Working for the Devil Read online

  I wondered if the cops had visited Dake yet. Or if Dake had dumped his stash in panic, guessing I’d turn him in even though we went way back together. Back to the Hall.

  Don’t think about that.

  Mirovitch’s papery voice whispering, three lines of fire on my back—the whip, the smell of my own flesh searing—

  Do not think about that. I shifted on the bed, the sheet moving, my fingers white-knuckled on the swordhilt. “Don’t think about that,” I whispered, and closed my eyes. “What you cannot escape, you must fight; what you cannot fight, you must endure. Now think of something useful if you’re going to stay awake.”

  You weren’t warned because they haven’t been preparing this, the deep voice of my intuition suddenly whispered. This doesn’t have the feel of a well-planned expedition.

  It was a relief to have something else to think about. So even the Devil was scrambling to keep up with current events, so to speak. Maybe he’d gone to use this Egg or look at it, and found out it was gone. Hell was a big place; you couldn’t keep track of every artifact and demon.

  Which means Santino probably has Lucifer by the balls. And how does this Japhrimel fit in? He’s Lucifer’s agent. Why wouldn’t Lucifer come out on this job himself?

  It would do me no good to fret over it. I was well and truly caught.

  I closed my grainy, burning eyes, consigning the question to my unconscious mind. With any luck, the bubbling stew of my subconscious would strike me with the answer—right between the eyes—soon enough.

  Even Japhrimel has no idea what’s going on, I thought. Even Lucifer. They’re playing blind. Which is why they need me.

  They need me. I’m calling the shots here.

  The thought was enough to press a smile to my face as I kept breathing, deeper and deeper, waiting for dawn. When I finally fell asleep, the sky was turning gray with morning.

  The house was full of the smell of demon, amber musk and burning cinnamon creeping through the air like gas. I came downstairs after a long shower and fresh clothes to find his scent rippling and dyeing the psychic atmosphere with golden darkness.

  He handed me a cup of coffee. He looked just the same as he had last night, except a little of the robotic blankness was gone from his face. Now he looked thoughtful, his green eyes a shade darker and not quite meeting mine.

  I blew across the steaming mug and yawned, contemplating the kitchen. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted in through the window. The rain must have fled, because golden sunlight edged the wandering Jew hanging over the sink. “Morning,” I finally said, slipping past him to stalk to the toaster. “How are you?”

  “Well enough,” he replied. “Did you sleep well?” He actually sounded interested.

  “No. I hardly ever do. Thanks for the coffee.” I dropped two slices of wheat bread into the toaster and pressed the button for “just short of charcoal.”

  “Where is your sword?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think I need it in a demon-protected house, do I?” I yawned again. “When we go out to hunt I’ll be taking my sword. I won’t put it away again until I’ve brought Santino down. I haven’t started yet—this is just saddling my horse.” My rings sparked again. This time the shower of sparks was pure gold.

  I smell like a demon now, I thought with a sort of grim amusement. That should make things fun.

  “I see.” He still sounded thoughtful. He hadn’t moved from the kitchen door.

  “Before we go,” I continued, “I need you to tell me exactly what having a demon familiar means. I was going to ask Dake, but we didn’t have time last night. So I’m forced to ask you.”

  “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you,” he said sardonically.

  I swung around to look at him, the coffee sloshing in my cup. I fished a butterknife out of the drying rack next to the sink. “You’re starting to develop a sense of humor,” I said. “Good for you.”

  “We will get exactly nowhere if we cannot reach an agreement,” he pointed out. “I am responsible for your safety, and my physicality is now tied to you by the grace of the Prince. If I allow you to be harmed, it will be most unpleasant for me.” His lean saturnine face didn’t change, but his voice was colored with a faint sneer.

  “Mmh.” My toast popped up as I was getting the peanut butter down. “Guess it’s bad luck all over you, huh?” I set the coffee cup down after a quick, mouth-burning gulp. It was, at least, decent coffee.

