CHAPTER 33
Las Vigrasas was a bar. The street it crouched on lay under a drift of trash, furtive shadows sliding from place to place, danger soaking the air. I shivered, peering at the front of the bar from our safe place across the street. Japhrimel had suggested watching the place for a few minutes, and I’d concurred.
I scanned the place carefully. No real Power here, this was a blindhead bar. It was asking for trouble, walking in there. Some places weren’t very hospitable to psis.
A lonely sign with a peeling L s Vig asa painted on it swung slightly in the freshening breeze. The air was so muggy, even the breeze didn’t help much. Bullet holes and plasgun scorches festooned the buildings.
I took a deep breath. “What do you think?” I asked him.
I can’t believe I’m asking a demon his opinion, I thought. What the hell is wrong with me? Then again, he’s my best backup, at least until I find this Egg thingie.
“I think this is a dangerous place,” he said softly. “I would ask you to be careful, but—”
“I’ll be careful,” I said. “Look, don’t hesitate in there. You see someone go for me, take them down.”
“Kill them?”
“If necessary.” I paused. “I trust your judgment.”
His eyes sparked briefly, turning bright laser-green, and then just as swiftly darkened. “You do?”
“I guess so,” I answered. “You haven’t let me down yet.”
He didn’t answer, but his eyes held mine for a long moment.
I finally eased out of the shadows and crossed the street, skirting mounds of rubble and trash. I didn’t have to look—Japhrimel seemed melded to my shadow. Three steps led up to Las Vigrasas’s swinging door; I heard rollicking shouts from behind it, a barrelhouse piano going. I pushed the door open, grimacing inwardly at the feel of greasy wood against my fingers. A roil of smell pushed out—alcohol, vomit, cigarette smoke, the stench of an untended lavatory, unwashed men.
Eau de Nuevo Rio bar, I thought. I wish Gabe was here.
That startled me. I wasn’t used to hunting with anyone in tow, but it had been nice to have Gabe around. At least she was honest—or I hoped so. Then again, she had suggested staying with Jace, and contacted him.
It truly sucks to doubt your friends when you only have one or two of them, I realized.
I strode into the bar, Japhrimel behind me. Cigarette smoke hazed the air. The dark and sudden quiet that fell over the raucous drunken pit warned me. Oh, what the hell, I thought. In for a penny, in for a motherfucking pound. My emerald spat, sizzled, a green spark drifting down to the floor.
A long bar crouched on the left side of the room, tables and chairs scattered to my right. I stepped down, my boots making quiet sounds against the wood of the stairs and then a muffled deadened sound as I stepped onto the oiled sawdust.
Dark eyes watched me. Several Nuevo Rios, lean tanned men in clothes very much like mine, plasguns and old-time projectile guns openly displayed. There was a smattering of Anglos—I scanned the bar once, and found a familiar slouched set of shoulders. Lucas stood with his back to the door, leaning against the bar.
I knew better than to think he didn’t know who had just come in from the cold.
I made it two steps across the sawdust before the bartender spat something in Portogueso, a long deadly-looking shotgun in his brown hands. He wore a stained apron and a sweat-darkened white shirt, oddly luminescent in the gloom.
Japhrimel said something in reply, and the air temperature dropped by at least ten degrees. Nobody moved, but there was a general sense of men leaning back. I waited, eyeing the bartender, my peripheral vision marking everyone in the room. Lucas wore a Trade Bargains microfiber shirt, like me; run-down jeans and worn engineer boots. But he also wore a bandolier, oiled supple leather against his shirt; his greasy hair lay lank against his shoulders.
The bartender spoke again, but his voice quivered slightly. I watched the shotgun.
Japhrimel said nothing, but the air pressure changed. I felt like a woman holding a plasgun over a barrel of reactive—my pulse ran tight and hot behind my wrists and throat, my nape tingling, my skin bathed with Power.
Five seconds ticked by. Then the bartender dropped his shotgun on the bar. The wood and metal clattered. I tensed, bile whipping my throat. Do all these places have to smell so bad? I thought, and then, If I didn’t have Japhrimel with me, someone would have tried to kill me by now.
It was awful handy, having a demon around.
