Devil's Hand

by M. E. Patterson

  “I don’t think you’re the one, son. I may not see the true visions anymore these days, but I know a working prophecy when I hear one. It was written that you would come here.” He smiled. “And here you are.”

  Trent thought for a moment. “The guys–the demons–that I played poker with tonight. They told me I should come here. They wanted me to start hunting, too. But I thought the demons hated you?”

  “Things change over a couple thousand years. There’s a handful of demons–angels too–that have come around to my way of thinking. A lot of ‘em are getting downright nervous with the way things are starting to go. They figure if I was right the last time, maybe I’m worth believing this time.”

  “And you trust them, after what they did to you?”

  “Trust is a difficult word, Trent. First off, you never trust a demon. Just ain’t smart. But that doesn’t mean they can’t still work at your side. You mortals have always been so fond of putting everything in the black or the white. But it just ain’t so. There’s a lot of gray out there.” He looked toward the small office window and watched the white snow blow mindlessly against the black night.

  “Okay, so let me see if I understand.” Trent paused for a second to sum everything up in his mind. “I’ve lost my soul. I have your powers. I’m supposed to take up your job. And I’ll probably have to buddy up to demons to do it.”

  “That about sums it up. Not just demons, though. You’ll have to work with demons, some of the grigori, even some of the remaining angels. And other mortals, of course. It’s not an easy job.”

  “But somebody’s gotta do it, huh?”

  Ramón inhaled from the cigarette and winked.

  It was a lot to take in, but Trent had gotten used to that over the course of the day. Susan’s loss had sent him down an unclear path; any kind of direction that might clear it up was welcome. Another question crossed his mind.

  “You said your powers changed in the places of shadow, right? You couldn’t predict the future anymore, but you could mess with it?”

  Ramón nodded.

  “So does that mean I am the luckiest man alive? I’ve been changing my own future all this time? Fixing the deal to get the best hand?”

  Ramón frowned and shook his head. He took the cigarette from his mouth and leaned forward a bit in his chair.

  “Sorry I have to be the one to tell you, Trent, but you got it all wrong.”

  “Just tell me the truth,” said Trent.

  “There was a creature that I fought with once, in the shadow realms. It was the only shadow creature I never defeated. Escaped before I could kill it. Damn thing actually managed to hurt me, something that no creature had ever done or has ever done since.” He smiled. “Well, except you I suppose.

  “The damage it caused affected my celestial gifts and they were never the same after that. The creature was called a Bringer of Nightmares, and in damaging me, its nightmares twisted my own abilities. I couldn’t see true visions anymore, but I could make something else. I could bring some twisted version of the future and make it true.”

  Trent’s eyes widened. The notion that Ramón was getting at had begun to seep into his thoughts.

  “You’re the bringer of bad fate, Trent. Corrupt karma. Evil mojo. Bad vibrations. Whatever you wanna call it.”

  Ramón took a long puff and exhaled the smoke toward the ceiling, where it lingered as a fine gray cloud. His face betrayed a deep sadness.

  “Trent, you’re walkin’ doom.”

  A long silence passed between them while Ramón watched the snow outside the window. Trent considered the ramifications of his new knowledge. If he hadn’t been lucky, then that explained a lot of things that had always bugged him–like how he could turn opponents’ hands bad even when he had nothing in his own cards. Why he could never win at the slots. It also raised in him the worry that a number of other things were, in a sense, his fault. He thought about Susan’s death at the hands of the Render and felt a cold, numb feeling seeping into his chest.

  “What about Celia? And Zamagiel?”

  Ramón raised an eyebrow and stubbed out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray. “I know Zamagiel, but who’s Celia?”

  Trent stammered for a moment. He had just blindly assumed Ramón would know everything.

  “Celia. The girl I rescued this morning. Salvatore–Zamagiel–was trying to kill her.”

  “Oh, I get it. She must be one of his kids. So you wanna go down to the Luxor and take him out, save her life? Good. I tracked him here a year ago. Couldn’t help myself. Then I realized I couldn’t do much about him with half my powers in you.”

