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Chapter 35

Lucifer was on the horn the instant Agonostis reached his car.

"I have never seen such a colossal screw-up!" he howled. He didn't sound angry, though; instead, he sounded like he was gloating. "An imp could have done a better job of getting her signature on that contract. And you can't take her another one—she isn't going to sign it after she bleeds on it."

"I've got a line on that. In the next couple of days, I'll have one of the techs draw her blood. I'll use that in the ink, and have her sign the same day. It can't miss."

"It can miss. You're almost out of time." Agonostis heard cruel amusement in Lucifer's voice. "I'm going to hang you over the Pit yet." His chuckle twisted Agonostis' bowels into a knot.

"I have time."

Lucifer was no longer laughing. He said, "I don't think so. I don't think so at all. Two more days."

Agonostis slammed on brakes, and the man who had been driving behind him—far too closely—swerved to miss him and went head-on into the rear end of someone else's parked car. Agonostis was too distressed to even enjoy that. "I have a month—of which I've used only four days."

"I changed my mind," Lucifer said. "I've put someone else on the job—but . . . if you can bring Dayne Kuttner in by midnight Wednesday, I'll gift you with this other as a slave in Hell when I recall you—and perhaps on Earth before then, if it amuses me to do so. If you can't bring me Kuttner's soul . . . well, after I've ripped out your heart and fed it to the Pit beasts once every hour on the hour for a millennia or two, I might just make you her slave."

"Her who? Dayne's?"

"Jezerael's."

Agonostis' blood felt like ice in his veins. His archenemy was once again placed to take away from him everything he'd earned. "You sent Jezerael to take this job from me, too?"

"I thought she'd enjoy the opportunity. And it seemed a good idea to let her get familiar with the territory, since I have no doubt that she'll be taking your place day after tomorrow."

"But you promised me a month!" Agonostis yelled again.

"I lied," Lucifer said, and broke the connection.

Agonostis was furious—and he felt no better when he pulled into the parking lot of what had, only days before, been the abandoned warehouse. Satco was looking good; after sandblasting, the brickwork of the building was attractive, and a whole horde of imps had been put to work landscaping. He could see bits of the work by the light of pale yellow spotlights scattered among the sculpted shrubs. A discreet, elegantly lettered sign over the top of the main doors—now done up in black thermopane—read, SATCO, A TINY LITTLE DIVISION OF NETHER-LANDS INDUSTRIES.

Inside, the receptionist, a leccubus emulating female mode for the night, greeted him with a polite nod of its lovely head and murmured, "Lord and Master." He nodded and looked around the reception area. He'd stepped into deep, plush pile carpet, jade green—that was new—and a deeper green-on-green textured wallpaper, also new. The (new) reception desk was teak, and the lighting was subdued, recessed and chrome. Several chrome-and-black-leather chairs sat around a marble cube coffee table covered with upscale magazines, and potted plants sat in the corners under their own little puddles of light . . . and the whole thing looked like it had cost a bundle.

He thought of the money he'd signed for and winced. The prostitution business was pulling in big bucks, but if his underlings were going to spend money like that, he needed other sources of income right away.

He walked past the receptionist as the phone rang, and stepped through the black glass doors into the main work area. He noticed the piped-in music for the first time; he tipped his head and listened. It was an all-tuba Muzak cover of Herman's Hermits "Henry the Eighth"—which only proved that, wherever Satco was buying its furnishings, it was still getting its music straight from Hell.

He stalked past cubicles full of underlings working away on Hell's business, stepped into his office, and slammed the door behind him.

In the semi-privacy of his office, he groaned. He dropped into his chair, kicked his shoes off, and closed his eyes. Dayne's kiss still tingled on his lips, still vibrated along every trembling nerve in his entirely too human body. Her kiss . . .

It wasn't supposed to be this way, dammit. He wasn't supposed to feel anything for her—he wasn't supposed to feel anything. She was meat, nothing but meat.

