Devil's Business (22 page)

Jack gripped the rope. He was close enough. He could throw a hex on Sanford and be out of here before anyone had time to get across the room to him. Except Abbadon didn’t need to touch him to fuck him up. And running now would only help him, not Pete and not the kid. Nor Kim, and Kim’s spawn. Abbadon still needed a new body.

He watched the iron chandelier lower to just above waist height, one of those flat black affairs shaped like a wagon wheel. Small pyramid points rose from the iron rods, and chains dangled from between the spaces for candles.

Abbadon grabbed Belial by the back of the neck. “See that, demon? Get a good look, because that’s your final resting place.”

“It’s cute how you think this is actually going to all work out for you,” Belial said. “Like you won’t get torn apart by the dogs of Hell the moment I get out of here.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Abbadon pushed Belial down, face first onto the metal rack. Jack couldn’t help wincing when he heard the iron spikes bite into flesh. Belial let out a soft grunt, but that was all. Tough bastard, Jack thought. Were it him, he’d be screaming.

“Lift,” Abbadon said. “Hang ’im high.”

“Great flick,” Sanford said. “Gary Cooper is the man.”

“Harlan, shut the fuck up,” Abbadon said. “Nobody cares, nobody’s interested. Just shut up and hoist this fucker.”

Sanford muttered, but he tugged at the rope, and Jack helped him raise Belial back to ceiling height. The demon didn’t make a sound, just stared impassively as his blood droplets painted a mosaic on the floor.

Why didn’t he fight? Jack shot Belial a sidelong glance. Why didn’t he break out, throw down with Abbadon, whip it out and see who was bigger once and for all?

This place was poison for magic. Maybe it was poison for demons as well. That had been Basil Locke’s big secret—turning a patch of ground into a dead zone for creatures that could rip his face off, and use it to build his doorway.

He had to hand it to Locke, smart bastard. Not that it was going to help him, or Belial, one fucking ounce.

Abbadon stepped back and looked to Sanford. “Now we wait for the piggy to bleed out, and then we knock on Hell’s back door and see who’s home.”

“I know that,” Sanford said, spine straightening. “I’m the one who found Locke’s work, after all.”

“’Course you did,” Abbadon said. He pointed at Gator. “Your boy there is looking a little green. Need to send him to the nurse’s office?”

“Ignore him,” Sanford said. “He’s a pussy without his big boyfriend around.”

Abbadon knelt and smeared Belial’s blood into a rough circle. There was a lot of it, more than a human could lose and still be walking and talking. “It’s all physics,” Abbadon told Belial. “You think you’re floating in a soap bubble, impenetrable by anyone except your filthy blood. But all you have to do is twist the magic, use it to tether yourself to Hell. And then you can pass straight through, you and anyone else. Locke was a genius, when you think about it.”

“He was a crazy bastard,” Belial said. His voice was soft, softer than Jack had ever heard it, and there was a definite knife edge of pain. “If you could open a doorway, don’t you think he’d have done? What, he just left this precious gift for you shiftless gits?” He gritted his teeth as more blood poured out. “You can bleed me dry, Abbadon, but in the end you’re going back to Hell, and back to the same spot we put you, because that’s the way of things. The natural order has moved on. You’re a relic, and you’re…”

He gave a scream as Abbadon dipped his finger into the demon’s blood. It fizzed and boiled, and Belial’s skin rippled with boils before quieting. Pink foam leaked from his nose and the corners of his mouth.

“Tell me what I am again,” Abbadon said. “I dare you, fuckstick.”

“Enough,” Sanford said. “Now that we have the circle there come the words, and then the key to open the door.” He gestured. “Gator, get over here.”

Jack perked up. Finally, an opening. Sanford was smart, but his hard men weren’t, and nothing was more dangerous than a dumb, pissed-off thug. “Wouldn’t do it,” he said.

Abbadon and Sanford both glared at him. “Shut up,” Sanford said. “You’ve done your bit. You be a good boy and maybe I’ll drive you home with your virtue intact.”

“Really, mate,” Jack continued, locking eyes with Gator. “You didn’t seriously think that you were going to skip out of here with all your fingers and toes. Not once the men started appearing from thin air and the blood magic began.”

Gator looked at him, back to Sanford. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Think about it. Key? That’s human sacrifice, mate. That’s
you.
” Jack folded his arms. “You’re not leaving here alive, Gator. Neither of us are.”

