Satan's Sword (Imp Book 2) Read online

  Wyatt and I spent the evening curled up on the couch watching whatever struck our fancy. I loved cuddling up with Wyatt this way. This summer, I’d nearly Owned him, come close to ripping the life right out of him to possess him forever within myself. It had shaken him badly and almost ruined our fledgling relationship. Since then I’d been careful to not show Wyatt too much of the darkness that filled me. Still, I worried. What if I lost control and killed him? What if Wyatt saw me in my terrifying, unfeeling glory? He seemed to accept the fact that I was a demon, but I lived with the nagging worry that one day it would prove too much for him. One day, he’d decide it was all too weird and walk out of my life forever.

  Around two in the morning, we dozed off sprawled all over each other, only to wake up around five. Wyatt threw an afghan over me and headed back to his house while I snuggled into my couch pillows and went back to sleep. I’d forgotten to call Dar.

  Chapter 2

  I had two messages on my mirror. My foster brother Dar had called again. Ugh, he was such a pest. I was in a hurry this morning, so I planned to delete it, and vowed to call him later. The other was from my Steward. Him I never ignored.

  “I apologize for interrupting your vacation, Baal.” My Steward used the respectful term meaning “Lord” to address me. “The Low you sent has proven useful. He has also spread wild tales of how the gate guardian bowed down before you and gave control of a major gate into your hands before fleeing your wrath.”

  I’d been given what amounted to a free gate pass by Gregory this summer during the werewolf incident. There had been a Low trapped this side of the gate and I’d let him use my passage instead, snapping his wrist to mark him and telling him to work off the fee within my household. He’d been pretty far back during the conversation with the gate guardian, so he probably had misinterpreted it. Or he was cleverly boosting my reputation to secure a long-term place in my household.

  “Obviously no one would believe a Low, even with your damage on him. I put some spin on it and looked secretive and enigmatic every time someone inquired. There are murmurings that your status is raised.”

  The Steward sounded smug. Any increase in my status was also an increase in his.

  “I took the liberty of sorting through the petitions. There is a very flattering one. So flattering that you should consider returning immediately. I’ve put them in a packet and sent them over. You should be receiving them in the next day or two. Please let me know your date of return and I’ll put together an interview schedule.”

  Damned breeding petitions. I’d never escape them. Breeding wasn’t just about leaving your genetic mark. It formed alliances, and confirmed status. We are a suspicious, violent, and disloyal race. An alliance with the right person could make all the difference in a demon’s life.

  Still, I dreaded it. Bad things happened when demons got their personal energy too close to me. I was little worried that my breeding was going to result in someone dead. That and the whole process of reviewing petitions, negotiating, blah, blah, blah seemed to be such a pain in the ass.

  The Steward had nothing more to say, so I erased his message. Accidentally, I hit the one from Dar.

  “Mal, you never call me back.”

  Dar calls me Mal Cogida, which he claims is “bad fuck” in Spanish. He Owned a human his last visit over who had taken four years of high school Spanish and he now felt he was fluent. He’d honored me with this name because in my youth, I’d had an unfortunate habit of killing my sexual partners. I have much better control now, but Dar still likes to bring it up. Endlessly. Of course, it didn’t help that I’d accepted the name.

  Names are like titles to my kind. We often have a dozen names that, strung together in a particular order, identify your status. Peers can call you whatever they want, but those nicknames only become part of your official name if you allow it. I had been in a perverse mood and accepted Dar’s name for me into my official list. He’s been puffed up with pride about it ever since. As if he needed any further inflation of his ego.

  “I want you to get the artifact from the teeth and get it over here to me. I’ll give you partial credit for retrieving it, and thirty percent of the reward.”

  I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about. Probably because I’d been deleting his messages for three months without even listening to them.

  “They won’t meet with me. I keep trying, and they won’t. They said they’ll meet with you. They didn’t know you were there and are curious how you escaped their notice.”

  No idea. Not the foggiest idea what he was talking about.

