said. “Not my fault you took the coward’s deal rather than going into the light.”
“I am this close to chucking you over this fucking railing,” Jack said, holding his fingers apart. “I’m beginning to think you crawled up out of that living sewer you call a home just to chat.”
“Demons aren’t the only things in Hell,” Belial said. “We’re not even the first things.” He looked back out over the canyon. A helicopter puttered across the white-blue sky, and Jack could hear Pete and Shavers talking downstairs. And still, the murder house screamed at him, sight knifing his head.
“Is this going to be a long story?” Jack asked. “Because if it is, ’m going to need a drink and a sitdown.”
“When Nergal cracked open his prison,” Belial murmured, as if he hadn’t heard, “it sent shocks through all of the Pit. Through the Underworld, through the Black, even through the daylight world. You saw it.”
“Painfully close up,” Jack agreed. This wasn’t the Belial he knew—the smirking, insufferable cunt who delighted in pulling the legs off of human flies. Belial looked almost human. Even his form was tired and rumpled. Whatever could make a demon this nervous was firmly in the realm of Not Fucking Good.
“You ever think about what else might have slipped the locks?” Belial said. Jack folded his arms.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Before there were demons, there were other things,” Belial told him. “Things that crawled in the dark, things that made us what we are. Spawned us out of mud and shit and blood. Things that we realized we could never let free of the Pit.”
“And I’m guessing I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t fall down on the job,” Jack said.
Belial twitched inside his human skin. “This isn’t my mess, but I’m cleaning it sure enough.”
“Ten years isn’t exactly a weekend in time outside the Pit,” Jack said. “One of these bastards has been free a while, hasn’t he?”
“One, we could manage,” Belial said. “Hunt him with our own blokes. But the tears Nergal caused gave him the chance to let loose all of his little friends.”
“And what do they hope to accomplish by running around up here, slashing families to death?” Jack said.
“That’d be your job to figure out, wouldn’t it?” Belial said. “LA is a safe haven for things like that, but outside we could track them. You bring them to me, and I’ll be done with you and your little bit of sunshine.”
Jack pushed back from the rail. “I still don’t trust you.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Belial said as Jack walked away. “You know I’m a demon of my word.”
CHAPTER 8
Pete stayed silent until they were nearly back to Venice. “You hate me?” she said finally, pulling the Fury to the curb by Mayhew’s office.
Jack lit a cigarette and sat on the Fury’s fender. Did he? Have to be the world’s largest hypocrite if he did, one for the record books. “No.”
“I think you can understand why I didn’t tell you,” Pete said.
“It’s all a bit moot now,” Jack told her. “Belial always has a way of getting what he wants, and apparently he wants us to do his little errand.”
Pete plucked a note from Mayhew’s door. “Says he’s down the road in a bar.”
“Shocking, that.” Jack dropped his butt and stamped out the ember. “We’re going to have a little chat.”
“Be nice,” Pete called after him.
Jack thought about the likelihood of that, considering the whopper Mayhew had told to get them into this morass of Hell politics. “’M always nice,” he told Pete.
The bar fronted the beach—not the tony bit near the boardwalk, which wafted pot smoke down the sand all hours of the day and night and called out with bright lights, frying food, and pretty girls with tan lines, but the bit where all the buildings turned into cinderblock boxes. The Shanty, the place was called, and somebody had tacked driftwood and net to the front in an attempt to
“I am this close to chucking you over this fucking railing,” Jack said, holding his fingers apart. “I’m beginning to think you crawled up out of that living sewer you call a home just to chat.”
“Demons aren’t the only things in Hell,” Belial said. “We’re not even the first things.” He looked back out over the canyon. A helicopter puttered across the white-blue sky, and Jack could hear Pete and Shavers talking downstairs. And still, the murder house screamed at him, sight knifing his head.
“Is this going to be a long story?” Jack asked. “Because if it is, ’m going to need a drink and a sitdown.”
“When Nergal cracked open his prison,” Belial murmured, as if he hadn’t heard, “it sent shocks through all of the Pit. Through the Underworld, through the Black, even through the daylight world. You saw it.”
“Painfully close up,” Jack agreed. This wasn’t the Belial he knew—the smirking, insufferable cunt who delighted in pulling the legs off of human flies. Belial looked almost human. Even his form was tired and rumpled. Whatever could make a demon this nervous was firmly in the realm of Not Fucking Good.
“You ever think about what else might have slipped the locks?” Belial said. Jack folded his arms.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Before there were demons, there were other things,” Belial told him. “Things that crawled in the dark, things that made us what we are. Spawned us out of mud and shit and blood. Things that we realized we could never let free of the Pit.”
“And I’m guessing I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t fall down on the job,” Jack said.
Belial twitched inside his human skin. “This isn’t my mess, but I’m cleaning it sure enough.”
“Ten years isn’t exactly a weekend in time outside the Pit,” Jack said. “One of these bastards has been free a while, hasn’t he?”
“One, we could manage,” Belial said. “Hunt him with our own blokes. But the tears Nergal caused gave him the chance to let loose all of his little friends.”
“And what do they hope to accomplish by running around up here, slashing families to death?” Jack said.
“That’d be your job to figure out, wouldn’t it?” Belial said. “LA is a safe haven for things like that, but outside we could track them. You bring them to me, and I’ll be done with you and your little bit of sunshine.”
Jack pushed back from the rail. “I still don’t trust you.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Belial said as Jack walked away. “You know I’m a demon of my word.”
CHAPTER 8
Pete stayed silent until they were nearly back to Venice. “You hate me?” she said finally, pulling the Fury to the curb by Mayhew’s office.
Jack lit a cigarette and sat on the Fury’s fender. Did he? Have to be the world’s largest hypocrite if he did, one for the record books. “No.”
“I think you can understand why I didn’t tell you,” Pete said.
“It’s all a bit moot now,” Jack told her. “Belial always has a way of getting what he wants, and apparently he wants us to do his little errand.”
Pete plucked a note from Mayhew’s door. “Says he’s down the road in a bar.”
“Shocking, that.” Jack dropped his butt and stamped out the ember. “We’re going to have a little chat.”
“Be nice,” Pete called after him.
Jack thought about the likelihood of that, considering the whopper Mayhew had told to get them into this morass of Hell politics. “’M always nice,” he told Pete.
The bar fronted the beach—not the tony bit near the boardwalk, which wafted pot smoke down the sand all hours of the day and night and called out with bright lights, frying food, and pretty girls with tan lines, but the bit where all the buildings turned into cinderblock boxes. The Shanty, the place was called, and somebody had tacked driftwood and net to the front in an attempt to
Similar Books