  “The Luxor?”

  “You know, big black pyramid hotel on the end of The Strip–”

  “Yeah, I know what it is.”

  “That’s where he’s been hidin’ out.”

  “So how do I kill him?” Trent asked.

  “Zamagiel? He’s just like any other angel. Hard to kill, but it can be done. On Earth, we have to use host bodies, infect the weak-minded living and take ‘em over. Kill the body, we have nowhere else to go, and we’re stuck. If you bury the body with an angel still inside– Well, you get the picture.” He paused to consider things. “I guess you can burn the body too. That’s the only real way to actually get rid of an angel for good. Well, for a while at least. Why do you think some religions like burning dead bodies so much?”

  “But how do I take him down in the first place?”

  “Well that’s just something you’ll have to figure out. Part of the fun of it. ‘Course, now that you know what you know, maybe that’ll help some.”

  Trent nodded. He noticed that Ramón was glancing more frequently now at the snow-filled window above the desk, as if nervous about something.

  “What do I do next?” Trent asked.

  Ramón looked through the office doorway, toward the kitchen. Without turning his head to face Trent, he said, “Well, it looks like we’ve got some friends outside. I suppose you’re going to have to deal with them, first.” He raised an old hand and pointed toward the kitchen.

  In a panic, Trent whirled around in his chair and looked through the office doorway. His gaze traveled down the hall, past the arbor, over the ornate dining room table, past the now-refilled coffee carafe, until it finally settled on the large glass window on the far side of the kitchen. Standing only inches from the glass were the two tall blonds in their impeccable business suits. Their faces were impassive and still, marked only by eyes with no corneas, just huge black pupils staring back at Trent, twin voids of absolute nothingness.

  “Shit!” he yelled and jumped from his seat as he reached for the gun no longer in his waistband.

  Fuck.

  “Whoa! Hold on there!” barked Ramón. “They can’t come inside. There are rules. Just settle down.”

  Trent calmed some, but all of his nerves burned with tension. A dead sensation began to drown him like a thick, gray fog. It filled his chest first, then his throat, and then slowly oozed its way into his face and skull. He clenched his fists tight.

  “Just settle down, vaquero. One last thing you need to understand before you head back out there.” Ramón got up from his chair and walked toward the kitchen, gesturing for Trent to follow.

  “Yeah?” Trent’s voice had turned low. His gaze never left the unblinking stare of the two blonds outside.

  “If you don’t listen to a damn thing I’ve said all night,” said Ramón, “at least remember this piece of advice: demons lie.”

  Trent nodded. Then it struck him that Ramón was a demon, or at least something close. “Then that means...”

  He trailed off without finishing the sentence. He didn’t need to. A lot of what Ramón had told him was probably true. It was up to Trent to decide which things happened to be lies. He realized it for what it was: not an explanation of fact, but a test of faith.

  “What’s with their eyes?” Trent asked.

  Ramón glanced toward the door.

  “The
angels? Pupils don’t need to dilate. You don’t need to squint if you can stare at the Light of God.”

  Trent watched the two men outside the window. They stood, unmoving, staring with their unblinking all-black eyes, hands clasped behind their backs. It unnerved Trent.

  “Ramón,” he said, “tell me one thing true before I go. “

  Ramón shrugged and took a sip from his own fresh cup of java. “Shoot.”

  “When we were falling from that plane, you stopped struggling and stretched your arms out. I remember your smile. Why?”

  Ramón took another sip, cocked his head slightly to one side, and regarded Trent for a moment before answering. “Lost my wings when God threw me from Heaven. Been falling ever since.” He considered the ceiling. “You know, Trent, there’s a big difference between falling and flying. When you’re flying, you’re the one in control, even if you’re going straight fucking down.”

