Devil's Business (21 page)

“You know,” Sanford said, starting for the front steps, broad as three bodies laid end to end, “that whole smartass defense mechanism isn’t fooling anyone.” He looked back at Jack, his eyes pools in the low light. “Everyone is afraid of something, Jack. Even you.”

Gator shoved Jack from behind. “Move it, peckerwood.”

The doors opened at Sanford’s approach, and he shoved them wide. “You said you wanted the truth, Jack. So come in.”

Jack looked up out of habit. Nothing was carved into the doorframe, and no hexes hung in place, but the psychic void inside would be enough to deter all but the most ignorant of mages. Which placed him squarely there, he supposed. Jack Winter, tilting at windmills and leaping off cliffs.

The foyer was laid out in tiles that rang under his heels. Dead leaves skittered in the corners when the door shut. A fountain dominated the center, a nymph being swallowed by a many-eyed, tentacled sea beast. The nymph had long lines of rust traveling down her breasts and the apex of her thighs, water long gone.

“Nice place,” he said. Sanford flipped an old push-button switch and a single bulb in the chandelier above flickered to life.

“It gets the job done,” he said. “Built by an orange farmer in the twenties. Howard Hughes stayed here. And Basil Locke bought it in 1939.”

Gator was still in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, and Sanford snapped his fingers at him. “For fuck’s sake, nothing is going to bite you. Get in here.”

Jack watched the big man’s back stiffen. Maybe Gator wasn’t as colossal a moron as he appeared. If Jack had a choice, he wouldn’t be here either. While Sanford puttered around, he went over the list. Pete wouldn’t be here—he would’ve felt her, if she was anywhere on the grounds. She wouldn’t be at Sanford’s house. Too obvious for a man who loved a twist ending. That left a myriad of places Jack hadn’t guessed at yet, which meant he had to go along with Sanford a little longer. He just hoped he didn’t lose his temper and stave the bastard’s face in before he made sure Pete was safe.

“Locke made a couple of films overseas,” Sanford said. He walked, turning on lights as he went, until they stood in a vast atrium that overlooked the view of Los Angeles, far in the distance. “Genre stuff, nothing that the international audience was interested in. But he met a nice young man named Heinrich Himmler in Germany, in 1938. What a Russian-born lapsed Jew was doing partying with fledgling Nazis, I couldn’t tell you, but he picked up some interesting theories. Did you know that both Himmler and Hitler were deeply involved with the Thule?”

“Everybody knows that,” Jack said. “It’s not exactly a state secret.”

“The Nazis didn’t understand the Black,” Sanford said. “Didn’t understand that to use magic you had to have your frequency tuned in the first place. Have the knack. But Locke did. And when he came back, he bought this mansion. Spent more and more time up here. After 1942, he never made another film. He died here, in obscurity, with massive debts. A couple of studio heads kicked in and bought the place out of pity, used it for a few location shoots, but as you can tell…” He gestured around the empty room. A single ratty sofa, the kind of plaid that always seemed to be stained with beer and cum no matter how clean it was, sat in one corner, its arms chewed by rats.

“Not exactly a comforting sort of air to the place,” Jack said.

“Film crews suffered a rash of unexplained deaths, a wing caught fire in the seventies and burned some no-name actress,” Sanford said. “After the fire, the estate came looking for investors, and they contacted me.” He grinned, walking to the windows. Outside, a swimming pool full of dead branches and a foot or so of stinking sewer-tinged water glowed with oily life. “I knew right away what had gone on here.”

Something to rend the Black so thoroughly it was a dead vortex across all his senses. Jack tried to keep his expression neutral. Sanford didn’t have a talent, was nothing more than a groupie. What he actually knew about magic would probably be a wild guess, at best.

“Locke didn’t just collect esoteric shit,” Sanford said. “He found something much better. Something tangible.” He pressed his palms against the glass. “He found a way to pass through just like light through a window.”

Jack and Sanford turned as one when the front doors swung open again and a shadow rolled across the foyer, causing the light bulb to explode.

“Don’t sugarcoat it,” Abbadon said, standing in the doorway. “It sounds so much better when you just say it out loud.”

