Sympathy for the devil Page 9

  "You were presumptuous when you spoke to him," one woman said. Her voice had an edge to it. "Why could you presume to dictate how God ran Hell?"

  Dayne felt the darkness of pain wash over her. They had to know, she supposed. So she told them. She told them about the old people on ventilators, about the feel of breaking bones beneath her hands, about the sound of shattering old ribs, so precisely like the sound of cracking knuckles. She told them about doctors who wouldn't give up, and people who couldn't die: nearly drowned children who would live for years without ever waking again, brain-dead husbands and wives whose families came daily to visit the empty husks of their loved ones' bodies—who came to see those visits as visits to a grave, while grief drained life and joy out of them. And she talked about Torry, whom she had loved and lost, and about the fate she feared had awaited him, and the pain she feared he suffered and did not want him to suffer. She talked about this as being pain greater than any she had ever seen, greater than anything she could comprehend.

  "If my husband ran around on me, I'd want him to burn in Hell," one female reporter offered.

  "Not if you love him," Dayne said. "Your own hurt is temporary. Hell's pain was eternal." She brightened. "But not now. Now there is hope even in Hell."

  Chapter 24

  Lucifer did not take kindly to Dayne's interference. Defections from Hell's ranks of suffering damnedsouls had been high before—people who discovered Hell was a real place were often quick to repent—but the news of Dayne's pointless, redundant do-gooder intervention had indeed spread hope even to the depths of the Pit, and numbers of repenters were surpassing numbers of new meat for the first time in millennia.

  Lucifer drummed his talons on the red lacquer surface of his desk and glared. Agonostis was, as far as he could tell, approaching the matter of Dayne's damnation with intelligence and efficiency—and he was doing yeoman work setting up Hell's branch office upstairs, too.

  But Lucifer wanted a fail-safe. He wasn't sure what form this fail-safe should take; however, he did have an idea of who ought to be given the job of backing up Agonostis.

  He paged Pitchblende, and when the demon appeared, he said, "Find Jezerael and bring her here. I have an assignment for her."

  When Jezerael arrived, Lucifer greeted her coldly. "Your enemy does well in his assignment on Earth."

  Jezerael said nothing.

  "I think he shall, if he succeeds in his work there, become my unquestioned second in command—and I think you shall become his servant." Lucifer saw Jezerael's eyes turn vicious and hard. Still she said nothing; her control was superb. "I might offer you a chance to win the role I would give to him . . . if you dare take it."

  "I'll take it," she snarled.

  "Yes. I thought you would. If you would be my second, and have Agonostis as your slave, bring me the soul of Dayne Kuttner before Agonostis can get it. You'll go up to Earth, you'll follow the rules there. . . ."

  "I thought the total number of Hellspawn who could go to the surface were already there."

  "We have had one or two . . . little accidents. There are openings. I'll slide you into one of them." Lucifer shrugged. "You'll find yourself bound by the rules. You'll also still be responsible for improving the Lust and Fornication department—anything you personally do on the surface will count toward your numbers. You can't count the other Hellspawn's activities, I'm afraid. Agonostis will get all the credit for that."

  "I don't care. I can make it work. And I can get Dayne Kuttner's soul, too."

  "Let's hope so. Things will be quite unpleasant for you if you don't—Agonostis will surely see to that. You have an hour to prepare. Make the most of your time."

  Chapter 25

  Jezerael studied the computerized notes about Dayne Kuttner and compared them with details about Agonostis' movements. She read the bio in slow-time, went over informed speculation about why Dayne had made the prayer she had . . . and then she looked with careful attention to detail at Lucifer's annotations on the spy's reports of her archenemy's approach to the problem of Dayne Kuttner.

  She began to laugh. "The stupid bastard is trying to damn her with lust . . . with lust! She went without sex from the day her husband died until the present, and it would be obvious to anyone but a moron that she simply hasn't wanted to debauch herself—she's had as many opportunities as anyone could." Jezerael leaned back in her chair and smiled slyly. "I can see now that it's definitely possible to stay too long in one job, and think the familiar solutions are the only solutions that can work. Lucky for me I'm broader in thought and clearer in sight than that."

