Sacrifices (14 page)

Lastly, Sobell gave Genevieve a pair of green running shorts and a white tank top. She laughed. “Sure, whatever.” It might look a little silly with her boots, but too bad. Now was not the time to get picky.

“Want some free advice?” Clarence said to Genevieve. “Lose the hardware.”

“The . . . ?”

“That shit in your face. You goin' to a rough neighborhood. Be a shame if something got caught on somebody.”

“I'm not planning on getting in a brawl.”

He shrugged. “It's your face.”

How did I end up here?
she thought, and not for the first time. Between magic and three or four armed heavies, if she ended up in a fistfight, things were well and truly fucked. Still, she thought about an old friend of hers who'd gotten jumped one night, the plug torn right out of his earlobe, leaving two ragged flaps of skin, and she started taking out her various bits of jewelry. An eyebrow
ring and two bars, the bridge, the labret spikes, the Madison. Half a dozen rings from her left ear, nine from her right. She'd never been into earlobe plugs, so at least she didn't have to worry about that.

“That was quite the production,” Sobell said. He'd changed and even trimmed his beard in the few minutes it had taken her to remove everything.

“Don't give me any crap,” Genevieve said. “You look like you ought to be managing coders for a low-rent tech start-up.”

“Good. I doubt the FBI is looking for a software developer.”

“How you wanna do this?” Clarence asked.

“You,” Sobell said, “will take
Hector
here to meet Tomas Kapinsky. His address is on the back of the card. He might have a lead for you, and he might not, but he will certainly be able to point you in the direction of your next stop.”

“And then?”

“You keep looking until you find anything that might be the relic in question, and then you bring it back here. Hector will be able to tell you if you're wasting your time. We'll meet back here by midnight. If that looks like it will be a problem, or if you run into any other trouble, call Genevieve at the number below Tomas's address.”

Clarence held the card as if it were a counterfeit fifty, and his face bore the same skepticism. “Yeah. All right.”

Genevieve changed behind a stack of boxes, and then the four of them went outside. Clarence waved a couple of his guys over. “Ricky, you with Bill here,” he said, pointing to Sobell.

Sobell extended a hand and put on a fake smile. “Hi. I'm Bill.”

Ricky slapped his palm against Sobell's. “Ricky. We ready to roll?”

“Just about,” Sobell said.

“Clap, you with Miss Genevieve.”

A short Latino guy with shoulders about the width of a car nodded at her. “Cool.”

“Just Genevieve,” Genevieve said. “No ‘Miss.'”

“Cool,” he said again.

Genevieve followed Clap—a nickname, certainly, and one she did
not
want to know the origin of—to his ride, a dusty green Taurus. Three guys were jammed shoulder to shoulder in back, each wearing a sagging face of near-terminal boredom.

“I even get shotgun?” Genevieve asked. “You guys are real gentlemen.”

“That's Rat, Slammer, and Tulip, and you're the first person in the world to ever call them gentlemen.”

“As long as they got my back.”

“No problem there.”

She got in and said hello, and then the three cars left the lot, the one with Clarence and Belial in it in the lead and Genevieve's bringing up the rear. Clarence peeled off to the right before too long, and shortly after that, Sobell's ride pulled up to the curb. The driver waved at Clap to pull over behind him.

Sobell got out of the car and walked back. Genevieve rolled down the window.

“What's going on?” she asked.

“You and I need to talk. Would you join me on the sidewalk for a few moments?”

She got out. Sobell led her a few steps away, into the shadow of a white-painted brick building.

“Belial is a problem,” he said. He'd found a pair of sunglasses, so he was even harder to read than usual.

“I know that.”

“It's increasingly erratic and wholly untrustworthy. If it
does
find the relic for which we search, I'm not convinced it won't simply run off with the fucking thing.”

Genevieve squinted against the glare and watched the street, thinking. “It might need us. It needed four people for the ritual with Karyn.”

“It might need us,” Sobell agreed. “Then again, it might not. It might get us killed. It might kill us. It might call down a conflagration of demons on us.”

“A conflagration of demons?”

“If you have a better suggestion for the collective noun, I'd be open to considering it.”

“What's with the grammar lesson today?”

Sobell said nothing, but Genevieve could feel him studying her from behind the black lenses of his sunglasses. Another car went by, and Clap shouted something rude at the driver.

“I'm considering asking Mr. Wilkinson to take Belial somewhere out of the way and dispose of it.”

“Dispose of it as in . . . ?”

