Working for the Devil Page 11

  “Please, Dante. I do not want to lose my only chance at freedom for a human’s foolishness. Please.”

  I was about to tear my arm out of his hand when I realized he was asking me politely, and saying please as well. I stared at him, biting my lower lip, thinking this over. A muscle flicked in his smooth golden jaw.

  “Okay,” I said finally. “You have my word.”

  He blinked. This was the second time in my life I’d ever seen a demon nonplussed.

  We stood like that, the demon holding my arm and staring at my face, for about twenty of the longest seconds of my life so far. Then I moved, tugging my arm away from him, glancing up to check the weather. Still mostly clear, some high scudding clouds and the relentless orange wash of citylight. “We’ve got to get moving,” I said, not unkindly. “Abra gets mean later on in the night.”

  He nodded. Did I imagine the vertical crease between his eyebrows getting deeper? He looked puzzled.

  “What?” I asked.

  He said nothing, just shrugged and spread his hands to indicate helplessness. When I set off down the sidewalk he walked beside me, his hands clasped behind his back, his head down, and a look of such profound thoughtfulness on his face I half-expected him to start floating a few feet off the pavement.

  “Japhrimel?” I said finally.

  “Hm?” He didn’t look up, avoiding a broken bottle on the pavement with uncanny grace. I readjusted my bag so the strap didn’t cut into my shoulder. I’d left both my sword and my bag with him, and he hadn’t tampered with either.

  “You’re not bad, you know. For a demon. You’re not bad at all.”

  He seemed to smile very faintly at that. And oddly enough, that smile was nice to see.

  CHAPTER 17

  Abra’s shop was out on Klondel Avenue, a really ugly part of town even for the Tank District. Abracadabra Pawnshop We Make Miracles Happen! was scratched on the window with faded gilt lettering. An exceptionally observant onlooker would notice that there were no graffiti tags on Abra’s storefront, and that the pavement outside her glass door with its iron bars was suspiciously clean.

  Inside, the smell of dust and human desperation vied with the spicy smell of beef stew with chili peppers. The indifferent hardwood flooring creaked underfoot, and Abra sat behind the counter in her usual spot, on a three-legged stool. She had long dark curly hair and liquid dark eyes, a nondescript face. She wore a blue and silver caftan and large golden hoops in her ears. I had once asked if she was a gypsy. Abra had laughed, and replied, Aren’t we all?

  I had to give her that one.

  Racks of merchandise stood neatly on the wood floor, slicboards and guitars hung up behind the glassed-in counter that sparkled dustily with jewelry. Her stock did seem to rotate fairly frequently, but I’d never seen anyone come into Abra’s to buy anything physical.

  No, Abra was the Spider, and her web covered the city. What she sold was information.

  Jace had introduced me to Abra, a long time ago. Since then we’d been friends—of a sort. I did her a good turn or two when I could, she didn’t sell too much information about my private life, and we edged along in a sort of mutual détente. I’ll also admit that she puzzled me. She was obviously nonhuman, but she wasn’t registered with any of the Paranormal voting classes—Nichtvren, Kine, swanhilds, you name it—that had come out when the Parapsychic Act was signed into law, giving them Hegemony citizenship. Then again, I knew a clutch of nonhumans that weren’t registered but managed to make their voices heard the old-fashioned way, by bribe or by hook.

  The bell over the door jingled as I stepped in, wooden floor creaking. The demon crowded right behind me.

  “Hey, Abra,” I began, and heard a whining click.

  The demon’s hand bit my shoulder. A complicated flurry of motion ended up with me staring at the demon’s back as he held two silvery guns on Abra, who pointed a plasrifle at him.

  Well, this is exotic, I thought.

  “Put the gun down, s’darok,” the demon rumbled. “Or your webweaving days are over.”

  “What the hell did you bring in here, Danny?” Abra snapped. “Goddamn psychic women and their goddamn pets!”

  “Japh—” I stopped myself from saying more of his name. “What are you doing?”

  “She has a weapon pointed at you, Dante,” he said, and the entire shop rattled. “I will burn your nest, s’darok. Put the gun down.”

