Regardless of how it went down, destroying each other was not looked upon favorably among our masters. It was disorderly and annoying and created a lot of paperwork for the personnel department.
“If it’s obvious, then why are you here?” Seth wanted to know.
“Because they don’t know which demon did the, uh, smiting. All the evidence shows a demonic attack; there’s no question about that. What they have to figure out here is who the murderer is, so they can make an example of him or her.”
“An example? Like capital punishment?”
“Not exactly. But trust me, you’re really happier not knowing any more than that.”
An imp standing in front of us turned around. He’d apparently overheard us.
“She means torture.” He grinned at the two of us, revealing a mouth full of gold fillings. With his green suit and feathered derby, I think he was going for some kind of pimp look. Mostly it put me in mind of a porn star Robin Hood. Robin of Cocksley, maybe. Or perhaps Friar Suck. “Me? I’m guessing flaying, but my buddy Roger swears it’s going to be disemboweling. I was just talking to this other guy in the bar last night, and he thinks Noelle’s pissed enough that they’ll actually flay and disembowel the poor bastard. Thinks they might even get some wraiths to do it—and you know how those little buggers are. They really get into ripping out intestines. Fuck, I don’t even think they care about eating the entrails. They just play with them half the time. Spin ’em like lassos. Wear ’em like boas.” He winked at me. “We’re starting a pool. You want in, sweetheart?”
“No, thanks.” I glanced over at Seth who wore the kind of shocked look accident survivors had. “Demons heal,” I said hastily. “None of it’s permanent.”
He swallowed. “And so, they flay ... or whatever ... this guy, and that’s that?”
Our new friend the imp answered before I could. “Well, you gotta understand that the flaying or disemboweling takes a long time.”
“How long?”
The imp narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Oh, I don’t know. Three, four centuries. Maybe five, depending on how bad a mood the judge is in.”
“Five centuries?” Seth exclaimed. “And that works? Stops repeat offenders? Discourages others?”
“No.” The imp and I spoke in unison.
“But it certainly makes them think twice,” I said.
The imp stood on his tiptoes, trying to see the front of the line. “Yeah, some of the punishment’s public, so it sets a pretty harsh example. Pretty cool, really. Too bad we’ll have to wait days to see it. It’d be a lot easier if they just did a reading and got it over with.”
“Reading?” asked Seth. “What’s that?”
“It’s something immortals can do to each other. It’s a way of . . .” I grasped at words for something I barely understood myself. “. . . viewing someone’s mind and soul. More than a viewing . . . it’s almost like a union with them. You can see their experiences, know if they’re telling the truth. You feel them.”
“Whoa. Wouldn’t that be a lot less trouble then?” he wanted to know. “And wouldn’t it make sure the wrong person wasn’t flayed?”
“It’s soul rape,” said the imp.
Seething Seth’s puzzled look, I explained more delicately. “Letting someone look into your soul is pretty invasive. It completely exposes you—opens up everything inside of you. And from what I hear, it’s a pretty horrible experience, so no one does it willingly. A more powerful immortal could force it on someone else, but even demons don’t like to cross that line. It’d be like . . .”
“Soul rape,” repeated the imp.
I could tell from his expression that Seth still didn’t quite follow. “And so, even though that would reveal the truth right away . . . it’s still easier just to go through this whole process?”
“Yeah,” I told him. “Demons want to hide their souls. Besides, with the way they lie, one could look inside another and swear they saw something that wasn’t actually true. So then they’d have to get more demons to find out what’s real. Makes everything a mess.”
“This is going to be some trial,” muttered Seth, shaking his head.
“Technically,” I said, “this won’t be a trial at all—at least not in the sense you’re used to. It’s more like a . . . a tribunal, I guess. There are suspects—but they don’t get lawyers. They just get examined by the prosecution and the jury. The jury decides who they think is guilty. A judge keeps everyone from killing each other in the meantime.”
