2 Death Rejoices

by A. J. Aalto

  I felt the push of power behind me before hearing the slow, heavy tread of Viktor Domitrovich's footsteps. I wondered where Declan was; if he was smart, he'd be hiding under my desk, praying for protection from the Dark Lady above and her Consort.

  The demon king's gaze — the human one, anyway — took Viktor in from head to toe. “Nice ogre, toots.”

  “Thanks. He's handy in a pinch, and really only has one fault.”

  “He doesn't take orders from a chick?”

  “Ok, two faults.”

  “He's a spy for the immortal monarchy?”

  “Fine, three faults. Nobody's perfect.”

  Asmodeus smirked and put a hand under His kilt, and I was afraid; He drew out a long knife with a chainmail glove over the handle, and I was even more afraid. Then He laid it across one arm like a sommelier with a fine bottle of wine for me to examine. It was like the blade had been tailor-made for my life, literally the Zombie Hacker from Hell. When He twisted it against the glare of the sun, the razor-sharp edge ran red as blood.

  “This just became fun,” I told the demon king, my smile brightening. “We should get together more often, do lunch, go for His and hers pedicures.”

  “Do you accept this gift?” Asmodeus leaned forward eagerly, the knife extended.

  I hesitated, squinting suspiciously. “What if I do?”

  “And yea, I say unto the gathered witness of a thousand souls that you shall have delighted your Master's Overlord beyond all expectations, as My chosen one.”

  Wuh-oh. “Chosen?”

  “As I said.”

  “Chosen for?”

  “Stuff,” Asmodeus said.

  “And things?” I asked.

  “Those too.”

  “Afraid I'm going to need you to be a lot more specific. Chosen for…”

  “To be My champion upon these lands.” He made a casual little shrug that could have meant my grisly death followed by the eternal damnation of my soul, or nothing at all. “Or not. Just spit-balling ideas. What do you think?”

  The full power of the Overlord yawned open, a torrent of sensations. I was flooded with broken images, snap-sparks of grave odors, half-uttered cries, the writhing torment of innumerable souls flooding Limbo from the Second Circle, reaching up to grab at the chance to pitch into the open doorway and back into the life-light of Earth. I pressed backward into the solid body of the ogre, and for a moment, was relieved that he was there.

  Viktor bristled behind me and let out an inhuman growl.

  I found my voice. “Demon King's Champion doesn't sound like a job title any sane person should aspire to. No offense.”

  “Hey, none taken,” Asmodeus said. “I can get another champion, don't sweat it. Boatloads of little DemonBringer-wannabes begging for My say-so. I know where some kickass treasures are; can I interest you in one of those?”

  “I'm not much of a material girl.”

  He winked, and put the sword back under his impossibly small flesh-kilt. He held out His other hand as if to drop its contents into mine. “Do as your spirit commands, but accept this gift that your Overlord offers to you, and grant Me one boon in return.”

  “A boon?”

  “Yes, a boon.”

  “I don't do boons. I have a pretty strict no-boon policy.”

  I thought the lips on His ram face tightened a little. “A favor, then.”

  “Big favor or little favor?”

  His human face sneered, revealing shattered teeth like a graveyard after a bombing. “Sweetheart, how many Demon Kings pop up on your porch to ask you for little favors?”

  I swallowed hard, and held out my bare hand. Asmodeus began to lift His, twisting His freakshow wrist, His talon-like nails clicking together as He held it out, palm-down. My hand began to shake. I tried to avoid looking Him in the face but took one unintentional glance up. He captured me in His tractor-beam gaze; for a heart-stopping moment, greasy black trails slithered across His pupils as I felt a soft thump in my hand.

  I forced myself to look down at the ring now sitting in the palm of my hand: a gold ring adorned with nine interlocking crescent moons.

  “And now, Servant of the Eversea, I place this quest before you: there is a new power upon this land, a great and terrible abomination, and I would have it.”

  Goosebumps raced up my arms and the gold ring seemed to grow warm in my hand.

  Asmodeus’ two other heads began to thrash, but His red eyes did not leave mine. “Bring the paladin to heel and usher this wayward abomination into the waiting folds of My affection, to serve Me as you do. To serve Me as your Cold Companion does. To serve Me, not the loa of the Vodou. To serve Me, only Me, and live among the Falskaar Vouras for all eternity.”