  Jezerael had to admit that Dayne was showing interest in Agonostis' cover persona. It wasn't the sort of interest that was going to land Dayne in Hell—at least Jezerael didn't think it was, but she thought she would be wise to destroy any chance Agonostis had of finessing Dayne into the corral. Timing would be very important; she'd have to find a moment that would leave Dayne feeling totally hurt and betrayed. She smiled as the perfect scenario occurred to her. She'd have to see about getting a reliable spy of her own, so she could keep tabs on Dayne and Agonostis; if he was any damned good at his job at all, Jezerael's moment would come.

  And then she needed to devise her own plan of seduction.

  She didn't know what that would be yet . . . but it would be something Dayne would find irresistible.

  Chapter 26

  "Dayne!" A tall, dark-haired form pushed his way through the crowd, and resolved into Adam.

  Dayne waved, and watched as the camera lenses turned to focus on Adam, and noted the curiosity and calculation in the eyes of the reporters. She could see them formulating their questions as he approached.

  She was tired. She didn't want to answer any more questions. She'd been sitting on the brick and concrete of her front steps as long as she could stand. She wanted to be up and moving, she wanted to be someplace quiet and secluded; she didn't want to see anyone else with a picket sign or a T-shirt with her face on it.

  Adam blew by the waiting reporters with a cold, experienced "no comment," and hurried to her side. He whispered in her ear, "I have my car parked one street over. Do you want to get out of here?"

  "More than anything," she told him.

  He smiled. "You any good at running?"

  "I'm fairly fast and I have lots and lots of stamina."

  "That will do." He took her hand and leaned down to whisper in her ear, "Be ready to make a break for it."

  She nodded solemnly, and stood.

  "That's all, people. Go home. She doesn't want to talk anymore."

  The reporters protested, demanding to know who Adam was and what right he had to chase them away. Behind them, a faint, unhappy rumble rose from the crowd. Dayne had been so reasonable and so open, they seemed to feel they were entitled to keep her talking indefinitely.

  Adam started leading her away, across the yard, toward the back of the apartment and the opposite street. The reporters, losing their fear and their manners in the same instant, shoved in on her and began shouting last-minute questions and crowding in.

  "Who's your boyfriend?"

  "What do you have to say to the people who claim you're really a Satanist, and that when you prayed, you prayed to the Devil?"

  "Why didn't you pray for something useful, like world peace or enough food for everyone!"

  "Run," Adam shouted.

  They ran—Dayne had been perfectly honest in her assessment of both her speed and her endurance. Long-legged Adam kept pace with her with difficulty, while the encumbered cameramen and their reporter cronies were left in the dust.

  "Turn right," Adam gasped, while the mob trailed behind them.

  Dayne gathered herself and sailed over a low holly hedge—the gleaming, spear-edged leaves were encouragement to keep her legs high in classic hurdler's form. Adam took the hedge without difficulty. Both of them picked up speed when they encountered a Rottweiler on a chain considerably longer than either of them had guessed. A chain-link fence proved
an obstacle, until Adam lifted Dayne over—after she was safely on the other side, he rested one hand on the top of the fence and vaulted over it, and she thought perhaps she ought to hate him. But she didn't.

  "How much farther?"

  He was breathing hard. "The corner. Up there."

  The corner was another chain-link fence and a good two holly hedges away. She saw some of the reporters and cameramen splitting off in a clear flanking maneuver, and pointed that out to Adam as they ran.

  "Still have. Your pepper gas?"

  "Sure."

  "Pull it out. Hold in your. Hand."

  They were at the second fence. He lifted her over. She pulled out the pepper gas canister and held it up.

  The flanking reporters stopped, and the cameramen decided suddenly to take their pictures standing still.

