The Dirty Streets of Heaven

  “If you’re not going to kill me, angel,” she said, “then let’s think of something else to do while I’m still all worked up.”

  twenty-two

  cold hands

  I’VE NEVER kissed a hellbeast before. I know that sounds like the beginning of an ex-wife joke, but it’s true. I’ve been with waitresses and biker chicks, middle-aged broads with a long tale to tell, and barely-legals just starting to discover their own story. I’ve also had more than a few flings with women of the angelic persuasion, not to mention those odd, sexless but intense, pre-teen-type relationships that you have in Heaven. Did I mention there’s no sex there? Yeah, put it into the “but that’s another story” category. I had even come close to something intimate a few times with members of the Opposition, but only because I didn’t know what they were; I’d always figured it out in time. But until now, I had never had cause to knowingly kiss a demon.

  Wow.

  I don’t mean to make it sound romantic, because it wasn’t—not really. Not at first. One moment I was lying on top of this crazy thing that was trying to murder me, the next moment we were rolling around on the floor again, but this time without the distraction of bladed weapons. Only as we bumped up against her writing desk did it occur to me I didn’t know where she’d put her gun when we first came in, or whether she had some even nastier weapon than her kukri stashed in that drawer—a tactical tomahawk or a Turkish yataghan or some other godawful exotic thing—but the Countess no longer seemed to be interested in killing me, at least not in any conventional way.

  I don’t want you to think I had completely forgotten an angelic lifetime of hatred and distrust. Alarms bells were going off in my head that would have deafened me if they’d been real, but at that moment I just didn’t care.

  Casimira’s robe was already half off, and we were both slippery with blood and sweat. Her mouth tasted hot as Tabasco but her skin was shockingly cold to the touch. We were pressed together so hard it seemed like we might simply pass through each other; I could feel her nipples against my chest, hard as silver bullets. My mouth was full of the salty tang of blood, but it tasted good. It tasted right. I didn’t know if it was infernal magic or plain old chemistry, but it was getting more and more difficult to think and more and more difficult to care about that fact.

  “Hold on,” I said, drawing back. We were lying side by side near the bed now, although “lying” is way too passive a word: She had one long, smooth leg wrapped around me, both arms around my neck, and her face so close to mine I couldn’t see much of anything except her blue eyes. At least I thought her eyes were still blue, but in the dim harem light they could have turned red again and I wouldn’t have known. In fact, we could have fallen through the floor and tumbled all the way into Tartarus during the last few minutes and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. “Wait a minute. Just…what are we doing here?”

  She leaned forward and licked a smear of blood off my chest, then smiled at me with it still glistening on her tongue. “They don’t teach you much in Heaven, do they?”

  “I mean what are we doing, you and me? We’re not…we’re supposed to be…”

  She pulled herself up until she could kiss my forehead—a surprisingly gentle kiss, almost ritualistic, lips as chilly as a marble statue’s—then slid back down until her pelvis was lodged against mine again, pressing, rubbing. “I don’t care!” She sounded almost drunk, halfway between tears and laughter. “I don’t care about any of that, Bobby. Not now. This is our time. Whatever happens later…” She didn’t finish, but lifted her face to be kissed—that beautiful, treacherous, untrustworthy face—and suddenly I no longer cared either. Not about my bleeding cuts and cracked ribs, not my friends or my angelic tribe, my place in the great conflict, anything. If the ghallu itself had kicked down the door, blazing and roaring, I would have done my best to ignore it. I lowered my face to hers and felt my last reservations melt.

  Although our mouths almost never left each other’s mouths and skin it didn’t take me long to ease her out of the torn nightgown, exposing her small white breasts and the delicate cathedral of her ribcage, to coax the filmy white strip of nothing off her hips and down her legs until she was utterly naked, pale and splendid. She helped me remove my own clothes, pulling and dragging at things without patience until we both laughed at what a muddle we’d made, but even as we laughed we continued to press as much of our skin together as we could, feverish and hurried. We slithered against each other, kissing, licking, biting, tasting salty blood and sweat. Casimira was almost wordless, making little noises of surprise or mock-protest as something was pulled away from her tender attentions, then growling with pleasure as something else was given to her instead. We were both covered with small, stinging wounds, many of which we’d given to each other, but for that time, in that windowless room, even the pain of those injuries seemed only to broaden the range of our pleasure.

