Working for the Devil

CHAPTER 21

We touched down in Nuevo Rio not a moment too soon. "Eddie, if you don't quit it, I'm going to fucking kill you," I snarled, standing and scooping my sword up.

"You're the one tapping your fingernails all the time," Gabe retorted. "Don't get all up on him."

"Stay out of this, Spocarelli," I warned her.

The demon rose like a dark wave. "Perhaps it's best to have this conversation outside," he said mildly. "You seem tense."

That gave us both something to focus on. "When I want your opinion, I'll ask you for it," I snapped.

"Oh, for the love of Hades, leave the damn demon alone!" Gabe almost yelled. "Off. Get me off this damn thing—"

"You're like a pair of spitting cats," Eddie mumbled. "Worse than a motherfucking cockfight."

"Now I know why I don't travel," I muttered, making sure my bag fell right. The airlocks whooshed, and we would have to wait our turn to get out.

Fuck that, I thought, and jammed the door to our compartment open. There are some good things about being a Necromance. One is that people get out of your way in a hell of a hurry when you come striding down a transport corridor with a sword in your hand and your emerald spitting sparks. Being accredited meant being able to carry edged metal in transports, and I had never been so glad.

Japhrimel followed me. By the time I stalked through another pair of airlocks and onto the dock, I was beginning to feel a little better. Eddie was next off, with Gabe right behind him, dragging her hand back through her long dark hair. "Fuck," she said, turning to look at the bulk of the transport through the dock windows. Hover-cells were switching off, a subliminal hum loosening from my back teeth. "We're in Nuevo Rio. Gods have mercy on us."

"Amen to that," I answered. "Hey, what hotel are we staying at?"

"No hotel," she said, still trying to push her hair back, "I got us one better. We're going to stay with a friend. Cheap, effective, and safe."

"Who?" I was beginning to suspect something wasn't quite right by the way Eddie was grinning, showing all his teeth.

"Who else?" A familiar voice echoed along the dock. People began to pile out of the transport, casting nervous glances at us—two Necromances and a Skinlin, armed to the teeth, and a man in a long black coat. I closed my eyes, searching for control. Found it, and turned on my heel.

Jason Monroe leaned against a support post, his blue eyes glowing under a thatch of wheat-gold hair. He wore black, even in Rio, a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, a Mob assassin's rig over the T-shirt, two guns, a collection of knives, his sword sheathed at his side. I prefer to carry my blade; he wore his thrust through his belt like an old-time samurai.

He was taller than me, and broad-shouldered, and wore the same kind of boots Gabe and I did. The thorny-twisted tattoo on his cheek marked him as an accredited Shaman just as the leather spirit bag on a thong around his neck marked him as a vaudun. Small bones hung from raffia twine clicked together as he moved slightly, twirling his long staff. I caught a glimpse of red in his spiky aura—he must have just offered to his patron ha. "Hey, Danny. Give an old boyfriend a kiss?"