“Don't be obtuse.”

Was this a test? A joke? The latter didn't seem Sobell's style, but this didn't seem like the time to be messing around with the former. It would be a good test, though—even after everything, she wasn't sure she wanted Belial dead. Sobell didn't seem to know any way to deal with Anna's affliction, and while Belial claimed not to, either, it was surely a hell of a lot closer to the source. It would be stupid to blow the chance. “I don't think that's the best idea,” she said.

“I believe we're in a race against this creature. Easier to win if it's out of the picture.”

“I think it's hiding something from us. I think it might know something it's not saying, and I don't know that we can cross the finish line without it,” Genevieve said. “Do you know what do to with this hypothetical relic, even if we do find it?”

“If we're not going to kill Belial—and I'm not at all convinced that forbearance is the right approach here—we need to make certain we find the relic before it does. All our leverage is there.”

“How good is this Tomas guy?”

“He's useless as suspenders for an elephant. Most likely, he'll give Belial some worthless piece of information that sends him haring off to God knows where. There's a small chance that he'll serve Belial up some piece of obvious fabrication or outright fraud, in which case Belial will likely turn him inside out. The only real danger there is that Belial might direct his ire at us afterward.”

The only real danger. Aside from
turning a man inside out
. “I didn't send him—it—there,” Genevieve said. “If it comes back pissed, it's all on you.”

“I'm sure I'll manage. For now, whatever you find today, if anything, update me and only me. Nothing useful should be shared in Belial's presence. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.”

“Good. Now, shall we get back to work?”

Anna stuffed her
phone back in her pocket. “Still nothing,” she said. “She don't know, or she ain't saying.”

“There's gotta be something,” Nail said. He'd hoped Genevieve would have gotten back to them with some interpretation of the mural on the wall outside the Locos territory, something they could tie in with the theft of a dead man's hand, but Gen had gone radio silent.

Anna held up her hands helplessly. “I can keep trying my old contacts, but they're getting thin. I guess I could try to look up Fleabag or Ace, but . . .”

“You don't sound too confident.”

She exhaled, her shoulders slumping. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but Fleabag and Ace just about worshipped Tommy . . . and Tommy was . . .”

“He was good,” Nail said.

She kicked at the sidewalk, not looking at him. “Yeah, but not, you know. Great.”

Nail nodded. Tommy had been a likable little weasel, most of the time, and he'd known enough of magic to be dangerous, but the shit they were in now would have been way over his head. “Then Gen probably don't know, either.”

“I miss her,” Anna said. “I don't trust her, but I still miss her. That seems fucked-up.”

“Yeah. That's how it goes, though. I don't trust my
brother any farther than I can throw a pickup truck, but I done some stupid shit to keep him out of trouble. That's how it is.”

“That's how what is?”

“You know. Love shit.”

“Love shit. That's . . . really sweet there, tough guy.”

He smiled. “My middle name.” He looked down the street. “How you holding up?” he asked. “For real. No bullshit.”

Anna's hands hooked into claws. Nail had seen her do that a few times lately, but each time she had made herself relax. This time she didn't seem to even notice it was happening.

Her claws became fists. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, how you holding up?”

Anna's expression was conflicted and unsettling. A bright fury shone in her eyes, but her mouth turned down at the corners and trembled as though she might start crying. Nail had never seen anybody with quite that mismatch of expressions, and the overall effect was deeply disturbing. “You think I'm losing it.”

“I don't know,” he said. “Just a little worried about your state of mind. It ain't like I ever seen you afraid of a fight before, but you looked like you wanted to pull the arms off about four different people over the last day or so, and that ain't normal.”

There was a pause, and Nail began to wonder if it would be possible to defend himself without hurting her if she attacked him. He had a hundred pounds on her, easy, and a lot more training, so it wasn't like he'd lose, but Anna knew how to fight and she didn't mess around. She'd go for his eyes, his nuts, his throat. Ears, nerve clusters, whatever. She'd do a lot of damage if he didn't stop her, and he wasn't sure how fast he could stop her without hurting her.

I could run,
he thought. All things considered, it sounded crazy, but if she snapped, that was probably the only way to go.

“I'm scared,” she said. The fury was gone, and so was the trembling. Her expression was blank, but the words sounded sincere. “I'm scared, and I'm alone.”

“You ain't alone,” Nail said.

She gave him a weak smile. “Thanks,” she said. He could tell she didn't mean it—or, more accurately, the thanks were honest, but she didn't really believe him.

