Devil's Punch (42 page)

Luren
—the Tempters. These are the most beautiful of all the demons, preternaturally seductive. Their skin is more burnished; they do not grow body hair. They possess pheromones to tempt their prey and feed on sexual energy. They are rumored to have Nephilim blood—meaning that they are the result of interbreeding between demons and angels. They respond only to summonings involving sex magick, and will not possess an unattractive host. The Luren gave rise to legends about incubi and succubi.

Mhizul
—the Miserable. They feed on all negative emotions, their favorite being despair. Their appetites reflect
in their appearance, as they have the look of wretched lepers, with pale, peeling skin, yellow eyes, and long, dirty nails. They are the lowest of the low, even more despised than the Klothod. In summonings, they respond to practitioners who have suffered a recent loss, not any particular type of magick. Often a summoner who is clinically depressed finds himself unable to summon any other type of demon because the Mhizul find the call irresistible.

Noit
—the Dark Brood. These demons are like evil children. They are small, no more than four feet high, and have skin that varies in tone from pale to brown, with shadings of green in between. Their heads are oversize, eyes protuberant. They thrive on mischief and misfortune as much as the Birsael, but they do not bargain. A Noit, once summoned, will do whatever it can to wreak havoc for its summoner, choosing the worst possible interpretation of any order or request. A host possessed by a Noit demon may be diagnosed as a manic depressive who never falls into the depressive stage. Oddly, they love cats. These demons gave rise to the lore regarding brownies and gnomes.

Obsir
—the Hidden. These demons do not respond to summonings. They serve the Eshur, investigating crimes within Sheol. Other demons find it difficult to describe the Obsir because it is hard to hold on to the memory of an encounter with them. It is known that they exist, but nothing else has been recorded, other than their notes pertaining to various trials.

Phalxe
—the Liars. They are of average height and build, pale-skinned, rather innocuous-looking, like bald humans. These demons thrive on deception and confusion; they are inveterate manipulators who have supernatural powers of persuasion. Great con men who pulled off the most improbable scams and Ponzi schemes have often been possessed by a Phalxe spirit. In Sheol they are always plotting something, but the other castes are wary of their schemes. To summon a Phalxe demon, the practitioner
must soak aloe in black cat oil for nine days and then perform a specific rite. On manifesting, the Phalxe demon will promise practically anything in hopes of getting the caster to break the binder before an iron-clad agreement has been struck. Only a fool trusts a Phalxe demon.

Saremon
—the Progeny. These demons are descended from Solomon's line through humans who interbred with demons. They are humanoid in appearance with extras like fins or spines or horns to show their more interesting lineage. They rank fairly high in the caste system, just below the knights and the Eshur. They seldom respond to summonings and can be called only by a practitioner who carries some of the Binder's blood. They are largely uninterested in events in the human realm and are committed to developing their own arcane powers. For obvious reasons, magick users covet the guidance of the Saremon, who own the greatest collection of spells in existence, the fabled
Bibliotheca Magus
.

Xaraz
—the Outsiders. This is not a caste in the sense that it encompasses a certain type of demon, but in the sense that they have all become outcasts. If a demon is judged guilty by the Eshur, he or she loses all status and becomes Xaraz. These demons, therefore, may have once belonged to any of the other castes, so their appearances will be varied. They are driven from Xibalba and are not permitted inside the city. Instead, they dwell in shantytowns populated with other exiles. On closer inspection, one notes the evidence of their crimes magickally scored into their flesh. They are the most wretched creatures in Sheol.

For obvious reasons, the cocktail Corine had at the ball is more exotic than the real Devil's Punch. I thought it best to preserve the mystery and not reveal the ingredients in what she was drinking. She was in Sheol, after all. However, here's the actual recipe if you want to knock one back after finishing this book.

