the repairman continued.
Before facing me, he took a deep breath and sighed as heavily as any human ever has.
“What is it this time?” he asked.
Clearly, I appeared to be the one most in charge. “Dimensional rift,” I said casually. Dagan nodded.
The man with the toolbox was unperturbed. “With the printer, jackass! What’s wrong with the printer?”
“Pig,” muttered Zhe Ping.
“Yes, ‘pig,’ indeed,” I agreed, and I gave the repairman what I dearly hoped was a sincere and imploring look. “Give us another moment?”
“I just want to fix the printer and get to my next job, man.”
“Perhaps you can fix it tomorrow.”
“Can’t. I’ve got calls the rest of the week.”
I laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled; from his sharp flinch, I imagined I was not a pleasant sight. I closed my mouth and cleared my throat.
“I’m afraid we need the room for now,” I informed him and, for good measure, I fished whatever cash I had out of my wallet—two hundred dollars exactly, though I couldn’t guarantee it was in a currency he could use. “The printer will not be any less broken when you return, I assure you.”
If anything, it would likely be in even grander disrepair, but there was hardly a need to say as much out loud.
The repairman eyed the money, decided its denomination was acceptable (or perhaps he was persuaded by my fangs), took it, and nodded.
“Right. Well, then. Have a nice day.” He tipped his hat down at the grumbling Zhe Ping and left the room, whistling. The door snapped closed behind him.
Behind us, the printer whirred indignantly.
“So,” I said, turning to Dagan. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“My portal ripper.” I held out one hand, fingers twitching. “The one you stole from me.”
Dagan put a hand over his heart, widened his eyes, and said, “Moi?”
“Oui, toi,” I said, with the most abominable French accent ever to be heard in a printing room. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
“To be completely fair,” he said, producing the can opener from his person while he eyed Zhe Ping, who stood in the corner and glared at him. “I acquired it from Meg.”
“Who acquired it from me.”
I took the can opener from him and turned it over in my hand. It was completely done over with scratches, dents, and an inky red substance I was reasonably certain was blood—that of demons, judging by its rather earthy smell.
“I do not appreciate it when thieves bleed on my equipment,” I said testily; though one could argue that everything I said to Dagan was testy.
“I didn’t.”
I held up the can opener to the light for him to see. “Then what, pray tell, is this?”
“Not mine.”
I suppressed a groan and examined the dials for his previous destination. He had, in fact, come from the demon plane.
&nb
sp; “Dagan,” I said.
Perhaps he had followed my line of thought, for he was suddenly grinning very widely. “Yes, Brrrram?”
He spent a long moment rolling the r, seemingly for no reason other than to irritate me.
I ground my teeth and cocked my head to the side, looking at the scarf dangling from his hand, soft and glaringly crimson. “Dagan. Stupid, stupid Dagan. Is there any chance your petty theft is about to bring your angry demonic relations down upon our heads?”
“What are you going on about?” Vander demanded as he speared me and then Dagan with an inquiring expression.
“Not now, Vander, I can no longer be bothered with you,” I held up my hand before returning to question Dagan.
“Angry, demonic relations as in… besides Darion?” Dagan asked.
“Yes.”
“Um… maybe. Probably. Mostly yes.”
Splendid. Always new friends to be made, and subsequently murdered.
I picked up Zhe Ping by the back of his shirt. He kicked feebly and waved his rolling pin in Dagan’s general direction. “Pig, pig! Pig!”
“Believe me, Mr. Zhe, we are quite aware,” I said, holding him at arm’s length. For me, he weighed no more than a disgruntled feather, a fact which appeared to cause him a good deal of stress. “So, Dagan, perhaps you’d like to tell me why in Hades’ red hell you decided to take a long walk off such a short pier?”
“What?” Dagan barked.
I rolled my eyes. “Why the hell did you go back to Dromir?”
“Oh, yeah. That. It was Osenna’s idea.”
“Then that ridiculous story was true,” I said thoughtfully.
“She told you?”
“As much as one can expect Osenna to tell,” I admitted. “But why don’t you tell me everything from the beginning, just for kicks?”
Dagan opened his mouth, likely to say something obscene, but the door behind us burst open. There was a cacophony of clicking sounds as the safeties of guns were clicked off and raised into the air. I turned to find said guns aimed at Dagan, myself, and Zhe Ping, who stopped kicking and screaming when he saw our company.
“Officers,” I said congenially. “And agents. Good morning to you all. It would appear we have an intruder.”
There were perhaps nine of them, all attempting to crowd their way into the little room. Among them were Quillan and Agent James, who, to their credit, had their guns trained firmly on Dagan.
“So it would seem,” said Quillan, who seemed the most relaxed of the group. “We got the alert when somebody busted through our transportation guards.”
Transportation guards that were warded against magical transportation of any kind within the building. I nodded. “Yes, well, traditionally, Dagan is somewhat of a rule-breaker.” I held the portal ripper for them to see. Quillan, at least, recognized it from the war against Melchior O’Neil, during which I had lent the item to Dulcie to facilitate the travel of her surprisingly large army of discontented magical creatures.
“Yeah, that’ll do it,” said Agent James.
“Oh, shit,” Quillan said.
“Indeed,” I responded.
“Stand down,” commanded Agent James, and the officers lowered their weapons, however reluctantly. “Dagan,” he continued, “you need to come with me.”
“Oh, goody,” said Dagan. Perhaps he was worried several of his other screaming pursuers would find a way to follow him, and thought the FBI was as good a place to cower as any.
Agent James led Dagan from the room, the crowd of officers parting as they passed. Vander followed after them, presumably to avoid the combined wrath of myself and Quillan. I cannot vouch for Quillan’s intimidation factor, but there is no world in which Vander could tarry with us both and live to tell the tale.
