Authors: A.J. Aalto
“High comedy,” I said. “Side-splittingly funny. Guess I don't have to wonder who did this.”
“Public service announcement. Protect and serve, that's my job.”
“No, that's Hood's job, he's a
real
cop.” I stuck out my tongue. “If I become the next zombie, I'm
so
going to gargle your brain juice.”
“Best offer I've had all day.”
“Wonder why, asshole,” I said, smiling reluctantly. “Listen, there's stuff in my head that doesn't make sense.”
Batten smiled down at his shoes. When he recovered, he dead-panned, “How can that be?”
“Be serious, Mark. How do we know that one dog wasn't running out there in the woods biting critters, spreading plague?”
“Zombie squirrels and bunnies?” He dragged both hands down his face.
“Awww,” I cooed. “Zombunnies!”
He offered me an exhausted shake of his head,
no
.
“You're right, not cute,” I said. “Look, the CDC will want to shut this whole place down until they've done a complete sweep. If wedon't get out of here now, we'll get stuck here by a full-scale quarantine.”
“Suggestions?”
I blinked. “Um, get out of here?”
“Thanks, Doctor Baranuik. Helpful.”
I tapped my temple and repeated his earlier assessment. “Not just another pretty face, babe. You wanna protect and serve this little green froggy, you come up with some ideas.”
C
HAPTER
53
UPON WAKING FOR THE EVENING,
Harry met the update of plague-spreading zombie Labradoodles not with a coo but with a doozy of a temper tantrum, which Batten and I weathered together in stony silence. Well, Batten's silence was stony. Mine was cool on the outside and rolling-my-eyes-grandly on the inside. Somehow, the making of the canine zombies managed to be my fault. The logic behind Harry's theory was unsound but he didn't want to hear it from me. Batten made no effort to defend me; he seemed content to witness the rant and wait it out. I felt the need to point out that it was the CDC and PCU cordon that had let Zombie Roger get loose in the first place, but that was also made to be my doing, what with detonating Zombie Dunnachie and causing a distraction.
I was becoming increasingly convinced that Mr. Buzz was my favorite companion because it didn't talk back.
Agent Golden had been sent to monitor the CDC's handling of the remaining dog. Agent de Cabrera reported in from the fish camp; K9 units had discovered the location of the Vodou ritual and recovered several items for me to Grope: a few bird bones and a leaf with short, furry grey hairs that didn't belong to any tree or shrub in the area. I was guessing the leaf was Datura. The PCU was encountering issues with the CDC members there; the CDC didn't want to release any evidence collected at the scene for fear it was contaminated with plague. With Chapel still out of commission, Batten got called over to intervene on the PCU's behalf, but I wasn't going to hold my breath that I'd get to Grope that evidence any time soon.
Inside, in my office, Declan and I kept the light and noise to a minimum, wary of drawing attention. The office was lit only by the
lamp on the desk; not only were the blinds shut, but the curtains were drawn tightly. We had strict instructions from Harry to keep our voices down; I'd tried to object to this (as zombie hearing is not good) but I'd been shushed and called an impertinent trollop, after which Harry had demanded Declan's car keys, and mine, and told us we were “grounded.” I gave up.
Harry told Viktor to resume guard over Chapel in the cellar. I took solace in the fact that Gary's pulse probably offset the attraction of his sweatiness for Viktor. After tucking bat-faced Wesley protectively atop the office bookshelves, Harry tore off on a de-stressing ride in the Ferrari, peeling out of the driveway like the devil was on his tail. Quarantine or not, there was no way in hell a Dodge Charger or Ford Explorer was going to catch his Italian steed.
Declan scanned the white board unhappily, hands shoved in his pockets, and rocked from toe to heel, not saying anything.
I stripped off my sweaty gloves, tossed them on my chair, and scratched my palms. The pox was spreading, and tiny red bumps lingered between my fingers. Grabbing the green dry-erase marker, I scribbled on the white board. “Neil Dunnachie got barbequed in my driveway,” I said, drawing a checkmark next to his name. “Cosmo Winkle melted into the cement at the Starlight Dreams motel.”
Check
. “Anne Bennett-Dixon is a half-vampire, half-zombie pet of Malas; we're assuming she's at his mansion.” I drew a big green question mark over Anne's name. “Roger Kelly exploded outside the boathouse. The neighbor with the Labradoodles, did we find out her name?”