“I'm serious.”

“I know, but . . . this demon thing. It's like cancer or something. I could be surrounded by a hundred people, but in the end it's just me and it.”

“I ain't just a spectator here. I'm, like, the fuckin' doctor. We're gonna find a solution.”

“Dr. Nail,” she said, and her smile grew into something steadier.

“My mama would be so proud.”

After a moment of companionable silence in which neither of them found anything new to say, they headed up to the loft. Karyn was inside, laying cards out on the table in front of her. A deep laugh rumbled up from Nail's belly when he saw them.

“Tarot cards? You? Really?”

Karyn grinned. “Playing solitaire, not reading the future.”

“How do you play solitaire with tarot cards?”

“I don't know. I'm just making things up at this point.” She shrugged. “I like the pictures.”

“We're gonna find you a new racket. Get out of the stealing shit biz, set you up as a palm reader or something.”

Karyn opened her mouth and pointed two fingers down her throat, the universal gesture of vomiting.

At Nail's side, Anna yawned.

“What did you find?” Karyn asked.

Nail gave her the quick rundown. She frowned at the beginning, and her expression never changed during the whole story.

“I don't get it,” Karyn asked. “They're not getting relics from saints off those people.”

“I put a call in to Gen. Haven't heard anything,” Anna said.

“We can't wait for her anymore.” Karyn gave Nail a significant look. “We have to go talk to Elliot.”

“We got no new play there,” Nail said.

“Yeah,” Karyn said. “We do.”

*   *   *

Elliot had answered right away, telling Karyn that she'd meet her at the municipal building. It was quarter to six in the morning, but evidently she was a morning person. Karyn had given both Anna and Nail the plan on the way over. Anna had nodded her acceptance and fallen asleep in the back of the car. Nail had scowled, and then his face stuck like that.

“You make me drive out here, and then I gotta sit in the car?” he complained as he pulled up to the curb at the municipal building.

Karyn nodded. “It's . . . a very dirty deal, from her perspective. She won't want spectators.”

He gave her a long, lingering look and finally nodded. “You know what you're doing.”

“I used to think so,” she said, smiling.

The walk to the elevator and then Elliot's office was made possible, like so much, only with the demon's aid. Karyn had expected her vision of the building to be crowded, packed with hundreds or thousands of people from distant tomorrows, but instead she got the abandoned version. Dust and cobwebs blocked her path, and once she had to simply brace herself to walk through a huge spiderweb that wasn't really there. She swore she felt strands trace over her skin. She tried to concentrate instead on that inner vision, and she managed to get to the right office without hurting herself.

Elliot let her in immediately.

“Mind if I sit?” Karyn asked. “This will take some explaining.”

Elliot studied her impassively before gesturing at a chair, then went around to the other side of the table to sit herself. She picked up a pen and straightened her yellow legal pad.

Karyn shook her head. “You're going to want to put that down. And if there's anything recording in here, you're going to want to turn it off.”

“I'm ‘going to want to'? Is that a threat?” The question was voiced as though she were genuinely curious, not at all offended, and accompanied with a bemused grin.

“It's not a threat. But I'm still not testifying, so this has to be done your way. Off the record. It's probably better for both of us that way.”

Elliot put the pen down on the table with a sharp click. “You have my full attention.”

“I need a source of information. About the occult. Somebody with ties, with records, with sources that I can't get on the street.”

“We've been over this. I need something from you. I need you to testify, or give me Sobell's whereabouts. Something. Or you're going to need to trust me.”

“I can't testify,” Karyn said. “It would be a disaster anyway, if the defense found out I hallucinate.”

“Owens, then. Ruiz.”

“I can give you something better than Sobell,” Karyn said. Her lips were dry, her tongue sticky, and she wished for some water. She took one of the black splinters from her pocket and placed it on the table. It made a small click, much smaller than the pen had, but to Karyn it seemed loud. “I can give you Belial.”

There. No going back now.

Elliot's eyebrows shot up. Her gaze moved to the splinter. “What is that?”

“It's . . . reference material.”

“That sounded awfully euphemistic.”

There wasn't an easy way to explain, or at least not one that wouldn't be so off-putting that Elliot would stop listening immediately. Karyn picked the toothpick up in both hands, index finger and thumb of each hand on either end, and she snapped it in half. She held one half out to Elliot. “Here. Have a look.”

Wary skepticism fought with curiosity on Elliot's face.
Take it,
Karyn thought.
Just take the damn thing.

