I turned to look at Violet. “He is a demon. They live to make deals. To bind mortals within convoluted contracts. It is in their nature.”
“Si, your man is correct there,mi gatita. But if we are to be honest with one another, whodoesn’tlove a good deal?” Damien turned from us and looked towards a bust upon his desk before he said, “Ciriatto, would you be kind enough to bring me a pot of coffee and remove Jules, please?”
The statue didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure how I would have reacted if it had.
Damien moved to the leather chair behind his desk, the blue and green fire roaring behind him, and settled into the plush seat with the languid grace of a cat claiming sun-warmed stone. He gestured for us to sit in the two chairs in front of his desk.
Where did those come from?I knew I’d been distracted—coming back from the dead could do that to a person, I supposed—but how had I not noticed the two chairs in the middle of the room?
Violet cocked her head. “Those weren’t there a second ago.”
“You are very observant,” Damien said as he gestured again for us to sit. Once we had, he continued. “Now, you must understand, you are negotiating from a place of weakness. Aside from the overwhelmingly obvious fact that you are entirely at my mercy here in Second Circle beneath my nightclub, there is the slightly less obvious truth that thistragedy is entirely your own fault. After all,” he said and pointed a slender finger at me, “you shared secrets that were not yours to share. You spoke carelessly in the presence of others. Youforcedmy hand.”
My jaw clenched so hard I feared I’d break a tooth. “Bullshit.”
“And as I explained to you both earlier, I amquitefond of Jules. I have been for literal ages. Not only is she a singular companion, dare I go so far as to call her a friend, but she helps me run many of my Oubliettes. She is, in a word,irreplaceable.” He clucked his teeth and shook his head, the very image of dejected sorrow. “Such genuine sweetness in a person has always been, and I do believe always will continue to be, exceedingly rare. I shall miss her terribly.”
“Youkilled her,” Violet and I said in unison. From her, the words were a hot venom she nearly shouted in anger. From me, the words came out icy, flat, dead. In that same cadaver, tone I said, “Her death will rest on your conscience. Not mine.”
“Oh, on the contrary.” Those golden eyes fixed on me, ancient and merciless. “You were the one who created this situation that necessitated her death. It was your thoughtless carelessness. Therefore,” he gestured between us, “youowemerecompense. As I said, a boon would be appropriate. A favor of my choosing, to be called upon whenever I should require it.”
I laughed. Couldn’t help it. The sound came out harsh and bitter, scraping against the elegant room like nails against silk. “You are insane if you think I will give you anything. You are nothing more than a murderous demon. Jules’s death is your fault. It was yourchoiceto kill her. There is no world where I owe you aid or recompense for your own bloodlust.”
Damien smiled. The expression was beautiful and terrible at once, a glimpse of something vast and hungry wearing human features like a poorly fitted mask. “Oh, but you will help me,chico valiente. Both of you will.” He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other. “Because I am the only way you will ever find Edward Fitzgerald.”
The name slammed into me—a sledgehammer to the stomach.
Beside me, Violet went rigid. Her pulse spiked—I heard it, that sudden acceleration, the rabbit-quick panic of prey recognizing the carnivore’s scent, and I knew she was thinking exactly what I was.
How? How does he know that name?How could he possibly know about Edward? I’d been careful. Violet had been careful. We hadn’t spoken that name in public, hadn’t given anybody, either within Oubliette or outside of it, any reason to connect us to Edward.
What else does he know?That question ricocheted through my skull, spawned a dozen more. Did he know about Violet’s previous life? About her rebirth? Did he understand what she was, what webothwere?
Then an even more important—far more terrifying—thought occurred.What impossible terms will Violet agree to if this High Demon can actually deliver Edward to her?
As Violet and I sat there considering how to reply to Damien’s question, the door to his study opened. A seven-foot-tall boar-faced demon squeezed into the room carrying a silver tray with a pot and a cup of white porcelain. Fifty years from my first life of seeing truly weird shit all over the Wastelands greatly helped me keep my composure in that moment.
Violet did not have that experience.
“Ohmyfuckinggodwhatthefuckisthat?” She scrambled out of her chair and away from the new demon.
There was a heartbeat where nobody moved or said anything before the boar-faced demon replied, “Coffee.”
“Ciriatto,” Damien addressed the boar-faced demon, “thank you. You can place it right here on the desk. And if you would be so kind as to take Jules’s body back to her room? I’ll see to her after I have finished with this meeting.”
Massive and silent, the demon’s pig-like face was as blank as fresh snow. He set the silver tray in front of Damien, then turned to Jules. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing.
No, as if she means nothing. As if her death means nothing.
She was nothing more than a broken thing to be disposed of. Her head lolled back, arms hanging loose, blood still dripping from the cavity in her chest. The demon’s expression never changed. He simply carried her towards the door, her body swaying with his measured steps.
My stomach twisted. Bile burned the back of my throat. I turned from the sight of Jules being carted away like a sack of meat and took several deep breaths.This is what gods and demons and all the rest ofthe supernaturals do. They take and take and take all that they can, just because they can.
The room pressed in around me. I focused my senses on my surroundings in an attempt to ground myself, to not let my fury and sorrow take control. Shelves climbed towards the shadowed ceiling above, each packed with ancient tomes—their spines cracked and faded. Many titles I recognized, even from this distance:The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses,Pseudomonarchia Daemonum,The Lesser Key of Solomon. Forbidden texts I’d only heard whispered about in my previous life, now casually displayed like trophies.
The scattered paperwork on Damien’s desk was covered in sigils penned in ink that shimmered faintly in the firelight. I recognized some of those as well: binding circles, warding marks, symbols from random grimoires. Others were older, stranger, pulled from traditions I didn’t know. The air smelled of coffee, cinders, and red wine, heavy enough to taste. My hearing picked up the hiss and pop of the fireplace and, beneath that, the steady thrum of Damien’s two hearts.
One in his chest where it should be. One in his tongue where it shouldn’t.