Quillan and I, therefore, were left alone in the printer room with nothing but that persistent and unfortunate whirring sound to keep us company.
“Perhaps we should fetch Christina?” I asked.
“We will,” said Quillan. “And you should stick around, since you apparently know so much about this Darion guy.”
“I have already told your lovely girlfriend everything I know.”
“Yeah, but you can tell us if Dagan is making stuff up,” Quillan replied, and he shrugged. “And I’m not gonna lie, I think you’re definitely holding something back.”
It was a reasonable assumption. “You’ll forgive me if I do not follow you into the interrogation room.” There was something about their magically-neutral shadowbox rooms that I found most unpleasant.
“You can’t leave, Bram.”
“And if I prove otherwise?”
Quillan shrugged again. “Then we’ll have to take Dagan at his word until we can find another way to verify what he’s told us, and we’ll be a lot slower finding Darion and protecting Osenna. And your interests, whatever that means.”
A fair assessment. “Very well. I will remain.”
“Great. And we aren’t headed to the interrogation room. We’re going to Christina’s office,” he informed me. “She thinks Dagan will be more willing to talk if he’s comfortable.”
“That will only empower him, I believe.”
“Yeah, exactly,” agreed Quillan. “Christina doesn’t want him to get cagey. Or, cagier than he’d be anywhere else, you know?”
“That is ill-advised.”
“I know. But Christina says it’s her preference, and I don’t want to argue with her.” This last bit was delivered with an air of affectionate weariness.
You never were much for conflict, I thought, but I bit my tongue. The mentioning of our days with Melchior would do neither of us any grand favors.
Besides, with regards to Vander, Quillan and I were of a single mind. Perhaps, in service of his demise, we might learn to better tolerate one another.
“Bringing an intruding demon into one’s personal office only by merit of ‘it is her preference’ seems to me the kind of thing Fate might be tempted to unravel in a hurry,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, no kidding. Which is why I’m going to be standing right beside Christina,” said Quillan, hand on his gun. He was, admittedly, rather a good shot. He turned to leave and added, “Dagan isn’t going to try anything,” in as threatening a voice as he could muster. His expression was stony and determined. I rather suspected a part of him wanted Dagan to do something unsavory, that Quillan might have a palatable excuse to put a bullet in Dagan’s head.
Not that I blamed him.
I scowled as I followed him out of the room. “It is not Dagan with whom I am concerned.”
“Darion?”
“Darion knows Dagan’s address, and yours. If Darion was paying attention, he will be aware of the opening of Dagan’s portal. Darion will not be long in his discovery.”
“And he’ll be outnumbered if he decides to do anything about it.”
“Agent Carter, with all due respect, I do not think that will matter.”
Quillan paused. “Why?”
“Darion Halsir is a demon prince,” I explained, “one of whom Dagan and Osenna and myself have a profound fear. He is not a creature to be trifled with, or hidden from, and his vengeance upon us will be catastrophic.”
“‘Us’ being?”
“Myself, Dagan, Osenna, and anyone else who happens to know our names.”
“Ah. So, everyone.”
“Quite right.”
As we walked to Christina’s office—rather, as Quillan strode in that irritated way of agents at work and I skulked in an effort to shirk the sunlight, however harmless—I felt a pair of eyes upon my back.
When I turned, I saw Dulcie standing at a desk in the middle of the room. Her shirt was a mess of brown and white, as though something had been spilled upon her, and it clung deliciously to her perfect form. Face framed by honey-gold, eyes of summer green, blood swimming with the ichor of every creature ever crafted in hell… I had no breath, but if I had it would have been hers for the taking.
She appeared confused to see me here, or perturbed, or perhaps she was staring straight through me and saw nothing, lost deep in thought—but there was something intense about her expression, something that simmered and popped like oil in a pan.
I maintained a similar air of intensity as I appraised her, suddenly desperate to appear as though I was here to achieve my own ends, and not to see her. The urge to smile, or perhaps to wink, swelled within me, and I suppressed it with an effort. It occurred to me, eventually, to look elsewhere.
A lesser creature might describe this as overcompensation; but you, I am sure, know better.
FIFTEEN
Bram
The lot of us piled into Christina’s office quite like a school of overcurious sardines. I found myself growing quite twitchy and altogether grouchy the longer we stood in its confines, feeling quite like the walls were literally closing in upon me.
I had developed a knack for convincing myself of the invading closeness of spaces and unyielding walls—after four hundred years of rejecting the affections of the sun, it is strange how claustrophobic one feels in the light.
The door clicked shut behind me, as I was the last to enter. I did not bother to lock it. If Dagan managed to get past myself, Quillan, Christina, Vander, and Agent James, a locked door would hardly stop him.
Quillan and I occupied the wall to the right of the door, and Vander took up residence across from us. Agent James leaned against the wall behind and beside Christina, while Christina sat behind her desk. All of us wore grim, irritated expressions.
Across from Christina, Dagan sat, smiling and leering in the way only Dagan Halsir can smile and leer. He had perfected his smirk unto an art; though at the moment, the smirk seemed to lack vigor. Running from Zhe Ping and Hades only knew what else had clearly taken the pep out of his step. Perhaps his considerable stamina was not as infinite as advertised, after all.
Not that anyone in this room would be surprised, with the obvious exception of Dagan. He was a man of many carefully crafted lies, most of which he told himself. I suspected he was in the process of deciding which ones he would try on the goodly Humane Resources Director. It did not matter, of course, as none of them would work. Melchior was so perfectly fond of Sabbiondo for two reasons: her charm, and her uncanny ability to detect and decimate even the most thoughtfully constructed lie.
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