  "Good job." Neither holly hedge was too terrible, though Dayne thought the people on the corner were being a bit slack in their trimming. Still, she and Adam arrived at the car intact and laughing. He opened the door for her, she jumped in, and they zoomed out of the side street, across a main boulevard, down another side street, and then another, and finally they were out of the dreadful traffic that had inundated her neighborhood, and away from people who knew who she was.

  It was only then that she realized she was driving to an unspecified destination with a man she didn't know at all. He seemed so warm and familiar, and that friendly face in the middle of the swarm of reporters had been like a beacon of light. But she wasn't comfortable with the situation—as much as she liked Adam, she didn't know him enough to trust him. Her right hand slid into her jacket pocket, and held the pepper gas. Insurance.

  "I saw you on the television," he said. He took a corner a bit clumsily, and Dayne was startled when she realized he didn't drive very well. He had a problem with his clutch, and had to look at the stick when he shifted gears. He seemed unaware of her scrutiny. "You looked good," he told her. "But you also looked like someone who could use an excuse for an escape."

  "I was getting tired of answering the same questions in different ways," she agreed.

  "You were very nice to them." He looked left and right, started to turn left, and muttered, "Damn. One way street."

  "Charlotte's full of them," she told him. "I was afraid the mob would stone me if I didn't explain things to them."

  Adam laughed. "After last night? If you'd told 'em to kiss the ground you walked on, they would have."

  "Last night?"

  "When you took apart the local reporter—you didn't know they ran that clip on CNN?"

  Dayne smiled a toothy smile. "I figured they must have run it somewhere—the male reporters today were all standing around with their ankles crossed."

  "Probably wore athletic cups to the interview, too." Adam sighed. "Look, I had intended to ask you out, and have both of us meet at a nice restaurant—something that would give you a chance to get to know me. I never intended to shanghai you, but you really did look like you needed a rescue. And since we're here, why don't you let me buy lunch? Have you had anything to eat?"

  Dayne pressed her hands to her face. "My lunch! I left it on my step when we ran off." She shook her head. "No, I haven't had anything." She thought of her lunch sitting on her landing, then considered how she must have looked, running across yards and jumping fences. She sighed.

  "What's wrong?" Adam's look of concern did a lot to reassure her.

  "I don't know that running was the best thing to do. I'm afraid it will make them think I have something to hide."

  "You don't?"

  She looked at him sidelong, and he shrugged. "Sorry. Everyone I have ever known has had something to hide. But I've never known anyone like you before. The fact that you were the person who got the Hellspawn paroled to Earth came as quite a shock." He turned again, this time grinding the gears badly before he got the clutch all the way in. He sighed and muttered, "These things always look so easy when somebody else drives them." Then he pulled over into a parking lot and put the car into neutral. While it idled, he turned to face her and said, "Of course running was the right thing to do. Dayne, if you'd stayed there being polite to them, they would have kept throwing questions at you until you fell down from exhaustion. They don't care that you kindly sat and answered every question you were asked. They use people. They're looking for the sensational, and if you're reasonable with them, they'll keep prodding you until you do something sensational. They didn't want to hear you telling them about things that mattered to you. They just wanted pictures of screaming picketers and riots in the street."

  "Oh."

  "The station I was watching gave you pretty good coverage, but I flipped around a little—most of the other stations had experts in, who were commenting on what you had to say, and explaining why you were wrong."

  Dayne looked at him, startled. "Why I was wrong?"

  He nodded. "Their expert commentators, ministers mostly, were explaining how what you had asked of God was counter to the Bible, or how your theology was wrong, or how God didn't perform miracles anymore so the fact that the Hellspawn were here could not have been an act of God. The majority of the people listening to your interview only heard little sound bites taken from the things you said, as often as not taken out of context, and always heavily edited and explained by the commentators."

  "So I was wasting my time?"

  "They were wasting your time. Give credit where it's due. You were doing the best you could. They weren't."

