Disheartened, Michael found the back door unlocked and went inside. The kitchen was a disaster that smelled of rancid milk. The living room was filthy and devoid of furniture. Crude graffiti was spray-painted on the walls. The stained carpet was littered with pizza boxes and burger bags, and there were several ratty blankets on the floor, along with enough discarded needles and drug paraphernalia to stock a small medical clinic.
The thought that Jenna had slept in such squalor (if she’d slept at all) deepened Michael’s depression. He had a hard time believing that such an innocent girl could be so easily seduced by Zack’s oily charm. But maybe that innocence had been a figment of his imagination. Maybe he’d been romanticizing the girl because of who she was and what she meant to him. Maybe she was no different from the countless other runaways who had found their way to this sadly corrupted town.
Her song had grown weaker than ever now, only its residue remaining, and he had no idea why the signal was dying.
But he couldn’t give up. Not now. Not ever.
Taking a last look around, he was about to head outside when he heard a soft moan, coming from the down the hall.
Jenna?
Feeling his heart kick up, he crashed through the hallway, moving from bedroom to bedroom. In the corner of the master was an open bathroom door.
He stepped inside and froze.
There was a petite teenage girl lying faceup in the tub, her head canted, a string of vomit running down her chin, a syringe still stuck in her bruised, needle-marked arm.
Not Jenna, but her girlfriend from the cafe.
Michael quickly moved to her and sat her upright, slapping her face to wake her up. But she didn’t respond. He felt for a pulse, but it was barely there and he knew it was too late. The girl would be dead before he could get help.
Something sour churned in his gut, and all he could think was that this could easily have been Jenna.
Placing his palm against her forehead, he blessed her and sent up a silent prayer. It was a formality more than anything else, but he hoped it meant something to someone out there and that this poor girl’s soul would do well in the otherworld.
As her pulse finally came to a stop, he glanced down at her hand and noticed a mark on the back of it, just above the crook of her thumb.
A faded stamp of some kind.
Lifting the hand, he tilted it toward the light from the doorway and took a closer look:
An orange flame. The numbers 904 below it.
He recognized it: an underground dance club named 904, near La Brea and Wilshire, that had derived its name from the local police code for fire. It was rumored to be owned by a media mogul named Jonathan Beel.
Beel, of course, was just a skin. A shell. Occupied by Michael’s old friend and nemesis-brother to Lucifer, and sometime lover of Belial.
Beelzebub.
Michael had never been to the club, had never had the desire to walk right into the lion’s den. But he knew now that he had no choice.
He was certain he’d find Jenna there.
42
What’re you gonna do to her?” Zack asked.
Jonathan Beelzebub Beel flicked his gaze toward the annoying little insect, his voice weary with contempt. “Are you still here?”
“I’m just curious, is all.”
“I’m beginning to think Belial didn’t do a thorough enough job when she turned you. Or are all of her drudges so nettlesome?”
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind,” Beelzebub said, and waved a hand at him dismissively. “Just sit the girl on the bed, then go wait in the hall.”
Beelzebub had been living above the club for several months now. He had a house in Bel Air and a penthouse in Century City, but he preferred the atmosphere of 904. He particularly enjoyed the feel of the relentless beat that seeped up through the floor all day and night. It made him feel alive.
“I had to give her a little taste,” Zack told him. “She didn’t want to at first, but she finally-”
“Didn’t I just tell you to go?”
“Okay, okay.” The insect took the girl by the shoulders and led her to the bed. She was indeed high. A little too high. And Beelzebub wished he’d simply handled the matter himself.
But he was a busy man. He had been using his network of media outlets to help fan the flames of insurrection around the world (humans believed anything they saw on TV) and the task was often difficult and time-consuming. He had people to help him, of course, but he’d always been a hands-on kind of guy.
Now he wished he’d been a bit more hands-on with young Jenna.
Zack sat the girl down and she teetered slightly, but caught herself before she fell. Despite the drugs, she was a lovely little thing. Beelzebub had always been attracted to older women himself-like the reporter he’d met the other night-but this one was something special. She was at that point in her life where her face and body had not yet betrayed her, and the smooth tautness of her young flesh was quite captivating.
If it turned out that Belial had been wrong about her, he might consider putting her on the market.
As the insect headed for the door, Beelzebub said, “You did as I instructed, right? With the other girl?”
Zack nodded. “We left her in the bathtub.”
“And the stamp?”
“Just like you told us.”
“Excellent,” Beelzebub said, then waved him away.
Michael found the battered blue Malibu parked in the lot behind the building.
The building itself was made of crumbling red brick, an old garment factory with boarded-up windows. The rear door looked like something out of a medieval torture chamber, and he assumed this was his old friend’s decorative addition to the place. During the Middle Ages, Beelzebub had spent many years in the skin of a lieutenant at the Tower of London, the proud inventor of a racklike device that would compress a subject’s body until blood ran out of his ears and nose.
The door was unlocked and Michael stepped inside. With the windows boarded up, the only light filtered in through the cracks and seams. The place was huge and musty and mostly vacant, except for the row of old sewing machines on one side of the room, covered with cobwebs, most of them still carrying giant spools of thread. Several bolts of faded fabric were stacked in a nearby corner.
On the other side of the room was a pile of old plumbing pipes, and at the far end was another door. Michael moved to it and pushed it open, and the moment he did, he heard the steady
A set of steps led downward into darkness, black graffiti and shallow gouge marks covering the walls on either side-signs and symbols that were very familiar to Michael, including Beelzebub’s sigil, buried beneath a string of profanity.
Somebody obviously knew him quite well.
Moving down the steps, he followed a dingy hallway to another door, where a drudge about the size of a Winnebago stood guard, staring at him as if he were an invader from Mars.
Michael tried to push past him, but the guy put a hand on his shoulder. “Who’s your sig?”
“The man himself,” Michael said.
The Winnebago gave him a snort. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
