Redemption Song (Daniel Faust) Page 5

  “Nice to see you too.”

  “I just saw Caitlin,” she said. “She is miserable. What did you do to her?”

  I gave her the Cliff’s Notes version, and fast. I knew from past experience that having a pissed-off demoness close to your face is never a good position to be in.

  “Khlegota,” Emma hissed in gutter flensetongue. The infernal word pricked my eardrums like a droplet of acid. Demonic language is toxic to mortal air. “He’s throwing his weight around, is what he’s doing. Typical.”

  “You don’t sound like a fan.”

  “I’m a loyal servant. That doesn’t mean I have to pretend to like what he’s doing, or be happy that Caitlin’s torn up over it.”

  I tilted my head. “I…have to confess, this isn’t the reaction I expected from you. I kinda thought you’d be happy.”

  Emma put her hands on her hips.

  “You don’t get it. Caitlin and I spar. We compete. We cut each other, tiny cuts, because that’s fun for us. It’s only play. Right now? She’s really sad, and an unhappy hound means life is going to be misery for the rest of us. She does have a license to kill, you know. And torture. And maim. So come on, we’ll take my car and pay a visit to this priest.”

  “I’m not going to—”

  “Of course you aren’t,” she said. “I am. We’ll drive over there, I’ll force-feed him his own intestines, and I’ll tell everyone you did it. Easy. Efficient. Done.”

  “You’d lie to the prince for me?”

  Emma narrowed her eyes.

  “No. I’d do it for her.”

  I shook my head. “Much as I appreciate the offer, I can’t let you do that. Sitri wouldn’t buy it, and that’d just get all three of us in hot water. Caitlin’s giving me three days to take care of business. I’ve got some ideas.”

  She looked dubious but handed me a business card. “Southern Tropics Import/Export, Emma Loomis, Director of Finance.” Caitlin had a card just like it. In the twenty-first century, even hell had field offices.

  “If you need a hand,” she said, “call me. I want what’s best for Caitlin. Right now, that’s you, so don’t be shy about asking for help.”

  “Thanks,” I said and meant it. Emma was more complex than I’d given her credit for at first glance. Sometimes I didn’t mind being wrong about people.

  “Besides,” she added with a calculatedly carefree smile, her emotional mask firmly back in place, “if you two break up, how can I steal you from her? That’s hardly fun for me, now is it?”

  • • •

  I couldn’t sleep that night. It felt like an exercise in futility and besides, my clock was counting down. Around three in the morning, I booted up my laptop and shot an email over to Pixie, outlining my idea for handling our Carmichael-Sterling problem. I had an answer by 3:15. She couldn’t sleep either.

  “Tricky,” she wrote, “but a friend of mine might be able to hook us up. Meet me @ St. Jude’s at 6 A.M.”

  I found a ragged line outside the soup kitchen’s closed doors, the castoffs of Las Vegas queuing up an hour before the place even opened, but I didn’t see Pixie. Just tired, hungry people clinging to the last shreds of their dignity. The sun rose over the sleeping casinos a few blocks away, painting their mirrored faces in shades of scarlet and gold.

  A tinny horn bleeped behind me. Pixie sat behind the wheel of an old Ford Econoline cargo van. Patches of rust speckled the eggshell-white paint, and the engine sounded like it needed a cough drop.

  I walked up on the passenger side and looked in the open window. “What is this, the serial-killer special? All it needs is a sign that says ‘free candy’ on the side.”

  “It’s called the Wardriver. Get in.”

  I clambered into the van, looked back over my shoulder, and let out a long, slow whistle. It might have been a hunk of junk on the outside, but the back cabin had more gizmos than an FBI surveillance van. Amber lights glowed on a floor-to-ceiling server rack, next to a console festooned with audio jacks and small black-and-white monitors broadcasting a live stream from hidden cameras showing every outside angle. A bumper sticker slapped on the console read “This Machine Kills Fascists.”

  “We’ve got the van until noon,” Pixie said. “And my friend threw in the rest of the gear you wanted for your stupid plan. Which is stupid. Have I mentioned that?”