  “Oh, and you won’t believe the rumors going around about you. One is that you beat a gate guardian with a cosmetics bag and forced her to send a Low through. Another says that you showed her your arm, and that she knelt before you swearing allegiance. The best one, though, is that you have befriended a gate guardian and meet her regularly for lunch and gossip. I’m going to explode if you don’t call me back and let me know the real story here.”

  Well, Dar would just have to explode, I thought, erasing his message. I was busy. I’d call him later today. Or maybe tomorrow. Whenever I got a moment. Right now I needed to hurry, or I’d be late for my walk-through.

  In half an hour I stood admiring what would soon be my newest acquisition, a block of twelve brick houses bordering the waterfront. This section of the canal hadn’t been part of the beautification project that swept through downtown a decade ago. Just three blocks away, promenades, sculpture, and fountains transformed the flood-prone, algae-strewn canal into a tourist paradise. If you looked closer, though, you could see the cleaned-up graffiti and the broken bits of liquor-bottle glass. The civilized veneer during the day vanished after dusk, and even the gentrified areas became a haven for loitering teens, prostitutes, and drug dealers.

  I was about to own a block of hovels. The brick on the row houses was broken in places, and mortar crumbled from the walls onto the pavement like pebbles and thick dust. Even the unbroken windows had plywood boarding on them.

  “I took the liberty of coming down here last night and speaking with the tenants,” the male werewolf beside me said. He’d been introduced to me as Reed, and I admired his initiative as much as his military good looks and melting southern drawl. “About twenty live here now, but there are probably only four or five onsite during the day. Some come and go, but the majority just uses this as their storage area and night time location. They were easily convinced of the advantages of continuing to stay under the new terms and management.”

  I liked this werewolf. “Were you able to identify a potential representative?” I asked. It would be important to have a relatively sane individual to act as a liaison between the crazy homeless tenants and the werewolf.

  He nodded. “Guy said to call him Bob. Doesn’t seem to be a drug user, and has enough intelligence to know what side of his bread the butter is on. I think he’s got authority issues, but I don’t have a problem working around that personality trait.”

  That was saying a lot. I could imagine werewolves would bristle at the thought of someone not recognizing or respecting their authority. I appreciated Reed’s flexibility in this matter.

  “Twenty isn’t a lot of people for twelve units. Think we can spread the word and fill up without having permits or the licensing authority on our heads?” Or the press. Damned press would have a field day. I’d already made the political cartoon section once this year and didn’t want to see that rather truthful caricature again.

  “I think we can do one-fifty. As long as the place doesn’t reek of excrement, Department of Health should turn a blind eye.”

  I considered this. “Okay, but I’m charging more if I need to supply them with shitters. It’s not my problem if they’d rather crap next to their sleeping bag than walk down to the gas station; it’s not coming out of my profits.”

  The inside of the houses was worse than the outside. Thick dust coated the floors, disturbed only by tracks of footprints in
places. There were a few sloppily cleared areas where the residents spent their time. Crates of scant belongings sat in sections of the rooms. One enterprising person had two shopping carts, stolen from the local grocery store, with an assortment of recyclable goods in them. He sat next to the carts and eyed me suspiciously, as if I planned to take them. The whole place reeked of urine and unwashed bodies.

  “It’s okay, dude,” Reed told the shopping cart guy softly. “I told you, this is the new owner and she’s just looking the place over.”

  “All my prayers and God has sent Satan to protect us?” The guy looked me over, tugging at his dark beard. “Evil will defeat evil, and the Ear Man will go down at the hands of the very one he worships.”

  I didn’t exactly have a witty reply to that, so I moved on to the next house. They were all in various stages of decay with smashed drywall and attempts at artwork on floors, walls, and ceilings. One hideous room had finger paintings of animals done in shit on the walls. There were only a couple more people still in the houses. The rooms were mostly full of neatly segregated piles of unwashed, smelly belongings, reminders of the occupant’s presence. Bob was in the last house. He looked at me with grim acceptance, as if I were a nasty pill he was being forced to swallow.