“Be quiet,” Abbadon hissed. “It doesn’t matter. What’s he going to do, shoot me?”

Gator’s mouth dropped open, revealing a plethora of cavities behind his gold grin. “You motherfuckers!” he spat. “After everything I done for you. All the shit that I cleaned up for you, Harlan…”

“Oh, good lord,” Sanford said. “You’re replaceable, Gator. Parker was the one I was upset over losing. You’re an overweight kiddie-fiddler with delusions of Satanism from Assrape, Louisiana. You think I can’t find another one of you—a dozen—any time I wanted?”

Gator pulled his gun, which was all the distraction Jack had hoped for. Gator was panicked, and his shots went wide, picking holes out of the wall of windows, but he turned tail and ran, still shooting, shots spanging wildly off the plaster and tile, until his gun clicked empty and he simply fled.

Sanford stared after him. “Well, shit,” he said.

“No matter,” Abbadon said. He looked at Jack. “What exactly did you hope to accomplish with that, Jackie?” He raised a hand. “Never mind. I didn’t have my heart set on that fat fuck.” Abbadon looked at Sanford, and Jack thought that really, a man as smart as Harlan Sanford should have seen this coming.

Still, he screamed and tried to run, just like they all did. Abbadon grabbed him, shoved him over the line of the blood circle, and thrust a fist into his back. Sanford choked, a little blood sprayed from between his lips, and his eyes bulged. Abbadon let him drop, the gaping wound in his back wide as a cannon shot.

“Now,” Abbadon said. “Now the veil is lifted. Now I return to my rightful place, and leave this stinking world behind. By the blood of my enemies, I open the doorway between the two worlds, the way back to the land of my birth and my blood.”

Abbadon held up his own wrist, and a void appeared, dribbling his own blood into the circle. “The doorway opens. I am released.”

“You forgot something,” Jack told him. He knelt on the floor, smearing the small spot into a symbol. The demon blood caused feedback all through his body, into his sight, but he ignored it.

“What’s that?” Abbadon said.

Jack licked the crimson spots from his fingers and stood. “You’re not the only clever bastard who can do blood magic.”

Banishment was much more difficult than summoning. To call something to you was simple—demons wanted to be called, wanted you to be desperate enough to need them. Getting rid of them once they had a foothold was much harder. Something like Abbadon, vastly powerful and strong-willed, would be impossible with his own blood, but with Belial’s, it was like hitting the bastard with a tank.

Abbadon screamed, just once, and then vanished, leaving only a pop of air in his place. Belial grinned down at Jack. “If I ever had doubts about you, boy … no longer.” He flexed his wrists, starting a fresh spatter of blood. “Care to get me down from here?”

“Piss off,” Jack told him. “You can rot there for all I care.”

“You should care,” Belial said.

Jack stopped on his way out and looked back. Belial was grinning. Somebody in his position, demon or not, shouldn’t grin. It meant he knew something Jack didn’t, which was never the situation he wanted to be in. “Yeah?” he said. “Why? Out of the goodness of my heart?”

“Please,” Belial said. “You’ve got less goodness in that shriveled lump of coal than I have appreciation for the music of Hall and Oates. No, Jack, you should care because that Sanford bloke wasn’t talking bollocks.” He shifted, trying to extricate himself from the spikes, and then grimaced. “Come on, get me down. Even I can’t poof my way out of a cold iron torture rack.”

“Poof being the operative word,” Jack muttered. He could keep walking and leave Belial to think about things, or he could cut him down and have a demon in his debt. Not a difficult choice.

The chandelier was heavy, and Belial crashed to the ground. “Fuck me,” he said, extricating himself from the spikes. “You’re not much of a big strong sort, are you?”

His white shirt was stained with continents of blood, and his natty suit was shredded across the thighs, arms, and chest. The demon straightened his tie. “Obliged, Jack. You always were a stand-up sort in a pinch.” He gestured at the circle. “You mind? I am rather indisposed at the moment.”

Jack scuffed his boot across the chalk and blood, and Belial stepped out, letting out a long breath. “Can’t wait to see the back of this place. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Jack told him. He bent down beside Sanford, who was still sucking air despite the hole in his guts. “Where is she?” he asked.

Sanford wheezed, what might have been a laugh before Abbadon had rearranged his innards. “Really? She’s … all you want?”

