by Karen Chance
“I doubt that very much.”
“That depends. On whether you’re still defending that unbearable harpy.”
John felt a quiver of rage rake along his nerves. “I am sure you meant to say Lady Cassandra.”
“Yes, do use the title. That makes it so much better.”
John’s hand clenched at his side, his mind automatically working out the logistics for turning the monster into a puddle of goo while sparing the child. It could be done, he decided. Just.
“Oh, sit down,” Rosier snapped. “I’m here to help.”
“That would be a first.” Of the many assassination attempts that had been made on Cassie’s life in recent months, some of the deadliest had been engineered by the creature opposite him. But as her bodyguard, John couldn’t afford the luxury of telling the bastard to go to hell. At least not until he learned why he’d left it.
He sat down.
Rosier signaled the waitress. “Another for me and one for my son.”
“I don’t want a drink,” John said flatly.
Rosier let out a breath of smoke that floated lazily upwards. “Don’t be so sure. You haven’t heard why I’ve come yet.”
The waitress had two glasses on the table in record time. “I believe she’s tired,” the demon said, passing the sleepy child to her mother after finally allowing her to catch the elusive toy. She looked disappointed to find that, after all, it was merely a piece of paper.
John wondered what kind of deception was about to be dangled in front of him.
* * *
Casanova was warm, and there was the seductive slide of silken flesh against his own. He let his hand slowly fondle the nearest pert backside without bothering to open his eyes. ‘Ticia, he identified lazily. Or possibly Berenice. He decided he was hungry and threw a leg over whoever-it-was, pressing the giggling bundle further into the soft folds of the feather bed.
Berenice, he decided. She really did have the most delightful—
The covers were abruptly stripped away, and a puff of air conditioning hit his bare ass. The girls squealed, more out of cold than modesty, he suspected, although there was a strange man in the room. Very strange, Casanova thought resentfully, finally opening his eyes and catching sight of a familiar scowl.
“Get up,” he was told brusquely.
“The hotel had best be burning down,” he said, rolling over and reaching for his robe. ‘Ticia grabbed it first and fled, followed by Berenice. The blond took her time, and didn’t bother to cover up her best asset as she swayed out of the room. She did, however, throw a coy glance over her shoulder in the direction of the war mage.
No accounting for taste, Casanova thought darkly, as Jason’s red head popped up over the far side of the bed. He looked around blearily, wincing at the light. Pritkin hiked a thumb at him. “Out.”
“Just because you’ve chosen the life of a eunuch—” Casanova began hotly, cutting off when his clothes hit him in the solar plexus.
“Get dressed.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“It’s who in hell,” Pritkin said, with a strange smile.
It took Casanova a second to get it, because it was the middle of the day—far too early for him to be vertical. And because it was so bizarre. “Since when do you claim your title?”
“Whenever it’s useful to me. Now get dressed. Unless you intend to go naked.”
“Go? Go where?”
“Ealdris escaped again.”
Casanova stared at him, his clothes clutched to his chest. “Ealdris? Ancient demon battle queen with a grudge against the world, that Ealdris?”
“That would be the one.”
“But . . . but you just put her back in prison!”
“And now she’s out again.”
Casanova stared at him, feeling slightly ill. Not that he’d had anything to do with it. When one of the ancient horrors escaped their very just imprisonment, it was a problem for the demon lords, not the minor-level incubus with whom he shared body space. But he was marginally acquainted with the lord who had returned this particular horror to captivity, and beings as old as Ealdris took a wide-ranging view of retribution.
He suddenly wanted Pritkin gone for an entirely new reason.
“What do you expect me to do about it?” he demanded. “I wouldn’t last ten seconds against one of those things!” He shivered. “Hateful, filthy beasts. I don’t know why the council didn’t destroy them all, years ago—”
“Probably because it had enough trouble merely imprisoning them.”
“Which is my point! If the council itself couldn’t deal with them, what use do you think I’d be?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Then why in the name of all that’s unholy are you dragging me—”
“I’m not dragging you anywhere. You’re going upstairs.”
“Up—” Casanova stopped, a horrible idea surfacing. “No. Oh, no. Please tell me that that complete disaster of a—”
“Careful.”
“I knew it!” Casanova raged. “It’s that awful, awful woman, isn’t it? She’s somehow involved in this.”
“She isn’t involved.”
“This used to be a nice, quiet operation—”
“Run by a mob boss.”
“—and then she showed up and look at it! Someone is always trying to kill her, or kidnap her or do something to her and what happens in the process?”
“A good woman is put through hell for no reason?”
Casanova frowned. “No. My hotel is slowly being destroyed! Every other week it’s either raided or bombed or taken over by a bunch of deadbeats. And now there’s an ancient nightmare coming to finish off what’s left!”
“Ealdris has never heard of Miss Palmer.”
“How the hell can I be expected to show a profit when—” Casanova stopped, as the mage’s words sunk in. “She hasn’t?”
“To my knowledge, no.”
“Then why are you—”
“Because Rosier has.”
