Sympathy for the Devil (13 page)

Libby Chastain's perceptions were already in high gear, and she absorbed the sight of Quincey Morris's living room in one second of total, frightening,
gestalt
. All her senses were providing data, which her finely-trained mind processed at lightning speed.

Smell
: booze, marijuana, stale food, body odor, and vomit. Libby's nose wrinkled.

Hearing
: the idiots on TV, of course. The ever-present hum of the air conditioning. And snoring, coming from the unconscious man who lay on the couch.

Sight
: empty pizza delivery boxes, piled haphazardly in one corner. At least a dozen of those little white cartons that you get from Chinese take-out. Several of these were on the floor near a wastebasket, as if someone had tried to score points from a distance, and had not cared whether they went in or not. More cartons on the coffee table, along with two Jack Daniels bottles - one empty, the other about a third full. A small hand mirror, on which were two short lines of...
cocaine
? And on the sofa, snoring away like a miniature wood chipper - the man himself. Quincey Morris, scion of a long line of monster fighters, the terror of vampires, werewolves, and black witches worldwide, honors graduate of Princeton University and one of the finest men Libby Chastain had ever known. Clad now in a ripped forest-green T-shirt and faded Levis with the zipper half down, both abundantly stained. One foot bare, the other in a filthy black sock. A three or four day growth of beard on the not-quite-handsome face.

Touch
: Libby's left hand, the one not holding the wand, was curled into a fist so tight that the manicured fingernails were digging into her palm.

Taste
: It had been hours since breakfast, but there was now a definite, distinct taste in Libby Chastain's mouth, and she recognized it for what is was: the coppery taste of fear.

Melanie Blaise sat back, her chair creaking a little. It was comfortable, but well-used and maybe a little worn down - kind of like Mac's Place itself.

"Haven't been up to much, recently" she told Colleen O'Donnell. "Not recently. More paperwork than anything else." She smiled a little. "Can we still call it paperwork, when there's so little paper involved? Maybe
electron-work
is more appropriate these days."

"Call it whatever you want," Colleen said. "It's still bureaucratic bullshit, most of it."

"Amen to that, sister." Melanie shook her head a little ruefully. "But it's still better than staying in Akron and making my slow way up the corporate ladder at B.F. Goodrich until I'd hit my head on the glass ceiling. Of course, all I knew about the Bureau then was from movies and TV. I thought it was all going to be car chases and shootouts with desperate international criminals."

Colleen gave her a small smile. "Disappointed?"

"I was, a little - until my first real shootout. You can do all the arrest problems in Hogan's Alley that you want. The real thing is still different."

Colleen nodded. "Real bullets, real adrenaline, real danger."

"And real blood. Gabe McWirter was determined not to be taken alive. He'd gone down for bank robbery twice already, and the third conviction would be mandatory life. I guess he knew that."

"So he got his wish."

"Yeah, he did. I think he figured to take one of us with him, though. He ran at me, rather than Garvin. Maybe he figured a woman might hesitate, or something. Bastard looked surprised when I double-tapped him with my Glock."

Melanie's fresh drink had arrived, and she took a sip before continuing. "I was okay, you know, while it was going down. The training really
does
take over, which I guess is the whole point of it. But about an hour later, I got the shakes so bad I couldn't even stand. Fortunately, I was able to get into a stall in the ladies room before it got too bad. Nobody saw anything."

"No shootouts recently though, huh?" Colleen could still smell the fetid odor of black magic on her friend, and was determined to find out its origin.

"Nope, which is fine with me. Garvin and I spent most of last week in court, giving testimony in the Delicata kidnapping case. Guy's lawyer seemed to think he's Perry Mason - kept each of us on the stand for-fucking-
ever
."

Colleen contented herself with "Um-hmm," and waited. She didn't want to push too hard, although she would use Voice on Melanie if she couldn't get information any other way. She hated to employ magic with friends, but black sorcery is serious business. She had to know its source.

