These were the souls of Paimon’s favorite conquests, some only centuries old, others millennia, and each step they took pained them, for they never stopped dancing, never stopped blowing their trumpets, never were allowed a moment of peace in all their deaths. And behind them, a dromedary, its camel hair carefully manicured, its back saddled with fine silks and ancient leather, carried the most august, handsome creature Colby had ever seen. Paimon.
Paimon was dressed from head to toe in fineries, his eyes ringed perfectly in mascara, his olive skin without blemish, his long, lustrous black hair looped through silver and platinum barrettes, rings, and headbands. He reminded Colby instantly of Rudolph Valentino in a way that made it seem as if Valentino had been nothing but a pale imitation, trying its best to evoke the demon to the best of its earthly constraints. The demon gazed down from its swaying beast, held up a single swishing hand, and stopped his procession at once. He looked at the three companions—his entertainers still dancing in place—grimacing haughtily. Then he locked eyes with Colby, shrieking with an unearthly clamor that vibrated down the bones and back up through the soul.
Colby winced, unprepared for such a caustic pronouncement. He waved his arms, trying to stop him, but the demon spoke in an abyssal argot so foul that Colby found it hard to form his own words. “Stop! Stop!” he finally belted out. “Paimon, speak to me as would a man.”
Paimon stopped, pursed his lips, and looked straight down his nose at Colby. “I have appeared. Let us speak then, as men do.”
“I’ll make this brief. I know you don’t want to be anywhere near—”
“Oh, don’t concern yourself with that on my account. I’m not going to let a small thing like that little girl and her ring keep me from enjoying my time with the great Colby Stevens.” Paimon tightened his face as he said the last part, fingers pinched together as if holding a teacup.
Paimon spoke with a gentle, lilting voice, ending each of his sentences with a vocal upturn that made them sound mocking and sarcastic. He couldn’t keep his hands still, not while speaking, waving for emphasis in the midst of each word, hands like the blade of a windmill at the end of limp wrists. His poise was the height of pretension; even the way he held his head was conceited. There was a way about him so regal that it could make even the aristocratic feel downright vulgar by comparison. When he cast his eyes around a place, he did so as if he was disappointed by the filth and squalor surrounding him, which Colby imagined he did even in the most lavish of accommodations.
Yashar was right. Colby wanted to punch him square in the jaw long before he spoke, but even more so now that he had. He fidgeted, trying not to make a fist, aggravation pulling taut the muscles in his hand.
Paimon smiled, delighted that he had so easily gotten under the boy’s skin. He lifted his leg gracefully, sliding off the side of his dromedary and onto the ground without so much as disturbing a grain of sand. “Let’s go inside,” he said.
He clapped and a lavish tent appeared, a dozen lanterns lighting it. It seemed to blaze like a star in the sea of moonlight. Paimon turned and made his way toward it.
“I told you,” whispered Yashar beneath his breath.
“Shut it,” Colby whispered back.
Paimon stepped inside and made another disappointed face. “No, I’ll need a rug for the dog.” He turned to Colby, who followed distantly behind him. “No dogs on the pillows. You know my rules?”
Colby nodded. “I do.”
“Good,” he said, taking a seat on an ornately stitched and gilded pillow. “So, have you fucked her yet?”
“What?”
“I said have you fucked her yet? The girl. The loci. The blonde with the ass in the tight jeans you’re always pining for. Have you fucked her? Crawled deep inside that tiny little twat and given it to her good? Slipped a finger in and tickled her insides? Rolled her over and taken every hole you can? Have you done that, Colby? Have you given her the good fucking you’ve been craving? Drenched her in every fluid you have until you can’t come anymore? Well, have you, Colby? Colby Stevens?”
Colby’s expression dropped, his gut roiling. “No,” he said, now terrified of where this conversation was headed.
“Sit, sit. But you want to, don’t you?”
“I think I’ll stand.”
Paimon tsked. “My home, my rules. You’ll sit.”
Colby slumped onto a pillow of his own, crossing his legs, trying to remain stoic.
“He’s just trying to humiliate you, Colby,” said Yashar.
“Of course I’m trying to humiliate him. He’s a wee little child who wants to play with the men. But you can’t play with the men, can you, Colby? Because a man would have fucked the shit out of that tight little piece of ass by now. And you’re no man. You can’t even talk to her, let alone fuck her. You want to fuck her, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Colby, his insides hollowing out, shrinking away into the deepest, darkest, most hidden parts of him. His face was flushed with shame. But he couldn’t lie. Not without giving Paimon license to add him to his procession.
“You’ve thought about it, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you thought about getting her on those pretty little knees while you drench her face in your spunk?”
“No.”
Paimon peered severely at Colby, sniffing. “Oh. You haven’t, have you? Oh my lord, you imagine that you respect her.” He laughed, something that sounded like a churlish giggle piped through a calliope. “You poor, pathetic, tiny-cocked little shit. You are worthless. You think that not thinking about that amazing little body on its knees sucking your cock dry and begging for you to fill her holes shows her some kind of dignity. She reads minds, Colby. She knows that’s what guys think about. What you think about. Every guy who sees her wants to plug those holes. What kind of a sissy must she think you are that you try to think about anything but. She deserves better than you tossing off to her beautiful little pink areolae on those free-floating creamy fair-skinned tits of hers. Oh God, maybe I should fuck her. You think she’d like that?”
