“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 disguise the fact that the place was a hovel in practice as well as name.
Peanut shells and other crunchy bits crushed under his boots as he came in, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. The usual sad bastards had bellied up to the bar—a pair of old men in Bermuda shorts, the bleary-eyed, Rudolph-nosed drunk working on his glass of whatever was cheap and plentiful, and a couple of hungover gits sporting Wayfarers, even in the near-subterranean dark of the bar. Musicians, Jack guessed, although not decent ones. If they were, they would’ve known to keep hair of the dog on hand, roll out of bed, and go back to practice with a bottle of whiskey and a fistful of aspirin. Who had time to be pissing about in old man pubs?
Mayhew was at the end of the bar, the short leg, where he could keep an eye on the gents and the front door simultaneously. It’d be a good vantage if he wasn’t piss-drunk, head dipping over his glass, which was clear and slippery with ice cubes. Jack could smell the juniper when he got within a few feet.
“Hello again, Ben,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to Mayhew, blocking the view of the rest of the patrons while appearing to simply be having a friendly drink.
Mayhew looked up at him, eyes sliding blearily in and out of focus. “Oh,” he said. “Back already?”
“Too right,” Jack said. He leaned in, keeping one elbow on the sticky vinyl of the bar top and snaking his other hand out to grab Mayhew’s balls. It wasn’t the most delicate or dignified way to get somebody’s attention, but it had the bonus effect of sobering Mayhew up while inflicting the kind of tight, hot pain that inclined the subject to the truth. “What exactly,” Jack growled, leaning close enough to lick Mayhew’s ear, “did you think was going to happen when Belial showed up in your tacky little horror of an office?”
“I didn’t know,” Mayhew gasped. “A demon asks you to do something, you do it.”
“Now, I can feel you’ve got balls,” Jack said. “So unless he owns your arse, why’re you helping a Hellspawn reel me in?”
“He came to me and he said he needed to get you here,” Mayhew said. “Said if I did, I’d find out who killed the Case family. It was a good deal.” Beads of moisture worked their way down Mayhew’s glass, and down his face, and the stench of his breath enveloped Jack in a furnace of fear and desperation. “I’m not like you,” Mayhew whispered. “I’m just a scryer—I find things, people, and I’m not even very good at it. I can’t find out who killed those people and I…” He gulped. “I promised Mrs. Case I would.”
“Here’s a tip,” Jack said. “Don’t make promises to the dead. It never ends well for the living.”
“I swear I didn’t think he’d hurt you,” Mayhew said. “Did he? Hurt you?”
Jack released Mayhew’s crotch. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he said. “What do you know about the things Belial has me looking for?”
“Nothing,” Mayhew muttered, dipping back into his gin. “Less than nothing. If I knew, don’t you think I would’ve gone after them myself by now?” He gave Jack a grin, loose and pink with gums. “I wasn’t always a lush who calls himself a PI, you know. I used to be a good cop.”
“I used to be a dead man,” Jack said. “We all used to be something, Ben.”
“And now you’re the demon’s bitch.” Mayhew chuckled to himself. “Better you than me, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
Jack told himself Mayhew was a drunk, a washout, and a fringe practitioner who didn’t have the sense of a gnat, but he still found himself standing up, fisting a handful of Mayhew’s Hawaiian shirt, and shoving him against the nearest wall. “You have no bloody idea who you’re talking to,” Jack snarled. “Or what you’re talking about.”
“You’re some big-shot badass where you come from,” Mayhew muttered. “I get that. But this isn’t London, and I’m not fucking impressed. I did what I had to do to get you here and put a stop to these murders. You don’t scare me.”
That was the problem with losing your temper—you didn’t think beyond the violence, and now Jack had the choice of propping Mayhew back on his bar stool or beating the shit out of him, neither of which particularly filled him with joy.
“Hey, man.” One of the hungover hipsters tapped him on the arm. “Gonna have to ask you to cut that out.”
“Fuck off,” Jack said. “This ain’t your business.”
“Actually, I think it is,” the git said. He flicked his sunglasses down, and Jack caught a flash of pure white
