Sympathy for the devil Page 7

  "And that was the scene an hour ago right here in Charlotte. Following riots and some injuries, the game was cancelled—the cancellation declared an act of God. Somehow those words seem to mean more than they ever did."

  "Riots. Oh, my God," Paige yelped. "I've got to call home." She ran for the telephone.

  Carlston Perry, the anchorman for Channel Six at Six, stood panting in front of the camera—his usually perfect hair was mussed and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. His tie was crooked. "All across the state, we have similar reports. We take you live to Treya Billingsley at the Ashboro Fan Faire in Ashboro, North Carolina, where two deaths have been confirmed."

  Treya Billingsley stood in front of a brick building where an ambulance sat, lights flashing. Her face held that fake-grim expression television reporters always seemed to wear when they were reporting on something exciting, but thought it would look crude if anyone could tell they were enjoying themselves. EMTs pushed crowds of people out of the way and shoved out sheet-covered stretchers, but Treya and the cameras kept going. "Thank you, Carlston. The final event of the Ashboro Fan Faire, the White Plectrum Filk concert, ended in tragedy today when Bill Mullis and Keith Brinegar, in the middle of their rendition of Leon Redbone's classic, `I Wanna Be Seduced,' were set upon by a bevy of what seemed to be nude women who attempted to seduce them right on stage. What would have been merely a shocking incident became a disaster as hundreds of male fans, tempted beyond restraint, ran forward and attempted to join in. Klingon security officers and men and women in Star Fleet uniforms acted quickly to restore order, but by the time they cleared away the last of the young men, it was too late to save either Mullis or Brinegar."

  "I think it's the way they would have wanted to go," one tearful White Plectrum fan told her in a taped segment. "Crushed beneath a pile of naked women—it just seems right somehow."

  Treya tactfully refrained from commenting that the crush came not from the naked women, but from the fans who'd piled on top of them.

  The camera cut back to Treya live. "The women, caught beneath the pile, turned out to be neither injured . . . nor women. In this interview, taped earlier, I talk with one, who claims she is a succubus straight from Hell."

  Dayne could hear Paige in the other room, talking on the phone. ". . . just as long as you're okay."

  Good. So Mike hadn't been hurt. Dayne stared off into space. What were the odds? Could there be a connection between her prayer and the arrival of devils and demons to North Carolina. It didn't seem likely—after all, she couldn't really see where it would be necessary to turn Hell's creatures loose in order to permit them to repent.

  But maybe it was. She had no way of knowing, and decided she'd do best to adopt a wait-and-see attitude. After all, sooner or later someone would figure out what was going on.

  She'd missed the interview with the succubus. Instead, a Fayetteville reporter was leading off her story with the line, "Halloween came early this year," while the scene switched to packs of candy-colored little imps that ran from door to door through a pretty neighborhood, ringing doorbells and soaping windows and dumping sugar into gas tanks.

  There was more. There was much, much more.

  Chapter 19

  Agonostis strolled into his "office." Earwax met him at the door. "Did I do okay, sir?"

  "For now." Agonostis looked around what had, the night before, been an abandoned warehouse. Rows of hastily erected cubicles (the Hell-bound were big on cubicles) filled the center of the floor. Computer cables snaked across the cracked concrete, running to special terminator boxes that linked them straight to Hell's mainframes.

  The Real Estate Devil scurried up to him and said, "We own the building now—in fact, we own the entire block. We've thrown out the winos and the drug dealers and started fixing up the building next door. It will take some work, but I think we can make it respectable enough to use as a front."

  Agonostis nodded. "Good. Continue." The Real Estate Devil hurried off.

  "They fixed you up a temporary office in the back," Earwax said. "I think you'll approve. It has a great view of the hookers working the neighborhood."

  "There are hookers—working this neighborhood!" Jezerael, who had taken Lust and Fornication away from him with her damned plotting, was making points with every one of those hookers. "Chase them down to the Salvation Army," he snapped. "Or call the police and have them arrested."

  Jezerael was not going to get any freebies from him.

