Graves Pact (Landon Graves Book 1)

by Matthew Stinson

  That’s a neat trick, I uttered. Too bad you never taught me that one.

  “When have I spoon-fed you anything?” Alastor replied quietly. “All of my thralls can open rifts to the nether realms. They just need to figure out how… and survive the journeys.”

  Deborah’s soft sobbing followed us into the hallway. The elevator ride was long and quiet. I tried to process everything that had just happened, partly to understand it and partly to figure out what the backlash would be for me. The vibe I got from my patron was all pleased contentment.

  Why didn’t you just make a pact with the pimp? I asked as we exited the hotel.

  I noticed Alastor took a route that avoided obvious security cameras. I was disquieted by the prospect that the possibility for my arrest existed. It was all part of my patron’s plan, I was sure. One more tether to keep me in line. At least, there was no body.

  Alastor chuckled to himself as he replied to my question, “Isn’t it obvious? I always bargain from a position of strength. My thralls are always in dire straits when I come to them. Else, why would they agree to my terms?”

  You think the pimp would’ve driven a harder bargain?

  “Maybe,” Alastor said, “but I’m not in the business of ‘might have’ or ‘possibly’. I only make pacts with someone I’m sure about.”

  The words made me sick. I’d done everything I could to avoid playing Alastor’s game, but the certainty my patron had about his thralls—those like me—made me doubt all I’d done. Was it inevitable that I’d come to the devil’s perspective on things?

  Chapter Nineteen

  I had all night to think deep, philosophical thoughts about the nature of evil and my place in the world, since Alastor didn’t sleep. Freed from my body, it seemed that I didn’t need to sleep either, not that I could have. I had to remain vigilant if I wanted to get my body back.

  In the wee hours of the morning, my patron headed to a meth lab where a sickly addict nervously handed us a briefcase full of money. I sighed in partial relief. I would have much rather tried to explain away a ton of money than a ton of drugs to an arresting officer.

  Alastor delivered the cash to a sleazy businessman at the crack of dawn. The rundown strip mall boasted two active businesses: a liquor store and a shady mortgage firm run by the recipient of all that cash. I got no answer when I asked my patron what it was all about. I guess I didn’t really need an explanation. For my patron, it was all convoluted webs and spinning plates.

  While the entire experience of possession wracked my nerves, I nearly melted down in a panic attack when Alastor arrived at the FBI offices. He parked the stolen Stanza a few blocks away in a tow-away zone and walked to the building. My voice greeted the security guards casually. They responded in kind and waved me past.

  I knew it was irrational, but I felt even more violated. My job was the only thing I had going for me in my miserable life. I might not have chosen it for myself, but I was actually happy as a forensic accountant. I mentally trembled at the thought of Alastor ruining it.

  We rode the elevator up. I forced myself not to beg my patron for caution. Showing weakness would have only given the devil a weapon to use against me later.

  Anne, the fit brunette receptionist, glanced up as we entered the main office. She was in a smart business suit, looking professional and attractive simultaneously. Normally, I didn’t warrant more than a brief look in the way of greeting.

  “Good morning, Agent Graves,” she said.

  Alastor said nothing, but our gaze lingered for just a moment too long. Anne’s features softened and a subtle smile appeared. She self-consciously adjusted her glasses and made eyes at us. I knew for a fact she was seeing someone. She’d made it clear when I asked her out three months ago. I grumbled about the mystical Rohypnol my patron apparently emanated.

  Fortunately, Alastor moved on to business. He somehow avoided the ritualistic morning office chatter and got to my desk without bumping into anyone. I muttered about the Fallen tipping off my co-workers with his odd behavior. I never sat down without a source of caffeine. The fancy stolen coat was also a dead giveaway.

  Alastor grabbed my spare clothes and changed in the office bathroom and discreetly disposed of my bloodied shirt. I ratcheted down my anxiety a quarter turn as we strode back out into the cubicle farm.