Jack plunged his hand into Sanford’s wound, grabbed a handful of something soft and warm, and squeezed it. Sanford howled, body jerking. “Where’s Pete?” Jack said. “You’re on the way out, mate. You don’t get to make the rules.”

“No,” Sanford croaked. “I know where I’m going. Same place you are. See you around…” He gurgled, and died, without further comment.

“Shit.” Jack straightened up and swiped Sanford’s blood and guts onto his denim. “They still have her,” he told Belial.

“I’m sure this is a cause for alarm in your small rodent brain,” Belial said. “But Abbadon is going to come roaring back here like a freight train any moment, and he’s not going to be in a charming mood. Might I suggest we not be here?”

“Fine,” Jack said. “Do your
Star Trek
trick, then, and shift us out.”

Belial coughed and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “When I’m healthy, moving through space-time isn’t easy with a human in tow. I’m barely standing, you git. I’m not going to perform tricks.”

Jack sighed. “There’s a car outside, but I can’t drive and that bloke I ran off had the keys.”

“Capital.” Belial coughed again. “What do humans do in this situation, then? Call for a taxi?”

“I usually call Pete,” Jack said. “But Sanford has her. And now that he’s dead, fuck knows what’ll happen.” Couldn’t think about that now. Had to stay calm, had to stay clever, if he ever wanted to see her again.

“She’s a lot smarter than you,” Belial said. “I wouldn’t be overly concerned.”

The night outside was warm, and a wind brushed across Jack’s face and moved the trees along the drive. Belial inhaled. “I’m not going to last much longer up here. Unless you want a dead demon on your hands, Jack—and before you ask, yes, I can kick just like your kind can—then we need to be gone from this place.”

Jack spread his arms. “And where do you suggest we go?”

Belial smiled. “Where poor little lost Abbadon wants to go. Home.”

CHAPTER 24

He had to be mad, Jack decided. That was the only explanation for allowing Belial to talk him into going back to the place he’d tried with everything he had to avoid, had agreed to let the Morrigan change him to escape.

He was changed. That was a fact he couldn’t ignore anymore. The scene with Parker proved it, and more than that, the new life he felt crawling under his skin. The Morrigan had what she wanted. She had him, body and soul, because he owed her his life. If it wasn’t for her, he’d still be languishing in Hell.

His vision cleared, like coming back from a sharp blow to the head, and he saw that he and Belial stood in a street, slimy cobbles under their feet and orange gaslights spitting pollution into the air.

“Where are we?” he said.

“Hell, of course,” Belial said, and coughed up a few droplets of black blood onto his rumpled shirt.

“Not any part of Hell I’ve seen,” Jack muttered. “Looks more like Sweeney Todd’s back garden.”

“You don’t let the prisoners walk into the warden’s sitting room and put their boots on his furniture,” Belial said. “The souls in Hell are in torment, Jack. The demons live here.”

He mounted the steps to a narrow stone house with a door shaped like a keyhole that swung open at his approach. “Well, come in,” he said. “You stand out there on the street, you’re liable to end up as an attraction at the next Carnival of Souls.”

Jack followed Belial up the steps. If he’d been told that he’d be following a demon into his nest, that the demon would be the one inviting him in, he’d have laughed in the teller’s face, and then probably hit them for good measure, to knock some sense back into them.

“All of you live in snug little houses, then?” Jack said. Belial mounted the stairs and Jack followed. The house inside was done in shades of black and red, all very smooth and masculine, the sort of flat a banker or a lawyer in the City would own.

“Some live in houses,” Belial said. “Some live in abbatoirs and some prefer to float in a void of nothing, listening to the screams of souls when they’re in their private space.” He shrugged. “Takes all kinds.” He opened a wardrobe and took out a clean shirt and tie, shedding the ruined pair.

Jack wandered to the window, looking over the chimney pots of the street to the great black towers of Hell, billowing smoke in the distance. The Princes lived there, was the rumor, watched over their domain of ruined souls, high and inscrutable, just like the fictional God Jack’s mum had tried to frighten him with.

He watched Belial, too, in the reflection. The demon had twin black marks down his back, curved like scythe blades, but the wounds he’d suffered at Abbadon’s hands had already faded. “This isn’t my real body,” Belial said. “I figured I shouldn’t overload you with all the sights at once.”

“Didn’t think you’d choose a pasty little midget voluntarily,” Jack said. Belial put on his fresh shirt and twitched his cuffs.