  Earwax was still standing at his knee, waiting for . . . something. Who knew what went through the microscopic minds of imps?

  "What are you waiting for?"

  Earwax started. "Er . . . orders?"

  He needed to have someone keep an eye on Dayne. "Fine. Here are some orders. Put a tap on Dayne Kuttner's phone. Then I want you to personally watch her house. Find out for me everything she does, every place she goes, every person she talks to."

  "Can I answer her phone?"

  "No, you can't answer her phone! She isn't supposed to know you're there."

  He was forgetting something else . . . something important. . . .

  The pets. "Don't bother her cats, either. No one had better touch those cats until I give the okay."

  Earwax nodded, his expression mournful. "No cats. No phones. No fun." He trudged away, shoulders sagging.

  Agonostis smiled and walked through his new domain. All his damned were busy, Hell Phase II was opening for business, and Dayne Kuttner was putty in his hands. The first phase of her temptation had gone remarkably well. He'd assumed he would have to make at least two trips by her home to find a form that would prove irresistible to the woman; to have hit his stride in one was, he thought, simply proof of his suitability for his role as Lord of Lust.

  Jezerael would be out of a job before she knew what had hit her.

  And spunky little wide-eyed Dayne would be writhing in Hell.

  Agonostis' smile grew bigger.

  Chapter 20

  Dayne sat transfixed by the news. It preempted every local station's regular programming, and clips from the local news began showing up on the national news, as well—generally as the lead story.

  As the reports of chaos poured in, a few themes became clear. The Hellraised (a phrase coined early by one clever reporter, and instantly dragged into general use) were raising Hell and upsetting things as much as they could—but they weren't killing people. The two men who died at the Ashboro Fan Faire were the only reported deaths in what news stations across the state were claiming were thousands of reported incidents—and their deaths were the result not of the actions of the Hellraised, but of their human fans.

  "So where do you think they came from?" Paige asked.

  "Hell."

  "Don't be obtuse. How do you think they got here?"

  "Oh." Dayne sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the TV screen—at the camera shots of devils and demons and imps and gargoyles; of incubi and succubi and gremlins. Bemused, she said, "I think God has given them a second chance."

  Paige turned sideways on the couch and gave Dayne a half smile. "Come again?"

  "I'd rather not say anything until I know for sure. . . ." She wrinkled her nose and made a face at Paige. "I'll be very interested to know why they're here."

  "Me too." Paige fished the last of the buttery kernels of popcorn from the bottom of the bowl and shook her head. "Mike said everyone thought the devils on the football field were a Duke prank at first. They ran out from the locker rooms and started doing cheers with the Tarheel cheerleaders. Then they started goosing the cheerleaders with their pitchforks. Security tried to run them off, they turned and charged the security officers, and Mike said all of a sudden they grew like three or four feet taller and got these huge claws and bat wings. Mike said it was the scariest thing he ever saw. The people in the stands had been laughing, but then they stopped, and a lot of them tried to run for the exits."

  "What did Mike do?"

  "He and his clients stayed pu
t, and they were fine. A few people were hurt, nobody seriously."

  "I'm surprised he didn't want you to come home."

  Paige shook her head. "He and his clients decided to discuss business at the house. Less excitement. I'm sure he'd love to have me there, but I hate discussions of LANs and RISCs and RAM and such." She wrinkled her nose. "About as much as he hates to hear me talk about FHA and HUD and points and features."

  "I'll bet. You two make a strange couple."

  Paige nodded. "We have fun. The things we have in common make up for the fact that we can't really talk about work."

  "Things in common? Like—"

  "We're both horny little devils. . . ." Paige pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. The smile vanished from her face. "That isn't actually funny anymore," she said softly. "When nobody thought it was real, Hell was kind of a funny place. People told devil jokes and—said `damn it' and never really considered what `damn it' meant. But now . . ." She sighed. "Everything has changed. The fundamentalists and the Jesus-shouters were right." She frowned. "All the things we thought we knew, maybe we didn't know after all." She got up and said, "I need something to drink. I'll be right back."

