Of course they were. Miguel’s mother often reminded me of my own. Every woman was her daughter and every man was her son, even if they already had white hair and wrinkles when she met them. No doubt, Ivan was finding himself mothered to death by the feisty Mexican widow.
“Well, is there anything we can do?” I pinned the phone against my shoulder so I could slap a few slices of leftover pork roast on some bread-good stuff.
He sighed heavily. While I joked about Ivan’s being the old man, it occurred to me for the first time that he truly was getting old. He’d been battling demons longer than I’d been alive. No other champion had as many kills to his credit as Ivan. “His-what is word?-his weapon is not to being returned. I am to be worrying much about this.”
“He uses a machete,” I supplied absently. Not returning a weapon was against the rules.
I’ve never seen a losing battle, but from what I hear, demons don’t leave bodies lying around. One of the first things Ivan taught us to negotiate was for some proof of death to be delivered. A head or hand is a bit macabre, so we usually opted for our weapon to be presented to the person of our choice. Beats a singing telegram.
“Miguel wouldn’t have forgotten that clause. He’s been at this longer than I have.” Ten years longer, for all that Miguel was seven years my junior. It was a family matter, with him, handed down through the generations. He’d lost his father and one older brother to it already.
“ Tak, I am to be knowing this. But it is not to be found all the same.”
“Is it possible he isn’t dead?” Mira’s scrying hadn’t been one hundred percent conclusive, though I’d never heard of a demon taking a hostage. They didn’t worry about our fleshly vessels, just the sweet goodies inside. Maybe souls really do taste like Peeps.
“I am not knowing. I have never to be seeing this before.” He hesitated a moment before going on. “Dawson, being careful, tak? Some things are to being incorrect. I am not happy.”
I wasn’t happy, either, for more reasons than I could count. “Yeah, I’ll be careful. You know me.”
“This is what is to be worrying me.”
“You’re just a regular comedian aren’t you?” I had to smile, but I knew Ivan wasn’t joking. I wasn’t entirely sure he knew how.
“Is Mira being there?”
“No, she’s at work,” I mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich.
“When she is coming home, perhaps to be having her call Rosaline? I think she would like to hear from Mira.”
“I’ll let her know.”
“I will be in touch.” He disconnected the call before I could say good-bye. It really was rather annoying. I’d have to stop doing that to people.
I finished my lunch because I knew I’d need the energy later tonight, but it just didn’t taste good anymore.
My next pass through the kitchen was business related. Nelson Kidd was never going to say, “Y’know what? I screwed up, so we’ll just let the demon have my soul.” And even if he did, I couldn’t live with myself after that. Deep down, I knew this. So tonight, I would be summoning a demon for negotiations.
Your average denizen of Hell is just that-stuck there with only other demons and Jerry Springer reruns for entertainment. Sure, there are a few texts floating around the world with actual demon names, and every so often some amateur magician tries to summon one forth. (It does work, although it rarely turns out like the summoner intended.) Other than that, vacation options from Hell are pretty limited.
However, once in a very great while, a demon gets enough power to come across on its own. Then, they wander around, gather up souls, and solidify their power base until someone like me comes along and puts the hurt on them.
Regardless of how they get to this plane, they’re usually rather pleased to be here. I’m guessing Hell’s not that scenic, and the chance to get out and stretch their appendages is welcome. On top of that, they get a chance at another soul. Who wouldn’t be happy to take the trip to the real world? But y’know how you always have that one tourist, usually sitting next to you on the plane, who just bitches and gripes about everything? They have those in demonkind, too, and they get real snippy about being ordered around.
Since I thought of myself as an air marshal on a demon’s vacation flight, it was only fitting that I equip myself with all the necessary measures to control a rowdy passenger. And I was all out of demon-begone.
It’s a simple recipe of Ivan’s devising, and all the ingredients can be found in an average kitchen cabinet-well, at least in our kitchen cabinet. In truth, we’re the only people I know who buy both cayenne pepper and cumin in bulk.
You take a bunch of cayenne pepper and a bunch of cumin. I operate on the idea that more is better, so long as it’ll still spray through the spritzer thingy. Dump that into a bottle of water, attach a spray nozzle, shake well. Squirt your pesky demon like a bad puppy and it usually departs posthaste. Do not stand downwind of your spray. It hurts just as bad in your own eyes-not that I would know anything about that, of course.
No, I don’t know why it works. Mira says those two spices are known to have protective properties even without magical additions. Good thing, since you could put all my magical talent on the head of a pin and still have room to spare.
I poured some into a refillable Mace canister on my key chain, amongst the rest of my strange collection of protective charms and antidemon gadgets. I tucked the larger bottle into my duffel bag.
My next task was to do a check of my armor. Perhaps it’s disrespectful to my Asian leanings, but I prefer metal around me to bamboo. There’s just something comforting about being encased in links of steel.
I hadn’t always worn armor. That first battle I went into with a sword and rampant stupidity. I was lucky, that time. I never got the chance to be so lax again. The second time, I won, but I spent six months in ICU after the Yeti tried to eat my lungs. That’s when I started charging fees and convinced Marty to throw together some protective gear. We’ve been tinkering with the armor ever since. He wants to put me in plate. I’m resisting.
The mail covered the big areas, chest, thighs, calves, upper arms. I wore thick leather bracers on my forearms, and steel-toed work boots. Beneath it all, I wore a layer of heavy padding, designed to keep the metal from ripping my skin to shreds. That alone added a good fifteen pounds to the already heavy outfit.
In the beginning, I had worked long hours to build up my strength to compensate for the extra weight. But the protection it offered more than made up for any loss in mobility. You can’t fight when your guts are flopping around down by your feet.
The only thing I hated about it was the smell. No matter what I did, my armor and padding always smelled of sweat and blood and sulfur. It wasn’t the easiest thing to wash. Maybe, with the arrival of warm weather, I could try to wash the padding again and hang it out to dry. It’d take a couple days, though, and there was no time to do it now.
I dropped the tailgate on my truck and laid each piece out, looking them over for any imperfections, not that I expected to find any. Marty did good work. He had even oiled the leather straps and replaced one buckle that had started to wear thin.
My shirt looked like a wadded-up ball of steel until I shook it out into the supple, shining work of art that it was. It was dull, tarnished steel, though at one time, Marty had worked gold-tinted links into the neckline and cuffs of the sleeves. Most of those had been damaged and replaced over the years, and now it was an almost uniform charcoal gray. The newest links shone brightly against the dull chain of the original armor, but aside from that, the repair was seamless.
The new plated leg guards I eyed skeptically. Marty had cut the thin steel plates down to narrow strips, barely three inches wide, and attached them so they’d fall two on the outer calf, two on the inner. That left a lot of gap, covered only by chain. I wasn’t sure how well they’d work, in practice. At the very least, I could run through some katas and see what they did for my range of motion. But that would be later-much later. I crammed them into the bottom of the duffel bag, and piled the usable armor in on top of them.
My sword got some attention next. I drew it and examined the edge closely. I’d never do that in front of Marty; I’m sure he’d take it as my questioning his work. It was wicked sharp, and the blade was as straight and true as the day it was crafted. Marty had rewrapped the hilt, using the dark blue cord I preferred. It made me sad to think of putting this one aside for a new one, no matter what piece of genius Marty might construct for me. This sword had been with me since the beginning.
To most, it might appear ordinary, even plain. The guard was an octagonal piece of bronze, and the pommel