  “I’m not sending you into the Carmichael-Sterling building, Pix. That’s non-negotiable.”

  She believed Lauren Carmichael was a criminal CEO with hired guns on the payroll, not a world-class sorceress with a magic ring that enslaved demons. Sending her unprepared into that environment would be like dropping her into a meat grinder. I only knew one person qualified to walk into that building and come out in one piece.

  “You know they’re gonna kill you, right?” she said, pulling the van away from the curb. “They know you, Faust. They know your face, and they’re looking to put a bullet in your head.”

  “Which is exactly why their office is the last place they’ll expect me to show up. And remember, it’s only the inner circle we’re worried about. The rank and file over there have no idea who they’re working for.”

  “They know they’re building that bloated cancer at the end of the Strip. They know how much electricity and water it’s going to waste every single year, not to mention the pollution—”

  “Let me rephrase,” I said. “The rank and file over there isn’t packing heat and looking to murder anyone who gets in their way.”

  “And adding one more giant pile of waste and greed to this town isn’t just as bad or worse? That’s your problem, Faust. Short-term thinking. You don’t see the big picture.”

  I shrugged, watching the city roll by. “I’ve been accused of that.”

  On our way over, I gave Bentley a call. He was an early bird. He had his own reservations about the plan, and then Corman jumped on the line and shared his feelings on the subject. You could describe his language as “peppery.”

  “Pixie already told me the plan was stupid,” I said.

  “I didn’t say the plan was stupid,” Corman growled. He was the Oscar to Bentley’s Felix, built like a linebacker past his prime, and not one to mince words.

  “Look, she can walk me through this step-by-step. Like somebody landing an airplane with instructions from the control tower.”

  “You think Carmichael’s gonna leave the goddamn gates to her palace wide open and unguarded, when she knows we’re gunning for her? What about the Silverlode? That place was a nest of magical razor wire.”

  “It was also obvious from a mile away,” I said. “I don’t think Carmichael’s crew is any good at playing subtle. I’ll check for wards before I go in—”

  “Wards?” Pixie jerked the wheel. I waved a hand in an “I’ll explain later” gesture. I wasn’t going to, but it bought me time.

  “That’s another thing,” Corman grumbled in my ear, “you’re bringing an outsider into this? Does she have any idea how dangerous this is?”

  “Pix is no taxpayer. She’s just from a different side of our street. She can handle it.”

  “Sitting right here,” Pixie muttered. “The person you’re talking about. In the van.”

  “Sorry,” I said to her, cupping my hand over the phone.

  On the other end of the line, Corman sighed. It sounded like gravel tumbling down a metal chute. “All right, kiddo. We’ll meet you halfway. We’ll come by and scope the place out, then we’ll decide. That’s all I’m promising.”

  “That’s good enough. Thanks, Corman.”

  I hung up. Pixie pulled the van off the road, parking curbside on a street littered with boarded-over windows and foreclosure signs, and killed the engine.

  “This isn’t the place,” I said.

  She folded her arms and glared at me. “The van doesn’t move…until I get some honest answers.”

  “Pix—”

  “No. You’ve done this to me too many times, Faust. You swoop into my life, you shake ever
ything up, and then you pull a disappearing act. I’ve been very accommodating of your bullshit over the years, mainly because you always pay cash and don’t try to screw me, but I don’t believe for a second that you and me are going after Carmichael-Sterling for the same reasons. You’re no activist, and you’re no altruist.”

  “I’m a thief,” I said flatly. “Maybe it’s a heist.”

  “And maybe you’re full of crap. Mysterious phone calls? Wards? Refusing to let me make a simple Dumpster-dive when you know the kinds of scary-ass places I’ve walked out of? You can tell me what’s going on, or you can get out of the van. Your call.”

  I sighed. “I don’t suppose doubling your fee would work?”

  She kept her arms crossed, in stony silence, and waited for me to talk.

  Eight

  “You know this is a weird town,” I told her. It was the best opening I could come up with.

  “Yeah. I’ve kinda noticed that.”

  “Pix, this is a waste of time. You aren’t going to believe any of this.”

