Crossed (13 page)

“Don’t you mean the vampire who owns it?”

I looked up as my phone vibrated, then glanced back down. On the second pass, the words made sense:
Meet at the Artiste Unknown. Winter is expecting you within the hour.—Andre

omw.
I sent the text and looked back up at the cabbie, really seeing him for the first time. He was dark haired, white, a little pimply, maybe mid-forties. “Take me to the Artiste . . .” I paused, suddenly noticing that the driver had little horns, a set of three on each side of his head, tiny horns, flat above his ears. “Un . . . known.”

Horns.

Demon.

Shit!

I tapped into my magic, reaching out to his chakras before I realized what kind of demon he was. To an ancient Roman, a Gallus would have meant a castrated guy that served the goddess Cybele, but to a modern demonologist it means a sexless demon who serves as a messenger. While not physically very powerful fighters, the Galli have a knack of placing themselves in the future path of the people they seek. All they need is a photograph or a decent representation of the target. Once it’s burned, they snort the ashes and in a matter of days, or even hours (depending on the strength of the Gallus involved and the distance from the target), they will run into the individual they seek.

They’re perfect messengers. They don’t eat. They don’t drink. They don’t sleep. And they can’t have sex, which makes my magic all but useless.

“You must be strong.” He winked at me in the rearview mirror. “That tickles.”

“Who sent you?” Below his eye level, I flattened my right hand against the back of the driver’s seat and drew on some of the power I’d stolen from Eric. Swirls of black skin spread out from my wrist until the skin on my hand turned entirely black. My nails extended into claws. “I got out of my contract by the letter of the agreement and—”

“I’m not here to hurt you, Ms. Sims.” His attention shifted to the road as he jerked the wheel to avoid a collision with a
Honda Civic driven by a moron who needed lessons on staying inside the lines. “I do have a message, however.”

“Who from?”

“One of the Nefario.”

Nefario are lesser lords of the demonic political landscape. J’iliol’lth, the demon I’d sold my soul to, had been one of them before Eric fed him to Talbot. Like the Galli, they don’t wield much direct power, but the Nefario specialize in giving power (some permanent, some temporary) to others, for a price . . . usually a soul.

“Which one?”

“Lady Scrytha, hatchling and heir of Scrythax.” His tone changed as he got going, moving out of easygoing cabbie guy to sycophantic ass licker. “First-circle Nefario, potential Infernatti, and former overseer of the voided entity called J’iliol’lth. I bid you greetings on her behalf.”

Holy shit! Jill’s mom? Not good.

“Heir to Scrythax . . . as in Veil of Scrythax?” I asked.

“Yes, I believe a small portion of the former Infernatti’s skin has been used on more than one occasion to alter the perceptions and minds of mortals.” My driver pulled up onto the interstate just like he was really taking me to the Artiste Unknown. I let my hand revert to normal. “Even dismembered, Lord Scrythax is quite powerful. May he rise again in infernal majesty.” He was in full dutiful servant mode, so much so that I wondered if he was transmitting the conversation back to his demonic mistress with a beacon link or Satan chime. I didn’t see one, but that wasn’t proof of anything.

“What does she want with me?”

“She wants to buy back your soul.”

“No, thanks.” I scoffed at the idea. “Doesn’t she know how hard I worked to get the damned thing back?”

“Nice pun.” He chuckled. “She understands the extent of your efforts very well indeed. And though my mistress, unlike
her father, has no great fondness for humans, she has seen and admired your ability to deal with soul contracts. The Lady Scrytha also senses your imminent and utter destruction. If you would like to avoid the fate she has foreseen, my mistress would like to give you the opportunity to come and work for her as the Grand Madam of her succubae and incubi.”

My mouth fell open. “Why the hell would she want to do that?”

“Perhaps she merely desires intercourse with you.” The Gallus changed lanes, going all the way over into the outside lane. “I’ve never understood the draw it has for those with sexual organs, but—”

“Try again.”

“The truth? No problem, as I’m authorized to tell it to you. Eric Courtney has diverged from his destiny, and this concerns Lady Scrytha.”

“What destiny?”

“He is the last Courtney who may destroy Lisette and end the curse on the Courtney line. Eric’s destiny was to do so, and then become human.”

“And now?”

“Now, Lady Scrytha believes that he will not confront Lisette at all and will instead embark on a different quest, a quest that will be most disconcerting for the Infernatti.”

“I thought you were going to say he was the chosen one or something.”

“No.” He coughed. “Eric Courtney is of no consequence in the grand scheme of things. Despite his previous exertions in El Segundo, he was destined to be little more than a mortal under a curse who redeems his family name and dies a bitter, lonely, and ultimately broken man.”

“And now?”

“Now he does not die.”

“So he sticks around for a few more years? So what?”

“Ever.”

“Excuse me.” I sat up straighter, all of my attention on the demon as he steered us off the interstate again.

“Eric Courtney never dies and in time becomes a hybrid of the man he once was and the thing he has become. If that is allowed to come to pass, then it will render countless prophesies incorrect.”

“And how does she know all of this?”

“She
is
a Nefario.”

“So.” I ran the possibilities over in my head, chewing my lip as I did so. “She wants me to work for her to keep me from working for Eric?”

“And help you avoid utter destruction.”

I gave a little grunt as he took a sharp turn into an alley, the inertia shoving me up against the door. He hit the brake hard, bouncing me off the back of the seat and bringing the cab to a screeching halt. I’d been so caught up in the conversation I’d stopped paying attention to the route. We were in an area of town I didn’t recognize. It sure wasn’t near the Artiste Unknown.