  She walked down the hall to the kitchen. Dayne watched her, and said quietly into the empty room, "I never thought Hell was a funny place. Not ever."

  Channel 13 switched from commentary and speculation to Toni Spellman doing an interview live in front of the City Hall in Charlotte.

  "We have with us Mr. Roiling Pusbucket," the reporter said, and Dayne turned her attention to the news. Roiling Pusbucket?

  "Paige!" she yelled. "Get in here! They're going to interview a devil!"

  Paige ran in, holding a Diet Coke in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. She dropped onto the couch again, and popped the top on the Coke.

  "Mr. Pusbucket claims he is high on Hell's chain of command, and he has kindly granted us an interview."

  A scaly-faced demon, in a leisure suit so loud Dayne tried to readjust the color of her television set just to tone it down, smiled at the reporter. "Thank you, Toni. Greetings from Hell."

  Toni's smile was forced. "Thank you, Mr. Pusbucket."

  "You can call me Roiling."

  "Roiling, then. Millions of people are watching you, right now, and wondering what you are doing here. How did you get here? Do you have a mission? How long are you going to be here?"

  Roiling Pusbucket chuckled and rested a hand on Toni's shoulder—Dayne watched the reporter shrink back, and the demon's hand dropped to his side.

  "Well, Toni . . . I'm pleased to say that we are here in North Carolina by the grace of the Almighty. We don't have a time limit set on our parole—as far as I know, we've been turned loose for good. God decided to give us all a second chance; you know, a chance to repent—"

  "Why would God do that?" Toni interrupted.

  The demon grinned. "I'll get to that in a moment."

  Toni nodded. "So what is your mission?"

  The demon grinned. "I reckon God is hoping we'll all convert. But the Boss let us know our mission is the usual. Drum up business for the Corporation, bring in the revenues—"

  "By the Corporation, I assume you mean Hell. And revenue would be souls," Toni interrupted. "Souls damned to Hell."

  "Sure. That's what the Corporation does. Well, cash too. Every business needs a good cash flow. But we need cash, and we need product. We've been in the business a long time, missy—and it's good work. I've made it all the way from damnedsoul up to demon third class—should make devil junior grade in six months, if I can turn a decent profit."

  "You get promoted. For dragging people into Hell." This concept looked like it bothered the reporter a lot.

  "Honey, we don't drag 'em. Most of 'em come running." The demon scratched absently at his crotch. "Hell is very democratic—promotions based on merits, demotions based on demerits. . . ." He grinned broadly. "If you like dictatorships, go to Heaven. No room for advancement there—whatever you are when you get there, that's what you're going to be for all eternity. But if you like challenges, if you crave adventure, if you want to be all you can be, then Hell's the place for you."

  "Is it just coincidence that Hell sounds an awful lot like the Army?"

  " 'Course not. We recruit heavily from the military. You'd be surprised the number of ex-privates who have the pleasure of running their old drill sergeants through the hoops." The demon shrugged. "But you're missing the point. Hell is more than fire and brimstone. We research markets, we create new products, we compete in the open marketplace with the Old Communist. We hustle. We grow."

  "Were you referring to God as the Old Communist?"

  "Mr. `Each-According-To-His-Needs.' That's the one. If you desire more out of life than just what somebody else thinks is your fair share, you don't want to go to Heaven. Request Hell when it's time to punch your ticket."

  "Mr. Pusbucket—"

  "Roiling, honey. Just call me Roiling."

  "I think I prefer Mr. Pusbucket. It is obvious that whatever God may have hoped for when he released you, you have no intention of acceding to his wishes. So why did he turn you loose? Why would God set—how many of you are there?"

  "Fifty-eight thousand eight hundred fifty-one."

  The reporter didn't answer so much as she sort of gurgled in the back of her throat.

  "That's a lot," Paige said.

  Dayne nibbled on the inside of her lip. "That's a lot."

  The reporter got her voice back. "Why would God set fifty-eight thousand plus Hellraised loose in North Carolina?"

  "According to the rules and regs we received, because that was one one-hundredth of the state's population at the time he decided to do it."