  “Try me,” she said.

  I shrugged. Might as well lay it on the line. She’d throw me out of the van and I’d have to go find another hacker, but at least the air would be clear.

  “A few weeks ago, Lauren Carmichael nearly destroyed the world with an occult ritual that went down twisted. She was being played by a couple of con artists from another dimension, but that’s neither here nor there. Bottom line is, she’s a sorceress with grand ambitions, and we’ve got to take her down before she tries again.”

  “A sorceress.” Her voice was flat.

  I nodded.

  “And you know this how?”

  “Because I’m a sorcerer. That was my job, when I worked for Nicky Agnelli. He called me his ‘hired wand.’ I’d pull off heists with a little black magic, keep his crews invisible from the cops, all kinds of dirty deeds. Not done dirt cheap, either. I’m good at what I do, and I charge a lot of money for it. Well, I used to.”

  She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at me, like she couldn’t decide if I was pulling her leg. I knew where this conversation was headed, so I casually rested my hand against the passenger-side door. I stretched out my senses, breathing deeply, feeling the pulse of the sleeping machine. My index finger traced a sigil against the hot, grainy plastic.

  “There’s always been stories,” she said, “about Nicky Agnelli. About how he’d know things he couldn’t know, get at people no matter where they tried to hide.”

  “Not all of those stories are true,” I told her, my attention focused on my work. A flow of energy seeped into the gas and oil. Tendrils of power reached for spark plugs and gaskets.

  “Which ones are?”

  “Just the really scary ones.”

  “All right.” She leaned back in her seat. “Prove it.”

  “If I do, it won’t make you any happier. You won’t sleep any better at night. Pix…when you step into my world, you don’t step out again. Nothing’s ever gonna be the same. You sure you want this?”

  “Prove it,” she repeated.

  I exhaled sharply and ignited my spell. The van’s console blazed to life, every dashboard light flashing while the hazards blinked and the radio blasted an AC/DC song loud enough to fry the speakers. Fluid sprayed across the grimy windshield as the wipers slapped back and forth in time with the screaming guitar. Pixie grabbed the key, grinding the ignition as she twisted it forward and back, finally killing the power.

  She sat back, pale.

  “That was a trick,” she said. “I’ve seen you do sleight of hand. You probably…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What? Slipped a gizmo under the hood to compromise a van I’ve never seen before today? While you were watching me the entire time?”

  She didn’t have anything to say to that. I watched the wheels of her mind turn in silence.

  “This isn’t about some gun-toting corporate thugs. If it was, I’d stand aside and let you do your thing. Lauren’s likely to have dangers in there that you just aren’t equipped to handle. Surveillance hexes. Curses. Maybe worse.”

  “Worse things?”

  I felt like a grade-A bastard doing this to her. This was another reason we didn’t go around cluing outsiders into the reality of our world. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t fair. She’d come this far, though, and she deserved a real warning before she got too curious and went poking around on her own.

  “Demons,” I said.

  Pixie’s eyes widened, but not in fear. She smiled.

  “So if demons are real,” she said, working the math, “then…it’s all real. God. Heaven. All of it. There’s hope.”

  Fuck, I hated this. I tried to play it off, hoping I could keep her just a little in the dark, just enough so she could be happy. Even as the words left my lips, I knew she’d see right through me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s right.”

  The smile slid from her face as she looked into my eyes. I saw something new in her expression. Dawning horror.

  “Jesus,” she said. “You’re lying.”

  “Pix, don’t go down that road—”

  “The truth, Daniel. I want the truth.”

  “All right. You really want to know? The only angel I’ve ever seen was a primordial monster who would have incinerated every man, woman, and child on Earth if she’d gotten loose. As far as any God goes, the best-case scenario is he wound up the world like a clock and walked away a long, long time ago. Worst-case is, he’s insane or he’s dead. If there are any good guys out there, fighting the cosmic fight, I’ve never seen them.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” she said, her voice on the edge of breaking. “If the world is full of monsters, someone has to be keeping us safe. Someone has to be fighting for us out there.”