And yet, when he closed his eyes, he could feel the silk of her hair against his cheek, and smell the scent of her, sweet and musky. He could taste her lips as they roved over his, and he could feel the tight, compact weight of her body held against him, the firm heaviness of her breasts pressed against his chest, the hard muscles of her thighs tightening against his waist—

"Enough!" he roared, and jumped to his feet. The chair rolled backward and bumped into the wall. It was his human body—the damnable human body—as full of lusts and passions as Hell was full of damned souls. His own body was bewitching him, promising him things he could never have, and could never hope for. He was damned—and if he couldn't lead her into damnation, he was worse than damned.

Still the trail of her kisses along his neck burned and seduced and enchanted. His betraying human body yearned for her. No one had warned him. No one had said, "The body has its own desires, Agonostis. The body will lead you wrong."

That was all it was, though. He took a deep breath and stood there, shaking. It was a reaction of hormones and nerve impulses, electricity and faulty human wetware. This sudden passion he felt was nothing but a chimera that would melt into nonexistence in an instant if he resumed his true form.

He stared out the glass at the Fallen working in his domain.

He couldn't think. He kept feeling, kept wanting and yearning, and his passions destroyed thought and hope of thought. The body—it was the body's fault. . . .

With a scream of anguish, he ripped away his clothing and stretched himself. He dissolved the new human body into the body of Agonostis the Fallen Angel, the second-mightiest creature ever to stride through the boiling pits of Hell. He ripped away every vestige of the human he had been and unfolded, and stretched until he was taller than the ceiling of his office would permit—until he had to smash his office door into kindling in order to walk through it. He stood up, once free of the office, and roared at his cowering slaves, puny miserling damnedsouls and underdevils, and thrilled at the collective shudder that ran through them as they prostrated themselves before him.

This was what he was. This was as it should be.

If she could see him now, she would cower with the rest of them—in his mind's eye, he could see her kneeling on the ground with her lovely face pressed to the floor, with her silken hair spread in a black halo on the carpet . . .

. . . with her beautiful, gentle, caring body trembling from fear of him . . .

He stopped. He stared down at his Hellish form, at his long talons and massive muscles. He thought of his face, twisted by the agonies of Hell until its onetime beauty had become a parody of itself. He didn't want her to see him this way. He didn't want her to fear him.

He wanted her to smile when she saw him coming, and to kiss him the way she'd kissed him as he was leaving. He wanted to hear her laugh, and to know that he had made her laugh; he wanted her to talk to him, he wanted her to sit beside him unspeaking, with her head on his chest.

Above all else, he wanted her to want him. In this body, his Hellish body, he still wanted those things.

Good God, he thought, what is happening to me?

Then even the phrasing of that question came clear to him, and he realized he was lost.

With luck, perhaps, Lucifer wouldn't discover the depth of his betrayal immediately. With luck, he'd have another two days with her.

Earwax appeared in a thin puff of Hell-stinking smoke. "Whoa! Big Guy—you're yourself again!" it yelped. "I'd forgotten what an ugly . . . I mean magnificent specimen of Hell you were! But hey, I just wanted to let you know—she's gone to bed now, your Evilness, so I want to go answer some phones for a while." Earwax smiled blissfully then. "Oh, man, you should have seen her in the shower tonight—when I was human, I would have paid good money to watch th— Urk!"

Agonostis grabbed the imp by his throat and dangled him in the air. "I'm going to rip your head off and eat that first," the fallen angel snarled, "or maybe I should pull your legs off and eat them, then eat your head."

The imp squeaked piteously, though it couldn't speak, because Agonostis held it by the throat.

The fallen angel brought it to his mouth and held it there, ready to bite off a leg. He didn't, though. He told himself he wasn't hungry for imp. He made the excuse that Earwax might still be useful. He gave himself half a dozen lies, and in the end, when he dropped the imp to the floor and watched it scurry away, he knew the lies for what they were.

Pity had stopped him. Pity for a stinking imp.

He was doomed.

