by SM Reine
Yet he wasn’t prepared. There was no preparing for what happened next.
Cèsar, by contrast, was already as ready for the convention as he was likely to be. He paced on the lawn with none of the donut-bearing languor he’d shown before the Breaking. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, his tie was undone, and his hands were crammed in his pockets.
He hadn’t told Fritz his decision.
After a moment, Cèsar checked his watch, crossed to a warded gate, and opened it to allow an unwelcome guest inside.
It was Gary Zettel. Fritz recognized that stature, distinctive as a gorilla’s thumbprint. Zettel clutched at Cèsar’s shirt. His mouth opened wide enough for Fritz to see it at a distance, but Fritz couldn’t hear what Zettel was yelling.
By contrast, Cèsar’s body language was all about appeasement. Fritz could hear Cèsar’s words through the bond. Calm down. Talk slower. What did Suzy do?
The information Zettel supplied also transmitted through the bond. Suzy had taken the Focus, collapsed the dimension, and left no safe haven for members of the Apple. The Genesis Convention was their last chance to get Adam’s revenge now. The Apple was dead.
Fritz turned away. He didn’t want to hear what Cèsar would tell Zettel.
For now, Fritz could still believe that Cèsar was going to side with him. Turn Zettel over. Destroy the Apple. Remain a loyal aspis to his kopis. Validate that Fritz was not as bad as his father.
Lolita was open on Fritz’s bed, right next to the suit. He’d pulled it out of his office’s trashcan and taken it home. He was thinking about throwing it in the trash again. Or maybe doing something more permanent—like setting it on fire.
He dressed with aggressive precision. Prosthesis through one pant leg. Biological foot through the other. Sock suspenders, pants, belt. On and on.
When Fritz was done, he stepped out onto the balcony again. Cèsar and Zettel were still there. Zettel appeared to be searching his pockets, and soon came up with a lovely, egg-shaped object. Panic flooded the bond from Cèsar when he stuffed the object in his jacket.
A bomb. Fritz felt the knowledge settle over him like a mist.
Zettel had just given Cèsar a bomb to kill the Genesis convention.
And as Fritz adjusted his cufflinks, he couldn’t help but hear Cèsar’s last words to Zettel.
“All right, all right. Go hide. I’ll plant the bomb.”
Fritz was in the study when Cèsar finally sought him out. The aspis stood in the doorway, arms dangling loose at his sides, his button-down not-so-buttoned over his undershirt. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his face. Or anything, really.
By contrast, Fritz was perfectly comfortable. His shelves were covered in red glass globes depicting infernal planes. He’d tossed several of his dad’s journals into the fireplace. Leaping flames replaced the heat the sun could no longer provide through Malebolge’s smoke. And Fritz was wretchedly comfortable.
Los Angeles now resembled the Hell that Fritz had grown up in with the Friederlings. He was as twisted on the inside as Proserpine.
This was where he belonged.
“Tell me about your dad,” Cèsar said.
It was a total non sequitur, and yet somehow, there was also no line of conversation more relevant in that moment. Fritz took a long, slow drink of his bourbon to empty the glass. “No,” he said once it was empty.
Cèsar tossed Lolita on the coffee table. “Where’s the Purple Heart?”
“I threw that book in the oven,” Fritz said.
“You forgot to turn it on.” Cèsar shrugged off his jacket, tossed it on top of the inverted globes. “It smells like overcooked barbecue in here. The fuck are you doing, having the fire going? You want to suffocate?”
Fritz remained immobilized as Cèsar swept through the room. He jabbed the logs in the fireplace so that they’d crumble, giving room for his arm to snake inside the chimney and close the flue. No air for the fire, no fire.
Cèsar flung open the curtains, rings screeching against rods. There was no perceptible change to the lighting in the room. It was as dark outside as within.
“Proserpine ate the Purple Heart,” Fritz said.
“She ate it?”
“Swallowed it whole.”
“I hope her asshole prolapses trying to shit it out.” Cèsar took the glass out of Fritz’s hand.
“Refill it,” Fritz said.
“You’ve already had too much. I can feel myself getting drunk.”
