the city like a couple of street tramps.”
As soon as I said the words “holy water” I got an idea. At the next intersection I swung the car back toward the temple.
The van dogged me all the way there. But it didn’t attempt any more quick turns. And it didn’t run up on my bumper, for which I was grateful. If I trash another car this early in the year, I kind of thought Pete would have a heart attack.
I drove right up to the steps, dove out the passenger door, and raced to the temple’s huge entryway. The goat raised its head with interest as I stopped at the threshold.
The van screeched to a halt and reavers piled out like it was on fire. The mahghul crowded onto its roof and the adjoining satellite dish, watching eagerly as the four of them came at me.
I stepped inside the temple. They stopped on the other side of the door, prohibited from attacking me, as I’d hoped, by the sanctity of the place. At a temporary impasse, we stared each other down.
The original reaver, who was no longer slapping imaginary flies, had found himself some real winners to help him take me out. Beside him, panting like he’d just run to the top of the Sears Tower, was a sweaty, fat man who reminded me of a puffy Jason Alexander. He leaned hard against his neighbor, a tiny old dude who barely looked capable of holding himself up, much less a creature six times his size. The fourth reaver was so thin you could actually see his skull through his skin.
But though they looked pathetic, underestimating these creatures would be a huge mistake. I could still see their shields, framing each of them in black. And every one of them stared at me from a third eyeball centered in the middle of their foreheads.
“Where’s the rest of the gang?” I asked the original.
“Somebody had to stay back at the station,” he said. “We’re a twenty-four-hour-a-day operation, so you know what that means.”
“I do?”
He grinned, his spiked tongue wagging out of his mouth like a bird dog’s. “That means we can wait you out, lambie pie. As long as it takes. Eventually you’ll have to leave here. And then we’ll have your heart. And your soul.” His three amigos giggled. They reminded me of the hyenas in Disney’s
Lion King
. You’re laughing with them on the outside, but inside you know those sons of bitches mean to eat your favorite cubs and it makes you want to puke.
Ignoring a sudden urge to run to the bathroom and heave into the toilet, I said, “What’s your name, Reaver?”
He smiled graciously, his three eyes blinking at a steady, four-second beat, as if he had a timer attached to his eyelids. “You can call me Prentiss Cairo.”
“Well, P.C., here’s the thing,” I said, flavoring my voice with enough camaraderie that he looked puzzled. “You can take the Magistrate every single one of my organs, tie up my soul with a pretty pink bow, and he’s still not gonna pat your fanny and send you to the showers with a bonus.”
When they all looked at each other with the confusion you often see on guys’ faces when women start discussing the pros and cons of home hair tinting, I decided to be blunt and hope to God I’d guessed right in forcing this confrontation.
“Have you boys been in touch with the boss recently? You remember him, don’tcha? Pretty boy hauling around a pound of Uldin Beit’s flesh? The reason I ask is,
I
have. And I can guarantee there’s been a change in plan. Your sponsor, Samos, may still want me dead. And I’m sure Uldin Beit hasn’t changed her mind. But the Magistrate has developed a whole new strategy where I’m concerned. And he is the guy with the whip, after all.”
The four of them huddled, all of them talking at once. “I
told
you we should have checked in when we hit this plane!” whined the Jason Alexander clone.
“She’s lying!” declared the old man.
“If we mess this up he’s going to kick the crap out of us,” declared the skinny guy.
“Shut up!” yelled Prentiss, glaring at me over his shoulder. I shrugged, gave him a hey-it’s-not-my-fault-you- can’t-control-your-stooges look, and stuck my hands in my pockets. The left brushed past my engagement ring. Instant comfort, as if Matt was standing beside me, his hand on my shoulder, his whisper warm in my ear. “You’re doing great, Jaz. I’m proud of you.”
The other slipped over the hilt of my bolo. The mahghul stirred with excitement as my hand wrapped around the handle. Gave it a slight pull. Several of them dropped off the van. Crept up behind the reavers.
“So what do you say, P.C.?” I inquired, resolutely ignoring the mahghul. “You want to kill me and put yourself so deep in the Magistrate’s doghouse, instead of souls, you’ll be chasing cockroaches for the next couple of hundred years? Or do you want to make a deal?”
Prentiss narrowed all three of his eyes. Eeeww, freaky. “What do you mean?”
I shrugged. “Leave me to the Magistrate. I get to survive another day. Uldin Beit gets what she wants in the long run. And you guys don’t get your asses reamed by the bossman. Seems like a win-win to me.”
New huddle, much whispering accompanied by a few violent gestures compliments of Prentiss and the old fart. A few moments later they faced me, united and decided. “We’ll do it,” said the old guy. He held out his hand, expecting me to shake on it. Which was when I realized I was screwed.
I know a little bit about dealing with the devil. Or, at least, his minions. The CIA presents a whole course on it.
