Queen of the Dark Things (42 page)

—
Pseudomonarchia Daemonum

Y
ou're going to hate him,” said Yashar.

“They're demons,” said Colby. “I can't say I like any of them.”

“Yeah, but Paimon's different. Of the Seventy-two, some are terrifying, others outlandish, some, like Seere, are downright tolerable. But Paimon. He's—”

“He's what?”

“He's an asshole.”

“How bad?”

“Through and through. I've never seen a face in all my life as punchable as his. You'll hate him before he even opens his mouth. Just face northwest, say the words, and let's get this over with. Even thinking about him turns my stomach.”

“You don't have to go.”

“You asked. And you never ask.”

“The stories about it—”

“They're all true.”

Colby nodded. “Let's rip off the Band-Aid.”

The two stood in the backyard, just outside the sliding glass door into Colby's kitchen, looking out over the scrub of the disused space. The sun was high, creeping toward its zenith, casting shadows from the rickety, well-worn wooden fence that separated Colby's property from five other adjacent lots. There was no lawn furniture, only a trail of dirt around the base of the fence that Gossamer had run down over the last six months.

“Seere,” he said softly. And Seere appeared.

Colby jumped astride the back of the horse and Gossamer jumped immediately into his arms. He looked down, wishing for a moment that Seere had a bigger horse.

Yashar looked confused, then smiled sheepishly.

“I don't know how this is going to work,” said Colby.

The djinn took a few steps toward the horse and put a hand gently on its side. Seere turned and looked down at Yashar, nodding.

“I think you need to be on the horse,” said Colby.

Yashar shook his head. “No, it doesn't work that way.”

“But I've been—”

Seere looked at Colby, then down to Yashar. “I didn't have the heart to tell him.”

I
T WAS NIGHT
and the desert was cold, Seere having flung them to the far side of the world. They stood in a vast expanse, a great valley covered in dunes, the bright moon and stars lighting the sand a soft blue. Unlike the lairs of the others, there was nothing creepy or unimaginable waiting. Just sand. Miles upon miles of sand.

Colby looked up and found his bearing by the stars and faced northwest. He held his hands before him and said the words, once more speaking syllables most inhuman. “Paimon, I summon thee. Appear and speak.”

From literally out of nowhere marched a parade, a procession of clowns, acrobats, musicians-performers of all sorts—each appearing without so much as a flash or a bang. They simply were, and continued to multiply. Each wore colorful clothes with bells and baubles, floppy hats and curly-toed boots, playing music, elegant and celebratory. Cymbals clashed, trumpets blared. And all the while the paraders danced, skipping, frolicking like they were having the best time in the world. But their faces dripped with fear, their eyes wide and terror stricken from the horrors they'd seen. And those that were smiling looked the worse for it, as if they had hooks on the insides of their cheeks to keep them so.

These were the souls of Paimon's favorite conquests, some only centuries old, others millennia, and each step they took pained them, for they never stopped dancing, never stopped blowing their trumpets, never were allowed a moment of peace in all their deaths. And behind them, a dromedary, its camel hair carefully manicured, its back saddled with fine silks and ancient leather, carried the most august, handsome creature Colby had ever seen. Paimon.

Paimon was dressed from head to toe in fineries, his eyes ringed perfectly in mascara, his olive skin without blemish, his long, lustrous black hair looped through silver and platinum barrettes, rings, and headbands. He reminded Colby instantly of Rudolph Valentino in a way that made it seem as if Valentino had been nothing but a pale imitation, trying its best to evoke the demon to the best of its earthly constraints. The demon gazed down from its swaying beast, held up a single swishing hand, and stopped his procession at once. He looked at the three companions—his entertainers still dancing in place—grimacing haughtily. Then he locked eyes with Colby, shrieking with an unearthly clamor that vibrated down the bones and back up through the soul.

Colby winced, unprepared for such a caustic pronouncement. He waved his arms, trying to stop him, but the demon spoke in an abyssal argot so foul that Colby found it hard to form his own words. “Stop! Stop!” he finally belted out. “Paimon, speak to me as would a man.”

