"Working for the Devil" - читать интересную книгу автора (Saintcrow Lilith)

CHAPTER 5

If I had to say with any certainty where the demon opened the door that led into a red glare, I would be at somewhat of a loss. I lose a lot of my sense of direction underground. The demon's tearing at the fabric of reality to split the walls of the worlds… well, it's complex, and takes an inhuman amount of Power, and I've never seen anyone but a demon do it. Magi sometimes tried unsuccessfully to force doors between this reality and the world of demons lying cheek-by-jowl with it instead of pleading for a demon to come through and make an appearance, but I was a Necromance. The only alternate reality I knew or cared about was the world of Death.

Some of the Magi said that the higher forms of Power were a result of the leaching of substance between this world and the world of the demons. I had never seen that—humans and the earth's own well of natural Power were all I'd ever noticed. Even though Magi training techniques were used as the basis for teaching psions how to control Power, every Magi had his or her own kind of trade secrets passed on from teacher to student and written in code, if not memorized. It was like Skin-lin with their plant DNA maps or a Necromance's psychopomp, personal information.

There was an access hatch, I remember that much, that the demon opened as if it had been deliberately left unlocked. Then again, who would be running around down here? A long concrete-floored corridor lit faintly by buzzing fluorescents, and a door at the end of it—but this door was ironbound wood with a spiked, fluid glyph carved deeply into the surface of the wood. The glyph smoked and twisted; I felt reality tearing and shifting around us until the demon was the only solid thing.

I was seriously nauseated by now, swallowing bile and nearly choking. This isn't built for humans, I thought, vicious little mouths nipping at my skin. It was akin to freefall, this walking between the worlds; that was why you were only supposed to do it astrally. The physical structure of my body was being stressed, the very building blocks of my cellular structure taking loads they weren't designed to handle. Not to mention the fact that the twisting of visual and auditory input screwed up my perceptions, and the alienness of the Power here made my aura compress close to my skin and shiver. When the demon opened up the door and red light spilled out, I almost lost the chicken soup I'd bolted for lunch. The demon grabbed my arm and hauled me through, and I understood why he'd been standing so close to me. As soon as the smell of demon washed over me, I felt a little better. The demon's aura stretched to cover me, and when the door closed behind us with a thud I found myself with a demon holding my elbow, volcanic heat lapping at my skin, and a gigantic hall with what appeared to be an obsidian floor and long narrow windows. Red light from spitting, ever-burning torches ran wetly over the floor and the ceiling, which I only glanced at and then back at the floor, shutting my eyes.

I heard, dimly, the demon saying something. The sense of sudden freefall stopped with a thump, as if normal gravity had reasserted itself. Nausea retreated—mostly. I choked, and tried to stop myself from spewing.

The demon pressed the fingers of his free hand against my sweating forehead and said something else, in a sliding harsh language that hurt my ears. Warm blood dripped down from my nose. I kept my fingers around my sword.

It took a few minutes for the spinning to stop and my stomach to decide it wouldn't turn itself inside-out. "I'm okay," I said finally, feeling sweat trickle down my spine. "Just a little… whoa. That's… oh, shit—"

"It's a common reaction," he replied. "Just breathe."

I forced myself to stand upright, swallowed sour heat and copper blood. "I'm okay," I repeated. "The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can go home, right?"

He nodded. His lips were turned down at the corners now, and I saw that his long black coat was now in the same geometric scheme as the rest of the world. That was part of the problem—the angles of the floor and walls were just a little wrong, just a crucial millimeter off. My brain kept trying to make it fit and failing, and that made my stomach resemble a Tilt-A-Whirl, only without the fun part.

"Fine," I said. "Let's go."

He kept his hand closed around my elbow as we negotiated the vast expanse of the ballroom. Is this the antechamber to Hell? I thought, and had a difficult time not giggling. I think I'm doing well with this. Really well.

Then we reached the end of the hall, and the demon pushed open another large ironbound door, and all thoughts of dealing really well went right out the window. I even dropped my sword. The demon made a quick movement, and had my blade… I never dropped my sword. Never.