Jack could scream all he wanted inside his own head, that Sanford had fucked him and that Abbadon was going to take what he wanted out of his hide. Reacting, though, wasn’t going to do any good. He could always go through the window, if he didn’t mind shedding a little blood, but then where the fuck would he go? Miles from anywhere, in terrain he didn’t know, he might as well smear himself in marinade and leave himself for the coyotes.

Sanford’s jaw ticked when Abbadon approached. “Took you long enough,” he said.

Abbadon shrugged. “Jackie-boy isn’t going anywhere. He loves his little sperm receptacle too much to misbehave.” He reached out and patted Jack on the cheek. “That someone like you could actually love something, even a useless whore like that, is kind of sweet. Almost gives you faith in humanity or some shit.”

“Can we please get this moving?” Sanford said. “Tell him what needs to happen and get a move on.”

Abbadon sighed and gave Jack a conspiratorial look. “Humans. Always got their dicks out, waving them around. Fucking pain in the ass, am I right?”

“I’d like to know,” Jack said. “Since I’m apparently to be terrorized into helping you with whatever it is.”

“Like Bill Shakespeare over there was saying,” Abbadon said. “Old Basil Locke found a way to pass between the veils. Not just from Black to daylight—any stupid fuck can do that if they’ve got a little talent or are tripping hard enough. He found a way to cross back and forth.” Abbadon grinned at Jack, showing his full row of teeth. “Basil Locke found a portal to Hell.”

CHAPTER 23

Jack felt his lip curl. “You’re pulling my bloody leg.”

Abbadon shrugged. “Believe it or not. I do.” He looked to Sanford. “He does.” He approached Jack and put a finger under his chin. “And you do too. Deep down in that rotten little human soul of yours.”

Jack slapped the hand away. “I do believe I can do without you feeling me up.”

“Touchy.” Abbadon held up his hands. “I’ll make this simple. Locke
did
find a way to open a gate between Hell and here, but he could never manage it. The spirit and the flesh and all that crap. But I’m not human. I’m going to do it, and you’re going to help me.”

“And why, pray tell,” Jack said, “would I ever help you with something like that? I have to live in this world, mate. I don’t fancy a giant gaping maw into Mordor in the middle of southern California.”

“Because you don’t give a fuck about this world.” Abbadon drew close. “But you do give a fuck about sweet little Petunia, and as I believe Harlan here has already stated, we’re all prepared to take turns doing unspeakable things to her if you don’t follow what I’m about to tell you to the letter.”

Abbadon knew he had him—this was just twisting the knife in. Making him say the words, to know they’d bent Jack over properly. “Pete doesn’t have anything to do with this,” he said. “Of course I’ll do what you want. You know I will.”

“You’re wrong about that, you know,” Sanford said. He snapped his fingers at Gator. “Go get the bags.” He faced Jack again. “Petunia isn’t some poor little waif caught up in all this. She made that deal with Belial. She’s the one who caught the eye of the Hecate. Hell, Jack, if it wasn’t for her, you’d be dead in some tip with a needle still dangling out of your arm, and the world would be a better place.”

Jack shrugged. “Probably. But then who would be around to listen to you jabber on?”

Sanford grinned. “In this town, you can pay people to listen to you. What I need from you is a little more complicated. Abbadon and I have been chatting—have been ever since I had that crime scene tranced when I heard you were in town sniffing around the old murders, so you’re right—I did lie to you, shine you on when you came to me with your grand plan to spy on the fuck mages, and for that I apologize. But it was a lie of necessity, for the greater good. Not that you’d understand.”

Gator returned with a leather case, dropped it, and retreated to the corner of the room. Sanford opened it and gestured Jack over. “Locke’s ritual is pretty complete. But to open a gate, you need a key. A blood key, and it can’t just be any old blood.” He grinned. “Demon blood. And there’s one particular demon that’s very attached to you. When you fell into my lap, and brought Don with you, it was perfect. I couldn’t have pitched a better serve.”

Belial. Of course. That collector bullshit would be a fine cover to trap and use your very own demon. If you were stupid enough to open a portal to Hell, you were certainly the type who’d think a demon would sit still for a flaying.

“Let me ask you a question,” Jack said. “What exactly do you think is going to happen when you drain Belial and open this Hell-hole, and about ten thousand of his closest friends come pouring out to make sushi from your liver?”

“They’re not going to do shit,” Abbadon said. “I belong in Hell, and Hell is where I stay. The Princes won’t stand against me when they see what I’ve become.”

