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"If I keep you alive long enough to recover the Egg, I will be free," he said through gritted teeth.
"You mean you're not free now?"
"Of course not." He tilted his head up, as if listening. After a few moments, I heard a distant siren. My left shoulder twinged. "Where are we going?"
"I'm going to see Dacon. He's a Magi, he'll just love you." My jaw ached and my eyes were hot and grainy. "After that I'm going to get some sleep, then I'll visit the Spider. And by then Gabe should have everything together, and I'll start hunting."
"I suppose you will try to escape me as soon as possible," he said.
"Not tonight," I promised him. "I'm too tired tonight."
"But afterward?" he persisted. "I don't want to lose my chance at freedom for your petty human pride."
"You say 'human' like it's a dirty word." I tucked my free hand in my pocket. My rings were dark now, no longer glittering and sparking. Out here, in the flux and ambient static of city Power, the atmosphere wasn't charged enough to make them react. Instead, they settled into a watchful gleam.
"That's the same way you say 'demon'," he shot back, immediately. Was he scowling? I had never seen a demon scowl, and I stared, fascinated.
I'm not going to win this one, I realized, and dropped my eyes hurriedly back down to the pavement "You stuck a gun in my face." It was lame even by my standards.
"That's true," he admitted. "I did. I thought you were a door-guard. Who knows what the best Necromance of a generation has guarding the door? I was only told to collect you and keep you alive. Nothing else, not even that you were a woman."
I stopped short on the sidewalk and examined him. He stopped, too, and turned slightly, facing me.
I pulled my free hand from my pocket, stuck it out. "Let's start over," I said. "Hi. I'm Da
He paused for so long that I almost snatched my hand back, but he finally reached out and his fingers closed around mine. "I am Japhrimel," he said gravely.
I shook his hand twice, had to pull a little to take my hand back. "Nice to meet you." I didn't mean it—I would rather have never seen his face—but sometimes the little courtesies helped.
"Likewise," he said. "I am very pleased to meet you, Da
Maybe he was lying, too, but I appreciated the effort. "Thanks." I started off again, and he fell into step beside me. "So you're Lucifer's Right Hand, huh?"
He nodded, his profile back to its usual harsh almost-ugly lines. "Since I was hatched."
"Hatch—" Then I figured out I didn't want to know. "Never mind. Don't tell me, I don't want to know."
"You're very wise," he said. "Some humans pester us incessantly."
"I thought you liked that," I said. "Demons, I mean, as a whole."
He shrugged. "Some of us have leave from the Prince to answer the calls of the Magi. I have not had much traffic with humans."
"Neither have I," I told him, and that seemed to finish up conversation for a while. I was glad. I had a whole new set of things to worry about—how Dacon would react, and how the news of me hanging out with one of Hell's citizens would get around town really fast, especially if I saw Abra. I couldn't leave the demon behind—he might get into trouble, and besides, I didn't think he'd take to waiting in an alley while I went into Dake's club.
CHAPTER 13
I was right. "Absolutely not," he said, his eyes turning almost incandescent.
"Okay, fine, keep your hat on." I looked across the rain-slick street. A few sleek cigar-shaped personal hovers drifted in a parking pattern overhead, and there were several slicboards leaning against the side of the old warehouse, reactive paint glowing on their undersides. I sca
Pole Street rang with neon and nightlife around us. I shivered, hunching my shoulders, and sighed. "If you want to go in with me, you're going to have to do what I tell you, okay? Let me do the talking and don't start a fight unless I start one first. Okay? And try not to kill anyone—just hurt them bad enough to keep them down."
He nodded, his dark hair stuck to his head with dampness. A fine drizzle had started around Trivisidiro and Eighteenth Street, and followed all the way out into the Tank. A block down from us, a group of freelance hookers huddled under an overhang, the neon ru
I licked my dry lips, nervous. "Actually," I said, "can you look scary? It would help."
He bared his teeth, and I had to fight down the urge to step back.
"Okay," I said. "You win. You just look scary and I'll do the talking."
We crossed the street, the demon keeping step slightly behind me, and stepped up on the pavement on the other side. There were two bouncers there—shaved gorillas with black-market augments, three times my size. My fingers itched.
Don't let there be any trouble, I prayed silently.
I came to a stop right in front of the bouncers. The one on the left paled visibly, seeing my tat. The one on my right looked the demon over, his fat cheeks quivering with either terror or silent laughter. I inhaled deeply, tasting night air, hash smoke, and the salt-sweat-sweet smell of Chill. Did Dake know one of his bouncers was on Clormen-13? That shit was nasty, it made addicts psychotic after a while. Taking down a Chillfreak was hard work.
I tilted my head so my tat was visible to both of them. "Dacon Whitaker," I said, pitching my voice loud enough to slice through the pounding bass thudding out the door.
The bouncer on the right nodded. I saw the telltale glint of a commlink glittering from his right ear, and his throat swelled. He had a subvocal implant, too.
Great. Dake knew I was coming.
"He's indisposed," Shaved Gorilla #1 said. He had muttonchop and some very nice custom-made leather pants straining at his massive legs.
"Either he sees me now, or I tear his club apart and bring the cops down here. He can be charged for interfering with a legitimate hunt." My lips peeled back from my teeth. "I'm doing a bounty, and I'm in a bad mood. It's up to him."
The demon's hot silence swelled behind me. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.
"Come on in," the gorilla on the right said. "Go up to the office, the big man says."
I nodded and passed between them, the demon moving close. Together we plunged into a swirling migraine attack of red and orange light, skitters of brightness from the blastball hanging from the ceiling, hash smoke and the reek of alcohol mixing with the smell of sweat and the psychic assault of a warehouse full of people, sunk in the music, most of them dancing. A thin edge of red desperation curled over a smile, a razor-flick against a numb arm.
I was used to the sensory assault, barely paused, my mental shields thickening. There were ghostflits in the corners, riding the air, a few of them silently screaming.
People think that when they die, the Light opens up and takes them. A majority of the time, that's what happens. But sometimes—often enough—the soul is chained here. Sometimes confused, or held by violent death, and sometimes just unable to leave without a loved one, the souls of the dead crowd toward the living any place there's Power enough to feed them and make them more than just a cold sigh against the nape, more than just a memory.