The bartender raised his hands, backing away from the shotgun. His pupils dilated, the color draining from his face. Pasty and trembling, he slumped against the flyspotted mirror sporting shelves of dusty bottles. Glass chattered.
I pantomimed a yawn, patting my lips with the back of my hand. My rings flashed. I walked across the sawdust, skirting a table where three men had a card game set out. I glanced down at the table—poker. Of course. A pile of metal bits lay in the middle of the table. One of the men caught my eyes and hurriedly looked down at his cards.
I made it to where Lucas leaned against the bar. A glass full of amber liquid sat at his elbow.
“Valentine,” he said, not turning around. His voice was a whisper, the same whispered tone Necromances affected after a while. It made me shudder to hear. “Thought you’d come looking for me.”
“I hate being predictable,” I said carefully. “I want information.”
“Of course you do. And I’m the only honest fucker you can find in this town that won’t sell you.” He shrugged, one shoulder lifting, dipping. “What you paying?”
“What you want?” I kept my katana between us.
“The usual, chica. You got it?” His shoulders tensed.
“Of course, Lucas. I wouldn’t come here otherwise.” Letting you walk inside my mind isn’t a price I want to pay, but I have no choice.
He turned around then, slowly, and I took a step back. Japhrimel’s fingers closed around my shoulders, and I found myself with the demon plastered to my back, my sheathed katana raised to be a bar between me and Lucas Villalobos.
He was five inches taller than me, compact with muscle, his lank hair hanging over a pale, wasted face. His eyes glittered almost-yellow in the uncertain light.
The scar ran down his left cheek, a river of ruined skin. Was that where his tattoo had been burned away? I didn’t know, he never told. I gulped. Lucas was a lot older than he looked; something in the hooded twinkle of his eyes and the almost-slack set of his mouth made that age visible. He wouldn’t die, though. You could gut him, slit his throat, burn him alive, but he wouldn’t die.
Death had turned His face from Lucas Villalobos. Nobody knew why, and it was worth your life to ask.
“You want to know about Jace Monroe,” he whispered. His smell, dry as a stasis cabinet, brushed against my nose.
I preferred the stink of the bar. Power pushed at Lucas would simply be shunted aside; he didn’t cast spells. No, he merely killed; hired himself out for protection work and assassinations. It was expensive to have the Deathless on your side—but worth it, I’d been told.
I never wanted to find out. Even going to him for information scared me. This was our third time meeting, and I sincerely hoped as I did every time that it was our last.
Nobody else in the bar spoke. Japhrimel was tense behind me, heat blurring through my clothes. The smoky smell of demon began to drown out every other scent in the bar—and for that, I was grateful. My mouth tasted like cotton—and bile.
“Tell me,” I said simply.
He shrugged. “Not much to tell. He was born into the Corvins, I think. Far as I know, he’s Deke Corvin’s youngest son. Word is, he planned his escape for a long time, hoofed out to Saint City, and started doing mercenary work. Then something happened he didn’t count on.” Lucas shrugged, picked up his glass. Drained it, his Adam’s apple working. “Idiot fell in love with a girl. Old man Sargon moved in for the kill, fouled up a job of hers, then let Jace know that if he
didn’t come back and fly right, he’d take out a contract on the girl. Jace caved, came home like a good little boy.” Lucas’s yellow eyes mocked me. “Stupid bitch didn’t even bother coming out to Nuevo Rio to find out what had happened.”
“I’m sure she had her reasons,” I said, matching his quiet tone. Our words dropped into the profound silence of the bar like stones into a pond. “Who’s running the Corvin Family from behind, Lucas?”
“Nobody I know of,” he whispered, setting his empty glass down with finicky precision. “Sargon runs the Corvins, with an iron fist. Jace just bought himself free legally—and extralegally, the streets are still bleeding from his nightside war with the Corvins. He’s incorporated under a Mob license of his own. Surprised?”
“Not really,” I said. “Once Mob, always Mob. Who’s looking for me, Lucas?”
“Whole damn city,” Lucas returned. “You’re worth hard cash, good credit, and a clean slate to several interested parties. Jace is combing the sinks for you and your pet demon there. Boy’s got a real hard-on for you.”