  “I don’t like this,” he told Reed.

  I cut Reed off before he could even reply. “It’s almost winter, and it’s hard to find a spot at the shelters. You’ll freeze outside and all your stuff will either be ruined or stolen. I’m not telling you what to do. I’m giving you an opportunity. You can be an entrepreneur. Or you can just walk the fuck out. Either way, you’re your own man.”

  He looked me right in the eye. “I don’t work for no one; I don’t take orders from no one. But if I have to, I might as well take orders from Satan. At least I know where I stand with you.”

  Why did these stupid humans keep calling me that? I was most definitely not Satan. The term was actually Ha-satan, the Iblis, the Adversary, the one who tests. It was a title with all sorts of hideous responsibilities attached to it. A title no one had held since the war with the angels so long ago. A title no one wanted.

  I gave Candy the thumbs up for the closing to proceed and outlined communications processes with Reed. Although he worked for Candy and would get paid through her, I made sure he knew I needed him to be in direct contact with me on any urgent issues. He seemed very efficient and I doubted I’d ever hear from him again. That done, I headed home to meet Wyatt.

  Chapter 3

  By the time I got home, Wyatt had already loaded up the trailer and hitched it to my Suburban. He was the best boyfriend ever, not that I’d ever had a boyfriend before. All I needed to do was toss my clothes into the truck and load up my gelding, Piper, and off we went.

  Normally, I just rode my horses around my property and the neighboring fields, but I had been convinced to enter a show. They were boring and I always came in last, so I didn’t often cave to the invitations. Elsa, my sometimes riding instructor, had invited me. She was very critical of my riding skills, but was always happy to take my money. I don’t know why I kept going to her. She was not respectful and I wasn’t improving any. I think her verbal abuse reminded me of home and I was a bit homesick.

  As we parked, I noticed that this was a huge show. Much bigger than the local ones I’d been to in the past. We were a bit early, so I left Wyatt at the trailer with Piper and explored as I made my way to the registration table. A ruckus from a big trailer caught my attention. It sounded like a horse fight, which was unusual at these shows. All the horses here were regularly shown and had the routine down pat. They were typically munching from a hay bag and waiting patiently. I assumed someone’s horse had gotten loose and another was taking exception to the stranger near their hay bag.

  Not the case at all, I saw as I came around the corner. Tied to the corner of the big stock trailer was what appeared to be a huge grey Thoroughbred cross. And I don’t mean cross in the horse-breed sense. He was a hybrid. And he’d clearly gotten more than the usual share from his sire. A demon had been across the borders, breeding with a mare. Not as unusual as you’d think, but definitely not common, either. We’ll have sex with anything and can produce offspring with a female of any species if we’re so inclined.

  The horse was in a foul mood. He tossed his head, nostrils flaring and ears pinned as he pulled on the rope holding him to the trailer.

  “Stop it,” a man said to him as he came around from the back leading another horse.

  The hybrid rolled his eyes and lunged at the other horse, snapping. The man went to smack its nose and narrowly missed being kicked by flying hooves as the horse spun around impossibly fast and bucked.

  “Tony, come put this crazy thing back on the trailer before it breaks loose and kills someone,” he shouted.

  “He just kicks the trailer and makes a huge racket, scaring the other horses,” a voice shouted back.

  “No way are you going to be able to ride him today. Ace him and put him back on the trailer.”

  Ace, short for Acepromazine, was a sedative. Many riders used it in small amounts to settle nervous horses for trailering, but you needed to be clean to show. Enough of the stuff and your horse would be dozing and drooling, or even passed out.

  “Is he for sale?” I asked, pointing at the horse.

  The guy started, noticing my presence for the first time.

  “Hundred bucks and he’s yours. I’m done with this stupid beast. We trained him for steeplechase, but he gets these crazy moods and no one can stay on him. He bullies all the other horses in the pasture. It takes four ccs of Ace to take the edge off him. We can’t geld him because the anesthesia doesn’t work, so he’s a stallion. He’s dog meat at this point.”