  “Tell me something.” I stared out the window, at a vacant lot littered with windblown trash. “How many hours a week do you spend volunteering at St. Jude’s?”

  She shook her head, frowning. “I…most nights when I’m not on a job, but what does that have to do with—”

  I looked her in the eye.

  “It’s you, Pix. You and everybody like you. Everybody who reaches out a hand when they don’t have to. Everybody who helps somebody get up on their feet, or gets in the way of a fist so somebody weaker doesn’t have to take the pain. Everybody who stands up in the face of evil and says ‘no more.’ Everybody who does what they can to make this shithole of a planet a little less miserable for everybody else. You are who’s fighting for us.

  “I don’t know all the mysteries of the universe. I’m a small-time grifter with a knack for black magic, that’s all. Maybe there is some cosmic force of good out there, so subtle it can’t be seen. Believe in that if it makes you feel better, but this is what I know: what we have is us.”

  She nodded, very slowly. Taking it all in.

  “I wasn’t lying about the hope,” I said.

  • • •

  The Wardriver pulled into the Carmichael-Sterling Nevada parking lot. Pixie found an open spot and parked the van, quiet and anonymous. She was quiet, too. Hadn’t had a lot to say since our conversation. The office building was a three-story wedge of granite and glass on the outskirts of the city, gleaming bright in the morning sun.

  Bentley and Corman weren’t far behind. The silver Caddy rolled in and prowled the lot in slow circles like a shark in shallow water. We were early enough that employees were still arriving, a few more every couple of minutes, giving me my pick of targets.

  While Pixie set up her equipment in the back, I relaxed and focused on the building. Its reflection in the rearview mirror didn’t glow, didn’t shimmer with mystic traps or dangerous swells of occult power. It just sat there like a perfectly normal office complex.

  That worried me.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. Corman.

  “I don’t like it,” he said, and I knew exactly what he meant.

  “They’re not expecting an attack here,�
�� I said, “but they didn’t put up any wards. They practically laid out a welcome mat for us. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What about mechanical traps, like the ones at the Silverlode? You almost got a razor-wire haircut.”

  I shook my head. “No way. Meadow Brand loves those, but they’re not gonna rig a building full of clueless citizens with deathtraps. They’d kill their own employees. Same goes for Brand’s mannequins. Can’t have those things running around in public.”

  I thought about it for a minute and snapped my fingers.

  “Because,” I said, “they’re not here. We know they don’t want a head-on fight, not until Lauren gets her strength back and brings in some new followers. She’s the CEO. She can work from home if she damn well wants to. Same with Brand. Hell, they can work from Bermuda. Wherever they’re holed up, it’s someplace remote, defensible, and with no civilians around to complicate things.”

  “They could be using a VPN,” Pixie said from the back of the van. Her fingers flew over the keyboard attached to the console, two monitors lighting up at once.

  “A VP what?”

  “Virtual private network. Pretty common for telecommuters. Basically, they log in remotely. Their network traffic still runs through the building here, so they can access the company servers. Long story short, we’d still be able to see their email and activity just as if they were sitting in their offices.”

  “You think that’s likely?” I asked.

  “Given how tight their network security is? I can’t imagine they’d invest that kind of money and then swap their dirty secrets over an unencrypted home network and a Gmail account. Yeah, I’d bet five bucks they’re on a VPN.”

  “All right,” I said. “Did you hear that, Corman?”

  “VPN, VCR, whatever. Bentley’s the computer whiz in our house. Bottom-line it for me, kiddo.”

  “I’m going in. Wait for my sign. We’ll pull a Mr. Magoo with a bump-’n’-catch.”

  “A what?” Pixie said.

  “You have your lingo,” I told her, “we have ours.”

  It didn’t take long to find a mark. The one who pulled into the lot in a VW hatchback with a Federation Starfleet sticker on the back bumper suited me just fine. He was a younger guy, maybe in his mid twenties, with a rumpled dress shirt and his employee ID clipped to his belt with a bright blue plastic lanyard. I got out of the van and gave the sign. Bentley caught it and swung the Cadillac around for another pass.