Once You Go Demon (Pure Souls)

100% of this book is dedicated without hestiation to my pillars: the FP.

Chapter 1

The last time Jerry had seen this many men wearing makeup had been at one of J. Edgar’s “special” parties.

This back alley demon dive could have made a pretty penny renting out empty space. Despite the lack of audience, Tall, Dark, and Until-Recently-Unholy sashayed the distance between the door and the bar like a ninety-pound supermodel headlining the Milan Fashion Show. The body in which he currently resided may have been borrowed, but the attitude packed in it represented one hundred percent, Class-A Jerry Romani.

Jerry sauntered through the door and grabbed out the pack of Capris from inside his jacket pocket. He’d gone through the stash of Marlboros inherited along with Marc’s apartment, cell phone, and wardrobe. The lighter smokes suited him better, tickling his throat as he took another drag. Just because he hadn’t been a smoker himself didn’t mean the body he’d taken over gave a damn. The sooner he could kick this habit, the better. 

“Zima.” He slapped his hand, cupped in the shape of a c, down on the bar, ready to receive the drink like he was James-fucking-Bond.

The barkeep—big, burly, and beautifully-manicured—didn’t bother looking up. “Only sell those pansy things in Japan now, jack.”

Jerry grimaced, but put in an alternative order. “Appletini then.”

“Oh, good. And here I thought you might order some girly drink instead.”

Jerry introduced Mr. Hamilton to the bar and gave him a ski lesson under his fingertips. It was then that the barman finally chanced a look up at his patron. The rotund host, a more feminine version of Rosanne Bar, scowled as he shook his head side to side, parked his paw on the ten spot, and pushed it back across the way. “Fuck off. We don’t serve your kind here.”

Jerry drew back his hand, leaving the greenback in place, and pulled at the collar of his turtle neck to show, well, the
other
collar. “Priests?”

Miss Man could have pressed olives with the gnashing he put his teeth through. “Mortal wiccan good-doers. Think I don’t see your aura glowing like the Chrysler Building on New Year’s? Move along,
Father,
or whoever you are, and don’t let the gates of Hell hit you on the way out.”

Jerry had half-expected as much. After all, the saloon didn’t exactly cater to many a mortal, a fact well known amongst Boston’s worst and wicked community. Given that the doors could only be seen by magical eyes, the barmen would have known something about his padre patron wasn’t exactly as mundane as appearances might suggest.

The faux priest looked far left, then right, taking in an inventory of the half-dozen mixed-luck souls seated in pockets around the establishment. Certain everyone else was too devoted to their own woes and/or booze to give him a second glance, Jerry locked the barman’s gaze to his own. “Look a little closer at that aura o’mine,” he invited, now leaning in over the bar and flashing a spark of darkness through his psychic field. Though sprung from the Underworld, Jerry’s soul and magic still clung to a demon tether. He could call on the power of Hellfire just as strongly as when he’d been one of Lucifer’s primo servants.

In the back of his mind, he recited his own corrupt version of the Million Dollar man intro.
We can make him faster, smarter, more evil … and fucking fantastic in bed.

All the demon, but none of the damn. A fact that he had been darn sure neither of the other two Pure Souls, the witch Riona Dade or demigod Dee Zitka, had had an opportunity to find out. The “office” already felt awkward enough. Hard to have many a pleasant water cooler conversations with the boss when you were possessing the body of the last man she loved.  And, being that Riona and Jerry had also once made bunny rabbits look like sedated sloths, the tension surrounding them at all times didn’t exactly abstain from the sexual variety.

As evil burned in embers through Jerry’s aura, lighting the edges of his soul in a black and crimson smoke, the barman blinked wildly and jumped back. “What the fuck are you?”

“Ah, now you’re smelling what I’m stepping in. Don’t flip, bro. I’m … currently between positions and fielding my opportunities. See though, I got this great interview lined up with a certain famous agency, and I really want to impress their
keystone
player, if you catch my drift.”

He seated himself at the bar and motioned again for a glass. This time, the barman seemed all too happy to provide. Within three blinks, Jerry smacked the tart, toxic treat on his palate in the wake of the blessed first swig. “Ain’t nothing as sweet as this sting in Hell. Nothing.”

With another pull, he finished off the portion that had been poured out for him and set the glass on the bar. “I have a few questions, and I want honest answers, yes? Play nice with me, and I won’t torch this place and send everyone in it back to Old Nick.”

Eagerly the barman nodded.

“What’s the chatter say? What’s Lucifer’s sitch?”

The barman leaned in, bringing with him an invisible, noxious cloud of Aqua Velva. “From what I heard, vanquished.”

Of course, Jerry knew this. He’d seen the event unfold before him. “Got himself a nice twenty-nine year respite from Earth duty, yeah? But ain’t like Lucifer to hang back and not have a finger in some evil plot. Or several. So what’s the news? Any demon flock being herded into town?”

