Caitlin Kittredge - Bone Gods

Belial shook his head at her. “Look at you, brokering deals like any streetwise black magic hustler. I think Winter’s taught you a thing or two about the dark side, Petunia.”

“And another thing,” Pete told him. “My name’s not fucking Petunia.”

“Duly noted,” the demon purred. “I’ll be your obedient pet monster, and you’ll be my card up the sleeve.” He stepped forward and extended his hand in a businesslike fashion. “I’ve made a deal, Petunia Grace Caldecott, of my own will and you of yours. And you, Petunia Grace Caldecott, of London, child of Connor Caldecott of Galway and Juniper Morrow of Salisbury, freely bargain with me, Belial, a Named demon of Hell and Prince therein. So be it.”

Pete grabbed the demon’s hand before she could hesitate, lose her nerve, and run screaming for the hills. Belial might as well have been reciting daily specials in a café for all the effort he put into the phrase, but the enormous power it carried landed on Pete like a sack of sand.

This was a deal with a demon. This was the point she couldn’t turn back from. No turning back. Only through.

“So be it, Belial.”

He held her hand fast, and with his free digit tilted her head to stare into her eyes. “This is one of the sweetest days of my long and varied life, make no mistake. Getting the crow-mage, that was fantastic, don’t get me wrong. Like having Ursula Andress in her prime suck your cock while being serenaded by a live performance of the entire Hunky Dory album. But this…” He grinned at Pete. “This is just a little sweeter.”

“I agreed,” Pete reminded him. “You can shut your gob now.”

“Well, then,” Belial said. “Consider it a bargain, freely made and freely worked. You’ve officially dabbled in the deviant side of magic, Pete. Does it give you a naughty tingle?”

Pete moved as far from him as she could within the confines of the circle, letting the power trickle away. Belial had her now. He wouldn’t hurt her simply for sport. “Can you just open up the door and get us out of here?”

“Giving orders already. Good woman.” Belial gestured at the door and it flew off the hinges and clear across the kitchen.

Pete ignored his showing off, and bent down next to Ollie to tweak him on the earlobe. “Wake up, Heath.”

Ollie groaned. “Jesus, me head.” He saw the demon and blinked. “Who the fuck is that? Am I having that bloody dream again with the funeral director and the parrot?”

“Oh, he’s funny, the fat man,” Belial said. “I think I’ll enjoy him a great deal.”

“Says the bloke dressed like he’s trying out for a Duran Duran cover band,” Ollie muttered.

“ Ollie ,” Pete said. Ollie caught on, thankfully, and shut up.

Belial walked over to the door, which had crushed Sean, who stared up at him with bulging eyes, legs trapped under the steel. “Never understood necromancy,” Belial said. “Mucking about with dead things. Got plenty of the dead in Hell, and I don’t go about fondling them. Disgusting.”

Pete cleared her throat and pointed behind the demon, where more of the pasty thugs that clung to Naughton like maggots on a corpse had appeared in the narrow back hall.

“How the fuck did they get out?” the first asked.

“You didn’t lock the fucking door, did you?” the other said.

“Gents.” Belial spread his hands. “You can go, or you can die. Shouldn’t be too hard, even for a brain trust such as yourselves.”

The necromancers considered for a moment, and the first shook his head. “Ain’t worth it, mate. That’s a fucking demon.”

“Fuck off,” the second said. “That’s not a demon. Just a git in an undertaker suit.”

Belial smiled, and showed them his teeth. The second said, “Oh, shit.”

“Forget it,” said the first. “I’d go back to hustling in Tower Hamlets. ’Least I’d be alive.”

He turned tail and ran, leaving the other standing alone, his eyes growing steadily larger as the demon advanced on him. Belial grabbed the necromancer by the front of his black windcheater and lifted him off his feet. The demon wasn’t much larger than Pete, but he moved with the speed and sharpness of a veldt predator, hands with their long black nails puncturing through the necromancer’s jacket and into his flesh.

The man let out a scream, and Belial shoved him up and back, the way Pete would knock aside an errant insect that had flown into her face. He carried the necromancer, hand reaching deep inside the man’s sternum, until he crashed through the door at the end of the hall and into the club proper. Belial tossed the body aside and picked up a neatly folded napkin on the nearest table, gingerly dabbing blood off his hand.

Pete looked behind her at Ollie, who’d gone white, spots of crimson on either cheek. “This is not on,” he muttered, his Adam’s apple working.

“He had it coming,” Pete said. “Trust me.”

Shouting echoed off the low soundproofed ceiling of the club, and Naughton rushed in, backed up by the big lug who’d busted into Pete’s apartment.

Belial turned to him and tilted his head. “Ah, one who’s not a complete chav. You must be the boss.”

Naughton stopped dead, stumbling over his own feet. “Oh, fuck me.”

“Just back off, Nicholas,” Pete told him. “We’re leaving, and I don’t want a fuss.”

She expected Naughton to throw a curse, or possibly, if he was less of a bastard than she’d calculated, break down and piss himself, but she hadn’t expected him to laugh. “I never took you for the type who bargains with Hell, Petunia. Never in a million years.”

“You don’t know everything,” Pete told him. “Now step, ’fore I have the demon pull out your spine and use it for a percussion instrument.”

“Go ahead.” Naughton gestured her toward the door. “You can’t stop what’s coming. Not you, and not that black beastie you’ve called up out of the pit.”

“There’s no need to get shirty,” Belial said. “I’m a bit more than a beastie. You can tell, else you wouldn’t be keeping your distance and”—his nostrils flared—“sweating that sweet, coppery mess into the air like a virgin on her wedding night.”

“You keep away from me,” Naughton told him. “I serve something much worse than a demon on a vacation from the pit.”

“Yeah, you and Nergal can circle-jerk until the end of days,” Belial said. “But you’re still not going to tangle with me, are you?”

“No,” Naughton said. “I’m not.” He pointed them to the door. “Go,” he said. “The son of Nergal still rises. The ashes of this world will still fertilize the soil of the next. The dragon of my god will see to it. I’ve done my duty. Who raises him is inconsequential.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Pete told Belial. “You let him, he’ll talk for hours. Loves the sound of his own voice.”

“It’s not going to work out the way you think, Nicky boy,” Belial told him. He examined the cuff of his shirt, which bore a halo of blood. “But yes. I’ll leave you for now. I do enjoy living things to play with.”

Pete helped Ollie outside, although his weight combined with her own wasn’t helping her stay upright. It was nearly morning: dampness on the cobbles, and a cold bite to the air that would vanish when the sun rose higher.

Belial inhaled deeply. “Smoke and piss and death. Smells just like home.”

Pete settled Ollie on the curb. “You all right?”

Ollie nodded, swiping sweat droplets off his pudgy jaw. “I’ll live. Feel a bit like puking my guts out in the nearest drain, though.” He looked between Pete and the demon. “ You all right? And who’s this tosser? Don’t like his look.”