  “On the contrary,” he said. “It is very good luck. It appears you need a familiar and I need my freedom. You appear tolerable, at least, despite your foul mouth. And you are occasionally thoughtless, but not stupid.”

  I looked over my shoulder. He had his hands behind his back again, standing military-straight, his long black coat buttoned up to his chin. “Thanks,” I replied, as dryly as I could. “Have you had breakfast?”

  He shrugged. “Human food is pleasant, but I don’t need it.”

  I was just about to say something snide when the phone rang. I hooked up the kitchen phone and snarled into it. “What?”

  That was my hello-good-morning voice.

  “And a good bloody morning to you too, Danny,” Trina chirped. She was the agent for the Parapsych Services Unlimited Message Agency; most psions in Saint City used them. Since I did bounties as well as apparitions, Trina managed my schedule and acted as a buffer between me and the cranks and yahoos who sometimes decided to prank-call psions. I didn’t have the time or energy to keep track of when I was supposed to be where, so Trina would coordinate with my datpilot and datband as well as monitor my datband while I was on a bounty. Magick was a full-time job; even Necromances needed secretaries nowadays and it was cheaper to just freelance-contract with an agency. “Quick word?”

  “What, another job?” I looked down at my toast, picked up my coffee. “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand. Standard.”

  That would take care of another few mortgage payments. “What kind?” I swirled the coffee in the cup, the steam rising and twisting into angular shapes.

  “A probate thing. Shouldn’t take more than a coupla hours. Old coot named Douglas Shantern, died and the will’s contested. Total estate’s fifteen mil, the estate itself is paying your fee.”

  I yawned. “Okay, I’ll take it. Where’s the body? How fresh?”

  “Lawyer’s office on Dantol Street has his cremains. Died two weeks ago.”

  I made a face. “I hate that.”

  “I know,” Trina replied, sympathetic. “But you’re the only one on the continent who can deal with the burned ones, since you’re so talented. I’ll schedule you for midnight, then?”

  “Sounds good. Give me the address?”

  She did. I knew the building; it was downtown in the legal-financial district. The holovid image of a Necromance is all graveyards and chanting and blood, but most of our work is done in lawyers’ offices and hospital rooms. It’s very rare to find a Necromance in a graveyard or cemetery.

  We don’t like them.

  “Okay,” I said. “Tell them I’m bringing an assistant.”

  “I didn’t know you had an apprentice.” She actually sounded shocked. I have never met Trina face-to-face, but I always imagine her as a stolid, motherly woman who lived on coffee and Danishes.

  “I don’t,” I said. “Thanks, Trina. I’ll hear from you again, I’m sure.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, barely missing a beat. “Bye.”

  “Bye.” I hung up. “Well, that’s nice. Another little job.”

  The demon made a restless movement. “Time is of the essence, Necromance.”

  I waved a hand over my shoulder at him. “I’ve got bills to pay. Santino won’t get anywhere quickly. He escaped fifty years ago; you guys didn’t jump right on the bandwagon to bring him down. So why should I? Besides, we’re going to visit Abra too, and after I do this job Gabe will have all the things I need and we can start hunting. Unless you’re going to pay my power bill this month.”

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nbsp; “You are infuriating,” he informed me coldly. The smell of demon was beginning to make me dizzy.

  “Tone it down a little, Japhrimel.” I curled my fingers around the edge of the counter and glared at him, reminding him that I knew his Name. “I don’t have a whole hell of a lot to lose here. You make me angry and you lose your big chance to shine.”

  He stared at me with bright laser-green eyes. I think he’s angry, I thought, his eyes just lit up like a Yulefestival tree. Or is that just me?

  The plate holding my peanut butter toast chattered against the countertop. I held his gaze, wondering if the Power thundering through the air would burn me. My rings popped and snarled, my shields shifting, reacting to the charged air.

  He finally glanced down at the floor, effectively breaking the tension. “As you command, Mistress.”

  I wondered if he could sound any more sarcastic.

  I shrugged. “I’m not your mistress, Japhrimel. The sooner I can get rid of you and back to my life, the better. All I want you to do is stay out of my way, you dig? After you explain what a demon familiar does.”