“Usual suspects- low level demons, some imps, goblins. Oh, and the IRS guys of course. Jesus fuck, ain’t been no one who’s found a hex that can take care of those bastards once and for all.” They exchanged a smile. Lucifer had tried to claim credit for the U.S. tax code for years, but something that complex and sinister was beyond even his abilities to conceive. “And …”

“And?”

The barman’s eyes took measure of an empty spot on the counter, clawing at it as though trying to pick something up. “That’s funny, I could have sworn there was something here.”

The implication was lame, but it was so much easier—and cleaner—to hand over a few pieces of symbolic paper rather than waste real energy and uselessly draw blood by beating information from the brute. With an eye roll, Jerry reached into his pocket and pulled out $43 in cash. It wasn’t an amazing amount, but Mark’s financial reserves into which Jerry had been able to tap weren’t exactly overflowing.

Fortunately, it proved enough to sate the barman. With a smile and a whisk, his hands swooped up the folded bills before stuffing them down into a teal green push-up bra. “There’s rumors going around something, or someone, big is on the way. You didn’t hear it from me, and sure as shit it didn’t happen here, but we’re having some record Grigori sightings as of late.”

“Get the fuck out.” Jerry didn’t need to feign surprise. Sincere shock ran the length of him, right into his baby toe. “Why would Hell’s board of directors be visiting our fair city this time of year? Walking the freedom trail?”

The barman choked on a chuckle. “Don’t think fallen archangels are exactly the ‘one if by night, two if by sea’ types,
capice
? Demons aren’t exactly known for their modesty when they stroll in to town, but even then, they’re hanging some pretty tall flags, get? Like, they’re trying hard as Hades to make it look like they have no problem being seen, like they got nothing to hide. Real hiding in plain sight vibe, from what the grapevine says.” As though that statement had brought him to realize something, the barman froze in his wiping off of the counter. “Say, what kind of mortal wiccan can wield hellfire at will? That’s something I ain’t never heard tell of before, and I’ve heard a lot of tales. Curious.”

“You know what I’m curious about? Why the Girgori give a fuck what’s going on in the Greater Chesapeake Bay area. I mean, I know Boston has some great schools and a strong labor market, but something about that seems just a little odd to me. They looking to open up a new portal to Hell here? What’s a matter, they finally get booted from the one in the basement of the New York Stock Exchange?”

The barman shook his head. “We got a lot of Chinese laundries, too, but can’t off the top of my head give you directions to a single.”

Jerry’s arm shot out, grabbing the barman around the wrist. His incantation cut through the air and fell like a thousand knives into the goon’s flesh, leaving an ancient symbol of three intertwined circles burned into a green patch of skin.

“I was never here, okay? And if anything develops, you’re to call me so I can’t be here again then, too.”

The fingers of Jerry’s right hand unfurled, leaving his marker in the creature’s being.

“Do you know of the Honest Herald’s charm?” Jerry asked in response to the barman’s confused stare. “One of my favorites I picked up in my less holy days. Anyways, you rub this mark with three drops of blood on the tip of your left hand’s middle finger and invoke the word
clarate
, and I get pinged, letting us spend some more quality time together. It’s like instant messaging, psychic style.”

His breath panting, the barman’s eyes flashed up to a spot on the counter, where a cell phone sat. “I get great coverage with Verizon.”

Jerry gave him a chuckle before continuing. “Yeah, but here’s the upgrade. The charm is very basic, but it’s in the QA area where it really kicks ass. It has this awesome bonus element: if you dare try to tip anyone off about this conversation, the circles will spin over your skin and slice off this pretty little hand of yours. As far as I know, your phone doesn’t have an app for that.”

“Take this fucking relic charm off me, bitch. You got no right to … Who the hell are you anyways?”

Jerry’s head turned in contemplation before his mouth cracked into a smile. “Dude, look at your face! You thought I was serious?” He tossed a business card with his digits on the counter. “What kind of sick fuck would use Ancient Egyptian magic on a fine imp such as yourself? Look, call me here, ask for Father Angeletti. That mark’s just a temp magical tattoo, it will dissolve in a few hours. God, you thought I was being for real!”

First a confused glare, then a smirk, and finally the barman broke out in a round of raucous laughter that complimented Jerry’s own. Jerry shook hands with him with all the sincerity of a candidate running for public office before turning on his heel and making his way out into the street. The pack of cigs doled out sweet relief rolled in crinkly paper before he had even felt the light of the sun on his face. Jerry took a few steps, paused to find the lighter in the depths of Marc’s jacket pocket, tilted his head to the side, and cupped his hands around his mouth to ward off the wind.

The door had just closed behind him when the barman’s screams rang out.

Inwardly, the ex-demon chuckled. “Maybe I should have told him the part about being a joke, was the joke.”

He hadn’t come to the bar to vanquish anything except his ignorance. Still, if life handed you lemons, you chased down some vodka and made lemondrops. Besides, demon slaying burned major carbs, when done right. Nothing wrong with a resurrected Keystone witch moonlighting outside the group as a personal hobby.

Nothing wrong at all.