  Nine moons. Nine Talents.

  “It's not possible. No revenant — no creature — has all nine psychic Talents.”

  But that was wrong, of course, and I knew it while the words were forming on my tongue. Declan had told me as much. Malas had created as much.

  The female revenant. Anne. Anne was the abomination. Asmodeus wanted Anne.

  For what, I could only imagine. And why a demon king would need my help was also a mystery. Stealing Anne from Malas: not smart. Then again, denying the wishes of the Overlord was probably even less smart. But doing favors for the demon king? Oh so very not smart. Damn it.

  “How would I bring her to you?” I asked.

  Asmodeus smiled gloriously, and for a split second I once again saw past the hideous three-headed demon to the fallen angel inside, Asmodeus as He had been in the order of the Seraphim, a dark-eyed creature of heart-shredding beauty. My pulse hammered so hard that my extremities flushed and I let out an unladylike “unf.” The Earth under my feet trembled, my vision tilted like I was drunk; when it cleared, Asmodeus the hideous three-headed demon king remained.

  “Slide this ring upon her finger,” He said soothingly, like an old man patiently explaining something to a grandchild, “and I shall do the rest.”

  “Easier said than done. She's sort of bite-y.”

  Asmodeus winked. “You'll manage. And, toots?”

  I looked down at the ring and let out a breathy, “Yeah?”

  “You don't actually trust that ogre, do you?” He took the chewed-up fedora out of the ram's mouth and plopped it crookedly on his human head. “You might want to think about who or what he really serves.”

  Asmodeus vanished in a shimmer of heat; I stood there staring into the night air for a full two minutes, waiting for the ogre behind me to react to the demon king's words. Silence gave way to nighttime insects. One of the debt vultures made a low noise in the trees. The crickets resumed their singing. The foreign, unseen bird cooed, and, lifting from its hiding place in the bushes, became a grey-and-white blur of feathers. My first glimpse of the scratching bird, and I was too preoccupied to pay much attention.

  Viktor's retreating footsteps creaked into the pantry and back down the stairs.

  Only then did I let out the breath I'd been holding.

  CHAPTER 54

  “BRING THE PALADIN TO HEEL?” Batten rubbed his goatee thoughtfully.

  “That's what He said.” I drained a diet Dr. Pepper and went to the fridge for another. I held up a beer at him, and he nodded.

  Declan had texted Batten repeatedly from under my desk — which was totally what I should have done — while I was chatting up the demon king in the doorway and Viktor did his doorstop impression. After thoroughly funking-up my soul with the chatty demon's company, there was something very reassuring about having the vampire hunter back under my roof. Batten had settled in and looked determined to stay. I had no intention of doing anything to upset that apple cart.

  Viktor had returned to guarding Chapel. Golden and de Cabrera were waiting at the fish camp for the CDC to release evidence from the bokor's summoning site after Batten had secured an agreement to do so. Declan had excused himself to go upstairs and borrow my shower, and I didn't blame him; in the wake of the demon's passing,
a distinctly greasy miasma of evil clung to the air that both perverted and nauseated anyone with any sensitivity. Even mundane-as-dirt Batten seemed unsettled by it; he squirmed and jittered in his chair, bobbing one knee, shifting to get comfortable. He grumbled something about me needing new chairs, but I was sure that wouldn't solve a thing. I needed to do a good cleansing on the house, if I ever found the time. Even a little sage smudge would help dispel the Overlord's funk.

  I handed Batten his beer, swung one of the old vinyl chairs around to straddle it, and popped my soda can open. “He wants me to ‘usher this wayward creature…’ ”

  “The abomination,” Batten supplied.

  “Right, into the folds of His affection, or some such shit.”

  Batten paused in the act of lifting the beer bottle to his lips, and grimaced. “Don't explain that.”

  Thinking of Asmodeus’ strappy flesh-kilt, I said, “Wouldn't dream of it.” I sipped diet Dr. Pepper. “We assumed that when Spicer said he was after the half-breed, he meant Viktor. But Viktor isn't the abomination Spicer is looking for.”