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Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 35

Lucifer was on the horn the instant Agonostis reached his car.

"I have never seen such a colossal screw-up!" he howled. He didn't sound angry, though; instead, he sounded like he was gloating. "An imp could have done a better job of getting her signature on that contract. And you can't take her another one—she isn't going to sign it after she bleeds on it."

"I've got a line on that. In the next couple of days, I'll have one of the techs draw her blood. I'll use that in the ink, and have her sign the same day. It can't miss."

"It can miss. You're almost out of time." Agonostis heard cruel amusement in Lucifer's voice. "I'm going to hang you over the Pit yet." His chuckle twisted Agonostis' bowels into a knot.

"I have time."

Lucifer was no longer laughing. He said, "I don't think so. I don't think so at all. Two more days."

Agonostis slammed on brakes, and the man who had been driving behind him—far too closely—swerved to miss him and went head-on into the rear end of someone else's parked car. Agonostis was too distressed to even enjoy that. "I have a month—of which I've used only four days."

"I changed my mind," Lucifer said. "I've put someone else on the job—but . . . if you can bring Dayne Kuttner in by midnight Wednesday, I'll gift you with this other as a slave in Hell when I recall you—and perhaps on Earth before then, if it amuses me to do so. If you can't bring me Kuttner's soul . . . well, after I've ripped out your heart and fed it to the Pit beasts once every hour on the hour for a millennia or two, I might just make you her slave."

"Her who? Dayne's?"

"Jezerael's."

Agonostis' blood felt like ice in his veins. His archenemy was once again placed to take away from him everything he'd earned. "You sent Jezerael to take this job from me, too?"

"I thought she'd enjoy the opportunity. And it seemed a good idea to let her get familiar with the territory, since I have no doubt that she'll be taking your place day after tomorrow."

"But you promised me a month!" Agonostis yelled again.

"I lied," Lucifer said, and broke the connection.

Agonostis was furious—and he felt no better when he pulled into the parking lot of what had, only days before, been the abandoned warehouse. Satco was looking good; after sandblasting, the brickwork of the building was attractive, and a whole horde of imps had been put to work landscaping. He could see bits of the work by the light of pale yellow spotlights scattered among the sculpted shrubs. A discreet, elegantly lettered sign over the top of the main doors—now done up in black thermopane—read, SATCO, A TINY LITTLE DIVISION OF NETHER-LANDS INDUSTRIES.

Inside, the receptionist, a leccubus emulating female mode for the night, greeted him with a polite nod of its lovely head and murmured, "Lord and Master." He nodded and looked around the reception area. He'd stepped into deep, plush pile carpet, jade green—that was new—and a deeper green-on-green textured wallpaper, also new. The (new) reception desk was teak, and the lighting was subdued, recessed and chrome. Several chrome-and-black-leather chairs sat around a marble cube coffee table covered with upscale magazines, and potted plants sat in the corners under their own little puddles of light . . . and the whole thing looked like it had cost a bundle.

He thought of the money he'd signed for and winced. The prostitution business was pulling in big bucks, but if his underlings were going to spend money like that, he needed other sources of income right away.

He walked past the receptionist as the phone rang, and stepped through the black glass doors into the main work area. He noticed the piped-in music for the first time; he tipped his head and listened. It was an all-tuba Muzak cover of Herman's Hermits "Henry the Eighth"—which only proved that, wherever Satco was buying its furnishings, it was still getting its music straight from Hell.

He stalked past cubicles full of underlings working away on Hell's business, stepped into his office, and slammed the door behind him.

In the semi-privacy of his office, he groaned. He dropped into his chair, kicked his shoes off, and closed his eyes. Dayne's kiss still tingled on his lips, still vibrated along every trembling nerve in his entirely too human body. Her kiss . . .

It wasn't supposed to be this way, dammit. He wasn't supposed to feel anything for her—he wasn't supposed to feel anything. She was meat, nothing but meat.