  Dayne leaned back into the bucket seat and closed her eyes. "I wonder what they'll come away thinking."

  "Whatever they thought before." Adam took a deep breath and put the car into reverse. He backed up in the parking lot, fought with the gears, and got the car rolling forward toward the street again. "Anyway, how about something to eat. I'll buy, by way of apology for dragging you away from your press conference in such an undignified manner. You, however, will have to pick out the restaurant—I've been working nearly around the clock since I got here, and haven't had the time to explore."

  Dayne opened her eyes and looked around—she was no longer sure where she was. Charlotte was a big enough city that even people who had lived in it most of their lives could find places to get lost. Dayne, who had moved to Charlotte to be with Torry, and who had stayed because she had an apartment and work, had explored only the parts she needed to, and had avoided the rest.

  "I don't know. This isn't my part of town."

  "How about an adventure, then?"

  She tilted her head and gave him a little half-smile. "Just what I need—another adventure." Then she laughed. "Why not? What sort of adventure did you have in mind?"

  "Stop at the first place we come to and eat there?"

  Dayne looked around the neighborhood and winced. "Um . . . maybe we'd better drive a bit further first. I don't like the look of this neighborhood." Streetwalkers sauntered along the sidewalk in broad daylight—absolutely gorgeous women in awful clothes, and young boys wearing lipstick, and little girls with high heels and hard eyes. She wondered at them . . . so many congregated so close together. They seemed to be doing a brisk business, though.

  Adam looked at the street and nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. I do think you're right. So let's not be that adventurous. I vote for cowardice and a bit more driving."

  Dayne laughed. "Second the motion and call the question."

  Adam said, "All in favor?"

  "Aye!" they said in unison.

  They continued to drive with Adam apparently picking the streets at random, and suddenly Dayne recognized the neighborhood. She'd never come at it that way—her own route stuck to major arteries and skipped the red-light district—but first houses and yards and then everything became recognizable.

  "Yes!" she said. "There are several restaurants down that way."

  Chapter 27

  Jezerael arrived precisely where she wished to be—inside a shopping mall restroom—wearing one suit of Hellwear, and carrying a huge amount of ca
sh and a large leather backpack full of maps and information. She strolled out of the restroom, picked an expensive women's boutique, walked through the doors and said, "Outfit me. I need everything, and I want everything top of the line." After a suitable tip, the two women who ran the boutique were more than happy to close up for the rest of the day and give her their complete attention. They were equally happy to recommend a hairdresser, and set up an immediate appointment for her, and to call a cab to get her there.

  Because Jezerael had never been human, she had never known the sort of pampering money could buy. She hadn't gotten it in Heaven, and certainly not in Hell. She liked it—liked it enough that she thought she would rather stay in North Carolina than return to Hell. Even if Lucifer offered her a promotion. She decided she wanted Agonostis' Earthside job. He could take back Lust and Fornication—hell, he could have Plagues and Diseases for that matter. Although it would please her much more if he ended up as a damnedsoul screaming in the Pit.

  So there was another goal. Stay on Earth. See Agonostis fry. Throw Dayne Kuttner to Lucifer and his dogs.

  The woman cutting her hair said, "So what do you do?"

  "Disease research," Jezerael said before she'd had a chance to think about it.

  "Oh, my." The plump little bleached blonde looked impressed. "Are you a doctor?"

  Jezerael wrinkled her nose. "No. A scientist."

  "You have the strongest nails I think I've ever worked on," the girl doing her manicure said. "And they're so long."

  You should have seen them before, the fallen angel thought. They could rip out a liver with one swipe—very convenient when doing biopsies. She didn't say any of that, of course. It might be amusing to assume her true form in front of these pitiful mortals, but if she did, she'd get a lousy haircut, and her nails would have to be re-done.

  "So . . . do you think the light red . . . or the clear?"

  Jezerael looked at the two nail polish shades the girl held up for her approval, and said, "Neither. I want a dark red. Something . . . dangerous."