Once You Go Demon (Pure Souls) (3 page)

“Yeah, he can be like that sometimes.” She smiled, remembering how Ramiel had pinned her to the floor and held her hands over her head, like a tormenting big brother, until she had agreed to move to the
caelestes portus,
the safe house. Why that same conceited, determined prick didn’t just come to her directly with this 411 was more than a little curious, but angels and common sense didn’t grab coffee too much. “I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

“Heavens, no. Just threatened to toast my toes over Hellfire if I didn’t give you this.” Reaching into the inside of his jacket, Father Philips fished about. His hand withdrew a fist-sized book bound in white leather, with gold lettering stamped across the front. “Now, mind you, in my profession, I’ve become accustomed to looking for messages from the Lord in every nook, cranny, and metaphor. When the message was relayed to me and urgency was expressed that I should write it down, the only thing within reach was that copy of the New Testament. I hope I didn’t desecrate your message with my Bic.”

“It would have to be written in blood to have any effect,” she explained. Oh, the random trivial things she now knew about curses, charms, and wicca … Opening the Bible, she examined the handwritten text inscribed inside the cover. “Any idea what this is?”

He feigned surprised that she would even ask.

“Ah, I see. Thou shalt not Google thy message from thy Lord.”

Father Philips shifted about on the pew, raising his hand to his collar and straightening it out. “It appears to be an address for The Center for Divinity in the Action of Now.”  Under his breath, and with the flash of an eye roll, he added, “Hippies.”

“That Buddhist Meditation place where they tell you to kiss donkeys and smile at bullfrogs?” She shared in his confusion, until she leant it a bit of thought. Riona may have left behind her time as an atheist; she knew intimately now that there was divinity in the world. However, outside the Abrahamic faiths—Marc had taught her the fancy word that referred to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—she hadn’t paused to think about other religions. Why shouldn’t Buddhist doctrine have just as much truth as the others?

Or, maybe Ramiel had decided that if the church didn’t have anything that flattered her figure, she could try on a different dress at another shop around the corner?

Father Philips stood, but leaned against the edge of the pew. “Miss Dade, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. I hope you know that you’re always welcomed here, no matter what. Just because we don’t drink of the same stream doesn’t mean we can’t find nourishment in each other’s water.”

Coming out of any other man, she’d had thought it an obtuse suggestion of oral sex. From this kindly man of the cloth, however, Riona found herself feeling a sense of welcome that had alluded her for quite some time. Perhaps that was why, on her way out the door, she noted the time of mass on Saturday.

Chapter 4

He had been drawn to this particular empty cell for a while, and Lucifer half-suspected that he knew why. FedEx didn’t have overnight to Hell, but Big Boss had ways of getting his messages down under when the mood struck him.

A six-by-eight postcard, with much too perfect writing elegantly looped on the backside, sat in the middle of the rocky floor. The glossy image on the front showcased so much cheesy Americana, a lactose-intolerant man would have been bent over, tossing his Thin Mints. Block letters spelled out BEANTOWN, the interior of each filled with a cartoonish vignette of one of Boston’s many tourist traps. It did not escape notice that the Old North Church’s colors caught the eyes as just a bit brighter than the ones surrounding it. The feature was a signature as good as anything that could be etched with a quill.

“Sire?”

Lucifer did not turn away from the missive to take in Hermosa’s face. Like all of his reclaimed souls, the Devil knew his minions by their every feature, voice included.

“What do you want?”

Hermosa’s hellshell bubbled with putrid ooze in its underworld manifestation. Never again would he have the chance to lope the earthly plane; the fricking Keystone Witch had guaranteed that. Despite a presentation for which any Hollywood FX artist would have won an Oscar, the demon looked uptight in his terror.

“This was
his
cell, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, so?”

Hermosa examined the box with bars, barely big enough for a demon to turn a circle. After a few moments, Hermosa shrank back as though the space had developed a hacking cough.

“Oh, minions be damned!” Lucifer’s eyes milled. “What the deuces are you afraid of?”

“It’s just … No one knows, sire. No. One. Knows. There’s few surprises in Hell, and this …”

Normally being sentenced to Hell was as bad as things could get for an expired mortal. One fate, however, even demons dreaded: having one’s entire soul obliterated and their existence wiped out by the Almighty. Despite the Devil’s not insignificant powers, only Big Boss could pull off the routine. Though He had rarely been known to flex it, even Lucifer had to wonder if that’s what had happened to Jerry Romani. After all, there had never been a mortal soul that had found a way to escape Hell under his management, and no one who traipsed along the River Styx had reported running across the traitor demon in any reaches of the Underworld.

If Big Boss had wiped out the demon, Lucifer didn’t really give a … Well, damn. True, he would have given the defector a new appreciation for the word “torture,” but knowing the sot’s soul had been evaporated would have also suited him just fine.
If
he knew that’s what had happened.

Hermosa tried to return to his errand. “You asked to be notified when Marcello Angeletti’s soul was about to go on the stove. Well, it’s going.”

Lucifer’s chin bobbed. “Good, good. How long are we firing souls these days before they come to me for embodiment?”