"A human," the Thing sitting behind the massive desk said. It had three spiraling horns sprouting from its head and wide, lidless, cat-slit yellow eyes that fastened on me. Its body was a shapeless mass of yellow blubber, festooned with long bristling black hairs in a few random places. Three nipples clustered on its chest, and the skin looked wrong, and greasy. The worst part was the hinged mouth and razor-sharp teeth—but even worse than that were the long spidery fingers that looked like maggots crawling among the papers on its desk. My brain went merrily rambling on—a demonic bureaucrat, even Hell has its paperwork…

"Not for you, Trikornus," the green-eyed demon said. "She's for the Prince."

"What a lovely present. Finally back in the good graces, assassin?" It was still staring at me. A dripping, purple-red tongue slid out, caressed its chin with a sound like screaming sandpaper. "Ooooh, give us a taste. Just a little taste?"

"She is for the Prince, Baron," Jaf enunciated clearly. I was too busy suddenly studying my boot-toes. How did I get here? I wondered. If I'd known, I would never have been a Necromance. But jeez, they never told me dealing with dead people would get me here, I thought only Magi dealt with demons—

"Very well, you greedy spoilsport," the horror behind the desk said. I had a vivid mental image of those sharp teeth clamping in my upper thigh while blood squirted out, and barely suppressed a shudder. I felt cold under the sick fiery heat coating my skin. The thing gave a snorting, hitching laugh. "The Prince is in his study, waiting for you. Second door on the left."

I felt more than saw Jaf's nod. Who ever would have thought that he'd seem like the lesser of two evils? I thought, then felt a chill finger touch the back of my sweating neck. That this Japhrimel looked a little more human didn't mean that he was any less of an alien being.

He guided me past the desk, and I was grateful that he was between me and the four-eyed demon. What would I have done if that thing had been sent to come fetch me? And what the hell would a demon need a Necromance for?

The world grew very dim for a few moments, but the demon half-dragged me through another ironbound door. "Keep breathing, human," he said, and stopped moving for a few seconds. "The Baron likes to dress in a different skin for each visitor," he continued. "It's normal. Just breathe."

If this is normal, don't let me see weird. "You mean you do this to other people, too?" I gasped out.

He made a brief snorting sound. "Not me. Sometimes people come without their flesh, Magi and the like. Very few are sent for. Only the desperate come here."

"I can believe that." I took a deep whooping breath. Felt bile burn the back of my throat. "Thanks," I said, finally, and he started off again. This hall was narrow but high, and there were paintings hanging on the wall that I didn't want to look at after catching a glimpse of the first one. Instead I stared at my feet moving under me, and had a brief flash of unreality—my feet didn't look like mine.

Jaf's fingers closed around my nape and I took in a deep breath. I'd stumbled and half-fallen. "Not long now," he said, releasing my neck, pulling me along by my arm. "Just hold on."

I was in bad shape, shivering and trying not to retch, when he opened another door and pulled me through a subliminal snap. My feet took on their normal dimensions, and I slumped gratefully into the demon's grasp. The only thing holding me up was his fingers.

Then I felt something in my hand. He closed his free hand around mine, the sword held by both of us now. "Here," he said. "Hold on to your blade, Necromance."

"Indeed, it wouldn't do to drop it." This voice was smooth as silk, persuasive, filtering into my ears. "She survived the Hall. Very impressive."

Japhrimel said nothing. I was actually kind of starting to like him.

Not really.

I opened my eyes. The demon's chest was right in front of me. I tilted my head back, looked up into his face. His eyes scorched mine. "Thanks," I told him, my voice trembling slightly. "That first step's a lulu."

He didn't say anything, but his lips thinned out. Then he stepped aside.

I found myself confronted with a perfectly reasonable neo-Victorian study, carpeted in plush crimson. Leather-clad books lined up on bookcases against the dark-paneled wooden walls, three red velvet chairs in front of a roaring fireplace, red tasseled drapes drawn over what might have been a window. A large mahogany desk sat obediently to one side.