"Oh, and we caught a dead Congressman this morning," Melanie said.

"That must have been tricky," Colleen said. "How far did he fall?"

"No, dummy, the guy died in his house. You know the drill - he wasn't under medical care when he croaked, so somebody had to check it out. At least it got us out of the office."

"Whose political
corpus
was
delecti
?" Colleen asked casually.

"Brooks, Ronald J. R-NY. From someplace upstate. I think."

"Heart attack?"

"Uh-uh. Freak accident. He got up in the middle of the night to take a whiz, not knowing that a leaky pipe had caused some water to pool on the bathroom floor. He was standing in it when he flicked the switch. And that's all she wrote."

Colleen's brow furrowed. "That's not supposed to happen."

"I bet the Congressman thought so too, in his last moments."

"No, I mean electrical switches these days are purposely designed not to do shit like that. That's why they're made of plastic or ceramic instead of metal - they can't conduct electricity."

"Yeah, I know. Our best guess is that the switch was defective. The widow probably has grounds for a suit against the manufacturer, if she wants to pursue it.
I
sure as hell would."

Colleen frowned into her drink for a few seconds before saying, "Ronald Brooks. That name's been in the news for something recently. Did he get caught with his hand in the political cookie jar, or something?"

"Not that I know of," Melanie told her. "But he
was
running for President."

Colleen nodded. "
That's
where I heard his name. One of the 'Un-Magnificent Seven,' right?"

"There's six, now."

"Right," Colleen said, with a vague feeling of unease that she couldn't explain. "And then there were six."

"Armageddon," Malachi Peters repeated. "That word sounds familiar, but I don't..."

"The final battle between the forces of light and darkness," Astaroth told him. "It's supposed to coincide with the Second Coming, which I've always thought sounds like a reference to some virgin's honeymoon. In any case, it is prophesied to result in the ultimate defeat of my Lord Satan and us, his humble followers."

"No offense, but I thought you guys had already been defeated," Peters said.

"Yes, I know. But this is supposed to involve a deeper pit, hotter fires, and I don't know what all. The scriptural references are not exactly clear."

"And you believe that's what happens - you lose again?"

"Not at all," the demon said. "Or, rather, not necessarily. What the other side calls
prophecy
we call
propaganda
- a word that the Church itself invented. By the same token, even a broken watch is right twice a day."

"So you're not sure."

"Quite right. There is too much at stake - all we have built, both here and in Hell, over the millennia. No, if there is to be such a war, it is we who will choose the time. And the time is
not
now."

"So, let's say I manage to kill Stark - then what happens?"

"Sargatanas will be returned home, where he will face the most obscene punishments I can devise. He is my minion, after all, and I can be
very
creative."

"Why does he have to go back?
You're
here, in human form that you took on yourself. You didn't have to possess anybody."

"I am permitted on this plane for one revolution of the planet. Twenty-four hours, no more. Then I must return. It is the Law."

"Whose law? Satan's, or...?" Stark glanced toward the ceiling for a moment.

"It is no concern of yours, worm. Focus instead on the reason why you were allowed to leave the place of torment. You must kill Stark, lest he become your pitiful country's next - and last - President."

"Under the circumstances," Peters said, "I'm sure you won't be offended when I ask, 'What's in it for me?'"

The demon shrugged, a little too casually for Peters's liking. "You'll be allowed to remain here, of course. One damned soul, more or less, is of no consequence. There are an uncountable number of you in Hell already, with millions more coming every day. No one will miss you, least of all me."

"Uh-huh. Allowed to remain for how long? Until I live out my natural lifespan? Then what? Another judgment - or back to the fire, no matter what?"

The demon laid a long index finger along his jaw and thought - or appeared to. "You know that's an interesting question. There's very little precedent for something like this, and I can't access that which doesn't exist, as I told you." He smiled at Peters without showing any teeth. "I suppose we'll just have to hold that question in abeyance, for the time being. I'm sure it will work itself out."

