The Adventure of Immanuel

way to haze rookie tempters, or as a form of punishment."

  Differel looked up and crossed her arms over the desk. "I beg your pardon?"

  She spared her an exasperated glance over her shoulder. "Being a shoulder devil is an occupation, not a vocation. It's usually a devil's first job after graduating from the tempters training academy. However, it can be assigned to retirees who wish to keep their hands in the business, or to incompetents or malcontents as a way to teach them humility and the error of their ways. Haven't you ever read C. S. Lewis? The Screwtape Letters?"

  That did seem rather familiar. "Alright, I see what you're getting at."

  The devil-doll nodded her head and turned to face her again. "Finally! Now we can get down to business. Oh, by the way, the name's Differel Diabolique, but you can call me DeeDee. I prefer informality among friends."

  Differel frowned. Her attitude was getting on her nerves. "Just a moment. If what you say is true, then there should be a 'shoulder angel', correct?"

  "Exactly. She personifies your conscience and appeals to your altruistic motivations."

  "Shouldn't she be here as well?"

  Her face split into silly grin. "Are you kidding? You don't need her, you're a bigger stiff than she is."

  Differel felt her anger flare as she sat upright. "Now just a bloody minute--!"

  DeeDee's own face turned fiery red as she became upset. "I meant it as a compliment! Jesus, but you have a temper. I told you, being assigned to you is considered onerous duty. Why do you suppose that is, huh? It's because you're such a straight-arrow no tempter has a chance of getting you to commit any kind of sin, no matter how insignificant. So why would you need a shoulder angel? You do her job better than she would. In fact, I hear being assigned to you is considered a rather cushy posting Upstairs. She's probably off somewhere working on her tan, the stuck-up little bitch! Me, I'll probably spend my time doing my nails. Big whoop."

  Differel forced herself to relax. If she was having a dream, she should be able to control it, but she would have to be calm, and if she wasn't, getting mad still wouldn't help her situation.

  "Hey." DeeDee broke into her thoughts. "Do you mind if I change into something more comfortable?"

  Before Differel had a chance to respond, the devil-doll disappeared in a flash of fire and a puff a smoke. A larger column of smoke and flame sprang up in front of the desk, startling her, accompanied again by the organ note, now loud enough to shake the desk. DeeDee reappeared, full-sized, but otherwise no different. She stretched in a languid, almost provocative, manner, as if working the kinks out of the compacted muscles.

  "Man, does that feel good! Being shoulder-size gets to be pretty confining after awhile."

  Somehow, Differel found her larger size more disturbing, in more ways than one. "Are you sure this isn't a dream?"

  DeeDee walked around the desk to her side. Differel reached under the top to grip her pistol, but didn't pull it when she leaned backwards against the edge. "If you don't believe me, call someone. If this is a dream, they'll see me, otherwise they won't."

  She raised an eyebrow as she removed her hand. "I can call anyone?"

  "Anybody you like."

  She smirked. "Hmph. As you wish." And she sent out a familiar mental summons.

  Vlad Drakulya emerged from the corner closest to the door. "You rang, My Master?" he said in his deep bass voice.

  From "Disposable Commodities"

  He laughed again and shook his head as he crossed the room to his desk. He dropped the messages on the blotter and took a moment to push down the upper panel of his window to get some fresh air, glancing down at the street twenty stories below. He then turned and opened the desk file drawer. Inside was a bottle of whiskey, half full, a thick-walled pewter bowl a foot across, and a crude ceramic jar stopped with a lead plug. He took out all three and set them on the desk. Pulling loose the plug, he poured a handful of grayish-green powdery salt into a glass from the wet bar and measured out a gram onto a slip of rice paper using a pharmacist's balance. He poured the unused dust back into the jar and replaced the plug before dumping the gram into the bowl. He walked into the middle of the room carrying the bowl and the whiskey bottle, set the bowl on the floor, and poured in a libation of the liquor. He sprinted back three feet as the contents began to fizz.

