Queen of the Dark Things (43 page)

“And what do you remember of Babylon?”

“I remember everything. Every moment. The name of every corrupted soul in that beautiful bastion of sin.”

“Then I want you to teach me to make Babylonian Demon Traps.”

Paimon's eyes at once fumed, his skin flushed with anger. He waved Colby off with a dismissive flutter. “What? No! I refuse! What do you need those for?”

Colby stood up and took a bold step forward. “I've answered your fucking questions, you foul-mouthed, pompous little pervert. I've done your dance and my soul is safe. Will you not grant me the boon?”

“No! I . . . those were not meant for you, Colby Stevens.”

“No. Their knowledge has been wiped from the world, passed down only orally as a legend for centuries. Who, I wonder, would, or even could, have done such a thing?”

Paimon glared at Colby. All of his grace was gone, replaced with blustery indignation.

“Did you do it, Paimon?”

“Yes. Yes I did. I've kept that secret safe for centuries, I will not pass it on to you.”

“Excellent. So how does this work? My deal was with Orobas, and your deal with him—so does your eternal servitude come straight to me, or does it go to Orobas and I get Orobas but can trade him his freedom for you?”

“That's not how it works.”

“The deal was quite clear. Five boons of my choosing for five souls.”

“You haven't paid the souls.”

“Demons pay first. Them's the rules. Don't pretend that you don't know them, because I sure as shit do. Do you honestly think I'm that stupid?”

“I was hoping you might be. You're strong, shrewd, but you buckle when someone questions something you might not know and you often take their word for it. It was a gamble.”

“Why don't you want to teach me to make . . . Babylonian Demon Traps?”

“
Because there are few people in this world more suited to abuse them than you.” Paimon relaxed, steadying himself, at once regaining his calm composure. “But you need these for tonight, don't you?”

“You don't get to ask questions anymore.”

“It was rhetorical. There's no other reason you would need them. And I guess I
could
impart the knowledge of their creation to you. Of course, the materials to make them and the time it would take to fashion them would take far too long for you to acquire and craft . . . and you have, what, but one boon left? Which boon might you ask for? The ingredients? Or the demonic skill and powers to make them in the time prescribed? Decisions, decisions.”

“What are you proposing, Paimon? That you make them for me?”

“I could. But it's a tough choice. Either ask me
how
to make them or ask me to make them
for you.
Hmm. Nail-biter.”

“Make them,” said Colby, coolly.

“What?”

“That's my boon. Make me two sets.”

Paimon opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated, for a moment slightly embarrassed. “Um, I . . . I can't.”

“You what?”

“What I mean to say is that I can
make
them. I can assemble the materials and construct them. But I can't finish them. I can summon the materials, shape them, inscribe them, bake them in the fires of Hell, but I cannot breathe life into them, not the way you need. That requires a tremendous amount of energy, essence.”

“Dreamstuff.”

“Yes. But once it's there, I can't touch them. Can't manipulate them in any way. That you'll have to do yourself.”

“How much will it need?”

“Quite a bit. More than you'll be able to summon natively here.” He hesitated for a moment, thumbing his chin mischievously. “But no more than you might scrape from a powerful artifact.”

“And where am I supposed to find a powerful artifact that I can just will away?”

Paimon cast a crooked finger over to the tent's wall, grinning all the while. Upon it appeared the vision of two pegs, a pike resting upon them. Ewan's pike. Ethereal, illusory, but crystal clear in its point. “That will more than suffice.”

“I'm . . . I'm not parting with that.”

“Do you have any other choice? Or would you prefer I make something else for you?”

“You'll make these.”

“It'll take me some time. Not long, but long enough for you to decide how important they are to you. I'll make them. You can finish them. Use whatever you like.”

Colby stewed, as angry as he ever was. For a while he'd thought he'd regained the upper hand with Paimon, only to see that lead evaporate in the last moments. He stared at the vision of the pike, brooding over its potential loss. “Make them,” he said. “I'll get you what you need.”

Paimon smiled crassly, savoring the win. “Don't be sore, Colby. You never should have expected to get the best of us. But as a consolation, I'll deliver the bowls.” He cocked an arrogant eyebrow at Colby, pursing his lips. “As I said, I'm not afraid of a little girl and her ring.” He clapped once gracefully, and with that, he and his procession were gone, the tent along with them. Once again, the three were plunged into the dark of an empty desert lit only by the moon.

“Colby,” said Gossamer. “What are you going to do?”

Colby didn't lift his gaze from the spot where the vision of the pike had been. “I don't know.”

C
HAPTER
56

T
HE
W
EIGHT OF
T
HINGS

C
olby sat cross-legged in the center of his living room, the John Brown pike across his lap like a prized new toy. Its blade was still razor sharp, gleaming in the orange-yellow light of the dozens of candles burning about the room. While all the blood that had been shed by it had long since been wiped clean, Colby could hear the screams of the departed, feel the grunts and grip of the death blows. Every molecule of the pike resonated with djang, the stories of its bearers, no matter how short, burned indelibly into its core. This was no mere thing. It was an echo of history, banging off the rocks of forever.

And now Colby had to let it go. Say good-bye. Will it into nothing.

He didn't want to do that. Not at all.

“It's not him, you know,” said Yashar, sitting idle but impatient beside Gossamer on the couch.

“What?” asked Colby.

“The pike. It's not him.”

“Do you know about djang, Yashar?”

“Colby,” he said in a withering tone.

“We all put energy out into the universe. Just a little bit of ourselves that vibrates the things around us, leaves a shadow of our thoughts and emotions on our surroundings.”

“I know what djang is, Colby.”

“Ewan's shadow is here, on this pike. There's a little bit of him left making it what it is.”