Paimon stopped, pursed his lips, and looked straight down his nose at Colby. “I have appeared. Let us speak then, as men do.”

“I'll make this brief. I know you don't want to be anywhere near—”

“Oh, don't concern yourself with that on my account. I'm not going to let a small thing like that little girl and her ring keep me from enjoying my time with the
great Colby Stevens.
” Paimon tightened his face as he said the last part, fingers pinched together as if holding a teacup.

Paimon spoke with a gentle, lilting voice, ending each of his sentences with a vocal upturn that made them sound mocking and sarcastic. He couldn't keep his hands still, not while speaking, waving for emphasis in the midst of each word, hands like the blade of a windmill at the end of limp wrists. His poise was the height of pretension; even the way he held his head was conceited. There was a way about him so regal that it could make even the aristocratic feel downright vulgar by comparison. When he cast his eyes around a place, he did so as if he was disappointed by the filth and squalor surrounding him, which Colby imagined he did even in the most lavish of accommodations.

Yashar was right. Colby wanted to punch him square in the jaw long before he spoke, but even more so now that he had. He fidgeted, trying not to make a fist, aggravation pulling taut the muscles in his hand.

Paimon smiled, delighted that he had so easily gotten under the boy's skin. He lifted his leg gracefully, sliding off the side of his dromedary and onto the ground without so much as disturbing a grain of sand. “Let's go inside,” he said.

He clapped and a lavish tent appeared, a dozen lanterns lighting it. It seemed to blaze like a star in the sea of moonlight. Paimon turned and made his way toward it.

“I told you,” whispered Yashar beneath his breath.

“Shut it,” Colby whispered back.

Paimon stepped inside and made another disappointed face. “No, I'll need a rug for the dog.” He turned to Colby, who followed distantly behind him. “No dogs on the pillows. You know my rules?”

Colby nodded. “I do.”

“Good,” he said, taking a seat on an ornately stitched and gilded pillow. “So, have you fucked her yet?”

“What?”

“I said have you fucked her yet? The girl. The loci. The blonde with the ass in the tight jeans you're always pining for. Have you fucked her? Crawled deep inside that tiny little twat and given it to her good? Slipped a finger in and tickled her insides? Rolled her over and taken every hole you can? Have you done that, Colby? Have you given her the good fucking you've been craving? Drenched her in every fluid you have until you can't come anymore? Well, have you, Colby? Colby Stevens?”

Colby's expression dropped, his gut roiling. “No,” he said, now terrified of where this conversation was headed.

“Sit, sit. But you want to, don't you?”

“I think I'll stand.”

Paimon tsked. “My home, my rules. You'll sit.”

Colby slumped onto a pillow of his own, crossing his legs, trying to remain stoic.

“He's just trying to humiliate you, Colby,” said Yashar.

“Of course I'm trying to humiliate him. He's a wee little child who wants to play with the men. But you can't play with the men, can you, Colby? Because a man would have fucked the shit out of that tight little piece of ass by now. And you're no man. You can't even talk to her, let alone fuck her. You want to fuck her, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Colby, his insides hollowing out, shrinking away into the deepest, darkest, most hidden parts of him. His face was flushed with shame. But he couldn't lie. Not without giving Paimon license to add him to his procession.

“You've thought about it, haven't you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you thought about getting her on those pretty little knees while you drench her face in your spunk?”

“No.”

Paimon peered severely at Colby, sniffing. “Oh. You haven't, have you? Oh my lord, you imagine that you
respect her
.” He laughed, something that sounded like a churlish giggle piped through a calliope. “You poor, pathetic, tiny-cocked little shit. You are worthless. You think that not thinking about that amazing little body on its knees sucking your cock dry and begging for you to fill her holes shows her some kind of dignity. She reads minds, Colby. She knows that's what guys think about. What you
think
about. Every guy who sees her wants to plug those holes. What kind of a sissy must she think you are that you try to think about anything but. She deserves better than you tossing off to her beautiful little pink areolae on those free-floating creamy fair-skinned tits of hers. Oh God, maybe I should fuck her. You think she'd like that?”