A slim dark shape stood next to the fireplace. The air was drunk and dizzy with the scent of demons. I tightened my fingers on my sword, fisted my other hand, felt my lacquered nails dig into my palm.

The man—at least, it had a manlike shape—had an amazing corona of golden hair standing out from his head. A plain black T-shirt and jeans, bare golden-brown feet. I took a deep rasping breath.

"What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the in-conquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate—" I trailed off, licked my lips with my dry tongue. I'd had a classical humanist as a social worker, and had been infected with a love of books at an early age. The classics had sustained me all through the schoolyard hellhole of Rigger Hall.

I shuddered, remembering that. I didn't like to think about the Hall, where I'd learned reading, writing, and 'rithmatic—and the basics of controlling my powers. Where I'd also learned how little those powers would protect me.

He turned away from the fireplace. "And courage never to submit or yield," he finished. His eyes were like black ice and green flame at the same time, and there was a mark on his forehead that I didn't look at, because I found I had dropped my gaze.

The demon Jaf sank down to one knee, rose again.

"You're late," the Prince of Hell said, mildly.

"I had to paint my nails," my mouth bolted like a runaway horse. "A demon showing up on my doorstep and pointing a gun at me tends to disarrange me."

"He pointed a gun at you?" The Prince made a gesture with one hand. "Please, sit, Miss Valentine. May I call you Dante?"

"It's my name," I responded, uncomfortably. The Devil knows my name, I thought, in a kind of delirium. The Devil knows my name.

Then I gave myself a sharp mental slap. Quit it. You need your wits about you, Danny, so just quit it. "I would be honored," I added. "It's a pleasure to meet Your Lordship. Your Highness. Whatever."

He laughed. The laugh could strip the skin off an elephant in seconds. "I'm referred to as the father of lies, Dante. I'm old enough to know a falsehood when I hear one."

"So am I," I responded. "I suppose you're going to say that you mean me no harm, right?"

He laughed again, throwing his head back. He was too beautiful, the kind of androgynous beauty that holovid models sometimes achieve. If I hadn't known he was male, I might have wondered. The mark on his forehead flashed green. It's an emerald, like a Necromance, I thought. I wonder why? Necromance emeralds were set in the skin when we finished basic schooling at about eight; I didn't think the Prince of Hell had ever gone to primary school.

I was rapidly getting incoherent. "Excuse me," I said politely enough. "It's getting hard to breathe in here."

"This won't take very long. Bring the lovely Necromance over to a chair, my eldest, she's about to fall down." His voice turned the color of smooth cocoa mixed with honey. My knees turned to water.

Jaf dragged me across the room. I was too relieved to argue. The place looked normal. Human, without the weird geometry. If I ever get back to the real world I'm going to kiss the ground, I promised myself. I've read about people going to Hell astrally. Lucky me getting to visit in the flesh.

He dropped me into a chair—the one on the left—then stepped around to the side, his arms folded, and appeared to turn into a statue.

The Prince regarded me. His eyes were lighter but more weirdly depthless than Jaf's, a sort of radioactive silken glow. Thirty seconds looking into those eyes and I might have agreed to anything just to make it stop.

As it was, I looked down at my knees. "You wanted to see me," I said. "Here I am."

"Indeed." The Prince turned back to the fireplace. "I have a mission for you, Dante. Succeed, and you can count me as a friend all the years of your life, and those years will be long. It is in my power to grant wealth and near-immortality, Dante, and I am disposed to be generous."

"And if I fail?" I couldn't help myself.

"You'll be dead," he said. "Being a Necromance, you're well-prepared for that, aren't you?"

My rings glinted dully in the red light. "I don't want to die," I said finally. "Why me?"

"You have a set of… talents that are uniquely suited to the task," he answered.

"So what is it exactly you want me to do?" I asked.

"I want you to kill someone," he said.