“Melinda Smyth,” Declan replied.
I wrote her name down and put a check beside it, as well as Roger Kelly's. “She got Taser-fried in her front yard. So far, we're not doing very well with the ‘saving the Furries’ part of our case,” I observed. “They've each been killed twice now.”
“Except Anne,” Declan offered, frowning at a knock at the front door.
“Yeah, I don't think she's drawn the winning straw in this deal,” I said, capping my marker.
We shared a long moment of staring at the front door, wondering whether or not we should actually answer it. Finally, I said, “Stay here.”
* * *
From the relative safety of the threshold, I took a long look at my visitor, from the top of His three heads — man, bull, and ram — to His skinny rooster feet. The skin on His corpulent trunk was the gleaming red of a milk snake from the neck down. He looked like the kind of being who'd fry your gall bladder for giggles. This was not to say that Asmodeus had Death's cool solemnity; unlike His revenants, the Overlord was neither alive, dead, nor undead. Immortal and infernal, there was nothing cold about Asmodeus, especially not His gaze. Beneath a revealing kilt of barely pieced-together strips of leathery flesh, He wore a turquoise animal print Speedo over what I could only assume was demon wiener; if such a thing existed, I refused to contemplate why.
“Aradia's teats!” I said.
Asmodeus grinned; I immediately wished He hadn't. “I'm in disguise.”
“No, it's totally believable.” I assured Him. “Had me fooled.”
He tipped a brown felt fedora onto His human head, which His bull head promptly snapped at and chewed to shreds, snorting angrily. “I'm a door-to-door salesman.”
“Re-selling stolen bibles.” I noted the box by His chicken toes.
“Who would suspect?” He squinted. “Why are you staring at my face?”
“It's terrifying. Did you tear it off and throw it under a bus?”
“Terror,
pffft
.” He waved this away with the dragon-like claw that was His left hand, and the heat surrounding Him made the air shimmer. “I eat terror for breakfast.”
“Kind of explains your dental problems. So, to what do I owe this… do you mind if I don't call it a pleasure?”
“You need more help, and so I came.” He propped one rooster-like foot out in front of Himself and performed a courtly bow that His twisting, snorting animal heads did not consent to.
I tried to focus on His man-face. “Don't you have a busy schedule, I dunno, raping the souls of the damned?”
“That's not my department. Besides, I thought this sort of delivery was important enough to make in person.”
I smiled skeptically. “Gosh, I'm so honored.”
I felt the push of power behind me before hearing the slow, heavy tread of Viktor Domitrovich's footsteps. I wondered where Declan was; if he was smart, he'd be hiding under my desk, praying for protection from the Dark Lady above and her Consort.
The demon king's gaze — the human one, anyway — took Viktor in from head to toe. “Nice ogre, toots.”
“Thanks. He's handy in a pinch, and really only has one fault.”
“He doesn't take orders from a chick?”
“Ok, two faults.”
“He's a spy for the immortal monarchy?”
“Fine, three faults. Nobody's perfect.”
Asmodeus smirked and put a hand under His kilt, and I was afraid; He drew out a long knife with a chainmail glove over the handle, and I was even more afraid. Then He laid it across one arm like a sommelier with a fine bottle of wine for me to examine. It was like the blade had been tailor-made for my life, literally the Zombie Hacker from Hell. When He twisted it against the glare of the sun, the razor-sharp edge ran red as blood.
“This just became fun,” I told the demon king, my smile brightening. “We should get together more often, do lunch, go for His and hers pedicures.”
“Do you accept this gift?” Asmodeus leaned forward eagerly, the knife extended.
I hesitated, squinting suspiciously. “What if I do?”
“And yea, I say unto the gathered witness of a thousand souls that you shall have delighted your Master's Overlord beyond all expectations, as My chosen one.”
Wuh-oh
. “Chosen?”
“As I said.”
“Chosen for?”
“Stuff,” Asmodeus said.
“And things?” I asked.
“Those too.”
“Afraid I'm going to need you to be a lot more specific. Chosen for…”
“To be My champion upon these lands.” He made a casual little shrug that could have meant my grisly death followed by the eternal damnation of my soul, or nothing at all. “Or not. Just spit-balling ideas. What do you think?”