  My patron returned to my desk and logged into my computer. Then he begin… working. I was more than a little perplexed by it. Even more unsettling was his familiarity with my cases and passwords. I was pretty sure my patron didn’t get to root around in my head, but he knew my workload inside and out. How?

  The devil dug through heaps of documents, finding seemingly unconnected accounts and ledgers quickly. In a few hours, Alastor made a dozen tenuous connections that would eventually lead to arrests with a little more work on the part of the fraud team. It would sure look good on my record.

  I’d thank you, I said, seeing the puzzle pieces fall together as I scanned his work, but I know you did it for a reason. What do you want?

  “Now, you’re free to focus on the case at hand,” Alastor said in a voice low enough not to be overheard by my coworkers. “And all of those database searches will obscure my other queries, so I can make use of your FBI resources for other purposes.”

  My patron spent the rest of the morning exploiting the FBI for what I could only assume was some kind of personal gain. He transferred innocuous funds and obscured money trails. He flagged several seemingly benign accounts. I surmised that he was waging economic warfare against someone, probably another petty lord of Hell.

  Where does it end, Alastor? I asked wearily. What’s your end game? What do you get out of all of this?

  “I get to continue existing,” Alastor answered with what almost sounded like open honesty. “You see… It’s like I told you. We’re not so different, you and I.”

  For a moment, I was stunned. Would my fear of Hell force me to cross the lines I swore I wouldn’t? Something infirm deep in my consciousness solidified. If I resorted to any means necessary to survive, I’d be no better than Alastor. I wouldn’t allow myself to turn into some infernal animal that had no greater purpose than mere survival.

  I failed to notice that Alastor had left my desk.

  My car door slammed and I finally came back to what limited senses remained available to me. Lost in thought as I had been, I had no idea how much time had passed until I glanced at the clock in the dash of my Buick. Noon. I’d been zoned out for less than twenty minutes.

  What had Alastor done after successfully distracting me? Had that even been my patron’s goal with that uncomfortable comparison? I figured I was overreacting, overthinking, overcomplicating. But I’d learned something about my current state. If I wasn’t diligent in maintaining focus, I could lose track of what my body did. I wondered if Oliver Pontas had the same problem.

  So what other evil plans do you have to lay? I asked, hoping the answer would give me some concept of the time left to endure being a backseat driver in my own body.

  “It’s not about ‘good’ or ‘evil’. It’s about following someone else’s rules or choosing for yourself,” Alastor said, dodging my question. “There is no objective moral good, only what is good for you on a short and long term scale.”

  Well, if Heaven exists, I said, then that pretty well refutes your argument.

  The devil laughed. “The criteria by which one enters the Creator’s personal realm aren’t known by anyone or anything. The Watchers can only guess. They sit outside and wonder. That’s why they’ve spawned all these ridiculous religions. Well, one of the reasons.”

  They don’t know either?

  I reeled from that thought until I considered the source of my information. Without a doubt, Alastor had a bias in his view of all things celestial. What qualms could the Fallen possibly have against giving me misinformation? Still, the implications of my patron’s words echoed at the edge of my thoughts.

  “That’s why we call them ‘Wat
chers’, Landon. They are constantly watching mankind in an effort to determine what the Creator deems ‘good’ so that they can force people to that ideal. But for every rule they construct, there are exceptions that waltz right through the pearly gates.”

  I wanted to retort, but I fell silent instead. Alastor lied as easily as I breathed, but the worst thing about it was the truth woven into those lies. I’d never know the whole story because of my pact and my limits as a mortal being.

  My patron drove us across town to a business center, one where office buildings surrounded a small park. That late in the afternoon, enough people had left that Alastor found a place to park easily. Then the devil surprised me once again by finding a café and ordering food.

  Part of me thought I didn’t need food while Alastor controlled me and the other part believed that the bastard would starve me for fun. Even though I couldn’t taste the sandwich or cola, the act of eating it relieved me of one minor concern. But I should have known my patron never did anything without a purpose.

