Lilith Saintcrow - Working for the Devil

"We broke up," I said through gritted teeth. "Long time ago."

"She hasn't dated since," Eddie offered helpfully. "They were a hot team when they did work together—if they could finish a job without ripping each other's clothes off."

I gave him a look that could have drained a hovercell. " Will you quit it?"

He shrugged, settling back in the seat, bumping my knee again with his long legs. The smell of dirt and growing things filled the car, and the musky perfume of demon that I had only just become accustomed to. "Not my business," he said finally. "Hey, I wonder what time's dinner?"

"Soon," Gabe said. "He told me he'd feed us. Since we're on business."

"What else did you tell him?" I was forced to ask.

"Not much. Said you'd brief him on the hunt. That was his condition, that he get a piece of the—"

"Oh, Sekhmet sa'es ," I hissed. "You didn't ."

"What is your motherfucking problem ?" Gabe snarled.

"Here we go again." Eddie at least pulled his legs up out of the way.

"Strictly speaking," the demon said, "the more cannon fodder, the better your chances, Dante."

I looked at him, my jaw dropping.

Silence crackled in the cab for a good twenty seconds, during which the driver—a bespectacled Hispanic normal with an air-freshener of Nuestra Dama Erzulie de Guadalupe hanging from his farecounter—did his level best to commit suicide by taxi. I stared out the window until my stomach rose in revolt and then shut my eyes, breathing deeply and trying to get a handle on my rage. It would strike at anyone around me if I lost control, my anger taking physical form—and I didn't want that.

Not yet.

"You invite yourself along on my hunt," I said slowly and distinctly, "and you give me trouble about the tech I ask you to supply, and you finish up by inviting someone else into my hunt too, someone who may or may not be trustworthy. This is not looking good for future collaborations, Gabe."

"You're the one dragging around a fucking demon," Gabe replied tartly. "And he's right—the more cannon fodder, the better the chances that your sloppy ass will get through this alive. You're losing your touch, Valentine. Don't make me come over there and smack some sense into your hard head. Besides," she continued, "sparring with Monroe will take some of your edge off. You haven't had a good sparring partner in years, and you won't eat him alive the way you'd do anyone else. Way I recall it, he always gave you a good run for your money—in and out of the sack. I never saw you so relaxed."

"Do we have to drag my sexual history into this?" I asked. " 'Cause if we do, you're going down with me."

Silence. The cab began a wavering descent. My ears popped.

"Do you need combat to ease your nerves?" the demon asked.

I shrugged, keeping my eyes firmly shut as my stomach lurched.

"Hades," Gabe breathed. "Does he live there ?"

I opened my eyes to look; wished I hadn't.

Jace had either done well for himself or was renting from a Nuevo Rio druglord. The house was large, with an open plaza made of white stone, green garden growing up to the stone walls, a red-tiled roof and the glitter of shielding over it.

The shielding slid briefly through the taxi, flushing slightly as the demon stilled. The mark on my shoulder gave another spiked burst of pain.

"The mark's hurting," I said. The demon's attention fixed on me.

"My apologies."

"What's up?" Gabe asked.

"Don't even talk to me," I said without any real heat. The anger had drained helplessly away. "Not until after dinner, Gabe. Fuck ."

She shrugged and stared out the window again.

"Thank the gods," Eddie mumbled.

I was just beginning to seriously contemplate drawing a knife when the cab touched down and we scrambled out onto the glittering hard-baked white marble plaza—above the city's smoghole stink, but still blazing under the hammerblow heat of Nuevo Rio.

Jace Monroe hadn't just done well for himself.

He'd gotten absolutely, filthy, marvelously, stinking rich.

I took a long bath in a sumptuous blue-tiled bathroom while the demon laid his own protections in the walls and windows of the suite a hatchet-faced butler had led us to. Gabe and Eddie had their own set of rooms right next door, done in pale yellow instead of blue and cream. I wondered if Jace had picked the furnishings himself or had an assistant do it.

I wondered who he'd bought the house from, and how he'd managed to accumulate enough credit. Mob freelancers usually don't get rich—they usually die young, even the psionics.

I closed my eyes, resting my head against the back of the tub. The water was hot, the soap was sandalwood-scented—I knew that was Jace, he had to remember that I'd always used sandalwood soap—and I felt as safe as it was possible to be, in a Shaman's mansion with a demon carefully laying warding everywhere.

I wondered what Jace would make of Japhrimel. He hadn't seemed to even notice the demon. I wondered what Gabe had told him.

I lifted my toes out of the silky hot water. Examined the blood-red molecule-drip polish on my toenails. The heat was delicious, unstringing muscle aches and soothing frazzled nerves.

Gabe was right, really. This was better than a hotel. And if Jace would feed us, it would mean that we wouldn't have to spend a fortune tracking down Santino. We could spend our credit on finding the demon instead of hotels and food… and maybe hiring some mere talent to make things uneasy for him.

Feeding , I thought, and grimaced. What am I going to do about the demon? Blood, sex, fire. I can't give the last two… and he's refused the first .

A knock on the bathroom door interrupted me. "Dante, I've finished shielding the room."

"Come on in," I said, sinking down in the milky water. "We've got to have a little talk."

He opened the door. A burst of slightly cooler air made the steam inside the bathroom billow slightly. "Are you certain?"

"For God's sake. I'm sure you've seen a naked woman before. I'm under the water, anyway. Sheesh."

He stepped into the bathroom, his long coat moving slightly. He didn't seem to sweat, even in the fierce Nuevo Rio heat. He examined the mirror over the sink across from the bathtub as if he'd never seen one before, and I thought of asking him to sit down but the only place was the counter next to the sink or the toilet—and the image of a demon sitting on the toilet and looking at my profile was too much. While he studied the mirror I studied his broad back, turned to me and covered with that coat. "You wanted to talk?"

"You need blood," I said, wiggling my toes against the cobalt tiles. My sword leaned against the tub, a comforting dark slenderness. "The mark's hurting me, and I can't do my job with that kind of unnecessary distraction. Okay?"

He nodded, his dark hair beginning to stick to his forehead. He wasn't sweating—the steam in the air was weighing his hair down. "It may be uncomfortable for you."

"Well, you won't take mine, so… Um, how many pints do you need?" I should have suggested a Nichtvren haunt , I realized, kicking myself for not thinking of it sooner. Since the advent of cloned blood, Nichtvren social drinking had taken on a whole new context and popularity.

"I can visit a slaughterhouse," he said. "You still have slaughterhouses."

"Oh." I absorbed this. "You don't… oh. Okay." Silly me. I thought he meant my blood . I slipped my toes back into the water, yawned. Oddly enough, I was tired. "How about tonight? I need to do some recon anyway, get used to the whole place."

He nodded. His eyes were darker, their luminescence veiled. "Very well."