Elliot reached for the splinter.

Unlike the first time Karyn had encountered one of the splinters, this time she saw it—it moved, jumping like a paper clip to a powerful magnet, the end embedding itself in the tip of Elliot's middle finger. “Ow, shit!” Elliot pulled her hand back. “What the . . .” She trailed off. Her eyes lost focus as she turned inward. Her mouth hung slightly open as a look of wondering fascination spread across her face.

Karyn had experienced this, too. What was Elliot seeing now? Harps and angels? The shining, beatific face of something presumed to be God? The demon's usual shtick, Karyn supposed. She wondered if it ever worked as designed or if the demon just did it because it thought the whole thing was funny.

“What is this?” Elliot asked.

“Ask it a question. Something about Belial would be a good place to start.”

“Okay. Where is Belial?” A short silence followed; then Elliot frowned. “All right. What does it want, then?”

Oh boy.
Karyn had asked it a similar question once, and the result had been horrifying. Given the opportunity to expound on its hatred for Belial, to win others to its cause, the demon went all out. It had shown Karyn an image of downtown, bright midday. The streets had been empty save for furtive figures lurking at the mouths of alleys and a few ragged-looking people huddling around a burning trash barrel. On the front steps of a tall building, a man tore into the stomach cavity of a corpse, pulling back ribs and gnawing on glistening gobbets of red and purple.

After that, the images had come quickly, as though the demon couldn't get them out fast enough:

Blood pouring from the windows of the U.S. Bank Tower. Smoke belching from the ruins of Universal Studios. Belial—Hector, actually—and twenty or more of his followers working a bloody ritual on a screaming man. The PCH lined with skulls on spikes. Dozens of others, in rapid, horrifying succession.

And lastly, as though the point hadn't been made, a stereotypical horned, bat-winged demon lounging on a pile of skulls right down in front of the Staples Center, pitchfork in one hand, sipping from a goblet of blood held in the other. Ludicrous and over-the-top, but as it was the capstone to the series that preceded it, Karyn hadn't been laughing.

Judging by Elliot's face, she was getting the same treatment.

“Okay, stop,” Elliot said. “Stop! How do you turn it off?” Her eyes focused again, locking on to Karyn's. “What was that? What is this thing?”

“Why don't you ask it?” Karyn said. “Be quick. You don't have much more time.” She pointed at the splinter in Elliot's finger, which was disintegrating from the end, sublimating into black smoke, like a flameless candlewick burning down. Karyn knew from experience that it would be gone in moments. The first time she'd encountered one of the splinters, she'd burned the whole thing, and it had lasted only minutes at most. The only way to communicate with the demon on a permanent basis was to bury the splinter deep in her flesh, as Karyn had done with the one jammed under her thumbnail.

“Is there an index or something? What kind of information can I get?”

“It's not a flash drive,” Karyn said, forcing herself to open her mouth and not speak through her teeth in frustration. “You talk to it. It shows you things, within its knowledge.”

Elliot gave her a cold smile. “All right.” She shifted her gaze away from Karyn and spoke with exaggerated care. “Tell me about Karyn Ames.”

Oh, you bitch.
Karyn's first impulse was to leap over the table and slap the splinter away, end the conversation right now. Only the last reserves of her self-control and a reminder that they needed this—Anna needed this—was enough to keep her from doing just that.

Karyn watched the splinter burn down as the seconds ticked away. Ten seconds. Twenty. How much could the
demon tell Elliot in that time? How much could Elliot process? How much did it actually know? The damn thing lived in her mind—what were the limits on that? Karyn's breath came short as she considered the possibilities.

And then the splinter was gone.

“What? Why?” Elliot looked down at her bleeding finger. “That's it?”

Karyn held her tongue while she thought. Elliot had played a dirty damn trick there, and Karyn wanted desperately to know what the demon had shown her. Better to ask, or pretend it didn't matter and hope nothing bad happened?
Right. Because hoping nothing bad will happen has worked out so well for me.

“It told you,” Karyn guessed. “Showed you what I do.”

Elliot nodded.

“Then you know not to jerk me around. I will know about it before you even make up your mind.” Not remotely true, but Nail had used the line once, and she thought it appropriately menacing.

Elliot nodded, but she was already staring at the other half of the splinter.

“What
is
that thing?” Elliot asked. “No games.”

“You had a chance to ask it. You decided to ask about me instead. Was it worth it?”