The full power of the Overlord yawned open, a torrent of sensations. I was flooded with broken images, snap-sparks of grave odors, half-uttered cries, the writhing torment of innumerable souls flooding Limbo from the Second Circle, reaching up to grab at the chance to pitch into the open doorway and back into the life-light of Earth. I pressed backward into the solid body of the ogre, and for a moment, was relieved that he was there.
Viktor bristled behind me and let out an inhuman growl.
I found my voice. “Demon King's Champion doesn't sound like a job title any sane person should aspire to. No offense.”
“Hey, none taken,” Asmodeus said. “I can get another champion, don't sweat it. Boatloads of little DemonBringer-wannabes begging for My say-so. I know where some kickass treasures are; can I interest you in one of those?”
“I'm not much of a material girl.”
He winked, and put the sword back under his impossibly small flesh-kilt. He held out His other hand as if to drop its contents into mine. “Do as your spirit commands, but accept this gift that your Overlord offers to you, and grant Me one boon in return.”
“A boon?”
“Yes, a boon.”
“I don't do boons. I have a pretty strict no-boon policy.”
I thought the lips on His ram face tightened a little. “A favor, then.”
“Big favor or little favor?”
His human face sneered, revealing shattered teeth like a graveyard after a bombing. “Sweetheart, how many Demon Kings pop up on your porch to ask you for
little
favors?”
I swallowed hard, and held out my bare hand. Asmodeus began to lift His, twisting His freakshow wrist, His talon-like nails clicking together as He held it out, palm-down. My hand began to shake. I tried to avoid looking Him in the face but took one unintentional glance
up. He captured me in His tractor-beam gaze; for a heart-stopping moment, greasy black trails slithered across His pupils as I felt a soft thump in my hand.
I forced myself to look down at the ring now sitting in the palm of my hand: a gold ring adorned with nine interlocking crescent moons.
“And now, Servant of the Eversea, I place this quest before you: there is a new power upon this land, a great and terrible abomination, and I would have it.”
Goosebumps raced up my arms and the gold ring seemed to grow warm in my hand.
Asmodeus’ two other heads began to thrash, but His red eyes did not leave mine. “Bring the paladin to heel and usher this wayward abomination into the waiting folds of My affection, to serve Me as you do. To serve Me as your Cold Companion does. To serve Me, not the
loa
of the Vodou. To serve Me, only Me, and live among the
Falskaar Vouras
for all eternity.”
Nine moons. Nine Talents.
“It's not possible. No revenant — no creature — has all nine psychic Talents.”
But that was wrong, of course, and I knew it while the words were forming on my tongue. Declan had told me as much. Malas had created as much.
The female revenant. Anne. Anne was the abomination. Asmodeus wanted Anne.
For what, I could only imagine. And why a demon king would need
my
help was also a mystery. Stealing Anne from Malas: not smart. Then again, denying the wishes of the Overlord was probably even less smart. But doing favors for the demon king? Oh so very not smart. Damn it.
“How would I bring her to you?” I asked.
Asmodeus smiled gloriously, and for a split second I once again saw past the hideous three-headed demon to the fallen angel inside, Asmodeus as He had been in the order of the Seraphim, a dark-eyed creature of heart-shredding beauty. My pulse hammered so hard that my extremities flushed and I let out an unladylike
“unf.”
The Earth under my feet trembled, my vision tilted like I was drunk; when it cleared, Asmodeus the hideous three-headed demon king remained.
“Slide this ring upon her finger,” He said soothingly, like an old man patiently explaining something to a grandchild, “and I shall do the rest.”
“Easier said than done. She's sort of bite-y.”
Asmodeus winked. “You'll manage. And, toots?”
I looked down at the ring and let out a breathy, “Yeah?”
“You don't actually trust that ogre, do you?” He took the chewed-up fedora out of the ram's mouth and plopped it crookedly on his human head. “You might want to think about who or what he really serves.”
Asmodeus vanished in a shimmer of heat; I stood there staring into the night air for a full two minutes, waiting for the ogre behind me to react to the demon king's words. Silence gave way to nighttime insects. One of the debt vultures made a low noise in the trees. The crickets resumed their singing. The foreign, unseen bird cooed, and, lifting from its hiding place in the bushes, became a grey-and-white blur of feathers. My first glimpse of the scratching bird, and I was too preoccupied to pay much attention.