  Her skin was cold as the belly of a fish, smooth and dry in the few places my own sweaty skin hadn’t rubbed against her, and with just the faintest tang of blood and sea-musk curling through the sweetness of her scent like a snake in a garden. As I pressed my face against the skin of her stomach I had, for a moment—and only a moment—the sudden sensation that Casimira was some kind of animate corpse, that I had been tricked into loving a dead thing. I pulled back in shock, but one look at the frightened need on her face told me what was happening between us was far more complicated than any mere horror, any mere trick or stratagem of the long war. We were different creatures from different worlds, but at that moment we both wanted the same thing, even though we were neither of us certain exactly what that might mean.

  She was built like a ballet dancer, no fat anywhere, her breasts small as a very young woman’s, with amaranth-colored buds on the tips as firm and cold as ice cream still hard from the freezer. A delicate shimmer of fine pale hair descended in an almost invisible line from her navel and across her flat lower stomach to the delicate swelling of her pubis, where it joined the tiny puff of near-whiteness that hid the cleft. As I held her legs apart to look at her there, the muscles of her thighs quivered and she made a noise as if she fought back tears. She pulled herself upright in what seemed more than ever like desperation, put her hands flat against my chest to shove me backward, then took my cock in her mouth and did things to me with her startlingly cool tongue that I still cannot quite explain or even remember clearly, but the sensation was enough to make me fall back on the floor and lay there for long moments, unable to do anything except let it happen and hope it would never stop. Her hands kept moving the whole time, stroking, cradling, her chilly, tender fingers everywhere, distracting and delightful.

  Soon enough, though, she lifted herself up on one elbow, holding me in her hand and squeezing gently, her eyes glinting with mischief. “More? Or do you need a rest?”

  I answered the only way I was capable of at that moment: I rolled over and wrestled her to the floor again, then began to lick and kiss and nibble my way from her face to her toes and back up again, stopping somewhere in the middle of the second traverse to nose my head between her thighs. She yanked down one of the filmy curtains surrounding the bed and let it settle over us, then took an end of it and looped it slowly and lovingly around my neck, using it as a bridle to speed me up or slow me down as I indulged myself in her astonishing, wonderful wetness. I heard her cry out my name until even that last word disappeared into less articulate sounds. But as much as I loved the taste of her, the cold skin and the warm, salty damp, I couldn’t wait long—in fact, I couldn’t wait any longer. As she lay catching her breath, I sat up between her thighs and began to position myself over her, but she was not going to let me do it, not yet. She rolled me onto my back, putting a finger over my mouth to silence my questions, and then squatted on her heels above me, teasing my hardness with her own silky softness, rubbing back and forth without allowing me to penetrate, until I was almost as desperate as in the most frightening moments of our struggle, wi
th her knife pressed against me. Then, as if we still struggled, I suddenly summoned my remaining strength and wrestled her onto her back. This time I was the one who stabbed at her, and she was the one who gasped out a cry that sounded like agony. Cold, cold, her skin was so cold…but inside she was hot as a furnace. I cried out then, too, shocked and amazed and overwhelmed that it could be like this—that anything could be like this.

  “He’s never been here,” she said as we lay on her bed later, naked and sweaty. “He doesn’t know about this place.”

  “I guessed, actually. Wouldn’t be a very good hiding place if he knew it, and he’s the one you’re hiding from, right?”

  She nodded. I couldn’t help staring at her flawless features, her schoolgirl face and ancient eyes, and wondering again what she really looked like, but somehow it didn’t matter as much to me as it had before. “Not just hiding from. Running away from.”

