I looked to the counter and a short, fat guy wearing coveralls glared back at me. The sweat on his bald head reflected the sickly glimmer of the fluorescent lights. His hands were out of sight behind the counter, his arms wiggling. I was hoping it was a gun he was fiddling with down there and nothing else. Deep inside my head, I heard banjos playing. It brought a smile to my lips.
I stood there a minute before I realized he didn’t intend to say anything. “I’m here to see Ba-” I caught myself. “I’m here to see Mr. Smith.” That was the name they’d given me, seriously.
The fat guy gestured with a meaty thumb toward a curtained alcove at the back of the store. I gestured back. I don’t think he appreciated it. Without waiting for the limbed bowling ball to decide whether he was offended enough to get up, I slipped past the curtain. Beyond it stretched a narrow hallway that led to a closed door. I knocked and heard a muffled, “Come in.” I turned the handle and stepped through.
Inside the cramped room full of battered merchandise set on rickety shelves, a round wooden table sat in an opening near the back. Behind it sat Baalth. His flunkies D’anatello and Poe stood on either side of the door. I winced as Marcus pressed the barrel of his 9mm Browning against my temple.
“Make a move, I dare you,” Marcus growled. His attitude hadn’t improved any since the last time I’d seen him.
I could see his trigger finger quivering. “No, I think I’m good. Thanks.” I stood as rigidly as I could. Even though Marcus’s shot wouldn’t kill me, it sure as hell would hurt more than just my feelings. Disappointed, he pressed harder.
“You’ll have to forgive our rudeness, one can never be sure these days,” Baalth commented, sounding almost sincere.
The grin on his tanned face told a different story, however. Dressed in a high-dollar suit with a fancy tie, Baalth looked every bit the Wall Street financier. Most demons did.
You see, contrary to popular perception, demons and devils don’t have horns and tails and run around wielding pitchforks. Well, maybe farmer demons have pitchforks, but it’s not the norm. We look like humans, as do angels. We were all made in His image, after all. Some of us just pull it off better than others. Take Baalth for instance. His sculptured hair and perfectly trimmed goatee lent him a look of professionalism.
His manicured hands and perfectly shined shoes just screamed out confidence. His eyes, on the other hand, said volumes about the cruelty that lurked beneath his innocuous appearance.
I kept quiet, letting things play out. Poe patted me down, starting at my legs and working his way up to my crotch.
“Easy there, Crocodile Dundee, that gun’s attached.”
The mentalist snickered in a way that made me think he was unimpressed as he went about his business. He slipped my. 45 out of the small of my back and snatched the extra ammo strap I had picked up at DRAC headquarters. Done with the search, he set my gear on Baalth’s desk and posted up beside his boss. Marcus just stood there pressing his gun to my head. He looked fit to blow a gasket, as usual. Baalth coughed and D’anatello reluctantly stepped back to the desk. He didn’t lower his gun, though.
“You said you had some information for me,”
Baalth said, getting straight to the point. I passed the folder to Poe, who handed it to Baalth. After a minute of reviewing its contents, he set it on the desk and raised his eyes to meet mine.
“What exactly do you stand to gain by giving me this?” Baalth gestured to the folder.
“Me personally? Not a damn thing.” I saw Marcus tense up, just waiting for an excuse to shoot Page 30 me. “But, as sick as it makes me to admit it, the world is better off with you than it is with Asmoday.”
Baalth smiled so wide I could count his teeth. I stopped at five. I get bored easy.
“So, what do I get out of taking on Asmoday?”
I stood there shellshocked. “What do you mean?”
My mind ran in circles, the hamsters trying their best to keep up.
“What’s in it for me?” he repeated.
“Your ass is what’s in it for you. Maybe you no speakie engrish, but I didn’t think it was all that hard a concept to grasp.”
Marcus growled and stepped forward. Baalth waved him back.
“Oh, I understand all right,” he countered. “I just don’t see anything in it for me. Asmoday is just one demon amongst thousands gunning for me.” He tapped the folder. “You haven’t given me anything I didn’t already know. So, why should I step up and fight Asmoday when I can step aside and let you do all the work then clean up the mess afterwards?”
I have to admit, he had me stumped. Despite all the time I’d spent around demons, it never ceased to amaze me just how low they’d stoop to come out on top. “I’ll keep Scarlett off your ass,” I blurted out, my brain finally engaging.
Baalth just laughed. “You plan to do that already. You can’t have her waging war on me because you need Page 31 me at full strength to fight Asmoday.”
I muttered a few unkind words under my breath. It only made Baalth smile wider and Marcus turn a deeper shade of red. “What’s it gonna take to get you onboard, you know, considering it’s your life on the line and all?”
“It’s all of our lives, Frank,” Baalth corrected.
“You keep forgetting I’m a demon. I have no problem with Armageddon coming to pass. It’s a minor inconvenience, all things considered.”
Even though I knew he was lying, it wasn’t in my best interest to call him on it. “Fine. So, what do you want?”
“I’m thinking a favor, to be collected at a later date.”
Damn demons. It’s always about the favors. Spend enough time around these guys and you’ll owe them your nuts, if you’re lucky. “I don’t think that’s gonna work. I guess we’re done.” I turned and stormed toward the door.
“Such theatrics. I’m sure we can work something out, Triggaltheron.”
I hated when demons used my given name. It made me feel all icky inside, like I had a bad case of worms. I turned back and glared at Baalth.
“Come now, it’ll be a minor favor. I won’t ask you to betray your comrades or anything of that nature,”
Baalth cooed. “Imagine how disappointed Abraham will be when you return to DRAC empty-handed.”
I could. “You’re a bastard.” I stuck my hand out for the contract.
As cliched as it seemed, contracts were what brought order to the chaos of the Demonarch, the demon world. Signed in blood, a contract between demons or devils was as binding as they came. Fail to meet the terms of the deal and your soul was forfeit, its energy devoured and added to that of the contract holder.
To a demon the level of Baalth, these little deals were more of a formality than a means to gaining true power. My soul to him was like a drop in a bucket when it came to magical energy. But for the little guys like me, these deals were like playing the lottery. While the offer was always stacked in the favor of the dealmaker, the contract worked both ways. If the contract holder defaulted, the signatory had every right to claim the holder’s soul and all the power that came with it. That was the hope that burgeoned every time I signed one of these damn things. With that kind of energy, I’d finally be able to cast magic just like the rest of the big boys. Baalth pulled a sheaf of papers from a desk drawer and passed them to Poe. He in turn handed them to me. I sighed as I looked them over, the text as obscure and legally confusing as any written by the most sadistic of human lawyers. Fortunately, I’d seen my fair share of demonic contracts. While far from ideal-they never were-the terms of the agreement were just what Baalth had laid out. I could live with them.
I growled, then bit the palm of my hand until it bled. Once I had a little pool going, I bent my wrist to let it run down across my fingers. I flipped my hand over and pressed it down on the contract, making sure I left a clear mark. Once I was done, Poe took the signed contract and handed me a small towel. I used it to clean off the remaining blood, the wound already closing.