“No.”

“Would you like to watch that?”

“No.”

“You wouldn't, would you? You're ashamed of your little pecker. You think it's not good enough for her, do you? Can't bear the thought of seeing her get it from real manhood?”

“Are you done yet?” asked Yashar.

“I haven't even begun!” shouted Paimon. “Answer the question, Colby! Do you think your cock is big enough to fuck her hairless twat and come on her stomach?”

“I don't know.”

“Oh,” said the demon, waving him off. “You really don't. You really are that fucking pathetic. What about the little girl?” He stood quickly and did a mocking little dance, lowering his voice as he curtsied. “The Queeeeeeeeeen.”

“What about her?”

“Have? You? Thought? About? Fucking? Her?”

“No!” said Colby.

“What is it with you and fucking?” asked Yashar.

“You don't get to ask questions, Yashar. I ask the questions I feel like until I decide that I'm done. And right now, I feel like asking your chaste little boyfriend about his deviant little sexual fantasies. He's been around the world, but he's never
been around the world
. And he certainly shouldn't feel like an expert in anything if he can't even describe what most thirteen-year-olds can detail from memory. Does that embarrass you, Colby? That most middle school boys know what a pussy feels like and you don't?”

“Yes.”

“Of course it does, you despicable little maggot. You can never please a woman. The only girls inexperienced enough to not know how inept you are at fucking are so young you'd be humiliated to fuck them. But you'd like to fuck them, wouldn't you. Little girls?”

“No.”

“Oh my God, you are so fucking boring! It's not even fun to make fun of you! Do you think you can save her?”

“What?”

“The girl. The Queeeeeen. Do you think you can save her, Colby?”

“I don't know.”

“She's coming to kill you, you know.”

“I know.”

“But you'd like to, wouldn't you? Save her?”

Colby sighed, resigned. “Yes.”

“But you can't save her. Not without damning yourself further. Not without earning our wrath. Are you willing to damn yourself to save her?”

“Is there any better reason to be damned than for a friend?”

“But she's not your friend. She hasn't been your friend for a long time. Amy was right about you, we can't trust you, can we?”

“That depends. What do you have to trust me to do?”

“Keep up your end of the bargain. Kill the girl.”

“You can trust me to keep up my end of the bargain. I'll be dead before I renege on our deal. I promise you that.”

Paimon eyed Colby closely, once again sniffing deeply, sensing not even the slightest bit of a lie. “I don't like the way you phrased that. What do you have up your sleeve, Colby?”

“A way to kill the Queen that I dare not speak of lest its revelation ruins the surprise for her.”

“I must know.”

“If I tell you, what is spoken between us will be known by Dantalion, will it not?”

Paimon squinted distastefully. The boy was not wrong. “Dantalion,” he said, as if spitting out bad fruit. “I rescind the question.”

“You didn't actually ask it. The girl is coming. We don't have much time. Are you quite done?”

“No. I have nothing but time. You're the one with the ticking clock. Were she to walk in the tent now, she'd kill you before thinking of enslaving me. I'll be fine. So tell me, do you think by saving her you can absolve yourself of Ewan Thatcher?”

Colby gritted his teeth, his heart pounding as it sank in his chest.

“You do, don't you? You think that if you can help one friend you've wronged, it will somehow balance the ledger. Don't you?”

“Something like that.”

“Or exactly like that. Is it exactly like that,
Colby Stevens
?”

Colby swallowed, his mouth growing increasingly dry. “Yes.”

“You really are a miserable, sad, obvious little boy.” He rolled his eyes and waved Colby off in disgust. “You're no fun anymore. I'm done with you. Ask your boon and be done with it.”

Colby nodded. The worst of it was over. Or so he hoped. “Great Paimon, I am told you possess knowledge such that you can create nearly any mystical item from memory.”

Paimon stroked his chin. “Of course.”