Lilith Saintcrow - Working for the Devil

"What the fuck now, deadhead? I ain't Homicide!" The high edge of fear colored his voice.

"You know the Chill that's been soaking the South Side? I found out a major distributor."

That got his attention. He literally gasped.

I waited a beat. "Of course, if you're not interested—"

"Goddammit, you deadhead freak. Give it up."

"Dacon Whitaker, out of his club. One of his bouncers is a Chillfreak and so is he now."

"A fuckin magician's a Chillfreak? I thought they didn't—"

"They don't last long, but they're nasty while they do. I'd take some para backup with you. Don't mention my name, okay?"

"Quiet as the grave," Horman snorted.

I let it pass. "You owe me one, Horman," I said, and hung up without waiting to hear his reply.

The demon still said nothing.

I took my hand off the phone and looked out the wavering safety-glass at the dark street, pools of streetlamp glow shivering on wet pavement. "Fuck," I said finally, and clenched my hand. " Fuck !"

My fist starred the safety glass in a spreading spider-web, I pulled back and let another one fly. This punch left a bloody print on the cracked glass.

Then I stopped, gasping for breath, fighting for control. My pulse pounded in my ears.

When I had swallowed the last of my rage, I opened my eyes to find the demon studying me. His eyes were even darker. "What did you do?" he asked, mildly enough.

"I just turned Dake in to the cops," I told him through gritted teeth.

"Why?" It was a passionless inquiry.

"Because he'll kill people with that Chill shit."

"A drug?"

"Yeah, a nasty drug." A drug that makes mothers abandon their infant babies at the hospital, a drug that eats people whole, a drug that makes punk kids shoot social workers on the street in broad daylight, a drug that swallows whole families and smashes psions. A drug the Hegemony won't get serious about outlawing because the Mob gets too much taxable income off it, a drug the cops can barely stem the tide against because half of them are on the take anyway and the other half are so choked with paperwork they can't stop it .

Between Chill and the Mob, it was hard to tell which I hated more.

"Why not let those stupid enough to take it, die?"

I considered him, my bleeding hand curled tightly in my unwounded hand. Dake had been at Rigger Hall; I suppose I couldn't blame him for wanting some oblivion. My own nightmares were bad enough; just the thought of that place made my shields quiver.

Valentine, D. Student Valentine is called to the headmaster's office immediately.

And the Headmaster's chilly, precise, dry little voice. We've got something special for those who break the rules today, Miss Valentine . The smell of chalk and spoiled magick, the feel of a collar's metal against my naked throat and collarbones…

Thinking about it made the scars on my back ache again, an ache I knew was purely psychic. Three stripes, running down my back; and the other scar, the burn scar, just at the bottom crease of my left buttock. Dake probably had his own scars… but that was no excuse to drown them in Chill. After all, I managed to live without drowning mine, didn't I? It was no excuse.

Was it? Or had I just turned him in because I was having a pissy day?

"Because I'm human," I informed him tightly, "and I operate by human rules. Okay?" I wasn't about to tell him about Lewis bleeding to death on the sidewalk, dead by a Chillfreak's hand, his antique watch and Rebotnik sneakers stolen to hawk for more Chill. It was private. And anyway, why did he care why I hated Chill? It was enough that I hated it.

He shrugged. "Your hand."

I stared at him. "What?"

"Give me your hand."

After a moment's consideration, I extended my hand. He folded his fingers over it, still holding the door of the callbox open with his other elbow. My entire hand fit inside his palm, and his fingers were hard and warm.

A spine-tingling rush of Power coated my entire body. His eyes glowed laser-green. The pain crested, drained away.

When he let go of my hand, it was whole and unwounded under a mask of blood. I snatched it back, examined it, and looked up at him.

"I will endeavor to remember human rules," he said.

"You don't have to," I found myself saying. "You're a demon, you're not one of us."

He shrugged. Stood aside so I could exit the callbox.

I let the folding door accordion shut behind me. The light inside the callbox flicked off.

"Okay," I said.

"What next?"

I took a deep breath. Looked at my hand. "Next I go home and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow I'm visiting Abracadabra—a friend. I'll see if she can give me a direction to go in and some contacts. Better not to use the tracker until I'm sure I need it."

"Very well." He still didn't move, just stood there watching me.

A gigantic lethargy descended on me. Why did it all have to be so hard ? The pressure behind my eyes and throat and nose told me I was a few minutes away from sobbing. I set my jaw and scanned the street again.

Empty. Of course. Just when I needed a cab.

"Okay," I said again. "Come on."

He fell into step behind me, silent as Death Himself.

I lay on my back, holding my sword to my chest, looking up at the dark ceiling. My eyes burned.

I slept with my rings on, and the shifting blue-green glow sliding against the ceiling told me I was agitated.

As if I don't already know , I thought, and my fingers clasped the sword more tightly.

Downstairs the demon sat in front of my fireplace. My shields buzzed and blurred; he was adding his own layers of protection. Even my home wasn't mine anymore. Of course, on the plus side, that meant a better shielding for my house.

If I'd been born a Magi, I would have at least some idea of how to deal with a demon in my house. I probably would have even been excited. Magi worked with circles and trained for years to achieve regular contact with Hell after passing their Academy test and calling up an imp. They paid the rent by working as consultants and doing shielding for corporations, like Shamans. They also ran most of the training colleges and did magickal research. Finicky eyes for detail, most Magi; but when dealing with demons you wanted to be a perfectionist when it came to your circles and protections. The Greater Demons were like loa , only more powerful—they didn't exactly have a human idea of morals. And while the loa might mislead, it was an axiom of Magi practice that demons outright lied sometimes for the fun of it—again, because their idea of truth wasn't the same as ours.

I sighed, burrowed my back deeper into my bed. I was retreading the same mental ground, going over and over what I knew of demons, hoping I would somehow think of something new that would make me feel better about this.

If I was a Christer, I'd be peeling the paint off the walls screaming , I thought sardonically. Some normals were still Christers, despite the Awakening and the backlash against the Evangelicals of Gilead; the Catholic section, of course, would have tried reading from old books and blessing water to get rid of a demon. Sometimes it might have worked—even normals were capable of belief, though they couldn't use it like a tool as a Shaman or a Necromance could. And the Christers had even believed that demons could get inside people, not understanding the mechanics of shielding and psychic space very well.

None of this got me anywhere.

How the hell did this happen? How did I end up working for the fucking Devil?

I didn't have a clue. There had been no warning, from my cards or runes or any other divination. Just a knocking on my door in the middle of a rainy afternoon.