“She drank too much,” Sam murmured. “Drank me dry anyway.” They both laughed. “Fuck man, what time is it?”
Half blind, her vision and mind jumping, she pushed at a pile of clothing on the floor looking for her own.
“Fucking late…not even morning,” the black man groaned, watching Cawood. “Don’t make a mess, baby. Fuck!”
Cawood’s chest was constricted by dry heaves and darkness. Emotional sickness welled up from her consciousness. She wiped at a string of spittle. There was another. Where was the other man? Her mind replayed a sick image-the other man on top of her-and a man below, the black man-Dave. The other, the white man with sandy hair-her abdomen ached. Her whole body ached. Where was the other?
“Just remember shooting that fucking shit was your idea, Princess,” Dave snarled and pointed. “ Your idea.”
Cawood found her miniskirt and jacket-the material was cold and damp to the touch but it covered her. She barely heard the words. “What did you give me? The drug…RUFI’S?” There were fingernail scratches on her stomach. “What did you say? Shooting what? Drugs?”
“Oh shit,” Dave said, and Sam started laughing. “I knew that was going to happen. But we got you on film saying it was your idea…don’t get all holy roller on us now, sister.”
A tremor of panic started below the level of her pain and worked upward, rising slowly at first then increasing in speed as realization sunk in. “ Filmed it?” The throbbing pain in her brain disappeared with the thought. “Filmed what?”
“Your idea, we just was gonna fuck.” Dave found the energy to sit up now. “You wanted us to film it while the three of us fucked you blue.” He elbowed Sam and they laughed.
The other man grinned. “And we said, what the fuck. Let’s give the bitch what she wants.” He laughed. “Turned out, you fucked us blue!”
“You can’t.” Realization paralyzed her. No. No. No. Snapping out of it, she searched the pile of clothes for her stockings and shoes. “You’ve got to give the film to me.”
“Can’t.” Dave paled. “Raul took his camera home with him.”
“No.” A fresh wave of nausea rose and she vomited again. The men laughed. “You can’t do this.”
“Sick up in the can, baby,” Sam said. “You’re getting that all over!”
The drugs and alcohol were still distorting Cawood’s senses, still shielding her from the full realization of events. No big deal. Not as bad as it looks! She fumbled into her shoes and pushed her hair from her eyes. I can handle this. Her mind spun away from the scene.
“You one hungry pussy, baby,” Dave said, a carnal wave washed over his features. He fished his penis out of his boxers. “What about me and Sammie do you one more time. They say it cures a hangover.”
Choking back bile, Cawood turned from them and hurried shakily down the hallway away from them. Their catcalls chased her. Her numb fingers barely worked the lock on the door. Then she was in a hall outside, careening, spinning into doorjambs and walls. She could think of nothing. Her legs were wet now as liquids spilled from her body. The thought doubled her over with dry heaves.
She had to get home, had to get to her apartment before her neighbors woke up. Terrified, she lurched down two flights of stairs and was in the street. Cawood didn’t recognize the neighborhood. Casting around, she didn’t know the Level. It was deep though. A dead man staggered along the sidewalk toward her and passed. His round eyes were wide with interest or terror.
The dead on the street. At most Level Two if she was lucky. She had no watch, no idea of the time. Headlights cut along the road. The nun waved at the cab. It slowed. She dove into the back seat without looking at the driver. She kept her face shielded with her hand. Voice, harsh and bitter she grated out her address. As the taxi sped from the curb, Cawood sank into her terrified thoughts.
19 – Sunken City
The Sunken City was a perfect place for Demons to make their terrestrial lair. Their Infernal residence was the Pit, but traveling to and from the nether regions required considerable energy. By setting up shop in the Sunken City they could make better use of their powers while easily deciding who would come and go.
After the hit on Stahn, Felon had returned to his hotel where he received word that Baron Balg would make final payment aboard his yacht the following morning. The minor change in plan raised internal alarms, but the assassin always expected a double cross. If Balg did anything stupid Felon would make it more expensive than a bit of gold. That was why betrayal was so unlikely. Demons enjoyed nice long lives in the world after the Change, and it was only money. Meeting in the Sunken City was yet a quirk of the Demon’s massive ego.
The Coastview desk clerk told him to join Mr. Wurn at pier 22 no later than 9 a.m. Felon took a cab to the harbor and found the pier among the battered hulks of freighters.
He watched Mr. Wurn where he worked the trawler’s controls. Balg’s servant looked like something that belonged under a bridge. He had lurched out of the morning fog and motioned for the assassin to follow. The troll’s features were human, but distorted and grossly over-sized. His nose was easily a foot in length, which stood out, because Wurn was three and a half feet tall. He had thick, powerful arms that he had to keep bent while walking or let his knuckles drag. Something supernatural had made him. Wurn had obvious native strength, but the simple activities of life were a chore for him. His breath came in ragged gasps, and sweat poured from him continuously. His eyes were tiny and red, though they held quick, if tormented, intelligence. Wurn wore greasy coveralls, and smelled like vomit.
He had led Felon to an old fishing trawler, and quickly set course for the Sunken City. Some twenty minutes into the journey, Felon moved to the bow to stay clear of the troll’s stench. It was a struggle to keep a cigarette lit in the damp, misty air.
They followed an indirect route away from the ancient bridges-collapsed and eroded now. There was too much wreckage around the crumbled buttresses to be safely navigated. Looking at the destruction, Felon remembered the fires and riots in the early Change.
Felon didn’t waste words on Wurn. He knew that Demons had control over their own body shapes, and could change them with little effort. And he knew that they, like Angels, could manipulate matter to create whatever they needed from raw materials around them. Looking at the troll, it seemed they could work their magic on living flesh as well. It amazed him that Wurn was sent to get him. The Demons were growing powerful, or foolhardy to allow something like the troll so close to people. Wurn was no genetic screw up. Felon had always suspected that down deep Demons feared humans and their position in the Divine hierarchy. But Wurn was an open challenge. The Demons thumbed their noses at humanity, Fallen and the Angels. They were putting the City of Light on notice.
“Master Balg expects you.” Wurn’s guttural syllables flopped across the deck like fish. He had left the small wheelhouse and approached. His lips were the size of cucumbers, swollen beyond useful communication.
Felon glared.
“Master Balg says you are a great man!” Wurn smiled revealing large broken teeth.
“Shut your fucking mouth!” Felon snarled and drew on his cigarette.
Wurn scratched the thin fur on his sparsely covered head, and returned to the wheelhouse. The troll’s face appeared in the small window, weighing the assassin with nervous glances. He mumbled worriedly to himself.
Felon wondered why the Demon wasted flattery on a hired gun. Balg had neither the need nor the inclination. Demons rarely threw compliments around, and if they did, it was always for a reason. Why? Was it sugar coating to coax him into recklessness? Was it an attempt to flatter him into thinking he was something he was not? Was Balg trying to lull him into a false sense of security or were the words delivered to buy the assassin’s favor? Did it suggest that Balg was afraid? He had just proven yet again that he could kill Demons-that he possessed the ability to surprise members of the Infernal host.
Or, was that question proof of his first proposition at work? Felon knew that he should never underestimate a Demon, and here he was actually thinking that a one might fear him. Perhaps that was why Wurn had been instructed to flatter him-if there was a reason. Already, Felon’s thoughts had turned inward, decreasing his reaction time a degree. The assassin knew that it only took a second to die. The compliment had already cost him a