“There are a dozen bottles left. I plan to drink them all before the world ends. If I can get rid of them before I have to share with the members of the Genesis Convention, all the better.”
“Why? Because your booze is too good for them?”
Because Fritz didn’t want to be in his right mind when the Genesis Convention convened. “My father was supposed to go to the meeting today.”
Cèsar took the chair next to Fritz’s. “He was a member of the OPA?”
“No.” Fritz stood almost as quickly as Cèsar sat. He limped over to the wet bar and got a fresh glass. “Men of Friederling blood have agreements with angels going back centuries.”
“Naamah.” Cèsar gazed into the coals smoldering into the fireplace, unaware of exactly how much it hurt to hear that name.
“Yes, Naamah.”
Cèsar had been with Fritz when he fulfilled one part of his family’s legend by cutting the heart out of Naamah. She had fallen from Heaven, so killing her had been an act of mercy. Someone had to save Naamah from herself. It just so happened to have been Fritz.
“Are you Gray?” Cèsar asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
“I’m not Gray.” It was a term used for people who were half-human, half-demon, or half-angel. “My family interbred with angels long before we joined with the House of Belial, so there are a few drops in the line. Nothing worthy of note in my generation. I wouldn’t have been able to spend as much time in Malebolge as a boy if I were ethereal Gray.”
“Was your dad Gray?” Cèsar asked. Dogged as always. An investigator to his core.
“I had no relationship with my father,” Fritz said.
Cèsar took the bourbon glass out of his hand. “Did you see your dad while you were in Las Vegas?”
Fritz glared at the hollow of Cèsar’s throat. It was a spot he ended up glaring at a lot, since that was exactly where his eye level fell on his aspis. “I didn’t even know he was in Las Vegas. He was brokering a deal when he got killed in the Breaking. I found out that I needed to replace him at the convention the same time I learned of his death.”
Lady Tresor had broken the news by visiting Fritz at a Union facility in southern Nevada. Her wrinkled old face had been grim and annoyed. She never wanted to deal with Fritz.
The worst son of the Friederlings, she’d always said.
Lady Tresor had informed Fritz that Werner was dead, that Fritz would need to run the Genesis Convention, and then walked out and that was that.
Fritz was the heir.
“I wasn’t even raised by my father,” Fritz said, grabbing yet another bottle of bourbon. “That’s what makes it so absurd. I had a wet nurse. Medieval, isn’t it? She cared for me until I was old enough to go to boarding school, then I spent my adolescence in the care of teachers, up until the moment I decided to run away.”
He’d been a traveling kopis until meeting Hope Jimenez, getting married, and launching an adult life that had nothing and everything to do with the House of Belial.
“I didn’t know,” Cèsar said. “Any of it. I didn’t know.”
“Most people don’t.”
“Sure, but I’m not most people.”
Wasn’t he, though? Cèsar had a beautiful sister, an adoring brother, a grandfather who cared about him. He had grown up in the care of family when his parents became incapable of doing what parents were meant to do.
He was incredibly, painfully, excruciatingly “most people.”
Fritz took a swig of bour
bon from the bottle to wet his lips. Then he grabbed a fresh glass. Cèsar put his hand across the mouth before Fritz could poor.
“That bourbon is too expensive for us to wrestle over it,” Fritz said.
Cèsar took it from him anyway. He set it on a high shelf. “Fuck the Genesis Convention. Let’s go to the House of Belial right now. Let’s free Isobel’s cousins.”
He said that like they were her beloved family, not strangers who shared some segment of DNA. Isobel had never known them. They didn’t even know Isobel’s name, or that she was married to the man who held her contracts.
“I’m never going back to the House of Belial. Never.”
Anger crossed Cèsar’s features. “And you wonder why I joined the Apple.”
Actually, Fritz hadn’t been wondering any such thing. It was simple. Cèsar had joined it because Fritz was a bad guy, and the Apple were his enemies, and that was the best way to fight evil.
“That’s what you think?” Cèsar asked. “You think you’re a bad guy?”
Damn. The bond always went two ways, but Cèsar was usually too distracted to listen to it.
