Charm City (The Demon Whisperer Book 1) (11 page)

"Considering she was dead…"

"Nah, just knocked out. Portal travel makes you dizzy and nauseous and feeling like someone gave you an atomic wedgie but instead of using your underwear, it's your stomach—"

"Wasn't a portal." She cut him off. "It was a hell gate. And she went to hell. And she came back dead."

Simon sat unmoving, agape. It was impossible.

"No." His voice was perfectly reasonable, but his brain was a clanking jumble of thoughts that just didn't fit together. "Hell gates can't open here."

"They can. And they do." She sighed. "And that's a huge problem."

Hell gates were a problem, all right.

Simon had studied them under one of his masters, an eccentric Cambridge scholar named Kent who claimed he'd stayed in Aleister Crowley's dormitory and had been visited several times by the old magician's ghost.

Admittedly, it was the wild name-dropping that had led Simon to the old gent, begging him to take him on, but the hell gate thing had come clean out of the blue. One night of expounding on the subject had secured Simon's devotion to his master and put Crowley out of his head altogether.

But hell gates were not permitted on the mortal plane. That had been the big take away from those three years of apprenticeship.

(It had taken Simon nearly twice that long to discover where Master Kent had later hidden his apprenticeship blood amulet, the one that kept him firmly in servitude to his master. Mages were annoyingly jealous of rank and seniority and often went through ridiculous lengths to keep from being turned on by their former students. And Kent hadn't even really been an overly jealous sort of person.)

The years thinned a bit, and Simon couldn't help but remember those days and nights he'd spent with Kent. Back then, Simon was still wet behind the ears. Just come off a two-year apprenticeship with an exorcist priest. The Crowley thing was a much-needed distraction. Two years of pulling demons out of people tended to leave a guy's spirit a little bruised.

"Why can't they be opened?"

Simon had been sitting on a cabinet in Kent's study, drinking a cheap beer, having a cheap smoke. Then again, cheap was pretty much all an out-of-work twenty-six year old could afford.

Kent sat near his fireplace, bathed in the warm ruddy glow, swirling the dregs of a tumbler of Scotch. The fine cigar would be next. It was how they decompressed after a long afternoon of circle spells and grimoire memorization.

Tradition. For Kent, tradition wasn't habit. It was the structure that kept his life and his world and the whole of civilization from tumbling into powdery ruins.

Kent had made another of his vague references to hell gates, the kind he never followed up with an explanation. A slip up, a sign that he was exhausted enough to let his guard down. Usually, Simon was also too tired to pursue the thread.

This night, Simon wasn't worn out to the bones. His tolerance was developing. He wasn't done training. He wanted to know more.

Always more.

Kent did that to him. He gave him a hunger to learn. Damn professors and their educational hoodoo.

The older man, jowls bunching against his collar, frowned into his near-empty glass. "Because a demon has to do it. And demons cannot walk on this plane."

"Why not?" Simon didn't add
Because angels sure do.
"People get possessed all the fricken time."

"But those are possessions. Demon entities spiritually manifesting in a mortal body. Basically, really bad ghosts."

"Demons can be summoned. They can come out of hell and do real shit."

"No." Kent's tone was resolute, the sound of a centuries-old conviction. "They can't."

Simon scowled behind his bottle as he drained the last of his lousy beer. How could he argue without revealing his worst crime? Say,
I summoned a demon when I was seventeen? Had it kill an asshole from my school? Watched it drag a little girl screaming into hell?

That's a quick way to get expelled.

"There are rules, Alliant. Rules of heaven and rules of hell. I will admit that here in between the rules get a bit…muddied." No mistaking that twinkle in his eye. He might look like a dignified old chap but he'd been a literal hell raiser in his gone-by. "But the rules still hold. No angels or demons upon the earth."

"And rules can't be broken?"

"They should never be broken."

Should.
That was nothing more than a theoretical word
.
"But portals," Simon persisted. "Those are possible."

"Yes. Magical travel from one place to another has been a long-standing practice. England has a rich history of magical practice, you see…"

Here went the speech. Simon knew it by heart and recited in his head, lock-step with Kent.

"…a history that can be traced back to the days when Arthurian legends were still being written. England was magic, still is even today. But today it is a secret practice. To practice out in the open would lead to hysteria. Mayhem. Murder."

"Yeah, yeah. Evidence of which is ample in our own history in New England, just a few miles from here. The Salem witch hunts were a tragedy that never should have been allowed to happen." Simon rubbed his forehead. "But portals can be opened."

"Of course."

"Then why not hell gates?"

"Because a man is not a demon, even when he's possessed." Kent eyed him over the tops of his glasses. "You're an exorcist. You should know that."

"Yeah. It left me with this annoying sense of value for human life."

"No one is perfect," Kent said, his voice lilting with mild amusement.

"Says the man who was intimate with Crowley's ghost."

"Please. Do not use the words
intimate
and
Crowley
in the same sentence. He had a reputation, you know. Even someone of my own nefarious past has no wish to be equated with Crowley's—"

Simon cut him off with a laugh. "You? A nefarious past?"

"I'll have you know I was part of HRM's Special Forces. We were quite active during the Second World War. I may or may not have been charged with the solemn task of dealing with Hitler."

"Hitler?" Simon nearly fell off his perch. "Are you kidding me?"

"Hitler was a fanatical occultist. He had a library full of grimoires."