“Um, after the twenty days of aging, we cook them for thirty-eight days.”

He flexed his free hand, counting out silently on his fingertips. When he reached the end of his calculation, his smile stretched. “Oh, that’s really too perfect. Too, too perfect.”

“Sire?”

Lucifer pounded the postcard in to Hermosa’s chest. “Read it.”

After a few silent moments during which only the demon’s mouth flapped but no noise emerged, Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Out loud, you dimwit.”

“Oh, um … ‘As far as I’m concerned, Gaius’s internship went splendidly, don’t you think?’” He flipped it over and examined the front. “Greetings from Boston? Sire, do you mean to say that Gauis is going to be …”

“My successor?” Lucifer examined Hermosa’s confused expression. “Not if I have anything to do with it. Unfortunately, my father has one advantage I don’t. He knows how everything turns out in the end. Time doesn’t exist for Him. I think
that
,” he pointed vaguely at the postcard, “is one of his fucked up omens, a self-serving outlet of his so-called kindheartedness.”

“Huh?”

“Hermosa, how long were you topside as one of my minions?”

The demon scratched the side of his corpuscle-laden head. Where hair should have grown, only a scant smattering of bristles breached flesh that was as purple as it was rotten. “Let’s see. I knocked myself off in aught-six, after my wife ran off with that carny. About … a century, then?”

“And in all that time, you didn’t see enough world events to catch on to Dad’s little hat trick? When my father truly loves and pities someone, He sends ‘a sign,’ a head’s up that serious shit is coming. He thinks he’s being compassionate, letting them know in advance that in the future He already sees, they’re fucked.”

“But Sire, wouldn’t that mean that in the future He already sees,
you’re
fucked?”

Realizing the
huevos mayor
he attributed to himself for even saying it, Hermosa slunk back in to the shadows, doing as good an impression of the fetal position one can while standing.

“Apologies, Sire. I didn’t mean to imply … Ow, frick!”

The postcard flew from the minion’s grasp, replaced by burning embers. Lucifer fetched it from the air.  “Yes, Hermosa, that’s precisely what it means.”

Lucifer thought twice about temporarily denying the minion the ability to speak. The last thing he needed was anyone spreading rumors that might seed rebellion, especially given his recent ass kicking that had some of his Damnationals questioning his place as their ruthless dictator. Nonetheless, Hermosa had given him one hundred plus years of unquestioned and loyal service. Letting him keep his tongue seemed a just severance. But just to be certain there was no opportunity for confusion …

“Tell no one of this, and keep me updated on Angeletti’s progress. Daily reports on his PH levels. Understood?”

“Yessir, yessir. I’ll keep you up to date on his post-human readings.” The minion began to slink off, surely all too happy to have not been punished for his transgression. When he’d gone a few steps, he paused and turned back to the devil. “On the bright side, sire, if what you say is true, it means He still loves you enough to warn you. There’s something good in that, isn’t there?”

Before Hermosa could blink, he found himself transported. When his eyes adjusted to the dimness, the bars of the very cell he’d leached from just moments before came into focus. The floor beneath his feet liquefied, pulling him down into the molten rock, trapping him in Hell’s prison.

Lucifer stood at the cell door and grimaced. “Just had to say it, didn’t you, Hermosa? Don’t you understand, it’s
that
fact that’s the most dangerous of all.”

Chapter 5

Persephone’s finger skimmed the rim of the steaming hot cup of chamomile while her half-brother plopped down into the chair opposite. Dee couldn’t help but to plop; his immortal-like frame of muscles made being graceful as easy for him as skinning a goat with a potato chip. She watched as his face contorted through a dozen shades of discomfort.

“I really wish you’d let us help pay for the house,” he finally gasped out in a rush of breath. “It doesn’t seem right, accepting something this big.”

Persephone pulled a lengthy draw before answering. “Sounds good. Have a few hundred thousand dollars lying around?”

“Not really. Maybe we could work out a payment plan?”

“And maybe I could find a way to use a pelican as a bagpipe.” She grinned. “Honestly, Dee, think nothing of it. Consider it payment to the Pure Souls for services rendered. Besides, it’s not really a gift, it’s on loan. The house is a good investment. Sure to appreciate nicely after thirty or forty years. Until then,
mi casa es su casa
. Besides, we both know what your real issue with all this is.”

He merely arched an eyebrow.

“You’re worried about what happens if life somehow finds you staring upward at the tree roots. Loose ends and you aren’t exactly simpatico. Don’t worry, brother.” Reaching across the table, she rubbed her smooth-skinned hands over his. “If anything happens to you, I won’t turn them out. The Pure Souls, whomever they may be, will be welcomed to stay on as long as they desire. Or until there’s a serious uptick in the market that makes not selling crazy.”

“Loyalty until the dollar yells too loud,” Dee grumbled as he swigged his coffee. A warmth in his tone gave the comment away as half-sarcasm, but also held a nod of recognition.

“After so many years on this Earth, I’ve learned not to let a too perfect opportunity slip by just because of inconvenient concepts like guilt and honor.”