“No.”
“Would you like to watch that?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t, would you? You’re ashamed of your little pecker. You think it’s not good enough for her, do you? Can’t bear the thought of seeing her get it from real manhood?”
“Are you done yet?” asked Yashar.
“I haven’t even begun!” shouted Paimon. “Answer the question, Colby! Do you think your cock is big enough to fuck her hairless twat and come on her stomach?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh,” said the demon, waving him off. “You really don’t. You really are that fucking pathetic. What about the little girl?” He stood quickly and did a mocking little dance, lowering his voice as he curtsied. “The Queeeeeeeeeen.”
“What about her?”
“Have? You? Thought? About? Fucking? Her?”
“No!” said Colby.
“What is it with you and fucking?” asked Yashar.
“You don’t get to ask questions, Yashar. I ask the questions I feel like until I decide that I’m done. And right now, I feel like asking your chaste little boyfriend about his deviant little sexual fantasies. He’s been around the world, but he’s never been around the world. And he certainly shouldn’t feel like an expert in anything if he can’t even describe what most thirteen-year-olds can detail from memory. Does that embarrass you, Colby? That most middle school boys know what a pussy feels like and you don’t?”
“Yes.”
“Of course it does, you despicable little maggot. You can never please a woman. The only girls inexperienced enough to not know how inept you are at fucking are so young you’d be humiliated to fuck them. But you’d like to fuck them, wouldn’t you. Little girls?”
“No.”
“Oh my God, you are so fucking boring! It’s not even fun to make fun of you! Do you think you can save her?”
“What?”<
br />
“The girl. The Queeeeeen. Do you think you can save her, Colby?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s coming to kill you, you know.”
“I know.”
“But you’d like to, wouldn’t you? Save her?”
Colby sighed, resigned. “Yes.”
“But you can’t save her. Not without damning yourself further. Not without earning our wrath. Are you willing to damn yourself to save her?”
“Is there any better reason to be damned than for a friend?”
“But she’s not your friend. She hasn’t been your friend for a long time. Amy was right about you, we can’t trust you, can we?”
“That depends. What do you have to trust me to do?”
“Keep up your end of the bargain. Kill the girl.”
“You can trust me to keep up my end of the bargain. I’ll be dead before I renege on our deal. I promise you that.”
Paimon eyed Colby closely, once again sniffing deeply, sensing not even the slightest bit of a lie. “I don’t like the way you phrased that. What do you have up your sleeve, Colby?”
“A way to kill the Queen that I dare not speak of lest its revelation ruins the surprise for her.”
“I must know.”
“If I tell you, what is spoken between us will be known by Dantalion, will it not?”
Paimon squinted distastefully. The boy was not wrong. “Dantalion,” he said, as if spitting out bad fruit. “I rescind the question.”
“You didn’t actually ask it. The girl is coming. We don’t have much time. Are you quite done?”
“No. I have nothing but time. You’re the one with the ticking clock. Were she to walk in the tent now, she’d kill you before thinking of enslaving me. I’ll be fine. So tell me, do you think by saving her you can absolve yourself of Ewan Thatcher?”
Colby gritted his teeth, his heart pounding as it sank in his chest.
“You do, don’t you? You think that if you can help one friend you’ve wronged, it will somehow balance the ledger. Don’t you?”
“Something like that.”
“Or exactly like that. Is it exactly like that, Colby Stevens?”
Colby swallowed, his mouth growing increasingly dry. “Yes.”
“You really are a miserable, sad, obvious little boy.” He rolled his eyes and waved Colby off in disgust. “You’re no fun anymore. I’m done with you. Ask your boon and be done with it.”
Colby nodded. The worst of it was over. Or so he hoped. “Great Paimon, I am told you possess knowledge such that you can create nearly any mystical item from memory.”
Paimon stroked his chin. “Of course.”
“And what do you remember of Babylon?”
“I remember everything. Every moment. The name of every corrupted soul in that beautiful bastion of sin.”
“Then I want you to teach me to make Babylonian Demon Traps.”
Paimon’s eyes at once fumed, his skin flushed with anger. He waved Colby off with a dismissive flutter. “What? No! I refuse! What do you need those for?”
Colby stood up and took a bold step forward. “I’ve answered your fucking questions, you foul-mouthed, pompous little pervert. I’ve done your dance and my soul is safe. Will you not grant me the boon?”
“No! I . . . those were not meant for you, Colby Stevens.”
“No. Their knowledge has been wiped from the world, passed down only orally as a legend for centuries. Who, I wonder, would, or even could, have done such a thing?”
Paimon glared at Colby. All of his grace was gone, replaced with blustery indignation.
“Did you do it, Paimon?”
“Yes. Yes I did. I’ve kept that secret safe for centuries, I will not pass it on to you.”
“Excellent. So how does this work? My deal was with Orobas, and your deal with him—so does your eternal servitude come straight to me, or does it go to Orobas and I get Orobas but can trade him his freedom for you?”