  He nodded, his eyes on the floor. “When would you like your explanation?”

  I wiped a sweating hand on my shirt, my combat shields humming as they folded back down. “Let me finish my coffee first.”

  He nodded, his hair shifting, wet dark spikes. “As you like.”

  “And pour yourself a cuppa coffee or something,” I added, grudgingly. Might as well be polite, even if he wasn’t.

  CHAPTER 15

  Ashton Hutton,” the lawyer said, his grip firm and professional. He didn’t flinch at the tat on my cheek or at the sight of Japhrimel—of course, lawyers in the age of parapsych don’t scare easily. “Nice of you to come out on such short notice, Ms. Valentine.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hutton.” I smiled back at him. You fucking shark, I thought. He was slightly psionic—not enough to qualify for a trade, but enough to give him an edge in the courtroom—and his blond hair was combed back from a wide forehead. Blue eyes sparkled. He had a disarming, expensive grin. The wet ratfur smell of some secret fetish hung on him. I filled my lungs, taking my hand back, smelling something repulsive and dry.

  Not my business, I thought, and looked past him into the tasteful meeting room. The windows were dark, but the lights were full-spectrum, and the table was an antique polished mahogany big enough to carve up a whale on.

  The family was there: bone-thin, sucked-dry older woman who was probably the wife dressed in a peach linen suit, very tasteful, a single strand of pearls clasped to her dry neck; there were two boys, one of them round and wet-eyed, greasy-haired, no more than thirteen, a ghost of acne clinging to his skin. The other was a college-age kid, his hair cut into the bowl-shape made popular by Jasper Dex in the holovids, leaning back in his chair while he tapped at the table’s mirror polish shine with blunt fingertips.

  On the other side of the table was a woman—maybe thirty-five, her dark hair in a kind of spray-glued helmet, ruby earrings clipped to her ears. Mistress, I thought. Then my eyes flicked past her to the two plainclothes cops, and a whole lot more about this situation started to make sense.

  I looked at the lawyer. “What’s with the cops?” I asked, the smile dropping from my face like a bad habit.

  “We don’t know yet,” Hutton replied. “Miss Sharpley requested a police presence here, and it was not denied by the terms of the will, so . . .” He trailed off, spreading his smooth well-buffed hands.

  I nodded. In other words, the cops were here because someone was suspected of something, or relations between the wife and mistress were less than cordial. Also none of my business. “Well,” I said, and stepped into the room, digging in my bag. “Let’s get to work then.”

  “Who’s your associate?” Hutton asked. “I didn’t catch his name.”

  “I didn’t throw it,” I replied tartly. “I’m here to raise a dead man, not talk about my accessories.” I was already wishing I hadn’t accepted this job either.

  In the center of the table stood the regulation box, heavy and made out of steel, holding the remains of the man I would be bringing back out of death’s sleep. I shivered slightly. I hated cremains, worked much better with a body . . . but you couldn’t afford to be picky when you had a mortgage. I wondered why an estate worth fifteen million didn’t have an urn for the hubby, and mentally shrugged. Also none of my business. It wasn’t my job to get involved, it was my job to raise the dead.

  The first time I’d raised an apparition out of ash and bone had been at the Academy; I hadn’t been prepared for the silence that fell over the training room when I’d done it. Most Necromances need a whole body, the fresher the better; it was rare to have the kind of talent and Power needed to raise a full apparition out of bits. It meant steady work, since I was the only Necromance around who could do it—but it also meant that I pulled more than my share of very gruesome remains. One of the worst had been the Choyne Towers fiasco, when a Putchkin transport had failed and crashed into the three towers. I’d been busy for days sifting through little bits and raising them for identification, and there were still ten people missing. If I couldn’t raise them, they must have been vaporized.

  And that was a singularly unpleasant thought. That hadn’t made my reputation, though. My reputation as a Necromance had been cemented when I’d almost by accident raised the apparition of Saint Crowley the Magi. It was supposed to be a publicity ploy by the Channel 2004 Holovid team, but I’d actually done it, much to everyone’s surprise. Including my own.