“No lawyers?” Seth considered. “Let me guess. You guys are the ultimate guilty-until-proven-innocent group.”
“No. Well, I mean, yes, but that’s not why. Really, in the grand scheme of things, this is kind of a small dispute. Anthony—the guy who got killed—was a minor demon. They threw together this tribunal because no one wanted to go to the trouble of having a formal hearing. If they did, then that would have a lot more procedure and whatnot. It’d probably take place in Hell itself too. Not a Marriott.”
“I hear that,” said the imp in disgust. “This place is a dive. Last time I went to one of these, it was at a Hyatt.” He shook his head, clearly appalled at the collapse of Hellish civilization. “Fucking cheapskates.”
* * *
When we finally made it to the head of the line, the demon working the door gave me a hard time. His eyes flicked coldly over the paperwork I handed him. He promptly handed it back.
“You aren’t Jerome.”
“I’m his proxy.”
“A succubus can’t be a proxy.”
He started to turn to the person behind me, but I jabbed him in the arm with my finger. He glared.
“Well, obviously I can, or he wouldn’t have sent me. Read it again.”
I actually hadn’t read the document. When Jerome had given it to me, I’d assumed everything was in order and devoted my attention to actually figuring out what this case was about. I had, however, seen my name on the last page and figured that was the important part. I opened to that sheet and pointed.
“See?”
“It’s invalid.”
“You didn’t even read it!”
“I’m sure he read it,” a voice nearby suddenly said. “Because surely, surely, Marcus, you wouldn’t offhandedly dismiss a potential juror—particularly one sent by one of the more powerful archdemons in the country. Not only would that be rude and likely incur his wrath, it would also create chaos here when we realized we were down a juror. And that, my friend, would incur my wrath. Now, surely, surely, that isn’t what you want.”
All three of us turned to the speaker. He was a demon, like Marcus the bouncer, but even a mortal like Seth—without the benefit of reading signatures—could immediately assess the difference in strength. The newcomer radiated power, and it wasn’t just his six-foot-five height and broad shoulders.
“Er . . . well . . .” Marcus jerked the papers away from me, suddenly unable to read them fast enough. He practically dropped them in the process and stared at the bundle a full ten seconds before realizing he held the sheets upside down. He flipped the stack upright, scanned through it, and then handed it back. “My mistake. You’re cleared.”
Seth and I walked into the crowded meeting room, the largest one the hotel had. It was one of the ballroom-size ones that wedding receptions were often held in. My benefactor fell into step beside us.
“My, my,” he said pleasantly. “What is this world coming to when they let succubi sit on juries? It’s like we have no standards left at all. Might as well put the suspects’ names in a bag and draw a victim—er, culprit—at random.”
We stopped walking, and a grin crept over my face. “They’re trying to add a little class to these things, Luis, that’s all.”
He grinned back. “‘Class?’ Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” The giant demon leaned down and hugged me. “Nice to see you again.”
“You too,” I said.
Luis’ gaze fell on Seth. “It’s apparently a
sign of the times too when succubi have human minions.”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
Luis shrugged. “Same difference.”
Rolling my eyes, I introduced them. “Luis used to be my boss,” I explained. “Like Jerome. Only more fun.”
“And sterner with unruly succubi,” Luis added.
I thought about Jerome’s recent behavior. “Debatable.”
“Well, we can battle it out later.” He glanced at his watch. “Right now, I’ve got to go take my place.”
“Are you a juror too?” I asked hopefully. It might make this thing a little more entertaining.
He gave me an incredulous look, like I’d just insulted him. “Me? On a jury? Come on, you know me better than that. I’m the judge.”
Chapter Three
The other jurors had reactions similar to Marcus the doorman’s when they saw me.
“This isn’t the Junior League, doll,” one of them told me. “You can’t just sit here and look pretty. This is serious business.” The demon who told me this appeared to be drunk. Considering demons could sober up at will, he was purposely staying inebriated. Serious business indeed.