A cadence of footsteps that could only be caused by highly-polished, yet practical low-heeled shoes, sounded from the front hall. The rhythm suggested a confident swagger, and a quick, even pace, sureness while evidencing a certain degree of poise.
Likely Ramiel
, Persephone thought. She knew that the angel was bouncing around the house somewhere, performing all kinds of high-level hooey meant to protect her brother’s little band of supernatural sheriffs.

But someone most definitely
not
Ramiel rounded the corner.

Dee slumped back into his chair, taking up his mug of joe. “Oh, it’s only you.”

“You were expecting …?”

Dee shrugged. “Someone I like more? My proctologist, for example.”

“If I were a proctologist, maybe I’d have some hope of removing whatever bug is up your ass.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at her sibling’s expense as she took in the view of a man, who looked to mortal eyes to be Marc Angeletti, but whom she could have said—without her brother having told her—was something not entirely, even if only historically, human. Her reaction drew attention.

“Why, hello there, temptress. What’s your name, and will you please stay to eat dinner? And if not dinner, just stay to eat me?”

“Cute,” Persephone cooed as not-Marc fixed his gaze on her with a mix of intrigue, confusion, and hunger. She felt herself sizzle and shifted uncomfortably as his aura clouded with lust. He might not be human in spirit, but his body certainly hadn’t gotten the memo. “I’m Stephanie Zitka, Dee’s sister.”

“Dee’s sister?” he repeated, before crooking his eyebrows and notching his chin. “Really? On which side?”

Huffing, Dee rolled his eyes. “No reason for cover-ups, Steph. Jerry’s been ‘round the brimstone and back. Jerry Romani, this is my sister and our generous benefactor-slash-landlord, Persephone. Say hello, good bye, and scram.”

The goddess held out a hand in the modern Western tradition. When in Boston, do as the Bostonians do. But to her amazement, Jerry fell forward in full supplication, mimicking with perfect accuracy the dance of the devout from ancient times.

As his lips kissed the floor at her feet, his voice was barely audible against the linoleum. “
Megali thea.
I honor thee.
”

“Please tell me he’s ill and this is a way of praying for a miracle cure.”

Ramiel scoffed at Jerry’s display as he too entered, taking turns giving the converted priest and the goddess scowls. As he set a small wooden box, about the size of a box of tissues, on the table and grabbed a seat, Persephone swore she heard him utter some select insult about blasphemy under his breath.

“Will you please get up off the floor and stop embarrassing me?” Ramiel gave Jerry a quick kick in the ribs as he fished out a small pouch with a drawstring closure.

Jerry scrambled to his feet, before taking Persephone’s hand and kissing it, moving his greeting up to par by several centuries. “I’ve heard much about you, milady. Some of the old timer’s from Hades’s days still speak of you.”

“Really? Wow, that’s … interesting to hear they remember me. It’s been so long. And I’ve heard all about you, of course. The infamous Jerry Romani, gnosis demon and Lothario extraordinaire.”

“
Ex-
gnosis demon.” He actually blushed a bit.

“And that other thing? You know, I’ve heard from succubae who swear they learned everything they know from you.” Her eyes went straight to Ramiel. The heat coming off of his cheeks threatened to accelerate global warming. “Do you still render services in that area?”

Grinning, Jerry pressed the pad of his thumb down on the inside of Persephone’s wrist. A white light shot into her skin, darting up her arm, causing her to shift and gasp. “I find the abilities of this body limiting, but I learned a charm or two that has carried over.” He pressed his lips to the impact point and kissed it gently. “My mother was a member of your cult in Alexandria. It would only be carrying on my family tradition to serve the goddess in whatever capacity I … Ow! Fuck, what the hell, Ramiel?”

Perplexed, Jerry shot daggers at the archangel. He rubbed his arm where no doubt the Pure Souls’ celestial dugout manager had wacked him with a punch of magic. And possibly a knuckle duster.

Ramiel glared. “Need I remind you that one of the conditions of your resurrection is that you cannot discuss anything about your previous mortal life? Or are you just looking for an excuse for me to cancel your shore leave?”

“Yes, oh mighty angel.” Sarcasm that thick could be cut into pieces, drizzled with chocolate sauce, and served cold. “But I still don’t get why. Everyone I knew has been dead and buried longer than Hoffa. Besides, the lady asked me a question. You suggest I tell her to go stuff it and that it’s none of her business?”

“I hear about you stuffing anything, anywhere, to anyone in this room, and there will be consequences.” Ramiel turned to Persephone. “Miss
Zitka
, while I have no jurisdiction at present to tell you to have no contact with your brother, and while we’re grateful for your assistance with securing a residence, we ask you not attempt to become involved in any Pure Souls business.”

So, he wanted to play things all formal then, did he? Fine, she could so meet his disdain tit-for-tat.

Cupping her tea, Persephone leaned in over the table. “Are all archangels uptight asswads like you?”

“No, just the ones who have to tell fucking false gods to back off and mind their own business.”

A chamomile pool formed as Persephone slammed her mug on the table and jumped to her feet. “You know that we didn’t put ourselves forward as objects of worship, asshole. Don’t act like we tried to pull a
coup d’etat
or something. Perhaps you’re confusing my kind with
your
sycophant brother, Lucifer.”