  “Fuck . . .” Abra slowly, slowly, laid the plasrifle down and raised her hands. “Psychic women and their goddamn pets. More trouble than anything else in this town—”

  “I need information, Abra,” I said, pitching my voice low and calm. “Jaf, she’s not going to hurt you—”

  “Oh, I know that.” His voice had dropped to its lowest registers. “It’s you she’ll harm, if she can.”

  “Isn’t that sweet.” Abra’s face crinkled, her dark eyes lighting with scarlet pinpricks. The shop’s glass windows bowed slightly under the pressure of her voice. Dust stirred, settled into complicated angular patterns, stirred again. The warding on Abra’s shop was complex and unique; I’d never seen anything like it. “Dante, make him go away or no dice.”

  “Oh, for the love of—” I was about to lose my temper. “Japhrimel, she’s put the gun down. Put yours away.”

  There was an eye-popping moment of tension that ended with Japhrimel slowly lowering his guns. His hands flicked, and they disappeared. “As you like,” he said harshly, the smell of amber musk and burning cinnamon suddenly filling the shop. I had quickly grown used to the way he smelled. “But if she moves to harm you, she’ll regret it.”

  “I think I’m capable of having a conversation with Abra that doesn’t lead to anyone killing anyone else,” I said dryly. “We’ve been doing it for years now.” My skin burned with the tension and Power in the air. The smell of beef and chilis reminded me I hadn’t eaten yet.

  “Why does she have a gun out, then?” he asked.

  “You’re not exactly kind and cuddly,” I pointed out, digging my heels into the floor as the weight of Power threatened to make me sway. “Everyone just calm down, okay? Can we do that?”

  “Make him wait outside,” Abra suggested helpfully.

  “Absolutely not—” Japhrimel began.

  “Will you both stop it?” I hissed. I’d be lucky to get anything out of Abra now. “The longer you two do this, the longer we stay here, and the more uncomfortable it’ll be for all concerned. So both of you just shut up!”

  Silence returned to the shop. The smell of beef stew, desperation, and dust warred with the musky powerful fragrance of demon. Japhrimel’s eyes didn’t leave Abra’s face, but he slowly moved aside so I could see Abra without having to peek around him.

  I dug the paper scored with Santino’s name out of my bag. “I need information on this demon,” I said quietly. “And I need to know about Dacon Whitaker. And I’m sure we’ll find other things to talk about.”

  “What you paying?” Abra asked, her dark eyes losing a little bit of their crimson sparks.

  “That’s not how things stand right now. You owe me, Abra. And if you satisfy me, I’ll owe you a favor.” She more than owed me—I had brought her choice gossip last year after that Chery Family fiasco. The information of just who was stealing from the Family had been worth a pretty penny, and I was sure she’d sold it to the highest bidder—without, of course, mentioning that I’d been the one to bring her the laseprints. After that, I’d watched the fireworks as the Owens Family lost a good chunk of their holdings from an internal power struggle. It always warmed my heart to do the Mob a bad turn.

  Her dark eyes traveled over Japhrimel. “You aren’t a Magi, Danny. What are you doing hanging out with Hell’s upper crust?”

  So she recognizes him as a demon, and what kind of demon, too. That’s interesting. “Just call me socially mobile,” I said. “Look, they came and contacted me, not the other way around. I didn’t ask for this, but I’m in it up to my eyebrows and sinking fast
, and in order to collect on all my balloon payments I need to be breathing, okay? And I need information to keep breathing, Abra.” My voice was pitched deliberately low, deliberately soothing. “We’ve been colleagues for a long time now, and I made you some cash during that Chery Family thing last year, and I’d really like to get some usable information. Okay?”

  She measured me for a long moment. The demon didn’t even twitch, but I felt him tense and ready beside me. My left shoulder was steadily throbbing, the mark pressed into my flesh responding to his attention.

  “Okay,” she said. “But you’d better not ever bring that thing here again.”

  He’s not a thing. I didn’t say it, didn’t even wonder why I’d thought it. I had all I could handle right in front of me. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t have brought him in the first place,” I snapped, my temper wearing thin. “Come on, Abra.”

  She made a quick movement, slipping the plasrifle off the counter. The demon didn’t move—but my shoulder gave a livid flare. It had been close. Very close. “Okay,” Abra said. “Give me whatever you’ve got.”