Casanova felt his demon curl into a tighter ball somewhere under his sternum. Or maybe that was his stomach. It tended to give him problems whenever the Lord of the Incubi decided to pay a visit. “What does he have to do with this?”
“He’s offered me a deal. I recapture Ealdris, and he refrains from further harm to Miss Palmer.”
“And you believe him?”
“He swore a binding oath. If I succeed, he will have no choice but to honor his commitment or the curse will kill him.”
“And this involves me why?” Casanova demanded, dropping the wrinkled mass of clothing and stalking over to the closet for something more suitable.
“Because I don’t trust him.”
“And you do me? I’m possessed by one of his subjects, remember?”
“Which is why you’ll be able to detect a demon presence, should one show up. And I trust your enlightened self-interest. What do you think Mircea would do to you if you let his golden goose get killed on your watch?”
Casanova scowled, and yanked on a pair of boxers. “If you’re so concerned, tell Rosier to go hang. Stay and watch the damn girl yourself!”
“I can’t afford to do that.”
“And why not? We’ve managed to keep her alive so far without making deals with the devil—any devil.”
“We’ve been lucky so far. But I can’t protect her 24/7. Neither can you. Neither can that fool of a vampire, who believes that if he surrounds her with enough of his creatures, no one can touch her.”
Casanova shifted slightly, uncomfortable with criticism of his other master. Even if he somewhat agreed with it. “You can’t protect her at all if you’re dead,” he pointed out.
“That is my problem. Yours is making sure that nothing happens while I’m away.”
Casanova scowled and pulled on a honey-colored shirt that set off his olive skin. “She’s a time traveler, isn’t she? Why not have her shift a few weeks into the past until you deal wi
th this, take in a movie?”
“Because that would require telling her why she needs to go. And that would result in her deciding to help me—whether I like it or not!”
“But even Mircea has trouble keeping up with her. How am I supposed—”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“I could chase her around the training salle like you do, but I’m not that frustrated,” Casanova said caustically. “I prefer a different kind of swordplay with nubile young—”
“Anything that touches her gets hacked off when I return.”
“Walking disaster areas are not my type,” Casanova sneered. “You can save the threats.” Besides, Mircea had already made them all.
“Can you think of no way of amusing a young woman for an afternoon besides sex?”
Casanova blinked. “Why would I want to do that?”
The mage took a deep breath for some reason. “I don’t care what excuse you use, merely that you stay with her. Her bodyguards won’t notice a demon presence until it’s too late, but you will.
“Making me the chief target! Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because—”
He broke off when the mage grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him into the wall. “I don’t care how you feel,” he hissed, looking a lot like his father suddenly. “I care about what you do. Allow me to spell things out for you. I will be back. And if she’s dead, so are you.”
Casanova watched him leave, feeling his demon curling within him. “Well, shit,” they said.
Chapter Three
T he street of the soul vendors looked deserted. Dim moonlight filtered down through a heavy lid of clouds highlighting soot-stained brick buildings, most with empty, dark windows reflecting the empty, dark street. Only a single ifrit, glowing coal-red against the darkness, was in sight, and it was in a hurry. Its bouncy, jittering movement left a trail of sparks on the cobblestones as it rushed past.
That wasn’t entirely unexpected in an area where the shoppers were often as incorporeal as the items for which they bartered, but the place felt empty, too. The clammy mist of spirits that usually flowed around him, ruffling John’s hair and sending chills across his flesh, was simply gone. But at least the small shop he wanted was open, spilling rich golden light into the muddy street.
He crossed the lane and pushed open the door. This place hadn’t changed, at least. It still looked like a Victorian-era apothecary, with a scuffed wooden floor, gas lights overhead, and shelves of glass jars lining the walls. The owner was the same, too, hurrying out of the back as soon as the string of bells over the door announced a customer.
And then trying to hurry back inside once he saw who it was.
“Hello, Sid.” John reached over the counter and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, causing the demon to curse and spit. A trail of ooze started sliming down the wall, eating into the plaster and leaving an ugly burnt scar, as John jerked the creature back against him. “That was unwise.”
“Instinct,” his captive babbled, the ruddy face breaking into a nervous smile. “Just instinct. You startled me.”
“Then you must be startled constantly, if this place is as busy as I remember.”
“My other customers aren’t outlaws!”
“Neither am I.” John released him. “The council has given me a weekend pass, so to speak.”
“Why?” Sid demanded, turning around.
He looked like a small, bald man with a pleasant, round face and pronounced jowls. It was an illusion, of course, like the rest of the shop, like the street outside, for that matter. What he actually was might have scared off the occasional mage who ventured here for supplies, and Sid wasn’t about to lose a sale.
“They hate you,” he pointed out.
“Fortunately, they hate Ealdris more.”
“Ealdris?” Sid sounded like he’d never heard the name. John shot him the look that deserved. Sid had been a fixture among the incorporeal demon races for longer than anyone could remember, and he paid attention. “Oh, yes,” Sid looked diffident. “That Ealdris.”