“I’m sure it will pass,” I said. “Give me something real, Lucas.”
“I don’t have anything else,” he said. “Someone wants you alive and unharmed. Every bounty hunter worth a credit is pouring into the city. You can’t hide forever.”
“I don’t want to hide,” I said. “I’m after Santino.”
If I’d thought the place was quiet before, it went absolutely still now. Nobody was even breathing once I spoke that name.
Lucas went even paler. “Then you’re on the track to suicide,” he whispered. “Take my advice, Valentine. Run. Run as fast as you can, for as long as you can. Steal whatever bit of life you can. You’re already dead.”
“Not yet I’m not,” I said. “You can tell whoever you like. I’m gunning for Santino, and I’m going to take him down.”
Lucas made an odd wheezing sound. It took me a moment to realize he was laughing. Cold sweat broke out on my back.
Lucas finally wiped tears away from his hooded yellow eyes and regarded me. “You can’t kill that fucker, Valentine. Not from what I’ve heard,” he said. “Now get out of here. I don’t want you near me.”
“What about payment?” My fingers tightened on my katana.
“Don’t want it. Get the fuck away from me before I decide to take you in myself.”
“Good luck,” I said dryly. “I don’t want any debt to you, Lucas.”
“I’ll see you in Hell, Valentine. Get the fuck out of here, now.” His eyes slid up, regarded the demon. “Go out and die well.”
I didn’t wait to be told twice. I backed up, cautiously, Japhrimel moving with me, oddly intimate. Then he slid to the side, and I turned around. He walked behind me as I retraced my steps. I looked back over my shoulder once, when I reached the stairs, and saw Lucas pouring into his glass from a bottle of tequila. He filled it to the brim, then lifted the bottle to his lips and took two long gulps, not stopping for breath. He looked shaken.
Now I had officially seen everything.
CHAPTER 34
The stink of the street outside was almost fresh after the close, reeking air of the bar. I filled my lungs, walking quickly, Japhrimel matching me step for step. He didn’t speak, and neither did I. We reached a slightly better-lit part of town. He touched my shoulder and pointed out a small restaurant; I didn’t demur.
It was a little hole-in-the-wall cantina, and I ordered two shots of tequila to start off with. The waitress eyed me, nervously touching the grisgris bag around her neck. I didn’t care anymore. Finally she took Japhrimel’s money and hurried off.
I sank back into the cracked red vinyl booth, then leaned forward and rested my forehead on the table, trembling. Thunder muttered in the far distance.
“Dante.” His voice was calm. I could feel his eyes on me.
“Give me a minute,” I said, my words muffled.
He did.
I took in deep ragged breaths, trying to force my heart to stop pounding. Jace was a Corvin. He’d never told me—and I’d never guessed. Not even when Abra had told me Jace was Mob had I guessed he was a blood Corvin.
The second-to-last job I’d gone on before he left—that had been the Morrix fiasco. I’d barely escaped alive. I’d told Jace about it and he’d been worried, of course—any time your lover gets shot during a routine corporate-espionage, you can legitimately get worried—but he must have had a better poker face than even I’d guessed. He had lied to me about his origins, and I’d swallowed it like the fool I was.
And Lucas turning down payment was unheard-of. Whatever he knew about Santino, he wasn’t going to tell—and he considered me already dead.
I was seriously beginning to wonder if he might be right. I was Santino’s next victim.
And Jace might be working for the demon who haunted my nightmares.
The waitress brought the tequila. Japhrimel murmured to her, and I heard the rustle of more money exchanging hands. I wish I’d learned Portogueso, I thought, and slowly sat up. I took the first shot of tequila and tossed it back, hoping the alcohol would kill any germs on the dirty shotglass. Fire exploded in my stomach and I coughed slightly, my eyes watering.
Japhrimel sat bolt upright on the other side of the booth. I watched the front window of the restaurant for a little while—we’d taken a booth in the back, of course, so I could have my back to the wall. The water from the tequila-burn rolled down my cheeks; I scraped it off with the flat of one hand, keeping my katana under the table.
He examined me closely. I contemplated the second shot of tequila.