Before Peters could protest, the demon said mildly, "Or, I could take you back with me right now, this very second. I'm sure there must be some other American assassin in Hell who would roast his own mother over a slow fire for the chance of even a few seconds' respite from eternal torment."

"No, no," Peters said hastily. "It's okay. I'll take my chances."

"A wise choice," Astaroth said. "By the by, how's your memory?"

"Stuff's coming back," he said. "I can remember college, sort of. My parents. Signing on with the Company after graduation." He paused. "My wife."

"Yes, the fair Cecelia. And get any thought of looking her up out of your head - she was killed by a drunk driver, in 1991."

Peters closed his eyes, kept them shut as he said, "I see."

"It may interest you to know, however, that she is
not
among our guests."

Peters opened his eyes and looked at him.

"That's right, Peters. She made it. All the way to the Promised Land." The last words were said with a sneer, but Peters felt his heart lift. For the first time since coming back to this world, he felt like smiling.

"Now, then," Astaroth said, "down to brass tacks. Take a few days for your memory to return fully, as I have no doubt it will. And get yourself oriented to the Twenty-First Century. You'll find that quite a lot has changed since you, uh, left. You're no good to me, unless you're fully functional. Then get started on your task."

"That's going to pose some problems," Peters said. "All I've only got on me is a bunch of expired credit cards and a hundred eighty-some bucks in cash. That wasn't a lot of money even in the Eighties - I imagine it's worth even less now."

"Really?" The demon raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps you should look again."

Peters reached for his wallet and found that it felt thicker than he remembered. Opening it, he saw that it was full of bills, all of which seemed to be hundreds.

"Five thousand dollars," Astaroth said. "And every time you open that wallet, it will contain the same amount, no matter how much you have removed from it previously. You can use it to accumulate cash, if you need to. And those credit cards, which are all up-to-date, should serve you well. Each one has a credit limit that you probably could not exceed, even if you tried."

Peters looked. The expired pieces of plastic he'd found the last time had all been replaced with new-looking credit cards, some of which he didn't even recognize. "That seems very... generous," he said.

"Generosity is not in my nature, as you should be able to deduce, even if you can't remember it," the demon said. "You will have expenses - you will be surprised what a truly accurate assault rifle costs these days, for instance, and the price of plastic explosive is outrageous. Besides, in order to get close to a U.S. Senator, you may have to play the part of a wealthy man. And now you are one - for the time being, at least."

Astaroth tapped the back of Peter's hand that still held the bulging wallet. "However, if you start spending that wealth on whores and cocaine instead of getting on with the job, I'll know about it. And you will find yourself back in Hell so fast, it will makes your ears bleed. And there I will devote my
very
special attentions to you, for the next thousand years or so. Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystal," Peters said. "What kind of timeframe do I have to operate in?"

"The one provided by the American election cycle. I don't care when or how you kill him, but Stark must
not
take the oath of office next January."

"You seem pretty sure he'll win. Can demons see the future?"

Astaroth shook his human head. "No, that is an ability we have never possessed, more's the pity."

"But you figure his chances are pretty good," Peters said.

"Being one of my
brethren
, he has certain... advantages that the other candidates lack. And he has that bitch Doyle working with him. She is almost as ruthless as he is, which is a compliment I haven't paid to a human since the days of the Third Reich. Yes, I think he'll win."

"But what if he doesn't? Just for the sake of, um discussion." Peters had been about to use the word 'argument,' but decided that might be unwise. "What if I haven't gotten to him by election day, and he loses? Do you still want him dead?"

"Oh, absolutely. Quite apart from the fact that he'd probably start planning for the next election immediately, which he might well win, the sooner that Sargatanas is back in Hades and enjoying my
hospitality
, the better I will like it."

The way that Astaroth had uttered 'hospitality' made Peters glad that the demon wasn't thinking about him when he said it. "All right, then - either way, he's a dead man."