MORTAL COILS (54 page)

Beal
turned to his servant, so quiet, he had nearly forgotten him. As he looked over
the mountain of a man, he realized that he indeed had a solution to the
immediate problem of Louis.

“Go
on,” Beal said.

“He
has his son and daughter to lose,” Uri explained. “If he has long been
powerless as you believe, then his emotions might have weakened him. He may
actually care for them.”

Mulciber
scoffed.

Beal
moved closer to Uri. “All the better. We can threaten one or the other to
obtain leverage on Louis.” Beal placed a hand on Uri’s huge shoulder. “And as
you seem to have insights into this emotional weakness . . . ”

Beal
reached into his pocket and withdrew the Infernal Board Seal of Power. It was a
sphere the size of a baseball. One hemisphere was inscribed with ancient
iconography and encrusted with the gemstones of their various clans. The design
moved as political powers waxed and waned. Presently Beal’s teardrop sapphire
sat in the center of this glittering constellation. All others orbited it. And
nowhere to be seen was Louis’s diamond—as it should be.

“You
shall go as our representative,” Beal told Uri. “Make a deal with Louis—or
whatever is left of Louis.”

Uri
flinched. “It would be an honor, my lord.” A tiny bit of fear was in the man’s
massive rumble of a voice, and this pleased Beal.

He
handed the seal to Uri, and he took it reverently with both hands.

If
Uri was caught in some web of deception or discovered by the other clans or the
other family . . . well, then Beal would claim Uri was acting on his own, or
better yet, on Sealiah’s behest; after all, who could resist her charms?

Samsawell
waved at Uri with a ham-and-Swiss sandwich. “Good luck, buddy!”

Beal
leaned closer to Uri. “Listen to his lies,” he whispered. “They will point the
way to the truth.”

“Yes,
my lord.” Uri backed to the edge of the circle, and with a mighty sigh he
stepped into the shadows and vanished.

39

FOOL’S
BARGAIN

Louis
touched the glass. He had painted every window in this basement apartment black
so there was nothing to see, but he could nonetheless feel the notes resonating
through the pane. He understood what they meant: a song for a girl named Julie.

It
was a deliciously sad piece, and then, in the last notes, an unexpected twist
of hope . . . something he would never even have attempted.

Eliot
had the potential to one day be better than he was.

His
son.

Louis’s
heart would have burst with pride if that particular organ had actually been
intact. But even if he had a heart, what use would it have been? Louis Piper,
the once great, was now lower than dirt.

And
yet, could not even dirt change? With heat and pressure it could metamorphose
into marble and be chiseled into the pillars of society. Empires were built
from such stuff! Was he not still the penultimate bluffer? The Master Deceiver?
Crafter of lies most exquisite?

Perhaps
. . .

He
turned from the window and surveyed his work. Yesterday this low-rent basement
apartment under the Christian-studies store, Disciples of Light, had been
furnished with 1970s avocado-colored furniture and an orange shag rug.

Last
night he painted the windows. The decor had all been tossed into the kitchen.
Butcher paper had been taped to the floor and covered with symbols and the tiny
angles of cuneiform—not quite the scrawlings of a madman . . . and yet a truly
sane person who stared too long at them would see the lines twist into the air
and deeper into the concrete.

He
flexed his cramping hand. He should’ve used blood instead of a Sharpie
permanent marker. He had learned in the last fifteen years, however, that he
had limitations. Losing more than a pint of blood was one of them.

Besides,
if anyone bothered to show up and complain about it, he’d consider it a
victory.

The
Ritual of Theophilus was the lowest order of summoning, a whisper into the
aether. He dared no more. True, he’d need help to survive the imminent clash
between the two families—but help always had a price . . . and he had so little
to pay with.

All
that he really wanted was an insignificant shadow to answer his call, a fool
that he could fool.

It
had been six hours since he’d finished. What was taking so long? Or had he not
even the power to cry for help like some fatted and hobbled lamb?

He
looked at his hands—all flesh and blood—so weak. How had he survived this long
after trying so hard to kill himself with booze and misery?

How
did any human survive?

Well,
of course, ultimately none of them did.

Louis
laughed and poised his arms dramatically for his nonexistent audience. “‘What a
piece of work is a man!’ ” he said, overacting. “‘How noble in reason! . . .
How infinite in faculty! In form, in moving, how express and admirable!’ ”

“‘In
action how like an angel!’ ” the shadows said, finishing the Hamlet for him.

“Ah,”
he said, turning to the darkness. “I knew the irony would be irresistible.”

But
the smile forming on Louis’s face froze.

This
instinct had served him well in the past. He could conceal his emotions as he
worked out some complication.

Only
this was no mere complication. It was, perhaps, the end of his life.

Part
of the shadows detached and stepped over the lines and symbols, which should
have prevented just such a thing from occurring. The blackness resolved into a
man twice the width of a professional wrestler, with more beef filling out his
black windbreaker and polyester dress slacks than an entire herd of longhorn
cattle. His broad Samoan features were unmistakable.