“That’s not how it works.”
“The deal was quite clear. Five boons of my choosing for five souls.”
“You haven’t paid the souls.”
“Demons pay first. Them’s the rules. Don’t pretend that you don’t know them, because I sure as shit do. Do you honestly think I’m that stupid?”
“I was hoping you might be. You’re strong, shrewd, but you buckle when someone questions something you might not know and you often take their word for it. It was a gamble.”
“Why don’t you want to teach me to make . . . Babylonian Demon Traps?”
“Because there are few people in this world more suited to abuse them than you.” Paimon relaxed, steadying himself, at once regaining his calm composure. “But you need these for tonight, don’t you?”
“You don’t get to ask questions anymore.”
“It was rhetorical. There’s no other reason you would need them. And I guess I could impart the knowledge of their creation to you. Of course, the materials to make them and the time it would take to fashion them would take far too long for you to acquire and craft . . . and you have, what, but one boon left? Which boon might you ask for? The ingredients? Or the demonic skill and powers to make them in the time prescribed? Decisions, decisions.”
“What are you proposing, Paimon? That you make them for me?”
“I could. But it’s a tough choice. Either ask me how to make them or ask me to make them for you. Hmm. Nail-biter.”
“Make them,” said Colby, coolly.
“What?”
“That’s my boon. Make me two sets.”
Paimon opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated, for a moment slightly embarrassed. “Um, I . . . I can’t.”
“You what?”
“What I mean to say is that I can make them. I can assemble the materials and construct them. But I can’t finish them. I can summon the materials, shape them, inscribe them, bake them in the fires of Hell, but I cannot breathe life into them, not the way you need. That requires a tremendous amount of energy, essence.”
“Dreamstuff.”
“Yes. But once it’s there, I can’t touch them. Can’t manipulate them in any way. That you’ll have to do yourself.”
“How much will it need?”
“Quite a bit. More than you’ll be able to summon natively here.” He hesitated for a moment, thumbing his chin mischievously. “But no more than you might scrape from a powerful artifact.”
“And where am I supposed to find a powerful artifact that I can just will away?”
Paimon cast a crooked finger over to the tent’s wall, grinning all the while. Upon it appeared the vision of two pegs, a pike resting upon them. Ewan’s pike. Ethereal, illusory, but crystal clear in its point. “That will more than suffice.”
“I’m . . . I’m not parting with that.”
“Do you have any other choice? Or would you prefer I make something else for you?”
“You’ll make these.”
“It’ll take me some time. Not long, but long enough for you to decide how important they are to you. I’ll make them. You can finish them. Use whatever you like.”
Colby stewed, as angry as he ever was. For a while he’d thought he’d regained the upper hand with Paimon, only to see that lead evaporate in the last moments. He stared at the vision of the pike, brooding over its potential loss. “Make them,” he said. “I’ll get you what you need.”
Paimon smiled crassly, savoring the win. “Don’t be sore, Colby. You never should have expected to get the best of us. But as a consolation, I’ll deliver the bowls.” He cocked an arrogant eyebrow at Colby, pursing his lips. “As I said, I’m not afraid of a little girl and her ring.” He clapped once gracefully, and with that, he and his procession were gone, the tent along with them. Once again, the three were plunged into the dark of an empty desert lit only by the moon.
“Colby,” said Gossamer. “What are you going to do?”
Colby didn’t lift his gaze from the spot where the vision of t
he pike had been. “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER 56
THE WEIGHT OF THINGS
Colby sat cross-legged in the center of his living room, the John Brown pike across his lap like a prized new toy. Its blade was still razor sharp, gleaming in the orange-yellow light of the dozens of candles burning about the room. While all the blood that had been shed by it had long since been wiped clean, Colby could hear the screams of the departed, feel the grunts and grip of the death blows. Every molecule of the pike resonated with djang, the stories of its bearers, no matter how short, burned indelibly into its core. This was no mere thing. It was an echo of history, banging off the rocks of forever.
And now Colby had to let it go. Say good-bye. Will it into nothing.
He didn’t want to do that. Not at all.
“It’s not him, you know,” said Yashar, sitting idle but impatient beside Gossamer on the couch.
“What?” asked Colby.
“The pike. It’s not him.”
“Do you know about djang, Yashar?”
“Colby,” he said in a withering tone.
“We all put energy out into the universe. Just a little bit of ourselves that vibrates the things around us, leaves a shadow of our thoughts and emotions on our surroundings.”
“I know what djang is, Colby.”
“Ewan’s shadow is here, on this pike. There’s a little bit of him left making it what it is.”
“That pike is not Ewan. Not the Ewan you want to remember. He was gone by then.”
“I know,” said Colby. “But it’s the only thing I have left.” He picked up the pike, closed his eyes, felt the tremors and fury and brutality of its past. For a split second he could feel him, his grip tight, ferocity overwhelming. He was there, his shadow passing over Colby—more a tingle than a man—but there nonetheless. Ewan.
Colby’s eyes stung, wet with tears.
Yashar stood up, putting a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder. “He’s already gone.”
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