And yet, when he closed his eyes, he could feel the silk of her hair against his cheek, and smell the scent of her, sweet and musky. He could taste her lips as they roved over his, and he could feel the tight, compact weight of her body held against him, the firm heaviness of her breasts pressed against his chest, the hard muscles of her thighs tightening against his waist—

"Enough!" he roared, and jumped to his feet. The chair rolled backward and bumped into the wall. It was his human body—the damnable human body—as full of lusts and passions as Hell was full of damned souls. His own body was bewitching him, promising him things he could never have, and could never hope for. He was damned—and if he couldn't lead her into damnation, he was worse than damned.

Still the trail of her kisses along his neck burned and seduced and enchanted. His betraying human body yearned for her. No one had warned him. No one had said, "The body has its own desires, Agonostis. The body will lead you wrong."

That was all it was, though. He took a deep breath and stood there, shaking. It was a reaction of hormones and nerve impulses, electricity and faulty human wetware. This sudden passion he felt was nothing but a chimera that would melt into nonexistence in an instant if he resumed his true form.

He stared out the glass at the Fallen working in his domain.

He couldn't think. He kept feeling, kept wanting and yearning, and his passions destroyed thought and hope of thought. The body—it was the body's fault. . . .

With a scream of anguish, he ripped away his clothing and stretched himself. He dissolved the new human body into the body of Agonostis the Fallen Angel, the second-mightiest creature ever to stride through the boiling pits of Hell. He ripped away every vestige of the human he had been and unfolded, and stretched until he was taller than the ceiling of his office would permit—until he had to smash his office door into kindling in order to walk through it. He stood up, once free of the office, and roared at his cowering slaves, puny miserling damnedsouls and underdevils, and thrilled at the collective shudder that ran through them as they prostrated themselves before him.

This was what he was. This was as it should be.

If she could see him now, she would cower with the rest of them—in his mind's eye, he could see her kneeling on the ground with her lovely face pressed to the floor, with her silken hair spread in a black halo on the carpet . . .

. . . with her beautiful, gentle, caring body trembling from fear of him . . .

He stopped. He stared down at his Hellish form, at his long talons and massive muscles. He thought of his face, twisted by the agonies of Hell until its onetime beauty had become a parody of itself. He didn't want her to see him this way. He didn't want her to fear him.

He wanted her to smile when she saw him coming, and to kiss him the way she'd kissed him as he was leaving. He wanted to hear her laugh, and to know that he had made her laugh; he wanted her to talk to him, he wanted her to sit beside him unspeaking, with her head on his chest.

Above all else, he wanted her to want him. In this body, his Hellish body, he still wanted those things.

Good God, he thought, what is happening to me?

Then even the phrasing of that question came clear to him, and he realized he was lost.

With luck, perhaps, Lucifer wouldn't discover the depth of his betrayal immediately. With luck, he'd have another two days with her.

Earwax appeared in a thin puff of Hell-stinking smoke. "Whoa! Big Guy—you're yourself again!" it yelped. "I'd forgotten what an ugly . . . I mean magnificent specimen of Hell you were! But hey, I just wanted to let you know—she's gone to bed now, your Evilness, so I want to go answer some phones for a while." Earwax smiled blissfully then. "Oh, man, you should have seen her in the shower tonight—when I was human, I would have paid good money to watch th— Urk!"

Agonostis grabbed the imp by his throat and dangled him in the air. "I'm going to rip your head off and eat that first," the fallen angel snarled, "or maybe I should pull your legs off and eat them, then eat your head."

The imp squeaked piteously, though it couldn't speak, because Agonostis held it by the throat.

The fallen angel brought it to his mouth and held it there, ready to bite off a leg. He didn't, though. He told himself he wasn't hungry for imp. He made the excuse that Earwax might still be useful. He gave himself half a dozen lies, and in the end, when he dropped the imp to the floor and watched it scurry away, he knew the lies for what they were.

Pity had stopped him. Pity for a stinking imp.

He was doomed.

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Framed