  But most of what I was stuck with were the gruesome ones, the burned ones, and dead psions. It was Hegemony law that the remains of a dead psi had to be cremated—especially Magi and Ceremonials, because of the risk of Feeders.

  I shivered.

  I had the candles out and placed on the table when the wife suddenly made a slight choking sound. “Do we have to?” she asked, in a thready, husky voice. “Is this absolutely necessary?”

  “Chill out, Ma,” the college boy snapped. His voice was surprisingly high for such a husky kid. He leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs. “Smoke and mirrors, that’s all, so’s they can charge for it, you know.”

  “Ms. Valentine is a licensed, accredited Necromance,” Hutton said thinly, “and the best in the country if not the world, Mrs. Shantern. You did ask to have the . . . questions . . . resolved.”

  The stick-woman’s mouth compressed itself. On the other side of the table, the mistress’s dark eyes rested steadily on the steel box. She was as cool and impenetrable as a locked hard drive, her smoothly planed cheeks coloring slightly as she raised her eyes to mine.

  That’s one tough cookie, I thought, and looked over at the plainclothes. They didn’t look familiar.

  I shrugged. Once the candles were secure in their holders I snapped my fingers, my rings sparked, and blue flame sputtered up from the wicks, glowing like gasjets.

  I always got a kick out of doing that.

  The wife gasped, and the college boy’s chair legs thudded down on the expensively carpeted floor.

  “If you’d be so kind as to kill the lights, Mr. Hutton,” I said, drawing my sword free of its sheath, “we’ll have this done in a jiffy.”

  The lawyer, maybe used to Necromances working in semidark, moved over to the door, brushing nervously past the demon, who stayed close, almost at my shoulder. I hopped up on the table and sat cross-legged, the sword in one hand, and rested my free hand on the steel box. This put my head above everyone’s—except the demon and the taller of the plainclothes cops in his rumpled suit. What are they here for? I thought, dismissed the question.

  “Dante?” the demon asked. It was the first time he had truly used my name.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Just wait. I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  I am your familiar, the demon had told me, and I may act to defend you. Any harm that comes to you, I will feel as if committed to my own flesh. I am at your command as
long as you bear that mark. If it is possible for me to do, your word will make it so. I am not free to act, as you are.

  I understood a lot more now. No wonder Magi wanted familiars. It was like owning a slave, he had explained, a magickal slave and bodyguard. The trouble was, I didn’t want a slave. I wanted to be left alone.

  I closed my eyes. Deep circular breaths, my sword balanced across my knees. After the uncertainties of the last few days, it was a relief to have something I knew how to do and understood doing. Here, at least, was a problem I could solve. Dropped below conscious thought, the blue glow rising, my hand resting on the steel box.

  The words rose from the deepest part of me. “Agara tetara eidoeae nolos, sempris quieris tekos mael—”

  If you were to write down a Necromance’s chant, you’d have a bunch of nonsense syllables with no real Power. Necromance chants aren’t part of the Canons or even a magical language—they’re just keys, personal keys like the psychopomp each Necromance has. Still, someone always tries to write them down and make them follow grammatical rules. The trouble is, the chants change over time.

  Blue crystal light rose above me, enfolded me. My rings spat sparks, a shower of them, my left shoulder twinging. Riding the Power, crystal walls singing around me, I reached into the place where the cremains rested, hunting. Small pieces of shattered bone and ash a bitter taste against my tongue.

  To taste death, to take death into you . . . it is a bitter thing, more bitter than any living taste. It burned through me, overlapping the ache in my shoulder from the demon’s mark.

  I’ve seen the tapes. While I chant, my head tips back, and the Power swirls counterclockwise, an oval of pale light growing over the body—or whatever is left of the body. My hair streams back, whether caught in a ponytail, braided, or left loose. The emerald on my cheek glitters and pulses, echoing the pulsing of the oval of light hanging in front of me, the rip in the world where I bring the dead through to talk.