Pandemonium

evenly as she could with all those Irish notes in her voice. I loved the way she said “church.” She said, “I’ve taken a vow of poverty.”

Lew opened his hands. “Obviously.”

“It’s a deal,” I said.

Lew looked sideways at me. “Del . . .”

“I said, it’s a deal.”

“You’d be wise to listen to your driver,” O’Connell said. “I’ve told you twice—I can’t help ye. It’d just be throwing your money away.”

“It’s all right, I’m broke anyway.”

O’Connell stared at me, then laughed quietly, smoke tumbling over her lips.

“Sounds fair to me,” Lew said to her. “You can’t help him, and he can’t pay.”

“As long as we understand each other,” she said. She put her smile away like a wallet. She slid into the chair, crossed her legs, and leaned back into the upholstery. She tapped her ashes into the ashtray beside her.

“A demonology lesson, then. Start the clock.”

There are three ways to get a demon out, she said. Four, actually, but only three were viable.

All of them depended on persuading the demon to leave. There was no forcing the thing out, no compelling. The demon had to leave of its own free will.

But it was persuasion at the emotional level. Demons weren’t rational. You couldn’t reason with them, argue with them. They weren’t people, they were archetypes—two-dimensional characters acting out a familiar, ever-repeating script. Their goals were always the same, their methods predictable. The hosts changed, the specifics changed, but the story was always the same.

First, you could try to give the demon what it wanted—accede to its demands. If you brought the current story to a satisfactory conclusion, then perhaps it would move on to the next victim, to play out the next episode.

Or you could convince the demon that it wouldn’t get the story it wanted. Frustrate it; deprive it of its fun. You could try sensory deprivation and drive it out with boredom. Or you could simply put it in an environment it didn’t like, a setting or situation that ruined the story: take the Little Angel out of the hospital, take the Pirate King off the ship. Or you could make the victim into an unattractive host. It depended on the demon. The key was to learn the story, then subvert it. The third way was to use a goat: some other host to take on the demon. Someone who more perfectly matched the demon’s needs, both physically and emotionally; someone the demon found irresistible. It wasn’t necessary to kidnap anyone, or trick them into shaking hands with the devil. There were plenty of volunteers, people who’d love to be a God toy. Probably half of the people at DemoniCon were praying that some demon would choose them, make them special. There were even professionals who’d dress up to lure a demon, though their success rate wasn’t high; the demons seemed to recognize hacks. No, a good goat was an earnest volunteer. All you had to do then was introduce the goat to the demon and let nature take its course.

“Think of possession as a hostage situation,” she said. “The bad man is inside the house, holding the girl with a gun to her head. You can’t rush the house. All you can do is give in to his demands, or try to convince him that the demands will never be met. Or, you can broker an exchange of hostages.”

“You said there were four ways,” Lew said. “What if exchanging hostages doesn’t work?”

O’Connell waved a hand. “Kill the hostage,” she said. I got up from my seat, paced the floor. The carpet under my stocking feet felt greasy. Lew steepled his hands, thinking. O’Connell lit another cigarette.

“We need something else,” I said finally. “None of those will work for me.”

“Except the last one,” the priest said.

“Hey,” Lew warned her. Then: “Besides, they’re all the same idea.