Two demons with dog heads, leather wings, and big axes stepped out of the adjoining buildings into the alley. After the first set came out, two more followed, and two more after them. “If I say no, then I get to play with the puppies?”

“Yeah.” He looked back over the seats at me, back to easygoing cabbie guy. “Sorry about that. I’m just the messenger.”

My skin streaked black, a sensation like lover’s breath—no, more specific than that—as though Eric’s breath on my skin, cool and steady, chased the black. I felt stretched open, as I grew. Uber vamp wings burst through the cab’s rear window and I stood up through the ceiling, like shrugging out of an old jacket.

I killed the messenger first. A swift slash of my claws and he was headless, the violet glow that poured from my eyes
turning his blood from light brown to muddied purple. Heat built up in my piercings, uncomfortable, but not as bad as the fierce sizzle I knew I’d get when I changed back. My uber vamp form isn’t what it feels like to be Eric, but it’s as close as I can get. Channeling this kind of power through a mortal body is like riding the devil’s own stallion. It kicks and bucks. Too much sound and fury, but I’d practiced a time or two, so it didn’t get away from me.

Faster than Eric, I took flight. Wind from my pursuers tickled the back of my neck and I knew where they were without looking. The uber vamp knew. We were like little kids playing tag—very scary, dangerous children. I was still human, still alive despite the boost, and I knew I’d be easily dispatched. Each beat of my heart felt as if it might shake me to pieces.
Thoom. Thoom. Thoom.

An axe swung too close and I spiraled away. There was no need to fight them. A fight would have wasted precious uber vamp energy, and my supply was limited. I let them chase me through downtown, swooping in and around buildings until I saw the Artiste Unknown and turned on the speed in earnest. A block away from Winter’s club, they broke off pursuit. Lady Scrytha could not buy my soul with threats. Winter and his cronies were set up on the roof as if in wait for me. I landed, then transformed.

They applauded, but not for me, and then I understood. They’d been waiting for me. He’d known. He’d bet on it.

“I won again,” Winter explained.

I nodded, meaning to say something snarky, but caught up in the effort not to flinch at the hot-out-of-the-dryer warmth of my piercings.
Ow. Ow. Hot.

“Now.” Winter greeted me with a smile. “Let’s talk about getting you to Paris. All you have to do is keep Eric there for seven days and we’ll be even. Magbidion showed you how to alter a vampire’s memory, yes?”

    13    

ERIC:

OLD BOLD SOLDIERS

When flying to Paris from abroad, the truly trendy undead traveler chooses to arrive at Orly. It’s smaller than Charles de Gaulle International and since European cities don’t use a Veil of Scrythax, as far as I know, I guess it helps to keep the supernatural under wraps.

“Isn’t this awesome?” Tabitha kissed me on the cheek, the warmth lingering there long after she headed off down the aisle to disembark. I fumbled with Tabitha’s suitcases, my single bag hanging around my neck dogtag style. Beatrice carried her own bag. She’d packed conservatively, like me.

“It’s a better trip than last time,” I said. Tabitha didn’t hear me, but Beatrice did.

“You’ve been to France?”

“Yes.” I tottered down the aisle sideways, crablike, trying not to bump the bags against the seats. Phil’s flight staff hovered nearby, anxious to help carry, but I didn’t want their help.

“Did you fly into Charles de Gaulle?”

“Didn’t fly.” My bag snagged on the arm of a seat, and I had to duck and swing my head to get it loose again.

“By boat? That must have been nice. I’ve never been on a cruise.”

“Me either.”

“But you came by boat?”

“Yes.”

“Eric.” Beatrice came to a stop, but I pushed on. Her breath caught in her throat, and I heard her heart rate increasing. “Were you alive or undead when you last visited France?”

“I was alive.”

“And the ship you were on . . . it didn’t land at a port, did it?”

“Not exactly.” I reached the end of the aisle and looked down the steps. Tabitha was standing at the bottom talking to three humans. She still looked adorable in her yellow sundress and strappy white heels, but her mood had soured. I couldn’t hear what she was saying because of the magic soundproofing Phil had layered onto his plane, but she wasn’t happy.

“Where did you land?” Beatrice asked.

“Normandy.” I walked down the steps. The three men weren’t wearing uniforms. Halfway down, the sound kicked in.

“I’m sorry, mademoiselle, but you and your master will have to board the plane and return to America. Europe is closed to you.”

The speaker was tall and dark-haired. He even wore sunglasses at night, just like that Corey Hart song. The earpiece in his ear made me think Secret Service, but his accent was French. Next to him, a blond in jeans and a “Born in the USA” T-shirt smoked a cigarette, paying more attention to the ground or a spot in the distance than to what was going on next to him.

I followed his gaze and saw a group of mercs clad in riot gear covered with runes and crosses, symbols from several religions. He gave them a subtle shake of his head, which I took to mean “not yet,” and took another drag off the cigarette. His face was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

Up close, the third “man” was obviously either a woman dressing to minimize her curves or the most successfully androgynous man I’d even seen. A little closer and I inhaled her scent. Definitely a woman. She caught me sniffing and rolled her eyes.

“Just kill them.” She had a German accent. I didn’t like her.

“Already dead.” I dropped the suitcases on the tarmac and unslung the bag from around my neck. “Besides, you can’t destroy me.”