  "That isn't what I mean. Why did he decide to do it?"

  The demon grinned and looked at the camera. Dayne's stomach tightened.

  "One of your fellow North Carolinians asked him to. All of Hell is having a big celebration today in honor of Dayne Teresa Kuttner of Charlotte, North Carolina." The devil waved at the camera, and smiled broadly, so that his yellowed, dagger-like teeth gleamed. "Hi, Dayne," he said. "You're our kind of person!"

  Dayne closed her eyes and shoved her head back against the couch.

  "Oh . . . my . . . God . . ." Paige said. She turned and stared at Dayne. "What did you do?"

  "Oh boy," Dayne whispered. "Oh boy oh boy oh boy."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "He listened," Dayne said. "I mean, I believed He listened, but He really, truly, honestly listened . . . and He did it." She started smiling. She opened her eyes. "Paige—God did it."

  "I'll say. He threw you into the soup up to your neck."

  "No-no-no. You don't understand. I mean God gave them all second chances. All of them. Now nobody has to suffer. Not Lucifer. Not his devils and demons." She closed her eyes as she felt the tears filling them. "Not Torry. No one ever has to be trapped in Hell anymore."

  Paige said, "Dayne, that's great. The denizens of Hell aren't trapped in Hell. That's good news, I'm sure." Her voice was dry and gravelly. "The bad news, though, is that now Hell's damned are in North Carolina."

  She took a deep breath and added, "And the really bad news is that it's all your fault. If you were going to pick one thing not to do in the Bible Belt—I'm just guessing here, you understand, but my guess is—that would be the thing."

  Chapter 21

  Paige went home at last, expressing some concern about stepping out the door. Dayne locked the door and the deadbolt and the night lock and started closing up for the night. She couldn't see any sense in staying up later. Nothing new was happening on the devil front—the reporters had stopped doing many live spots, and now the commentators were on the air, telling the world what it all meant. She figured she had a better idea than they did of what it meant, so it seemed like a good time to get some sleep.

  Besides, she had Sunday off. Two days in a row . . . and for once, she was going to get both of them
. She intended to let the answering machine take all her calls. She was going to get some more sleep, and she knew if anyone in the unit called in, the nursing supervisor would call and ask her to come in to work.

  She'd just turned off the kitchen lights and was getting ready to run upstairs when her doorbell rang.

  "Paige?" she wondered. Paige frequently forgot things . . . like her purse or her house keys or something else equally essential. Dayne turned on the porch light, then peeked through the peephole in the door.

  It wasn't Paige. It was a reporter, standing with his back to her on her landing, while a cameraman fiddled with lights and his range.

  It was a bit late for reporters, she thought, but she could understand the enthusiasm. Maybe if I talk to this one, the rest will let me sleep in a little tomorrow.

  She opened the door and smiled. "Hi. Can I help you?"

  The reporter turned, looked over her head, then looked down. A cold smile crossed his face. "Miss Kuttner?" he asked.

  "That's right."

  He stepped forward, crowding into Dayne's comfort zone. She backed up, and he followed, so that she stood well into her apartment, while he stood just inside the threshold, holding the door wide open.

  "Charlie, on me in three . . . two . . . one . . ."

  "This is Marty Fisk, live at the home of Dayne Kuttner, the woman who set Hell loose in North Carolina. Miss Kuttner . . ."

  "It's Mrs.," she said. "My name is Mrs. Dayne Kuttner."

  "Oh." He looked around, his expression slightly nervous, but when Mr. Kuttner didn't appear, he continued. "Mrs. Kuttner. Why did you do this terrible thing?"

  She frowned. "Mr. Fisk, is it?" He nodded. "This was no terrible thing. It was—it is—a wonderful thing. I prayed for God to give every soul in Hell a second chance," Dayne told him earnestly. "God listened."

  "Miss Kuttner, learned scholars believe that with your prayer—if in fact it was a prayer, though we have no proof of that—you have set into motion the evil events of the Final Days. In fact, well-placed and well-informed ministers equate your role with that of the Harlot of Babylon, and suggest that you might in fact be her."