"You're avoiding—"

"I'm informing. That is my role as master, is it not? Now. Where was I? Oh, yes. England wasn't the only country with a history of magic. But magic is shaped with the intent of the practitioner. Hitler was obsessed with demons. It was said he summoned Molloch."

"Do you believe it?"

"Rubbish. But Hitler believed it. He quoted from Schertel at great length.
He who does not have the demonic seed within himself will never give birth to a magical world.
Metaphorical, of course. 'Demonic seed' was a clever way of describing ruthless ambition."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I have to be." Kent shoved himself up to his weary feet and plodded over to the cabinet where his humidor was stored. There would be no further discussion once the cigar was lit. Tradition. "It's what keeps me sane…"

Simon sat in a strange bar. He'd been trying out new places since his last haunt went up in demon smoke. While the jukebox was appropriately loaded with Pearl Jam and Stone Temple Pilots and the like, it lacked a certain
je ne sais quoi
. He sniffed, deeply. That was it. The air.

Too clean in here.

He swirled his glass, letting the last of his trip down memory lane wash away. Kent. Hell gates. Simon thought about that particular conversation more often than he'd liked. It wasn't because he was comforted by it.

Oh, no. Just the opposite.

It made him wince, a physical knee-jerk reaction to a shame that never lost its freshness.

"You are troubled."

Startled out of his reverie, Simon looked up to see Mack, perched on a bar stool next to him.

"Nah." Simon tipped his glass and drained the last of the whiskey. "Just thinking."

"About?"

How to describe Kent? Certainly no single word was encompassing enough. Professor. Mage. Master. Legend.

The whiskey was working today, poisoning him with sentiment. Maybe one word would come close. And close was enough for now. "An old friend."

"His memory causes you pain?"

Simon swung a heavy look at the angel. "Can I ask you a question?"

Mack nodded one, slowly. "You may."

"But it doesn't mean you'll answer. I get it. Anyway." He drew a deep breath. "Is it true that demons cannot walk on our plane?"

"Odd question. You are a demonologist. Are you doubting their existence?"

"No. But I'm thinking about something an old master once told me. He said there are rules. He said that neither angels nor demons can walk upon the mortal plane."

Mack bowed his head. "Your master is correct."

"But you're an angel."

"I am a Watcher now."

"Still, an angel."

"In name only. Have you ever seen my wings?" Mack spun his stool a quarter turn to face him. The angel's face was stretched into plaintive lines. "It's because I no longer have them. They collected my wings when I began my service. It is the way of things. Angels may not tread upon the earth as long as mortals live."

"I don't understand—"

"You are not permitted to understand." Mack shook head, wearing a look of resignation, and heaved a sigh. "Some things you must accept."

"Then if you're not an angel anymore, what are you?"

"I am…" Mack turned back to the bar, his gaze lowered. "Blessed."

By this time, the whiskey had also done its other job—killing his patience.  Simon popped his palm on the bar top. "Mortal?"

"No."

"So I can't kill you?"

Mack shrugged, a very human gesture. "You could try."

"Can I bind you?"

"If I were into such things." The barest hint of a smile tilted his mouth. "I had no idea that
you
were."

"Quit it, jackass. I'm talking magic."

"Quite impervious, thank you." Mack tilted his head and peered at Simon. "You are still troubled."

"What do you know about hell gates?"

Mack's phantom wing fog arced out before tucking back, tightly, like the flex and clench of a new fist. The air tasted like tin.

Whoops. Trigger word.
Ho, ho, now the birdcage had been rattled. Someone's feathers just got ruffled.

Mack turned his head, his jaw bunching as he bit off each word. "I do not know of what you speak."

"Bullshit, Mack. Look, you just spilled the holy mystery of why I only see the ghost of angel's wings on you. That's pretty big stuff. This is infinitely smaller but monumentally important to me. Can hell gates be opened here? On this plane?"

Mack looked rather uncomfortable discussing it. "Aye, if a demon were to do it. But demons are not permitted to walk upon this plane. Thus it is a moot point."

"Is it, really?"

Mack looked away. "I am sorry you are troubled by your memories, Simon. I will pray for you to find peace."

Simon slammed the glass down, making a guy across the bar jump and fumble his bottle, spilling beer across the bar. The bartender shot a reproachful look at Simon, who just waved him on with an impatient gesture.
Get him another beer on me. Get him ten. I don't care.

"You do that." Simon gritted his teeth. "You go pray somewhere. In the meantime, I'll just
do
. I'll do without waiting for a favor or help from a divine hand. I'll roll up my sleeves and put on my boots because there is a ton of shit for me to do out there, even without you giving me the extra-credit work."

It was the truth. He sensed trouble, even now. Felt it like a storm coming, a change in the air pressure. If there were horses nearby, they'd be restless or something. Whatever. He didn't need horses to tell him someone was out there that needed doing.

He glared back at Mack but his angry resolution faltered a little once he saw him. Mack had gone strangely still.

Simon eyed him. No longer sitting with elbows on the rail, Mack had gone all tall and statuesque, his odd eyes gleaming. On angel alert. Whatever trouble Simon had sensed, Mack had sensed it, too.

"Well, I'm gonna head." Simon leaned back and dug into his front pocket for his money. Time to settle the tab and start another one somewhere else. "No sense sitting here drinking by myself."

"You should stay here." Mack raised a palm, his voice weirdly hollow. "I believe there is a Ladder forming. You will wait here for my return."