  “What’s steeplechase?” I asked.

  “It’s a race over rough terrain with jumps. The horses all run together in a field and take the jumps at speed.”

  Hmmm. Kind of like the Elven hunts. Sounded more fun than dressage, although I had a tendency to wind up on the ground when it came to jumping.

  I handed the guy a hundred dollar bill.

  “I need to go register for my event. Can you keep him here and I’ll be right back for him. Don’t Ace him.”

  The guy nodded, pocketing the money and I headed for the registration table. Elsa was there and she informed me that she’d already registered Piper and me for Introductory, Level B. It would be me and the eight year old humans out there. You didn’t even canter in Introductory Level B. Ugh.

  “Sign me up for the steeplechase, too,” I told her.

  She looked at me with hostility. “I’d expect you’d enjoy that sort of thing, but Piper isn’t suitable for that event. He’s a heavy draft horse and doesn’t have the speed for steeplechase. Besides, you can’t manage to stay on over jumps in the arena, let alone a brush jump in the field.”

  That was Elsa. So full of encouragement.

  “I’m riding the guy’s horse over there,” I pointed at the trailer. “I’ll send Wyatt over with his Coggins in a moment. Just sign me up for it.” I handed her a check, which she took as if it were contaminated with E-coli.

  I went to collect my purchase, which was twisting his head and yanking to get free.

  “I’ll send my boyfriend over to get his Coggins,” I told them.

  Coggins was the required certificate at horse shows that indicated your animal had been tested and free from the viral disease Equine Infectious Anemia. Out-of-state shows often required additional certificates, but locally, Coggins was it. Most horse people carried a stack of copies in their trailer so they always had one handy. I wondered how on earth the vet had managed to draw a blood sample from this particular horse. He didn’t look like he’d take kindly to needles.

  I walked over to my new horse who flattened his ears and showed me his teeth.

  “Be careful,” the guy warned. “He bites. And kicks. And rears.”

  This horse had more of my kind in him than a Low, so I pulled up my m
ean and threw it at him. To humans, my mean is scary. To my own kind, my mean reveals my status. We’re big on hierarchy at home.

  The horse flickered his ears, and pulled his head back in surprise.

  “Obey me,” I whispered. I was sure he could hear and understand. “You will fucking obey me or I will take your balls off with my teeth, and without the mercy of anesthesia either.”

  The horse wiggled his ears nervously, but met my gaze with a steady defiance. This was going to be fun.

  “What’s his name?” I asked the guy.

  “Diablo.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. What total lack of imagination. I’d live with this for now since it was the name on his Coggins certificate, but as soon as I needed to have him re-tested, I was changing his name. Maybe to something like Buttercup. Or Bunny.

  I led a deceptively subdued Diablo back to Wyatt and my trailer. Wyatt jumped to his feet, frowning with disapproval at my new acquisition.

  “This is Diablo, soon to be renamed Rosebud. Or possibly Muffin. Can you run by the big trailer over there and grab his Coggins, then take it to the registration table? I’m riding him in the steeplechase.”

  Wyatt looked at me as if I’d gone insane. After two years, you would have thought these things wouldn’t surprise him anymore.

  “Sam, you are going to kill yourself. You’ve never ridden steeplechase before. You can barely manage second field in a fox hunt.”

  “I fall off all the time and I’ve never killed myself yet.” I figured this was going to be a really short event for me.

  “Well, maybe you won’t kill yourself, but you’ll be off him at the first fence,” Wyatt said, echoing my thoughts. “Honestly, he looks like he’d enjoy nothing more than throwing you head first into a jump. He’s not even gelded. You’re going to ride a stallion steeplechase? It’s a race, Sam. It’s a flat out race, over jumps, in a field. There’s a reason they call the riders jockeys in these things. It’s fast. You’re up on short stirrups with your rear in the air. It’s close quarters. If you come off, you’ll be trampled.”