“That pike is not Ewan. Not the Ewan you want to remember. He was gone by then.”

“I know,” said Colby. “But it's the only thing I have left.” He picked up the pike, closed his eyes, felt the tremors and fury and brutality of its past. For a split second he could feel him, his grip tight, ferocity overwhelming. He was there, his shadow passing over Colby—more a tingle than a man—but there nonetheless. Ewan.

Colby's eyes stung, wet with tears.

Yashar stood up, putting a firm hand on his friend's shoulder. “He's already gone.”

“I know. And he's not coming back.” He looked up at Yashar. “Why do I always have to kill my friends?”

“Colby—”

“No. It's all I've ever done. Too many friends over too short a time. Sometimes I think the only reason I've lived so long is that my curse isn't that I end badly, like so many of your other kids, but rather that I'm cursed to end up alone with the knowledge that I'm the one who got everyone killed. If I survive tonight, it will only be because I killed another of my friends. And I'm running low.”

“That's not your curse, Colby.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that's my curse.” Yashar reached down and began fiddling with the countless baubles, trinkets, and other jewelry adorning his outfit. “I've never told you about these, mostly because you never asked.”

“Oh,” said Colby, never having given them much thought, but now, in an instant, understanding. “Those aren't—”

“They are. Each and every one from a different child. One from each.”

Colby looked closer. They hung from chains and loops and short leather cords. Christmas ornaments. Rings. Bracelets. Toys. Each coated in bronze, silver, or gold. It had always struck Colby as being a bit garish, but he'd never really processed it. It was just one of those things, something he assumed was a product of someone from another age.

“Where's mine?” asked Colby.

Yashar reached into his pocket. “I don't wear it until they're gone,” he said. “But I keep them with me, nonetheless.” He pulled out an ugly, plastic, digital watch with the face of a long-forgotten cartoon character, so far gone that Colby himself couldn't name who it was. But he recognized it. It was the watch he'd worn as a child when Yashar first met him, that he'd used to count the minutes until Yashar would show up again to grant him his wish. The one his mother was always so keen to make sure he was wearing. “It's never easy to have to wear these for the first time. These last six months I've known that it would be any day now. Now I know—the kid who wore this was gone a long time ago.”

“Yashar—”

“Don't. I won't wear it. Not yet. But after tonight, no matter how it plays out, you won't be you, not the you I knew. And you know that.”

Colby nodded, rolling the pike gently back and forth in his hands. “We can't stay us forever.”

“No. We most certainly can't. Ewan's gone and so is the boy he loved. And that little girl you knew. She's gone too. She's something else entirely now. There's no going back. You can't. Everyone tries at some point. But no one ever does.”

“You don't think we can be saved?”

“Who? You or the girl?”

“Either of us.”

“You've both not only walked with demons, but you also scare them. Frankly, if we're being totally honest here, I'm not certain there's anything of those kids left
to
save.” Yashar braced himself, expecting Colby to blow at any moment. Instead, Colby looked down sadly, nodding once more.

“You're probably right. But we can try.”

“You won't save her,” said Austin, emerging from the shadows beyond the candles. “All you can do now is save yourself.”

Colby glared at her. “You gave me till sunset.”

“I was wrong,” she said.

“I'm not leaving.”

“I mean I was wrong about you leaving. She means to kill you, Colby. There's no talking her down from it. But it's not you who brought her here.”

“How's that?”

“This is her mess. They're just using you to clean it up.”

“That's what I tried to—”

“I told you. I was wrong. But now we're all in it. And I don't know how we're going to get out of it.”

Yashar waved her off. “This isn't your mess to get involved in. You can leave at any time.”

“Too late for that now. I met her. And the hell she's bringing with her.”

“And?” asked Colby. “What did she—”

“She's got no other choice. She knows she'll never be free now. She's made her bed. And they've played you both. Rigged the game. It's you or her. And she knows that for good and for all. For her to have a chance at tomorrow, you have to die tonight. And for you to have a chance—”

“Yeah. We were just discussing that.”

“So she means to kill you. Whether I like it or not, my streets are gonna run with blood.”

“Again.”

“Yeah. Again.”

Colby gripped the pike tightly, again the djang of it tickling his senses. So much fear, so much hate, so much death, all packed neatly into a few pounds of wood and metal. “You know, I've been to the land of the dead. Trod where spirits have trod. And I've killed more than my fair share. Honestly, I can't tell you which scares me more. Or if they even scare me at all. I'm becoming numb to the idea of death. The only thing I want now is to avoid being a tool in someone else's shed. If I die, that's fine, as long as it's on my terms. And if I have to kill, I don't want it to be for any reasons other than my own. So tonight, no matter what happens, I'm doing it the way I want to do it for the reasons I need to do it.”

Yashar shook his head. “They've thought of everything. Somehow, tonight, no matter what you do, you'll be someone's pawn.”

“Yeah. But I'm not going to let them decide whose pawn I end up. I owe myself that much.” Colby stood up, looking toward the back of the house, met by the sound of blaring trumpets, crashing cymbals. “We have guests.”

He walked over to the sliding glass door, stood the pike on its end, slid the door open for the demon. Paimon floated into the room, eight clay bowls in his arms. He quickly set them on the table without a word, promptly turning and slinking back outside.

“You'll understand,” said Paimon through the open door, “if I leave you to it.”

“You don't want to wait around to see if they work?” asked Colby.

Paimon scowled at Colby. “They'll work. And you won't trap me with them. Use them carefully and well. I would not want to be you were my brothers to find one of their own trapped by these.”

“I wouldn't want to be you either, seeing that you're the one that made them. I have one boon left. Aren't you curious about who I'm going to call up?”

“No. I'll know soon enough. And if I'm right about you, I'll pity him. For a time.”

“For a time?”