Caitlin Kittredge - Devil's Business

The psychic feedback was strong and bloody, but it wasn’t anything unusual for a murder scene. He backed out and looked down at the top of Shaver’s bald head as he bent over the Bahopmet rug. “She was here. They, uh … they did the final mutilation here on the tiles.”

“And the fact that her unborn baby was cut out of her on an image that’s been widely co-opted by Satanists the world over didn’t trigger any alarms?” Pete said.

“Come on, Ms. Caldecott,” Shavers said. “You were on the job. You know the shadowy Satanic cabal is just a myth fundamentalists and shrinks looking to make a buck conjured up to amuse themselves. Satanic Panic in this country is not something the LAPD is ever going to buy into.”

“Yeah, fine, the Satanist angle is bollocks,” Pete said. “But there was no sign of the child?”

“No,” Shavers said. “The baby was gone, along with whoever did this.”

“And nothing about two unborn babies being stolen, ten years apart, strikes you as a little strange?” Pete said.

Jack looked down at the bloody tiles. It was almost too trite to be believed. Home invasion mutilation inside a house that would give any weekend Satanist a hard-on, missing baby, all the hallmarks of a ritual murder—if all you knew about ritual murder came from television.

“Strange?” Shavers said. “No. Depraved, yeah. But not that strange. People are capable of sick shit, Ms. Caldecott. We get copycat murders all the time.” He opened the front door. “Now if you don’t mind, please ask your buddy to come downstairs, and go on back to England. There’s nothing for you here.”

“I think Ben would be a lot more willing to let it go if I could take a look around myself,” Pete said.

Shavers threw up his hands. “Fine. You got five minutes, and then I have real police work to get back to.”

Pete joined Jack on the landing. “This is weird, yeah?” she murmured. Shaver’s mobile rang, and he stepped outside.

“Maybe if I couldn’t see ghosts and demons, yeah,” Jack said. “As it is, no. Not really. Kind of cliché, actually.”

“I meant Shavers,” Pete said. “He seems very happy to write this off.”

“Suppose it could be just what he says,” Jack said. “Two blokes, ten years apart, decide it’d be a laugh to hack up a pregnant lady and her family.”

“Or Shavers could be giving us the broom,” Pete said. “Trust me—no copper wants a case like this. Messy and unsolvable, drives your whole average down. Never mind that if it’s a serial job, you’re seen as lazy as well as incompetent.”

Jack leaned on the rail. “I hate to say I told you so…”

“Oh, please,” Pete snorted. “You love saying it.”

Jack massaged his forehead. His sight heralded a headache that would only be knocked out with a lot of booze or a little bit of something stronger. Time was, he’d have his shooting kit in his pocket, but that time wasn’t now. The cravings had gone along with all of his scars and tattoos, as if the Morrigan had remade the fire in his blood into glass. “Still,” he said. “There’s not actually anything supernatural afoot, unless you count the supernaturally horrible state of this place.”

“Then I guess we’re done here,” Pete said. “I’ll tell Mayhew what we found and we can go our separate ways.”

Jack nodded. “Yup. Have fun disappointing Mayhew.” Just walk away, he told himself. Let her think you’re the one to leave.

He’d put his foot on the first stair when he felt the wind. The ashes choked his throat and his sight spiked, and blood trickled out of his nose.

He wasn’t in Hell. He was here, in this hideous death-rock palace, and he was alive. For better or worse.

“Glad I caught you,” the demon said from behind him. “You are a slippery one these days, Jack.”

He swallowed the taste of blood and ashes. “You can put aside the dramatic entrances, Belial. I’ve seen all your tricks.”

Belial grinned at Jack. “Oh, you haven’t seen my best ones, boy. You haven’t even peeked up my sleeve.”

“What do you want?” Pete appeared at his side. She was never one to engage in small talk with spawn of the Pit.

“For you to pull your heads out of each other’s arses and do what I sent you here to do,” Belial said. He favored a small form, natty black suits, narrow ties, and flashy ruby jewelry. Aside from his lava-glass eyes, he could’ve been any ponce in a throwback getup on the street.

“The fuck are you on about?” Pete demanded. “You didn’t do a bloody thing.”

“Getting knocked up’s made you downright unobservant,” Belial told her. “I’ve been with you all along, my dear, along your winding trail to this spot.”

Jack massaged his forehead. “You were the demon in Mayhew’s office.”

“’Course I was,” Belial said. “You think a stain like Ben Mayhew’s capable of getting in touch with your caliber of mage and…” he flicked a black nail at Pete, “whatever you are?”

“I’ll ask once more before I stop being nice,” Pete told him. “What do you want?”

“The same thing you do, I expect,” Belial said. “To find the villains who hacked up this nice little family. I may be a demon, but I do have feelings. All right, not feelings, but desires. And I desire them caught and delivered to me.”

This was rotten. Demons didn’t just pop up and start demanding favors. They hung back until you were bloody and desperate, and then they showed up to listen to your screams for mercy. That was how it had worked last time, between Belial and him.

“Forget it,” Jack said. “If this whole trip was your doing, then piss off. We’re done, and I’m not your rent boy any longer.”

“You’re not,” Belial said when he turned his back. “But your little woman is.”

Pete grimaced when he turned on her. “It happened when you were … away,” Pete muttered. “I needed his help to get you out of the nuthouse and shut down Nergal.”

“For fuck’s sake, Pete!” Jack shouted, because shouting was the only thing he could do. He couldn’t very well haul off and punch Belial in the face, not unless he wanted his limbs in new and different configurations.

“Don’t scold her,” Belial purred. “She did right to cut the bargain she did. Saved the world, properly, because of it. And she—and you—do this for me, and we’ll be square.”

“I know what you are,” Jack snarled. He didn’t know who to rage at—Pete for being so monumentally stupid or Belial for the smug look on his face. “I know demons. She’ll never be free of you.”

Belial moved like ink through water—one fluid second and his hand was around Jack’s throat, Jack’s skull making a dent in the dark wall. “I honor my bargains,” Belial snarled. His teeth were pointed, each filed to a perfect razor point, and a little blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he bit his own tongue. “I am a Named demon of Hell and I do not deceive, lie, or employ trickery.”

Jack’s feet were off the floor, and a black border encroached rapidly on his vision. A smug demon was bad enough. A slagged-off demon was lights out for all humans concerned. He should just learn to keep his trap shut, but it was never a life lesson that had sunk in.

“Yeah,” he choked. “You’re just a warm fuzzy life coach, ain’t you?”

“I am something much, much higher in the food chain than you,” Belial said. “And you’ll live a lot longer if you learn to show me a little fucking respect.”

He dropped Jack, and Jack didn’t bother to try and stay upright. He sucked in air, tile digging into his knees.

“Supposing we do pretend to trust you at face value,” Pete said. “What the fuck is going on here?”