A few made uncomplimentary remarks about Jerome. One expressed jealousy over not thinking of sending a proxy herself. Most simply ignored me. The only one who treated me in a semi-friendly way was a guy who followed up his greeting with a proposition involving a whip, a waterbed, and peanut butter.
“I only use the organic kind,” he added, as though that would make a difference.
Hoping he referred to the peanut butter, I ignored him and turned my attention to the rest of the room. Blue linen covered small round tables set with pitchers of water and surprisingly cute flower arrangements. I’d left Seth at a table with a bunch of incubi, figuring that would be safest. Most incubi (and succubi) swung both ways, but the incubi would be more interested in hitting on human women. I hoped. I’d mainly wanted to keep Seth away from vampires and imps. The former would go after his blood, the latter his soul.
The jury of thirteen sat at the front, facing the crowd from a long rectangular table. Luis sat at a raised table to our left, looking bored. On the other side of him, another long table held three very unhappy-looking demons. A few empty seats separated them from a demoness and an imp that I believed to be the prosecution.
After scanning the room, my gaze fell back on Luis. He had an elbow propped up on the table, letting his chin rest in one hand as he too studied the room. His chin-length black hair fell forward and shielded his face like a curtain. Seeing him stirred a number of memories, most of which were good. He’d been my archdemon long ago, back when I lived in colonial Massachusetts. I’d gone there because I’d liked the idea of moving to a fledgling group of settlements; it had seemed like an adventure.
Luis had been a good boss, ready with a smile and scrupulously fair. He did not tolerate any slacking, however. That easy smile could turn fierce in the space of a heartbeat, and those who angered him didn’t get second chances. Fortunately, I’d performed my job well.
But in the end, even a cool boss like him couldn’t change my mind on one thing: colonial America was a dive. I’d soon lost interest in it and requested a transfer back to Europe, deciding I’d check back on the New World in a few centuries or so. Luis had been sad to see me go, but he knew a happy employee was a good employee and had expedited my transfer.
Watching him now, I saw that same instant transformation take place. One moment he was slouching and bored; the next he was straight in his chair, banging the gavel and demanding attention.
The hearing started.
I realized then what Jerome had meant when he said I might have something useful to offer. It soon became clear that I was the only juror paying attention. One leafed through a copy of Harper’s Bazaar. Another played sudoku. Two talked in low whispers, falling silent like guilty schoolchildren when Luis barked at them to be quiet. One demon at the end of the table had his eyes open, but I was pretty sure he was actually asleep.
As I had told Seth, this was mostly an opportunity for the prosecution to lay out their suspicions and evidence. The demoness I’d spotted at the end of the table was indeed Noelle, poor Anthony’s supervisor. Beauty among demons meant little since they could change their shape as easily as I could. Nonetheless, Noelle had chosen an especially gorgeous form in which to walk the mortal world, one I paid attention to for future shape-shifting inspiration. Not that I had plans to copy her identically, of course. Demons weren’t big subscribers to imitation being the sincerest form of flattery.
Her face was a perfect oval, framed by tumbles of jet-black ringlets that fell almost to her waist. Her skin was smooth and clear, a coppery tan color that set off the blue-green of her large, long-lashed eyes. She wore an ivory skirt and jacket, stylish yet professional, matched with gold-buckled high heels I very much coveted. After Luis, she was probably the most powerful demon in the room. Something about her reminded me of him, like perhaps she too was eager to smile and laugh. But also like Luis, business came first. She certainly wasn’t smiling now, nor did she seem likely to anytime soon. Those lovely eyes were narrowed with anger as she studied the three suspects. I’d heard that Anthony had been a particularly prized employee of hers.
Noelle did little talking, however. She left that to her imp, a shrewd-faced little woman named Margo. Imps were the administrative assistants of the demonic world, and I was willing to wager good money that Margo had been a real estate agent when she was human. She had the look of someone willing to say—and do—anything to get you to buy that haunted fixer-upper on the fault line.