“I’m going to a meeting of evil bad guys today,” Fritz said. “I fit in with them. Speaking of which, it’s time for me to go. People are going to start arriving and—”
Cèsar grabbed Fritz’s arm, cutting him off. “Stop it.”
Fritz could have broken free of his grip easily. They’d fought so many times in his dojo that there was no question who would win. But Fritz felt as unwilling to fight as he was to lift his gaze to meet Cèsar’s.
It was hard enough being touched by Cèsar like this. Their bond had gone unrenewed for so long. A feverish aching had set in, and Fritz needed more than a hand to slake it.
“What do you want from me?” Fritz asked, still glaring out at the hallway.
Cèsar was quiet so long that Fritz had to look up. Had to meet his gaze. Had to know what he was thinking.
His eyes had gone troubled, like stormy desert scorched by the fires of Hell. “We can’t stay like this,” Cèsar said. He spoke so softly that Fritz had to lean closer to hear him. “It’s unsustainable.”
“There’s nothing to sustain,” Fritz said. There were only a couple hours until everyone arrived and Cèsar bombed the convention.
“This is nothing?” Cèsar asked, fingertips biting Fritz’s tricep.
“Nothing,” Fritz said.
Cèsar moved first. Fritz wasn’t certain of much, but he was certain of that.
When they drew nearer, it was because Cèsar had bent down, lowering himself to Fritz’s height. It was Cèsar’s fingers that had locked around Fritz’s hand, holding him tightly in place. It was Cèsar’s lips that traveled over Fritz’s, breathing warmth and—
Chapter 19
June 2015 — San Francisco, California
“The fuck he did,” I interrupted.
Fritz looked up. “Pardon?”
“Julius Eagle did not kiss you,” I said.
The day had worn into nighttime, so it was dark on the Friederling X yacht. Fritz had been telling his part of the story for so long that Suzy and Isobel had headed below deck to grab food, and for the moment, I was alone with this blond douchebag and the smoldering remains of San Francisco.
Fritz frowned at my protests. “Does the idea of two consenting adult men kissing disturb you, Mr. Hawke?”
“Well, no, I mean…no.” Being accused of homophobia didn’t sit right. I was living through the apocalypse, and gayness was the least of my worries. “I just know there was no kissing, and for the sake of investigative integrity, I have to keep the facts straight.”
The women emerged back onto the deck, carrying a couple snack bags and a two-liter. The sight of tortilla chips made me drool even though they were a cheap store brand. The guaranteed price of two dollars was stamped on the front of the bag.
“How do you know there was no kissing?” Fritz asked, a smile playing over his lips as he leaned his temple against the now-empty snifter. He was drinking almost as much in present-day as he had in the last part of his monologue. “Did you know Julius Eagle?”
“Obviously not. But I’ve been listening to this story for a while now, and I’m—you know, I’m a good detective, I get a sense of people fast. I haven’t gotten a sense of the gay from this Julius guy.”
“Gay? There are gay parts of the story?” Suzy asked, flopping next to Fritz, where Isobel had been sitting before. She tore the bag open and started eating. She slapped Fritz’s hand when he reached for a chip. “I can’t believe I missed the butt stuff. Can we rewind and replay?”
“No, because there’s no butt stuff! I think,” I added hastily.
“Why do you think I would make up a same-sex kiss between myself and a friend? Why would I lie?” Fritz asked, staring pointedly at me.
All three of them were staring at me now.
“A kiss. Wow.” Isobel cleared her throat, cheeks red. She looked really interested in opening a package of Oreos.
“It’s not true,” I bit out through clenched teeth. “Don’t ask how I know. I’ve just got a really good sense that it’s not true.”
“Okay, then it’s not true,” Fritz said. His eyes were still dancing with mirth. “After we didn’t kiss, I planned to ask Cèsar for forgiveness in regards to my family’s sins.”
“You mean Julius,” Suzy said.
“Yes,” Fritz said. “That’s what I said. I hoped Julius would forgive me. At that point I was relying on it rather desperately.”
“You’re cute when you’re insecure.” Suzy pinched his cheek hard.