  I laid the paper down on the counter, face-down. I gave her everything I had—Santino/Vardimal, the Egg, being dragged into Hell, Dacon’s addiction to Chill, and the job I’d just been on. That was an extra, for her—she could sell the information that Douglas Shantern had been murdered by his son. I laid the pattern out for her, and Japhrimel drew closer during the recital until his hand was on my shoulder and his long black coat brushed my jeans. Oddly enough, I didn’t mind as much as I might have.

  Abra took it all in, one dusky finger tapping her thin lips. Then she was silent for a long moment, and put her hand down, fingers stretched, over the paper I’d laid on the counter. “Okay,” she said. “So you have a tracker, and Spocarelli’ll give you a waiver and a DOC and an omni . . . and you need a direction, and not only that, you need contacts and gossip.”

  I nodded. “You got it.”

  “And your tame demon there is supposed to keep you alive until you kill this Santino. Then all bets are off.”

  Japhrimel tensed again.

  “That’s my personal estimation of the situation,” I said cautiously.

  Abra chuffed out a breath between her pearly teeth. It was her version of a sarcastic laugh. “Girl, you are fucked for sure.”

  “Don’t I know it? Give me what you got, Abracadabra, I’ve got work to do tonight.”

  She nodded, dark hair sliding forward over her shoulders. The gold hoops in her ears shivered. Then she flipped the paper over, regarded the twisting silvery glyph. “Ah . . .” she breathed, sounding surprised. “This . . . oh, Dante. Oh, no.”

  The color drained from her dark face. She spread her hand over the paper, not quite touching it, fingers trembling. “South,” she said in a queer breathless voice. “South, where it’s warm. He’s drawn to where it’s warm . . . hiding. He’s hiding . . . can’t tell why. A woman . . . no, a girl . . .”

  Japhrimel tensed next to me. I didn’t think it was possible for him to get any tighter strung. He moved a little closer, I could feel the heat breathing off him, wrapping around me. If he got any closer he would be molded to my side.

  “What about the Egg?” I breathed. Abra’s eyes were wide and white, irises a thin ring around her dilated pupils, splotches of hectic color high up on her now-pale cheeks.

  “Broken . . . dead . . . ash, ash on the wind . . .” Abra’s hand jerked, smacking down on the counter. I jumped, and Japhrimel’s fingers bit my shoulder. She didn’t get these flashes often, but when she did, they were invariably right—though usually not precise enough to be of any real help.

  I had an even more important question. “How do I kill the sonuvabitch, Abra? How do I kill Santino?”

  Her eyelids fluttered. “Not by demon fire . . . neither man nor demon can kill him . . . water—” She took in a long gasping breath, her lips stretched back over strong white teeth. “Waves. Waves on the shore, ice, I see you, I see you, Dante . . . face-down, floating . . . you’re floating . . . floating—”

  I leaned over the counter, grabbed Abra’s shoulders, and shook her. When that didn’t work, I slapped her—not hard, just hard enough to shock her. Her eyes flew open, and Japhrimel yanked me back, hissing something low and sharp in what I guessed was his own language. Abra coughed, rackingly, grabbing on to the counter with white-knuckled fingers. She said something quiet and harsh that I didn’t quite catch, then looked me full in the eyes. “This is going to kill you, Danny,” she said, with no trace of her usual bullshit. “Do you understand me? This is going to kill you.”

  “As long as I take out the fucker that did Doreen I’ll be okay,” I grated out. “Information, Abra. Where the fuck is he?”

  “Where else?” Abra snapped back, but her chin trembled slightly. She was paler than I’d ever seen her. “Nuevo Rio di Janeiro, Danny Valentine. That’s where you’ll find your prey.”

  I scooped up the paper and shoved it in my bag. Abra stared at me, trembling, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip. It was the first time I’d even seen her even remotely close to scared.

  She looked terrified.

  “What about Dacon and the Chill?” I asked. “How the hell did—”

  “Whitaker’s hand-in-fist with the Owens Family, has been for years now. He got hooked last year and started skimming from their shipments,” she replied shortly, reaching up to touch her cheek where the mark of my hand flushed red. “You hit me!”

  “You were getting boring,” I said before I thought about it. “Contacts in Nuevo Rio?”