Margo called up the first suspect, a demon slimmer than Luis but every bit as ripped. He had a shaved head and skin so dark there was no way he could walk out among humans without getting double-takes. Definitely not natural. Still, he made a striking, handsome figure, and I was a bit disappointed to learn his name was Clyde. It didn’t fit. I wanted him to be named Nicodemus or Shark or something cool like that.
“So, Clyde,” began Margo, “do you know why you’re here?” She spoke in a voice of utter boredom, like he was so beneath her as to barely deserve notice. I raised an eyebrow at this. She might technically be in the position of power here in the courtroom, but at the end of the day, he was a demon and she was an imp. There was no question about who sat at the top of the universe’s food chain.
From the look on Clyde’s face, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the condescension. The look he gave Margo would have sent me running.
“Yeah,” he said in a rumbling baritone. “I’m here because you guys have no clue who took out Anthony and need a scapegoat.”
Margo’s smile was thin and utterly fake. “Oh, I see. So, you’re here for no reason at all. It’s completely unfair. You have no connection whatsoever to Anthony that would make you a possible suspect. No reason at all that you would have wanted to kill him. You were just plucked out of your everyday life and dropped into this room because the world is cruel and unjust. Poor, poor Clyde.”
“Margo,” said Luis, his smooth voice sliding through the room like a blade. He didn’t even need the gavel to get attention. She jumped. “Stop your posturing and get on with this. If you want to get melodramatic, you can go join the community theater’s production of Our Town.”
I heard a few snickers, and Margo blushed. She turned back to Clyde, face sober as she became brisk and businesslike.
“You work here in Los Angeles?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Noelle’s been your archdemoness for almost a century?”
“Yes.”
“Which is about the same time Anthony worked for her?”
“Yes.”
“So,” she continued, a bit of that swagger returning, “when Noelle needed to appoint a new lieutenant, it was pretty clear to everyone that it’d be either you or him, based on seniority.”
The set of Clyde’s face turned hard. “Yes.”
“And when the t
ime for her decision came and she picked him, that must have been terribly disappointing.”
He didn’t answer.
“Particularly since, by all accounts, you are—were—much, much more powerful than him. Am I right?”
Clyde remained silent, and I didn’t blame him. An acknowledgment of how much stronger he was than Anthony just proved how easily Clyde could have destroyed his rival.
“Answer the question,” said Luis in a firm voice.
Clyde grimaced. “Yes.”
Margo made a great show of flipping through some papers, but I had no doubt she already had everything in them memorized.
“So . . . let’s see.” More paper flipping. Down the table, the juror I’d suspected was sleeping began snoring. The demon beside him hit him in the arm, jolting him awake. “Okay,” said Margo. “According to what I have here, you had nearly double Anthony’s power. That would have been a neat, easy kill. Over before anyone noticed it—which, from what we can tell, was exactly what happened.”
“I wouldn’t have destroyed him for that,” growled Clyde, his temper clearly rising. “Noelle made her decision. That was that.”
“Not exactly.” Noelle spoke for the first time, and heads turned. She had a sweet, lilting voice. Like music. Even some of the other jurors started paying attention. “You came to me after I appointed him, and you were not happy. In fact, I recall you saying some very ... ugly things to me.” She spoke crisply, all business-like. Even in the heat of an event like this, it was clear professionalism and calm were important to her. I admired that.
Although it was impossible to tell, I got the impression Clyde was blushing now. “I ... was out of line, Noelle. I shouldn’t have said what I said, and I apologize for it. I apologized then, after the fact.” The words came out stiffly, but I got the impression they were sincere. Demons apologized. Who knew? “Although ... not to place blame, but you were already upset when I walked in. You were in a bad mood, and it fed mine ... and made what I said far worse than it might otherwise have been. Made me angrier than I normally would have been.”
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