“I am never cute,” Fritz said, half-heartedly fending her off. She left a brilliant-red mark on his tanned cheek. “I am a very good kisser, as my aspis could tell you—”
“No, he absolutely could not,” I interrupted loudly. And then I added again, “I think.”
“But I am never cute,” Fritz concluded. “In any case, I didn’t get an opportunity to have a level discussion on the matter. That was when Julius told me that my wife and his girlfriend had gone to the House of Belial without telling me.”
Chapter 20
August 2013 — Los Angeles, California
“They did what?”
Fritz stared at Cèsar, hoping that his aspis was lying even though he knew in his heart of hearts that Cèsar was absolutely telling the truth.
Isobel and Suzy had gone to the House of Belial.
Suddenly, despite emptying multiple bottles of bourbon, Fritz felt completely sober.
He snapped his arm out of Cèsar’s grip and launched himself up the hallway. Not toward the helipad where Lady Tresor and Makael would soon arrive, but toward his bedroom to change. A bespoke Italian suit was not appropriate clothing for visits to Hell, even if he was a Friederling.
Cèsar was right behind him. “What are you doing?”
Fritz yanked his tie off, tossed it onto the bed, shed his jacket. “I have to bring Belle and Suze back from the House of Belial before Proserpine finds them.”
“You’re not going to get them out of there until they save the enslaved,” Cèsar said.
“That’s the problem.” Fritz grabbed a leather jacket—essentially armor for the purposes of surviving Hell’s hostile climate. He also changed into boots. Malebolge was more like a midden than a proper city. “There are no enslaved to rescue.”
“What?”
“I’m aware that you think I’m a monster, and it’s not an impression I intend to dispel.” Fritz opened his closet, then the hidden door at its rear. That was where he hid his favorite knives. “I am a monster. But I am not a monster who would surrender my family’s slaves to a nightmare demon, even if it were in pursuit of saving my aspis. Nor will I permit Proserpine to hurt my wife and your girlfriend with their idiotic hero complexes!”
Cèsar’s mouth opened. It closed.
“Isobel’s anger reached me. I had the slaves moved to Earth by the household staff hours ago,” Fritz said. “T
hey are still under contract, but they are safe, and Belle is risking her life for absolutely nothing.”
Fritz jammed a couple choice knives into holsters within his leather jacket, then zipped it. He was as ready to enter Malebolge as any kopis could be.
“Do whatever you’re going to do with Gary Zettel,” Fritz said. “Kill everyone, kill no one. Turn Zettel over. Do the hokey-pokey and turn yourself about. I don’t care.”
Fritz was halfway out the door when he heard Cèsar speak behind him.
“Sorry,” he said, very quietly. “I should have known.”
The tenor of the bond had shifted. Fritz didn’t understand the fresh surge of emotion. He had to let his gaze connect with Cèsar’s, allowing the bond to peek open wider.
Cèsar was feeling admiration. It showed all over his face, bond or no bond.
Fritz couldn’t remember the last time Cèsar had looked as though he admired his kopis.
Perhaps they had not kissed in the study that day. Perhaps the lengthy and intensely sexual story that Fritz could have related if not interrupted was also untrue. But what passed between the two of them in that moment was, in a way, far more intimate than the exchange of bodily fluids.
At last, it felt like their separation sickness was healing.
Fritz took Cèsar’s hand, clutching it tightly.
He remembered meeting Cèsar for the first time on the beach where he’d nearly punched an incubus to death. It wasn’t uncommon for the OPA to split up clashes between demons and mundanes, but Cèsar had been different. He’d survived. More than that, there had been intense regret in his eyes because he hadn’t liked hurting the incubus. Fritz had offered him a job on the spot.
It was much too late to heal this rift between them. Knowing that Isobel was in the House of Belial right now, going for an empty slave quarters…
“We’ll talk later,” Fritz said.
Cèsar didn’t say anything.
It used to be close to impossible to reach Malebolge. Close to impossible, but not quite. Traversing the dimensions was always possible. Each separate plane connected to another via physical junctures. The House of Belial had mapped the junctures in the infernal dimensions and Fritz had the globes in his study to prove it.