  21

  THE TWO BLONDS LEFT AFTER giving Celia into the custody of the Metro Police officers, who did not seem too happy about the interjection of authority. One officer, a skinny black guy with a neatly trimmed moustache, handed Celia the apple that had originally been taken from her jacket. He said she could keep it since dinner was already past and they would not be giving her any food until morning. When she replied with a question about how long they’d be keeping her, the black cop had shrugged.

  “This one’s above us. Agents said you’re being held for your own safety.”

  The other officer, a pale, younger man with way too much fat on his frame and a double-chin below too-close, piggy eyes, had said, “They said it was only temporary, so don’t worry. Something about you being let free when the time was right and we don’t gotta worry about it.” He snorted. “Whatever that means.”

  So now Celia sat on the dingy, concrete floor of her cell–a lockup normally reserved for drunks, prostitutes, and wife-beaters–with no food save an apple, and a phone call she couldn’t use because there was no one to call.

  The cops occupied a table just outside her cell, playing cards and talking about things she’d rather not be privy to, such as the size of a fellow officer’s tits, or how officer so-and-so had caught the clap from a prostitute last week that he had arrested the week before.

  Celia’s first instinct was to cry, but she felt the emotional center of her mind receding. The part that was at the forefront screamed “No crying!” Instead, she looked down at the shiny red apple in her hand. She felt hungry, but something about the apple made her hesitate. It wasn’t that she distrusted Snake, though she didn’t trust him to any great extent. It just didn’t feel like the right time to eat the thing.

  “Yeah,” said the black cop, holding his cards way too far in front of him.

  At any real poker table, Celia thought, he would be showing his hand to half the people in the room.

  “So, I dunno about you, but those blond guys freaked me out,” the cop said while chewing on his moustache.

  The subject of the two blonds hadn’t come up before now. Celia found that strange considering how unhappy the cops had been at the intrusion on their turf.

  The other officer shook his head and neatly folded his hand facedown on the table. Then he leaned across toward his companion while glancing around to be sure no one was watching. “I think they’re maybe NSA or something. You know, government spooks.”

  “NSA? Why the hell would NSA be messing with a little girl?” Moustache shook his head and gestured toward Celia with his thumb. “Nah, I’ll bet she’s one of those rich kids or something that got kidnapped by that dude. Maybe they finally got him on the run. Those guys probably work for her folks or whatever.” He paused. “And you know, there’s that syndrome or whatever that happens when you get kidnapped. Can’t remember what it’s called but you get all attached to the guy, don’t wanna leave, so we gotta keep her in there.” He gestured toward her cell.

  “That’s messed up, man.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I still think they’re NSA.”

  “You think everyone is NSA! You probably think your old lady is NSA, working for some kinda underground fat-lady espionage team. Like Charlie’s Fat Angels or some shit.” Moustache laughed.

  Pudgy didn’t look too amused. “Fuck you,” he said, and laid down his cards for a second insult.

  He had three kings, easily enough to beat Moustache’s pair of eights.

  Moustache turned in his chair to address Celia, who was sitting on the floor cross-legged behind the cell bars.

  “Hey, kid. You rich or something?”

  Celia’s first instinct was to shrug and tell them no, but then a different idea wormed its way into her head. “Yeah,” she replied.

  “No she’s not,” said Pudgy. “She’s just messing with you.”

  Moustache considered this for a minute. He needed more evidence to make his point. “Whose daughter are you, then?”

  Celia considered for a moment, but her mind was moving quickly and it didn’t take long. She tossed out the name of one of the wealthiest casino barons in the city. “Jerry Warman, you know who that is?”

  Moustache’s eyes lit up. Bingo, she thought. “Yeah, yeah! He’s the guy owns all the casinos, right? I didn’t know he had a kid...”

  Celia decided to add on a little extra. “Yeah, he doesn’t talk about me much. Oh, and you should hold your cards closer when you’re looking at ‘em. I could tell you had a pair of eights from all the way over here.”

  Moustache looked embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

  He scowled and then perked back up and turned to Pudgy. “See, I told you she was rich. Damn I’m good. They should set me up as detective. Fuck this street patrol bullshit.”