  Halfway through the meal, an older looking man in a nice suit sat down across from us without a word. Alastor didn’t seem surprised, so I assumed the Fallen expected the salt-and-pepper haired man. The cloak and dagger shit started to aggravate me.

  “Mr. Lambert,” my patron said. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice. My arrival in town was… unexpected.”

  The man seemed somewhat taken aback by the use of his name. “Oh, are you… him?”

  Within my mental confines, I sighed. This businessman—Mr. Lambert—reeked of naivety. He was uninitiated, someone performing a function for Alastor without signing a pact. Mr. Lambert had been passed over for enthrallment. Lucky him.

  “I am an agent of your client. Call me ‘Mr. Allen’,” Alastor replied, playing whatever role he had set up with the man. “Now let us discuss business.”

  Lambert gaped for a moment before nodding hurriedly. He looked somewhat relieved. He opened a briefcase at his side and pulled out a neatly organized binder. Handing it over, I saw that his hand trembled slightly.

  It turned out that Mr. Lambert worked as an investment banker. The binder contained spreadsheets and charts detailing the rates and returns of various mutual funds. I tried to memorize some account numbers, but Alastor read over them too quickly.

  We shifted back in our seat, taking on a relaxed posture. I was sure it was all calculated by my patron to manipulate the man. Alastor closed the binder and slid it across the table. “Your figures look promising. The profits please our employer. He is willing to reinvest the interest, and more, provided you meet with him in New York.”

  Lambert perked up, his face kept still except for a hint of a smile. “That’s wonderful. I’ll have my secretary set something up.”

  “We’ll call you,” Alastor assured him. “Have a good day.”

  As the man left, I got the sinking feeling that something was wrong. Who was that?

  “That was Mr. Lambert,” Alastor said. “Try to keep up.”

  I heard the name he gave you. I want to know why he’s handling any of your money. He seems off. Clothes are too nice. Why didn’t you meet him in his office?

  “Mr. Lambert doesn’t have an office.”

  That set off warning bells. Difficult to contact meant hard to find. And why was he so nervous? I had a hunch that Mr. Lambert was a conman. I said as much to Alastor.

  “Very astute instincts. Mr. Lambert is running what you call a Ponzi scheme.”

  Then why the hell are you giving him your money?

  “To lower his guard. When I meet with him in New York, I’ll persuade him to transfer his financials into my control.”

  Suddenly those flagged accounts from earlier made more sense. I shuddered to think about what Alastor meant by “persuade” having so recently witnessed the devil’s methods. You could let me expose him. Get a conviction.

  “So the money goes back to those foolish investors or, worse, into your court system? No, I think not.”

  Alastor began composing a letter in a language I didn’t recognize. Though it irked me, I watched carefully to garner any clue I could. Then, I saw my hand jerk suddenly, the neat line of script ruined with a tear. Alastor abruptly stood us up and walked away from the café table, leaving behind the half-eaten food and the legal pad. Our rapid pace set off sirens for me.

  What is it? Where are you going? I asked.

  Alastor didn’t respond which only piqued my concern more. He stalked my body down the sidewalk and, by the expressions of the other pedestrians, my patron fumed with ire that I could only feel the barest hint of. The devil bumped into someone hard enough to send the man to the ground but didn’t bother with a charming apology.

  Christ, what’s going on? I demanded.

  “Someone just tried to find us with a spell,” Alastor replied in a gravelly murmur. “The practitioner is close. I mean to find the fool and have a few words.”

  One of Alastor’s enemies had probably found the devil and wanted to take him out. I was just collateral damage—or a bonus rather. Alastor’s essence would just return to Hell, but I’d be out of play. Small loss. The games sickened me.

  Alastor followed a trail only he could perceive off the busy street. Winding through the shops and restaurants that catered to the office workers of the area, we ended up at a crossroads of back alleys. Graffiti marred the stucco and plaster walls. Grimy water trickled down the center toward a rusted drain, scintillating colors reflecting on its surface.

  “Hey, Graves,” a familiar voice beckoned. “You look like shit.”

  Alastor turned us down the side street to face the last person on Earth I expected to see.