  Within seconds, a column of fine mist rose into the air. It billowed and swirled, and took on a female form. As he watched, it coalesced into a solid object, then faded away, to reveal a nude, voluptuous woman with an hourglass figure and skin the color of bread crust. She stood as still as a statue for a few moments, her eyes closed, then she inhaled sharply and started to breath. She tilted her head back, raised her arms, and stretched her entire body, as if trying to reach the ceiling. She lowered her arms in a languid manner, bending her elbows, and ran her fingers through her billowing mane of fiery crimson hair. Still lowering her arms, she caressed the sides of her face and neck, her shoulders, and her voluminous breasts. It wasn't until she rested her palms on her hips that she relaxed and opened her eyes.

  She stepped out of the bowl. "How long has it been this time?" Her voice was a low contralto, with a sultry burr that sounded like a purr.

  "Three months, Lily my dear." He raised the whiskey bottle to his mouth.

  She frowned and raised an eyebrow. "That's the longest yet."

  He took a swig. "Not as long as when I first woke you up. What year were you processed again?"

  "1912." Her voice sounded tight as he took another drink.

  "And the first time I let you out was last year. So, ninety-five years. Get the picture?"

  She gave him a look that could curdle milk. "What do you want this time?"

  He took one last pull then recapped the bottle. "Most of it's routine, but I have a couple of new requests. First, I want to replace Lucy." He turned and went back to his desk to set the bottle down.

  "Isn't she working out?"

  Her snarky barb stung, but he ignored it. "She expects me to permanently resurrect her." He turned around.

  "What ever gave her that idea?"

  "I told her I knew how to do it, to get her to do what I wanted."

  She scowled. "That was stupid. All you had to do was threaten to torture her, though you would have to do it at least once to make it credible."

  "I'll keep that in mind. So, can it be done?"

  "No."

  "That's plain enough. So I'll need someone new for tomorrow. Who would you recommend?"

  She smirked. "As I remember, you prefer them sweet, adorable, and naïve, true?"

  He licked his lips. "Most definitely."

  "Then I suggest Helen; front row, third from the middle."

  He looked over to his left. That entire wall was covered by a bookcase. In its center was a display cubicle with a glass front. Inside were three rows of ceramic jars, similar to Lily's, but only a third the size.

  He glanced back at her. "Stacked?"

  Lily favored him with a grinning leer. "Most definitely."

  He went over and opened the front. "From the name, I assume she's a blonde."

  "That she is."

  He reached in and picked up the jar in question. "Why can't they be permanently resurrected?"

  "The reconstituted body is held together by the salt matrix. The salts are vulnerable to oxidation, so the integrity of the matrix only lasts about a day. Once the body starts to break apart, it crumbles very easily. If you could seal her in an airtight vessel filled with helium, she would stay intact indefinitely; she doesn't need to breath. But that wouldn't do you any good. Of course, the more powder you use, the longer she would remain reconstituted, but the fewer times you could resurrect her."

  He examined the jar as he returned to his desk. "I've always wondered why your jar is so much bigger than these others."

  "That's because living tissue condenses that much smaller. Your grand-uncle poisoned me first; I still don't know how."

  He snapped his head around and stare
d at her, his gut crawling. "They were alive when you...?"

  "Of course. You need special procedures to process a dead body. Your uncle didn't know that and he almost botched my processing. I survived only because I hadn't been dead long enough to matter. It also helps if the subject is aware."

  He felt the blood drain out of his face. "They're awake when you...process them?"

  "At least for as long as it takes the chemicals to begin decomposing their bodies."

  He glanced back at the jar in his hand. "Is it painful?"

  "Excruciating. And they remember every moment."

  He grunted as he placed the jar on his desk. "You sound like you enjoy their suffering."

  She turned and walked over to the "casting" coach against the right wall. He had put it in against the day when he would have flesh and blood female clients; for the time being, it served as the platform for his daily antics with Lucy. She laid down, facing him, her head and shoulders propped up on the padded arm and one arm draped over the back.

  "They're my servants; they're only purpose is to serve my needs; all my needs." She snapped her fingers and a cigar appeared in her mouth.

  "Your slaves, you mean."

  "I prefer to think of them as pets. In any event, I fail to see a distinction." She snapped her fingers again and the exposed end lit up.

  "You don't believe they have any rights?"

  She snapped her fingers a third time and a glass of liquor appeared in one hand. "Technically, they're dead. What rights does a dead man have?" She drained the glass,