  “I don’t have any,” she said. “But as soon as you get there, you might want to look up Jace Monroe. He moved down there a while ago. Doing work for the Corvin Family. He’s gone back to the Mob.”

  I hadn’t known that. Then again, I’d never asked Abra about Monroe, even though he’d introduced me to her. I knew he’d been Mob, and suspected he’d gone back to the Mob—but hearing it out loud was something else entirely. I made a face. “I’d rather talk to a spasmoid weasel with a plasrifle,” I muttered. “Okay. So what about gossip?”

  Abra shrugged. “Word on the street is you’re into something big, and there’s a warning out there, too. Don’t mess around with Danny Valentine.”

  “I thought that was common knowledge.”

  “You’ve got a demon for a lapdog, Danny. Nobody wants that kind of static.” She grimaced, rubbing her cheek. “Not even me. Can you go away now?”

  I nodded, frustration curdling under my collarbones. “Thanks, Abra. I owe you one.”

  Her response was a bitter laugh. “You’re not going to live long enough for me to collect. Now get the fuck out of my shop, and don’t bring that thing back here.” Her hand twitched toward the plasrifle leaning obediently on her side of the counter. Japhrimel pulled me away, dragging me across the groaning wooden floor, my bootheels scraping. The temperature in the shop had risen at least ten degrees.

  He’s not a thing, Abra. “I’ll leave him at home to crochet next time,” my mouth responded smartly with no direction from my brain. “Thanks, Abra.”

  “If she dies, s’darok,” Jaf tossed back over his shoulder, “I will come hunting for you.”

  “Stop it. What’s wrong with you?” I tried to extract my arm from his hand, with no luck. He didn’t let go of me until we were outside the pawnshop and a good half block away. “What the hell—”

  “She predicted your death, Dante,” he said, grudgingly letting me slip my arm away from him. I felt bruises starting where his fingers had been. I dug my heels into the pavement and jerked my arm all the way free of his grasp, irritation rasping sharp under my breastbone.

  “What the hell does it matter to you?” I snapped. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth! I could have gotten twice the information out of her if you hadn’t gone all Chillfreak! You’re fucking useless!”

  A muscle in his cheek twitched. “I certainly hope not,” he answered calmly enough. “You walk int
o a s’darok’s den with no protection, you court death with no conception of the consequences, and you blame me for your own foolhardiness—”

  “I blame you? You don’t even make any sense! If you had just been a little less set on ‘psychotic’ we could have gotten twice as much information from her! But no, you had to play the demon, you had to act like you know everything! You’re so arrogant, you never even—”

  “We are wasting time,” he overrode me. “I will not let you come to harm, Dante, despite all your protests. From this moment forth, I will not allow this foolishness.”

  “Allow? What’s this ‘allow’? What the bloody blue hell is wrong with you?” It wasn’t until the streetlamp in front of us popped, its glass bulb shattering and dusting the pavement below with glittering sprinkles, that I realized I was far too upset.

  I need to fucking well calm down, I thought. Too bad it looks like that’s not going to happen soon.

  He said nothing in reply, just staring at me with those laser-green eyes, his cheek twitching. The cold wind was beginning to warm up, little crackles of static electricity in the air.

  Necromances and Ceremonials both tended to affect a whispery tone after a while. We live by enforcing our Will on the world through words wedded to Power—and a Necromance shouting in anger could cause a great deal of damage. One of the dicta of Magi training ran: A Magi’s word becomes truth. And for trained Necromances, who walked between this world and the next, discipline was all the more imperative.

  I took a deep breath, tasting ozone, my shields flushing dark-blue with irritation, annoyance, and good clean anger. “Okay,” I said, struggling for an even tone. “Look, I think we can make some progress, if you just tell me what’s wrong with you. Okay? You’re making this much harder than it has to be.”

  His jaw worked silently. If he keeps that up he might grind his teeth down to nubs, I thought, and had to bite back a nervous giggle.

  I rubbed at my arm. It hurt, and so did my left shoulder. The burning, drilling pain reminded me of how quickly my life had grown incredibly-fucked-up. Even for me. “I wish I’d never seen you,” I said tonelessly. “That hurt, you asshole.” I was far too angry to care about calling a demon who could eat me for breakfast an asshole.