  Pudgy still wasn’t convinced. “Man, she’s just yanking your chain. Everybody knows Warman, so she’s just telling you what you wanna hear.”

  Moustache looked annoyed. “Dude, you are one paranoid little fatty. Think everybody’s always lying to you.”

  “I’m a cop! Everyone always does!”

  Celia was waiting for the next part. She could feel her hands trembling.

  Moustache turned around in his chair again. “Kid, you got some ID to prove that?”

  Celia let out a long exhale to calm herself. She smiled, “Yeah, bring me my jacket.”

  Moustache, caught up in his theory, didn’t even hesitate. “Sure, which one?”

  “Black. Leather.”

  He jumped up from the table and went over to the set of cubbies they used to hold prisoners’ personal effects. Celia’s jacket had been stuffed unceremoniously into one of them. Moustache yanked it out and headed back toward the cell. He didn’t even bother to search the jacket himself for the ID. It was his first mistake.

  “Thanks,” Celia said as she took the jacket through the cell bars.

  Instinctively, her hand went into the inside pocket and, sure enough, there was The Book. Its surface warmed instantly to her touch. She pulled it out and carefully set it on the floor next to her, though even removing her fingers from its surface was near unbearable. She reached back into the jacket as Moustache watched. Celia made a show of searching the pockets, then shook the jacket, and then finally made a sour face.

  “Those guys must have taken my ID.”

  “Dammit! They can’t take evidence out of here!”

  “Fuck man, they’re NSA. They can do whatever they want.”

  “I’m calling the Chief.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. If you’re wrong and they are fed spooks, you’ll be naked, hanging upside-down by your feet in South America by next week.”

  Moustache considered this piece of advice–albeit bizarre. “Yeah, fine. I’ll give ‘em a couple hours. They don’t come back with that ID, I’m gonna raise all hell.”

  Pudgy shook his head and dealt the next round of cards. Moustache turned back to Celia, gesturing for her to return the jacket through the bars.

  “Can I at least keep my book? It’s really borin
g in here.”

  Moustache was too pissed off to worry about it. “Yeah, whatever.” It was his second mistake.

  Celia handed the jacket back through the bars and then took The Book and shuffled to the small bench seat at the back of the cell, where she opened the green-bound paperback beneath the dim light of the buzzing half-broken fluorescent bulb. Moustache returned to his seat at the card table, grumbling all the while.

  “Damn, man, it’s getting cold in here,” said Pudgy, rubbing his arms for warmth.

  “Yeah, this weather is crazy. Never seen anything like it.”

  “Somebody leave a door open or something?”

  Moustache shrugged.

  Celia read furiously. She didn’t know when–or even if–the blonds were coming back, but she wanted to make sure she wasn’t around when they did. At first, she wasn’t sure where to look or how she was going to use The Book for her escape, but as her fingers thumbed through the pages, a cold, malevolent force filled her heart.

  The text on some pages of The Book had been written in an odd, intricate script, all sharp lines and tiny circles at the corners. These pages felt dangerous, somehow, and powerful, and Celia knew instinctively that her escape could be found there. She did not bother to consider what that freedom might cost.

  Finally, she settled upon one page with only a small amount of the unusual script. Though Celia had never seen this writing before in her life, it made immediate sense to her. She began to read it aloud, her voice strong and unwavering.

  “Hey, quiet over there!” shouted Moustache. “I said you could read, not talk.”

  Celia did not stop. Her voice grew louder as she read, and coupled strangely with an increase in the volume from the buzzing fluorescent bulb above them.

  “What the fuck?” Moustache got up from his chair, annoyed. It was his third, and final, mistake.

  As soon as Moustache touched the metal bar of the cell with his hand, the iron turned ice-cold, throwing waves of steam into the air. His skin welded to the icy bar like a kid playing on a frozen jungle gym without gloves. He screamed, trying in vain to pull his aching flesh from the hissing metal.