Finally, he reached over and took the shot glass in his golden fingers. He lifted it to his lips and poured it down, then blinked.
“That,” he pronounced, “is unutterably foul.”
I coughed slightly, and giggled. The sound was high-pitched, tired, and more panicked than I liked. “I thought demons liked liquor,” I said. The slick plastic tabletop glowed under the high-intensity fluorescents set in the plasteel lamps hanging from chains, made to look like old-fashioned lamps.
“That seems to be something other than liquor,” he replied.
I took in a shaky breath. The banter helped. “Do you have any ideas?” I asked him. “Because I’ve got to tell you, I’m fresh out.”
He nodded, the light running over his inky hair and even face. “There might be something . . .” He trailed off, closed his eyes briefly. Then he looked at me. “I’ve ordered food. You must take better care of yourself, Dante.”
“Why?” Another jagged laugh escaped me. “I have it on good authority I’m not going to live long enough to have it matter. Everyone keeps telling me I’m going to die.” Including that little voice that happens to be my better sense, I added silently. I held up a finger. “I’m Santino’s next victim.” Another finger. “The Corvins want me unharmed, presumably for delivery to an interested party.” I held up a third finger. “Jace is a Corvin. A blood Corvin. What does this add up to? Me being fucked, that’s what it adds up to. Santino’s a demon. If you can’t kill him, what chance do I have?”
Japhrimel looked down at the table. He said nothing.
“Lucifer’s set me up to die, hasn’t he?” I said it quietly. “There’s no way I can kill Santino. I’m supposed to distract Santino while you get the Egg. And when I die, it’s too bad, so sad, but she was only a human after all.” My fingers ached, gripping my katana’s sheath. “Tell me if I’m wrong, Tierce Japhrimel.”
He placed his hands flat on the table. “You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “The Prince believes you can kill him. You did survive him once, after all. And now you have me, not a human sedayeen, watching over you. I may not be able to kill him myself, but I can help you—and keep you alive and free long enough to kill him. And once we recover the Egg, I will be free.” His eyes swung up, found mine. “Free, Dante. Do you know what that means? That means I can do as I please, no commands from the Prince, no shackle to my duty. Free.”
 
; His eyes blazed, his mouth turning down in a grimace. I watched, fascinated, almost forgetting my sword. It was the most emotion I’d ever seen from him.
I swallowed dryly. I’d never heard of a free demon before. Lucifer must be desperate to drag me out of my house and offer a demon like Japhrimel complete freedom. “What would you do if you were free?”
He closed his mouth, dropped his eyes again. There was a long pause before he shrugged. “I do not know. I have an idea, but . . . so much may change, between now and then. I have learned not to hope for much, Dante. It has been my only true lesson.”
I took this in. I was beginning to feel more like myself now. “All right,” I said. “You haven’t led me wrong so far. So what’s this idea of yours?”
“Eat first,” he said. “Then I’ll tell you.”
I tapped my lacquered nails on the tabletop. “Okay.” I checked the front window again, nervous for no discernible reason. “So what did you order?”
“Arroz con pollo. I am told it’s quite good.” He didn’t move, hands flat on the tabletop, eyes down, shoulders straight as a ruler. His black coat and inky hair drank in the light, oddly glossy under the fluorescents. “Does it surprise you, that he would not tell you his Flight and clan?”
I shrugged. “I never would have dated him if I’d known,” I admitted. “But still.”
“Indeed.” He waited for a few heartbeats. “He went back to his clan to protect you, it seems.”
“He could have told me. Left a note. Something. Look, I don’t want to talk about this. Can we pick another subject?”
He nodded, his left hand suddenly moving, tracing a glyph on the tabletop. I watched for a few moments, then looked at his face, studying the arc of his cheekbone, his lashes veiling his eyes, the curve of his lower lip. “I have a thought,” he said.
“Lay it on me.” I tapped my fingernails on the plastic. My rings were quiescent, dark.
“Sargon Corvin,” Japhrimel paused, traced the glyph again. “In the name-language of demons, sargon means ‘bleeder’ or ‘despoiler.’” He looked up again. This time his eyes were dark, and I felt my pulse start to hammer again. He looked thoughtful. “So does Vardimal.”