Ingredients:

2 oz. tequila

1 oz. orange liqueur

1 oz. Limoncello

1 oz. sour mix

dash of orange juice

Preparation:

1. Pour the ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice.

2. Shake well.

3. Strain into a sour or highball glass.

Ann Aguirre
is a national bestselling author. She has a degree in English literature and a spotty résumé. Before she began writing full-time, she was a clown, a clerk, a voice actress, and a savior of stray kittens, not necessarily in that order. She grew up in a yellow house across from a cornfield, but now she lives in sunny Mexico with her husband, children, two cats, and one very lazy dog. She likes books, emo music, and action movies. You can visit her on the Web at
www.annaguirre.com.

This is not a love story.

It
is
my life, and as such, there is love, loss, war, death, and sacrifice. It's about things that needed to be done and choices made. I regret nothing.

It's easy to say that. Harder to mean it. Sometimes I look back on the branching paths I took to wind up here and I wonder if there was another road, an easier road, that ends somewhere else. Yet it all boils down to a promise.

That's why I'm on La'heng, after all.

After six months of appointments and following procedure, I'm ready to tear my hair out. Instead, I sit obediently outside the legate's office, as if this meeting will turn out any different. The Pretty Robotics assistant monitors me with discreet glances, as if the VI has been programmed to see how long people will wait before storming off in a fit of rage. So far, I've been here for four hours. I hear a door open and close down the hall, and I recognize the legate as he tries to slide by me.

It
is
around lunchtime, so I push to my feet. “How lovely of you to make it a social occasion,” I purr, falling into step with Legate Flavius.

He's been assigned to deal with all of our appeals, which makes me think he pissed somebody off. His favorite
tactic is avoidance, but since I've caught him, he can't dismiss me without calling for a centurion to eject me from the premises, and I have a legal right to be here. In fact, I have some grounds for a discrimination suit since he made an appointment and then refused to honor it, something he wouldn't do to a Nicuan citizen.

“Come along, then,” he says with weary resignation.

“Where are we going?”

“There's a place nearby that does an excellent salad and they have truly superior wine. None of the local shite.”

Fantastic, so he's a snob, and he thinks nothing on La'heng could be as good as what they import from elsewhere. I make a note of that and walk beside him, mentally lining up my arguments. He makes polite, strained small talk on the way to the restaurant, which is atop one of the towering structures nearby. The floor rotates slowly, granting a luxurious view first of the harbor and then the governor's palace in the distance. Jineba, which is the capital city, shows no trace at all of La'heng influence or architecture. Rather, the buildings are like Terran trees whose rings reveal their age. Jineba is like that, only you can tell how old a structure is by the architectural style and which conquerors designed it. The Nicuan occupation has resulted in a series of colonial complexes, where pillars and columns mask the modern heart.

The penthouse dining room shares that quality, and there are La'hengrin servants instead of bots. They take our orders with quiet humility, and I loathe their subservience because someone has sent them to work here. It wasn't a choice, and they don't receive wages. Whatever the nobles call it, this is slavery.

Legate Flavius orders for us without asking what I want. To a man like him, I suppose it doesn't matter. Once the niceties are attended to, he steeples his hands and regards me across the white-linen-covered table.

“Make your case, Ms. Jax.”

“Under the Homeland Health Care Act, ratified by the human board of directors in 4867, the natives of
La'heng have the right to the best treatments, including but not limited to experimental medications. Carvati's Cure ameliorates damage created by widespread exposure to RC-17.” When we seeded the atmosphere with a chemical that was meant to keep the La'hengrin compliant, we didn't factor in their adaptive physiology. It's been centuries now, and the effects linger still. “Therefore, the Nicuan council actively prohibits a treatment that will improve quality of life for the La'hengrin, which is unlawful according to article thirty-seven, codicil—”

The legate sighs faintly. “Yes, you've inundated my office with claims about your miracle drug. Unfortunately, you haven't passed licensing through the drug administration. As I recall, there have been
no
trials. What kind of monsters would we be if we permitted you to use the La'heng to test your product?”

The kind who make the La'hengrin your slaves, like the ones you have at home
.