  Chapter Twenty

  Bryce Campbell, the teenage wizard, stared straight at me as he emerged from behind a battered green dumpster, squaring up like he was ready for a bout of fisticuffs. The fearless little shit was calling Alastor out. The utter balls of that kid. If he wasn’t about to kick my ass, I’d have rooted for him. I thought I’d root for him anyway.

  “Ah, the young wizard.” The words came from my lips. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Bryce tilted his head as if straining to hear something. A tight frown formed on his face and he nodded slightly. He met my eyes again and said, “Name yourself, devil, or be gone.”

  “Perceptive. That’s a talent. How did you know?”

  “I can smell your rancid stink from here,” the teen spell-slinger quipped. “You can take your ‘proposition’ and shove it.”

  I thought back on our first encounter and wondered if he was actually trying to provoke a lord of Hell. Regardless of how skilled he thought he was, that was a terrible idea. But he was a wizard. They were all about studying, understanding, and analyzing the supernatural weirdness of our world.

  I knew he had a plan. He had to or he was dead. I hoped he had a plan.

  “This generation is especially rude,” Alastor lamented. “Now, listen well child. Think on all you lack in this life. Think of all that your meager power has brought you and consider what I can bring you with true power.”

  My patron amazed me with its use of the Voice, so subtle and powerful. It was odd to be an observer of that power in action. The display also made me feel like a rank amateur. If I’d had a better handle on my power, would I have fared better in the shadow realm? Would I have had to let Alastor take over? Would Oliver have gotten away in the first place?

  I could feel that my patron was pleased with himself. “Alright child. Now for my proposition—”

  “I wasn’t interested before,” Bryce said, eyes placid and bored. “And after that pathetic display, I’m definitely not now. I wouldn’t even call you a minor leaguer. What do I have to do to merit a visit from an actual power player in Hell?”

  The devil hesitated for a fraction of a second before lunging at the young man with impossible speed. Bryce didn’t move. I thought he was frozen with fear. But then I saw a slight grin as it formed on his mouth.
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  Inches from his face, Alastor collided with an invisible field of magical force. I didn’t know how my skull remained intact after the impact. Maybe it wasn’t. I couldn’t really tell from where I was. The smell of fresh blood told me that Alastor had broken my nose, though that shouldn’t have been hard after my run-in with James Thompson.

  I hoped the bone re-healed quickly. I didn’t want to deal with the fallout of it when I got back in control of my body. I told myself “when” and not “if” on purpose. I had legitimate concerns about coming out of the encounter with Bryce alive that I couldn’t afford to dwell on.

  “Dumb and weak,” Bryce said in his infuriating tone. “I feel bad for Landon. He’s signed up with a runt of the Fallen litter.”

  Alastor hissed, but instead of focusing on the teenager, he squatted down and tore up the soggy cardboard neither of us bothered to notice before. The Fallen paused as he saw the summoning circle hidden beneath. I whistled from the mental prison.

  Damn, Alastor. That’s top of the line.

  My body stood on a five foot square piece of steel plate inscribed with several circles, the most important of which was an inlaid solid silver band an inch thick etched with arcane runes. There was no chance of disturbing it. The magical barrier was as clear as glass and strong as… well they didn’t make anything that impenetrable.

  Normally, I could see magical auras, though it was harder in daylight. Even locked in the mind-prison, I saw the shades of red in place of darkness, so I knew I should’ve seen the aura of such a powerful spell. Bryce had waited until the last instant to activate it. Ballsy.

  “I won’t forget this, mortal,” my patron said. “You have insulted me, trapped me against my will, and refused my generous offer. You’ve made an enemy for your eternal existence.”

  Bryce shrugged casually. “Judging by you and your thrall here, I think I’ll be alright.”

  Alastor banged my fist against the force field in pure hatred and rage. Even with the sensation filtered, I felt my bones cracking. Damn it, Alastor! You’re not doing any good by breaking my hand! Snarling, he turned and stalked around in the tight circle.