“Rosier has offered me a deal. I recapture her, and he refrains from attempting to murder the new Pythia.”
“And you believe him?” Sid’s bushy eyebrows met his nonexistent hairline.
John sighed. He was already getting tired of that question. “I believe that he doesn’t want to go up against her himself. But it’s one of his responsibilities as a member of the council.”
“He wouldn’t be on the council if he wasn’t strong enough to handle it,” Sid pointed out. “Why does he need you?”
“Because she’s hiding here.”
That was the part that didn’t make sense to John. The Shadowland was a minor demon realm that had risen to prominence as a marketplace, to facilitate trade between the various dominions. But then the leaders of the main factions had started moving in, establishing secondary courts where they could meet without the danger of entering another’s power base. Over time, the demon council had begun meeting here as well, making the unprepossessing hunk of rock the de facto capitol of hell.
And a damn strange place for a wanted ex-queen to choose for a hide out.
“This isn’t a run of the mill demon we’re talking about,” Sid said, wiping his shiny brow. “The ancient horrors were locked away by the council because even they couldn’t control them. What do you think you’re going to do if you find her?”
“I dealt with her before.”
“She was on Earth for the first time in six thousand years! She was confused and disoriented, and she underestimated you. I wouldn’t bet on that happening twice.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” John leaned on the highly polished counter. “Where is she, Sid?”
“I don’t know,” the demon’s pudgy hands nervously smoothed his pristine white apron. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did. People have been going missing, John—a lot of people—and everyone else is lying low. Which is what you’ll do if you have any—” he suddenly cut off, staring at the darkened windows over John’s shoulder. He must have sensed something that John couldn’t, because his face closed down, becoming business-like.
A second later the bells tinkled again, announcing a new customer. John moved away to peruse the shelves, leaving them to it. If it had been another time, he might have been tempted to do some shopping. The small slotted drawers on the lower half of the antiquated fixtures held the kind of potion supplies almost unobtainable on earth, and when they were the cost was staggering.
He tried to keep his eyes on the drawers, but the shelves up above were impossible to ignore. The glimmering contents of the rows of apothecary jars writhed and twisted in a spectrum of colors—pale amethyst and deep green, brilliant turquoise and ruby red, glittering white and darkest obsidian—with glints like captured fire. But what they contained was far more precious, and far more destructive.
He stepped back, but the shop was small and jars ringed the walls, as well as being stacked high on display tables. His hand brushed against one behind him, and for an instant, he caught a flash of the wonders it promised: cool green water slipping over his skin, a darting school of tiny fish up ahead, their scales gleaming in the light that dappled the shallows. He surged after them, faster and sleeker, the joy of the hunt thrumming through his veins, scattering them like sliver petals in the wind—
He snatched his hand away, but they were all around him, whispering, promising, yearning. They sang to him with siren songs and glimpses of wonders, of colors that had never lived in human imagination, of music beyond the range of his senses, of the sounds and scents of worlds long dead. He’d been shielded when he came in, but he’d let them drop to save strength, knowing that Sid’s protection was the best available.
He’d forgotten; in this particular shop, the real dangers were already indoors.
“Almost irresistible, isn't it?” a rich voice asked.
John’s head jerked up, only to see one of the Irin standing in front of him,
its faint glimmer dispelling the shadows for two full yards around him. This one was tall, as they all were, and powerfully built, with skin the color of burnished bronze and ebony hair that spilled onto its spotless wings. It regarded John kindly, out of a face so beautiful, so perfect, it almost made him want to weep.
He squashed that impulse by asking himself what exactly it had done to get barred from the heavens.
“Living another’s life,” the Irin continued, picking up the jar, “seeing what they saw, experiencing what they felt . . . It’s almost like being another person for a time, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” John shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and deliberately didn’t look at the seductively twisting colors.
“I try to draw out the experience with the more interesting ones,” the creature told him. “Allowing me to visit them over and over. I like to think that it permits them to live again, in a way.”
“They’re dead,” John rasped. “They’ll never live again.”
“No, I suppose not.” The Irin tipped its head, looking at him consideringly. “I must confess, I was surprised that a human could interact with them. I had always understood that to be impossible.”
“I don’t—” John began, only to be cut off as the scene in front of him rippled and changed.
The shop was the same size, but now it had a dirt floor and a thatched roof. Instead of gas lights, there were rough tallow candles, and the windows were merely dark open spaces letting in the sound of crickets and the smell of peat. The same slightly anxious Sid stood behind a rough wooden counter, a homespun apron serving as a handkerchief for his perpetually damp palms. But instead of the Irin, Rosier stood at his side.
In his hands was a clay bowl filled with shades of honey, gold and burnt sienna. They swirled together in glittering bands, bright as jewels in the candlelight, mesmerizing. “Excellent work, Sid,” his father said, “I admit, I didn’t think you could do it.”
“I wasn’t sure myself. It took two of my best hunters the better part of a month, but there you are. Nothing good comes easy, I always say.”