  “What do you mean? And if he’s never been here, why do you have clothes for him here?”

  “Because I had the same contractors build it who did all the rest of our…hideaways. And to keep them from being suspicious I did everything the same, including stocking the closets with his clothes. I handled all the bills, and he doesn’t care how much things cost, anyway. He’s a duke of Hell—money is like water to him, he turns on his faucets and it pours out. So I had them build this one just for me. I decorated it myself. I know you think it’s ghastly.”

  “No,” I said, “not at all. Just…surprising. Not what I would have expected.”

  “It was something I dreamed of when I was a girl. Don’t worry, we also had the boring Aspen cabin with the fabulous view and the boring Manhattan penthouse on Central Park West, and even a boring little chalet in Gstaad. But this one is mine. So if you spoil the secret and make me give it up I swear I’ll kill you, Bobby Dollar.”

  For a moment the tone of her voice made me raise up on my elbow to see if she was kidding. She didn’t look like she was. “Did you really…fall for him? Like you said?”

  She shrugged and rolled onto her side to root in a bedside drawer. She took out a slim golden case and removed a cigarette, then offered the case to me.

  “No, thanks. Had to give it up years ago.”

  She lit up anyway, then settled back on her pillow and watched the smoke lift lazily toward the surprisingly high ceiling. “I don’t know, maybe you were right. Maybe I didn’t fall for him so much as I fell for what he had, what he could do—what someone like him could mean to someone like me.” She frowned. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Then you don’t have to, Casimira.”

  “Caz. Nobody’s called me Casimira much for a couple of hundred years.”

  I looked at her. My surprise must have shown.

  “Yes, I’m old,” she said. “I’ve been around a while. How about you?”

  “We never know, and they sure don’t tell us. I don’t remember any farther back than the 1990s, which is when I first got to Earth.”

  She dragged on her cigarette, let a plume of smoke geyser upward. “Lucky.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind.” She put the cigarette out in an ashtray on her bedside table, grinding it dead with surprising force. “I didn’t mean to get you into this, but I’m sorry anyway.”

  Even now, after all that had happened between us, I still found myself reflexively mistrustful. Who ever heard of a demon apologizing? Was she laying it on too thick? Had I just fallen for the oldest con job since the apple? “From what you’ve said it wasn’t your fault,” I offered. “It was Grasswax’s.”

  “Yes, but if I hadn’t tried to leave Eligor—if I hadn’t stolen from him so I’d have some protection against him—”

  “Slow down, Caz. You stole from him because you left him? Not the other way around?”

  For just a moment I saw the return of that sharp flare of anger, but then it passed and something infinitely sadder crept into her eyes. “He wouldn’t have let me go any other way, Bobby. Once something belongs to him, it’s his forever. He’s that way even with his living possessions—no, even more with the ones that are alive. Someone like me, who’s likely to live as long as he does and would be a permanent reproach to him…well, he’d much rather destroy me than let me go, whether he still wanted me or not.”

  “So you stole this…feather. To blackmail him into leaving you alone?” I was mostly guessing since I still had no idea what the feather actually was but didn’t want to reveal the depths of my ignorance. I was relieved when she nodded.

  “I guess you could say that. But I don’t want to think about him any more—about any of it. You’re here. I’m here. We may never have this moment again.” She shook her head. “What am I saying? We won’t have this moment ever again.” She smiled a hard little smile. “Obviously we were never meant to be.”

  I was badly torn between wanting to tell her I’d never leave her, which was truly how I felt at that moment, and wondering still if this was just some elaborate scam—if I had fallen hook, line, and sinker for a cynical ploy from a self-serving demoness. I certainly knew which side the oddsmakers would have chosen, but looking at those wide, almost tearful eyes it was hard to let my more critical self do its job. “Whatever we are or whatever we’re meant to be, you’re right—we have right now,” I said, and pulled her toward me so I could kiss her neck. She rolled closer, then fastened herself against me so that I could feel the wetness we had made together pressed warmly against my leg.