He
was Urakabarameel, Master of Shadows and Whispers, the Hound of Hades, chief
intelligence officer for the Queen of Poppies . . . and Louis’s third cousin.

Uri
had the power to crush him with one flexed bicep. And for what other purpose
could he possibly have been sent? His mistress was among Louis’s most bitter
enemies.

He
was glad she had not come herself. How embarrassing would it have been in this
slovenly mortal shell to have thrown himself prostrate before her irresistible
beauty?

But
Uri . . . he had fooled him many times in the past. He needed no special powers
for that.

“Greetings,
Cousin,” Louis said, managing to sound normal, as if this were some chance
meeting in the park. “Destroy everything you touch.”44

Surprise
registered on Uri’s face. “Lies and salutations to you as well, Cousin.” His
lips curled slightly with revulsion. “So it is true. You live.” He sniffed.
“But as a mortal?”

“Just
when all thought I could fall no farther . . . ” Louis gave Uri a slight bow.
“I do so enjoy disappointing the family.”

Louis
sniffed the air as well, although not as conspicuously. He detected fried
chicken, burning metal, and the faint gangrenous scent of Sealiah’s poisoned
blade, Saliceran. Odd that she would allow Uri to carry one of her most prized
possessions.

“I
surmise the situation at home has become interesting in my absence? Or are you
here for some trivial personal vendetta?”

“Interesting,
yes,” Uri rumbled. “Vendetta, unfortunately no. We have business.”

“Oh?
What business could the Queen of Poppies desire with me, the lowly dirt?”

Uri
flinched as if mentioning her were a physical blow. He then clumsily

44.
Traditional Infernal greeting/departure. This phrase has become an often heard
parental colloquialism to naughty children: “Must you destroy everything you
touch?” Many experts associate this with the now less popular counterresponse:
“The devil made me do it.” Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume
13: Infernal Forces, 8th ed. (Zypheron Press Ltd.).

attempted
to change the subject. “How did you . . . ?” He waved one of his massive hands
about. “Become this?”

Louis
paused, wondering if he could possibly craft a sufficient lie, but decided
against it. The truth would serve better to confuse. “Quite simple: I fell in
love with a woman. I’m sure you’ve heard all the rumors. She, metaphysically
and metaphorically, ripped out my heart. I was as surprised as anyone to find
out that I actually needed it.”

“I
see,” Uri said, clearly not understanding.

“I
know you can relate to the trials of love gone sour.”

Uri’s
brows bunched.

That
smell of poultry intensified, and Louis remembered where he had last detected
that particular acrid avian scent.

“Beal,”
Louis muttered. “So you come on his behest? What has befallen your precious
queen?”

Uri’s
eyes widened, his hands curled into fists, and he stepped closer, crinkling the
butcher paper underfoot. Louis could feel the vibrations of power and rage radiate
from him.

“You
always talked too much, Louis.”

He
grabbed Louis’s arms and squeezed, picking him up off the floor. The bones
strained and popped—not quite breaking, but not quite intact anymore either.

The
intense pressure forced the smile back to Louis’s lips. “My apologies, Cousin,”
he grunted. As his last breath was forced from him, he squeaked, “You mentioned
business?”

Uri
hissed, gave him one last flex—which cracked a few ribs—then released him.

Louis
dropped to his knees.

He
admired his cousin, truly, but Uri was a blunt instrument, never the scalpel.
This confirmed Beal’s involvement. Who else would have been foolish enough to
send him to deal with Louis?

And
yet Beal possessed the beloved servant of Sealiah, which indicated a significant
shift in the architecture of power back home.

“So
your new master has gotten himself invited onto the Board of Directors?” Louis
whispered, and carefully got to his feet.

Uri
crossed his arms and the plastic of his windbreaker rustled. “Always too clever,
Cousin,” he growled. “Only this time, cleverness will be of no use.”

“The
chairman of the Board?”

Uri’s
face froze in disgust.

The
multitude of his other relatives Louis could handle; he even grudgingly
respected their treacheries . . . but Beal? This would be a problem. That
particular tyrant had not a shred of style.

Uri
unzippered his windbreaker and his entire arm vanished within its infinite
folds. Louis spied Saliceran, sheathed over his heart. A weapon that had
brought down popes and kings, so deadly it had destroyed Titans and monsters
alike . . . reduced to a mere love token?

Louis
noted the Queen of Poppies also still appreciated irony.

Uri
removed a folding chair for Louis and battered card table and set them up.
“Business,” he said, and threw down a file folder.

“What
is it the Board wishes?” Louis asked, sitting. “My soul? My undying, unwavering
loyalty? Shall I be their puppet, too?”

Poor
Uri. This was like teasing a pit bull on the other side of the fence. Dangerous
. . . but fun.