  Batten grunted. “Or else As—”

  “Don't say His name!” I squawked.

  “What?”

  “You don't say a demon king's name aloud.”

  “Fine. What do you suggest we call Him?”

  “Three-Face?”

  Batten took a pull from his beer, and followed it with three more. I don't think there's actually patience in a beer bottle, but Batten made a fair attempt to find some. “Or else Three-Face would have taken Viktor right then,” Batten finished.

  “Right. Anne with the nine Talents is the abomination.” I rolled the whiteboard into the kitchen and erased Viktor's name from it. “When Three-Face was in my mirror, He said I was going to kill Spicer for Him. To protect the Eversea.”

  Batten's eyebrow did its upward dance. “Taking orders from a demon king now?”

  “Of course not,” I shot back. When he shrugged that he believed me, I started to pace back and forth in front of the white board. I rested the cold soda can against my forehead to cool the smattering of rash bumps that had begun to show at my temple. “I think my bias has been fucking with me.”

  “Which one?” Batten said knowingly.

  “My bias against Spicer, against necromancy. I've been assuming Spicer's the bad guy.”

  “He's not?”

  “Maybe. But think about it: why would a holy paladin make zombies, of all things?”

  “He's bugfuck nuts?”

  “Assuming he's the good guy.”

  “He can't be the good—” Batten clipped that short and considered it, which I found amazing. Encouraged, I spun my kitchen chair around to sit in it properly, and put my heels up on the table, crossing them at the ankle. I sipped diet Dr. Pepper and thought with him.

  Finally, Batten said, “Spicer's daughter said something about her father being a fool for not hunting the true abominations.”

  “Right, Pink Kitty and her crew. They followed Spicer to the New World. They were hunting plain old revenants. Malas. And Harry.”

  “The Prior guy in the Shield van asked for Harry but got Wes instead.”

  I tried not to let the matter-of-factness of that statement get tome, reminded myself that Wes was making slow — if furry — progress. “Exactly. However, Anne as a female revenant, with the potential to develop all nine Talents, would be nearly unstoppable.”

  “How do we know she's got nine Talents?”

  I showed him the gold ring that Asmodeus had given me. “Malas has a ring like this, with one moon. Malas has one Talent. Harry's got a ring too, with two moons facing one another; two Talents. He doesn't wear it.”

  “What happens if or when you put that ring on Anne?”

  “I'm not doing that; are you crazy?” I said. “If As— if Three-Face wants me to do it, it's probably a really, really bad idea. Now that Anne's half-zombie…” I trailed off. “What's worse than unstoppable?”

  Batten's eyelids fell closed and his lips drew tight, like he was closing his brain off from the questions; I'd seen him fist-fight Gregori Nazaire, I'd seen him almost shot by a crazy old bitch, I'd seen him go toe-to-toe with Harry, but this was the first time I'd ever seen him scared, and I didn't like it. I didn't like it at all.

  “Spicer really fucked up. Did he intend to make her a zombie-vamp?” Batten wondered, pulling at his bottom lip in thought.

  “I was thinking of calling her a revbie?” I suggested, doodling a frog in my Moleskine.

  He shook his head.

  “Zombinant?” I said. “Zampire?”

  “Please stop.”

  I put my pencil down. “Keeping in mind that Spicer's not playing with a full deck, let's go back to the timeline and focus on Anne. Two weeks ago, Spicer-slash-Ben infiltrates the mansion, gets rid of the other Master of the Revels, puts himself close to Malas.”

  “With or without Malas’ knowledge,” Batten added.

  I jotted this down with a question mark and drew an arrow between them. “Spicer finds evidence that Malas has been failing at his attempts to make female revenants, but believes Malas will keep trying.”

  “Malas meets Anne,” Batten said, watching me at the white board. “Starts having her to his mansion.”

  “Spicer facilitates this,” I drew an arrow between Spicer and Anne.

  “Why?”

  I tapped the dry-erase marker on my upper lip in thought. “To make sure Malas doesn't get suspicious?”

  Batten made an uncertain grumble, not entirely convinced. His eyes narrowed at the board.