  “Oooh,” she said, reaching down and giving me a squeeze. “It appears your chariot is no longer swinging low, Mr. Dollar.” Her voice dropped down to a husky rasp. “What do you say, Wings? Would you like to…carry me home again?”

  Caz was asleep, her hair spread in a white-gold fan across the crimson pillowcase, her back nearly as slender as a child’s. I could count every knob of her vertebrae and watch the muscles move beneath the skin every time she changed position.

  I crawled out of bed to take a shower. As I dried off I tried to call Sam and the others but couldn’t get a signal. Perhaps the walls of Caz’s hideaway had been constructed to block transmissions. After seeing her secret agent garage, I could believe it. Whatever the case, I was going to have to get in touch with somebody on my side soon, just to make sure Sam and Monica were all right, if nothing else. And I knew it wouldn’t hurt me to get away from the Countess for a while. Any objectivity I might once have had about her was long gone, and even though there was still so much I didn’t know about her and so many reasons for me not to trust her, I couldn’t help looking at her as she slept and feeling a clutch in my chest I hadn’t felt for a long time. In fact, I didn’t think I had ever felt quite like this. That would have been scary enough with any woman, but with this one it seemed damned near suicidal.

  As if she could read my troubled thoughts, Caz began to twitch a little in her sleep, then to whimper. She rolled over and pushed feebly at something that wasn’t there, then scrabbled at her pillow in a way that reminded me so much of what she’d done to my cheek a couple of hours earlier during our struggle that I reached up to touch the tender, healing scrapes.

  “No,” she said faintly, “no, no!” She was struggling harder now but the nightmare still seemed grip her tightly. I sat down on the bed next to her and gently lifted her eyelids with my fingertips, still mistrustful enough to think it might be a trick, but her pupils did not contract, which they should have done even in a dim room. Instead she grabbed at my hands, slapped at them and fought against me, but so weakly I could tell that she was still deep in her oppressive dream. Her cries became more articulate, and now tears ran from her shuttered lids and down her cheek.

  “Caz!” I said, shaking her. “Caz, wake up! It’s just a nightmare. You’re having a bad dream.” I couldn’t believe I was saying something like this to one of Hell’s minions, but I couldn’t just sit by and watch her suffer either. Nothing I did seemed to help, though, and at last I pulled he
r out of the bed and stood her on her feet, holding her tight to keep her from falling. This seemed to drag her back to some kind of consciousness, although I regretted the decision almost immediately because as soon as she got her balance she attacked me with nearly as much savagery as before, although this time it was clear she didn’t know who I was. I defended myself, doing my best not to hurt her, and after a short struggle she became less frenetic in her movements. She came slowly back to herself as though surfacing from deep waters.

  “What…?” She looked around at what must have been the familiar sights of her windowless room, then down at her own slim, naked form. “Why…?”

  “I really hope you remember why you don’t have any clothes on, Caz, because if you don’t I’m going to have a tough time convincing you.”

  She looked up at me, her eyes troubled. “Don’t ever joke about that, Bobby. We’re here. Of course it all happened. I just didn’t know why I was…” She shook her head.

  “You were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you up, but I couldn’t.”

  Her eyes suddenly filled but did not overspill. It was precisely those tears, which should have set all my alarm bells jangling, that finally made me stop doubting her. They had been so fast to rise—surely nobody, not even a trained actress, could come thrashing up from sleep and make a real physical body jump through hoops that way. “It wasn’t a nightmare,” she said. “It was a memory.”

  She climbed back into the bed, pulling the covers up to her waist. With her youthful, wide-eyed face and long white-gold hair cascading over her naked shoulders she might have been a portrait of Alice that Reverend Dodgson would have kept locked away and shown to no one—not even God.

  “It was him. I was dreaming about him,” she said, closing her eyes with a shudder.

  “Eligor?”