I grind my teeth, holding the retort. “We applied for permits to begin trials three months ago. They were denied due to lack of residency requirements.”

He smiles. “Ah, yes. You must achieve residency on La'heng before you can expect to receive the rights that come with citizenship.”

I want to come across the table and punch him in the face. Instead, I bite my inner lip until I taste copper. The pain focuses my anger into a laser.

“I applied for citizenship,” I say carefully. “And my request was denied.”

The unctuous smile widens. “I did see that. Your unfortunate past makes you rather…undesirable, Ms. Jax.”

“Excuse me?” I bite out.

“First, Farwan Corporation charged you with terrorism—”

“Those accusations were entirely baseless,” I snap.

“As if the business with Farwan wasn't questionable enough, your military career ended in a rather colorful fashion, did it not? To wit, charges of mass murder, dereliction of duty, and high treason.”

“I was acquitted. It's illegal to deny me citizenship due to crimes the court judged I did not commit.”

“Hmm,” he says, feigning concern. “Well, feel free to appeal within the Conglomerate courts. Since we are, at least in the tertiary sense, subject to their laws and jurisdictions, if they deem that our denial violated your rights as a Conglomerate citizen in good standing, then we will certainly reconsider the decision.”

He knows that will take turns, damn him. Turns to appeal the rejection. Turns to get another application approved. Then I'll have to start over with the permissions to initiate drug trials. They're trying to kill the resistance with blocks and delays.

Assholes
.

Holding my temper by sheer willpower, I say, “So you allege that you're denying progress with the cure for the good of the La'heng.”

There's that awful, hateful smile again. “Certainly. We take our duty as their protectors very seriously.”

“Sure you do.” I shove back from the table and stalk away. There's no way I'm spending another minute with this jackass, now that I know it's a dead end. In the past six months, I've met countless petty bureaucrats who get off on jerking people around. Nicuan is full of stunted dictators who have secret dreams of being the emperor, and so they rule their tiny department with an iron fist.

Vel's waiting for me at home. I take public transport to get there, and then walk some distance as well. We're off the beaten path for obvious reasons. As I trudge the last kilometer, I reflect that Vel can try. His record might prove harder to block, as he doesn't have my tarnished reputation. He was a bounty hunter known for his compliance with all regulations, and then he commanded the Ithtorian fleet to great personal acclaim. But it's so fragging disheartening to think of starting over.

And maybe there's no point.

Loras thinks this is a monumental waste of time, but he let me do it while he puts other plans in place. Rebellions aren't born overnight. They foment over time with careful nurturing, and while I waste my time with Nicuan
officials, he's working other angles. By the time I give up the whole thing as untenable, he'll be ready to move. In a way, I'm his stalking horse. While they're screwing with me, the nobles won't expect problems from any other quarter.

“How did it go?” Vel asks when I walk in. He gets back from flight school before I finish up my work in the city, and it's nice to have him waiting. He's over two meters tall, covered in chitin, with hinged legs, and my mark on his thorax, a character that means grimspace in Ithtorian. His side-set eyes and expressive mandible no longer seem strange to me, though people on La'heng sometimes stare if he's out of faux-skin.

“For shit,” I mutter. “Who I am is actually working against us. Or at least, they're using my past to block my petitions.”

“I am sorry, Sirantha.”

When we first met on Gehenna, Vel had taken a job to retrieve me for Farwan Corporation. He slid into a friend's skin, and figured out a way to get me to willingly go to New Terra with him. That could've end badly for me. Fortunately, Vel was as honorable a bounty hunter—as he is in every other regard—and once he realized the Corp was using me as a scapegoat, he became my biggest ally. Now, he's my dearest friend…with nuances of something else, maybe, someday. But he doesn't look for promises any more than I'm looking to make our relationship more complicated. His mere presence defuses some of the tension and frustration that comes with the territory. He's always supported me, believing the best of me even when I screw up, even when I don't deserve it.