  I continued, “Spicer sees that Anne is clearly under Malas’ spell, and that she's probably the next candidate for turning. Malas rarely leaves Anne alone; as a Telekinetic, Malas is far too much for Spicer to overpower. And when Malas rests, Stuart the DaySitter is there, protecting him.”

  “But Spicer doesn't get help from the other Priors,” Batten said. “He's not wanting to stop Malas outright.”

  “A week or so goes by, and it becomes clear that Malas is planning on turning Anne,” I said. “Anne is feeding Malas continuously, and she is beginning to share some of his powers. Spicer wants to put a stop to it.”

  “Presumably,” Batten added.

  “Presumably,” I agreed, “but he can't get Anne away from Malas, or Malas away from Stuart.”

  Batten nodded.

  “Spicer is running out of time, but he has at his disposal a form of magic that can perhaps best Malas and Anne,” I said, and wrote necro on the board beside Spicer's name. For good measure, I added lightning bolts and a grimacing skull.

  Batten gulped from his beer bottle and said, “Nice touch.”

  “Thanks. Now, Spicer's got mad zombie-raising skills, but can't just wander to a graveyard and find a fresh grave.”

  “Because?”

  “Uh, most cemeteries are closed after dark, and they have security, or at least caretakers. They're close to churches, rectories; priests tend to notice shit going on in their cemeteries late at night. Raising the dead takes time, and the Vodou is never quiet, not even the dark side of Vodou.” When Batten arched a brow, I supplied, “Goat sacrifice and chanting and drumming. You know, the usual.”

  Batten sighed. “No, I wouldn't know the usual.”

  “We're assuming Spicer had already murdered the first Master of the Revels to get close to Malas, so he'd have that body handy. Maybe he took that body and followed Anne to the fish camp the first time she went, and finds a quiet spot on the trail on the other side of the lake for his ritual.”

  “Didn't expect another corpse nearby…”

  “Dunnachie,” I said softly. “Of course.”

  “Which also responded to the zombie summoning,” Batten filled in unhappily, pressing his back into the kitchen chair, making the vinyl creak loudly in the quiet kitchen. “Dunnachie was an accident.”

  I hurried to keep talking so Batten couldn't ask any questions. “He raises the Master of Revels, but Dunnac
hie also rises. Got lucky. Two for one deal.”

  “Dunnachie would obey?”

  “After using a powder strike, Spicer captures their astrals in a soul jar and claims both. He takes the two Type R zombies back to his hideaway, which I'm assuming is not at Malas’ mansion, where he does rough, minor surgery to implant waterproof Bluetooth headsets into their skulls, and sets up phones to auto-answer.”

  “His plan being?”

  “To wait for the zombies to develop secondary plague and become infectious. So, it's at least a week before he can destroy Anne before she can be turned.”

  “We sure he wanted to destroy Anne?”

  “What else?”

  “I don't like it,” Batten said. “He could have gotten rid of Anne any number of ways, why do this complicated zombie shit? Hitting her with a car before she turns is a lot less trouble.”

  I didn't have an answer to that, so I drew another question mark on the white board, and kept brainstorming. “Spicer's trying to buy time, now, so he keeps delivering random Furries to Malas to engage the old dude's needs and put the Anne-turning on the back burner.”

  “Malas isn't distracted for long.” Batten continued along my train of thought. “So he begins to turn Anne.”

  “Spicer catches a second break on Wednesday night.” I wrote a star on the white board. “Malas is still resting when Anne leaves the mansion to return to the fish camp for one last party.”

  “Spicer could have taken that chance to stake Malas,” Batten said.

  “But Stuart the DaySitter was still alive at that point, protecting Malas. This is Spicer's opportunity to end Anne, if that's where his true focus is,” I reminded him, “on the potential abomination. Spicer follows Anne out to the fish camp, bringing Zombie Dunnachie with him, thinking that there's still one day left before Anne turns completely, and that the Vodou surge of UnDeath would cancel the revenant surge out.”

  Batten looked up at the ceiling. The shower noises had stopped and the sound of Declan getting out of the tub was loud. “Would that work?”

  “It clearly didn't. Instead, it created a hybrid.” Something teased the back of my brain, but when I focused on it, it danced away. My eyes slinked sideways at my espresso machine and I considered a caffeine boost.