“Become a great twat, you mean,” Jack muttered.

Sanford thrust chalk into his hands. “Belial comes when you call. Get him here and we’ll consider your part in this done.”

“We’ll even overlook that little stunt you pulled at the ranch,” Abbadon said. “And you can go on to have babies, get old, and die, secure in the knowledge that you helped put right one of the greatest travesties of this age or any other.”

Jack knelt and started to chalk a circle into the floor. Sanford would just hand him over to Abbadon if he didn’t, and Abbadon would just find new and inventive ways to torture him. “Let me ask you a question,” he said to Abbadon. “You ever get tired of the sound of your own voice?”

“It was all I had for so long,” Abbadon said. “Can’t be too picky.”

The marks to summon a demon weren’t particularly different from the marks to call anything—a ghost, a hex, whatever you wanted. Jack let his hands work the familiar symbols while he devoted his brainpower to thinking over the clusterfuck he’d walked into. Pete wasn’t who Sanford and Abbadon were really interested in—she was leverage, and they’d leave her be until Jack kicked up a fuss about doing what they needed done. Basil Locke’s door into Hell sounded like a fairy tale on the surface, but all good fairy tales had a grain of truth.

If Abbadon did open a doorway into Hell from the daylight world, what would spill out? He was insane to think he could stand against the Princes and all of their legions, but there were more than a few citizens of Hell who’d welcome the chance to turn the world into their own private resort.

Sanford checked his watch. “You almost done there? I heard you were supposed to be good at this.”

“D’you want it fast, or d’you want it right?” Jack sat back on his heels, chalk dust gritty on his fingertips.

Abbadon sniffed. “Quit stalling, Winter. What do you care if Belial bites it, anyway? He did to you exactly what he did to me—locked you away in Hell and put his claws into you so deep you can never escape.”

The freak had a point, even if Jack was loath to admit it. Belial was a snake. A different breed of snake than Abbadon, but they shared common blood. Wasn’t it Belial’s fault he was in this situation?
Or Pete’s fault.

Pete had done what she’d done out of desperation. Belial had taken advantage of her. Snakes were good at finding the vulnerable underbelly.

Of course, if Pete hadn’t been trying to keep him out of Hell in the first place, she’d never have had to make a deal with a demon.
So it’s all
your
fault, Winter. As usual.

He stood and tossed the chalk away. “There. Can I go now, headmaster?”

“Stay,” Abbadon purred. “Stay and see what’s going to happen. Trust me, Jack—you’re going to want to be able to say ‘I was there.’” He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder, nails digging through the leather. “Do it.”

Jack felt a tremor run through him, the same heart-stopping cold that had gripped him when he’d killed Parker, but he shook it off. “Belial,” he said. “Demon of Hell. I call upon you to appear.”

The words weren’t really important, but Jack figured it couldn’t hurt to give Abbadon a show. For a long moment, nothing happened at all. The Black remained a void. Jack didn’t know if his talent would even work in this place, this dead spot that sucked all the magic around it in like a hungry, dying star, but then he felt the slithering of a presence shifting into his sensory plane, the velvety sensation of a demon’s talent against his sight.

Belial didn’t shimmer or appear in a puff of smoke—you blinked and there he was. He caught sight of Abbadon and lowered his head. “Fuck me.”

Abbadon clapped his hands together. “Haven’t even started yet. Trust me, when I fuck you—you know it.”

Belial looked over at Jack. “Did I tell you, crow-mage, or did I tell you?”

“You did,” Jack agreed. “Fact is, I don’t owe you shit. You were never going to let Pete out of that bargain she made, and you’re never going to leave us be.”

Belial shook his head. “Ye of little faith, Jack. Have I ever welshed on a deal? Have I ever tried to bend you over?” His voice rose. “No. Because I’m not like that
thing
over there. I’m not an animal.”

Abbadon stepped to Belial, mindful of the chalk, and cracked him across the face. “That’s enough out of you, shit for brains.”

Belial ran his tongue over his bloody teeth, and spat. “So what’s the plan, dogfuck? Going to poke me with sticks and feel better about your sorry-arse lot in life?”

“Better,” Abbadon said, and snapped his fingers at Sanford and Jack. “Get it down.”

Sanford went to a pulley system anchored in the wall and unhooked the rope, snarling at Jack. “Help me.”