Once You Go Demon

Taking up residence in the human shell left behind by the death and damnation of Marc Angeletti, Jerry seizes on the chance both to win a trip to the pearly gates and reclaim the heart of witch Riona Dade. Not pleased with the butt-kicking the Pure Souls served up, Lucifer enlists his fallen angel compatriots, the Grigori, to stir up trouble topside. Time ticks closer to the inevitable: Marc's resurrection as a demon on Earth, and Jerry is determined to protect Riona and his shiny new Pure Soul status at all costs. He quickly finds two thousand years of living la vida demonica aren’t easily undone, however, and old habits are hard to break. Walking the true path is problematic, and Jerry finds his role reversed when he must convince Riona that it’s in her best interest to do the same. Even if letting her give into temptation is more conducive to his efforts.

And just as Project Woo a Witch starts bearing some forbidden fruit, Destiny delivers one hell of bitch slap. Jerry may have been sent back to Earth to do something Riona can't, something that will ensure the only thing he'll be kissing where she's concerned is his ass goodbye.

The back-alley demon dive could have made a pretty penny renting out empty space. Despite the lack of an audience, Tall, Dark, and Until-Recently-Unholy sashayed the distance between the door and the bar like a ninety-pound supermodel headlining the Milan Fashion Show. The body was a rental, but the attitude packed in it represented one hundred percent, Class-A Jerry Romani.
He stashed the pack of Capris inside his jacket pocket. The cache of Marlboros inherited along with Marc’s apartment, cell phone, and wardrobe lasted a week. Lighter smokes stepped him down gently. Jerry didn’t care for tobacco, but the pilfered corpse he occupied didn’t give a damn. Biology was king, and Jerry, a freaking serf serving its needs. The sooner he could kick the habit, the better.
“Zima.” He slapped his cupped hand down on the bar, ready to receive the drink.
The barkeep—big, burly, and beautifully-manicured—didn’t bother looking up. “Not in stock, jack.”
“Appletini then.”
“Oh, good. And here I thought you might order some girly drink.”
The ex-demon introduced Mr. Hamilton to the bar and gave him a ski lesson with his fingertips. It was then that the barman finally chanced a look up. The rotund, more feminine version of Rosanne Bar scowled, parked his paw on the ten spot, and pushed it back.
“We don’t serve your kind here.”
Jerry pulled at the collar of his turtleneck to show, well, the other collar. “Priests?”
Miss Man could have pressed olives with the gnashing he put his teeth through. “Wiccan good-doers. Think I don’t see your aura glowing like the Chrysler Building on New Year’s? Move along, Father, or whoever you are. Let the door hit you on the way out.”
Jerry half-expected as much. After all, the saloon didn’t exactly cater to many a mortal, a fact well known amongst Boston’s damned and damnable. The faux priest looked about, taking inventory of a dozen mixed-luck souls seated in pockets around the establishment. Certain everyone else was too devoted to their own woes and/or booze to give him a second glance, Jerry locked the barman’s gaze. He leaned in, flashing a spark of darkness through his psychic field. Though sprung from the Underworld, Jerry’s magic still clung to a demon tether. He could call on the power of Hellfire just as strongly as when he’d been one of Lucifer’s primo servants.
“Look a little closer at that aura o’mine.”
In the back of his mind, he recited his own corrupt version of the Million Dollar Man intro. We can make him faster, smarter, eviler… and fucking fantastic in bed.
All the demon, but none of the damn. Hellfire at his beck and call, without having to return the favor where Old Nick was concerned: a fact that he had been darn sure neither of the other two Pure Souls, witch Riona Dade or demigod Dee Zitka, knew. The “office” already felt awkward enough. Hard to gin up pleasant watercooler conversations when you were possessing the body of the last man to hold his position. And, being that Riona and Jerry had also once made rabbits look like sedated sloths, the tension surrounding them balanced on a knife blade as it was.
The evil embers flaring Jerry’s aura made the barman blink. He fell back, bracing himself on the counter behind him. “How in the hell?”
“Ah, now you’re smelling what I’m stepping in. Don’t flip, bro. Just currently between positions and fielding my opportunities. See though, I got this great interview lined up with a certain famous agency, and I really want to impress their keystone player, if you catch my drift.”
He seated himself at the bar and motioned again for a glass. This time, his host seemed all too happy to provide. Within three blinks, Jerry smacked the tart, toxic treat on his palate in the wake of the blessed first swig.
“Ain’t nothing as sweet as this sting in Hell. Nothing.” With another pull, he finished off and set the glass on the bar. “I have a few questions, and I want honest answers, yes? Play nice with me, and I won’t torch this place and send everyone in it south for the winter.”
Eagerly the barman nodded.
“Tell me the chatter. What’s Lucifer’s sitch?”
The barman leaned in, bringing with him an invisible, noxious cloud of Aqua Velva. “From what I heard, vanquished.”
This much, Jerry knew. He’d contributed to Lucifer’s vacation fund. “The Devil isn’t the kind to hang back and not have a finger in some evil plot. Or several. Any demon flock being herded into town to fill in the gaps?”
“Usual suspects: low-level drifts, some imps, goblins. Oh, and the IRS guys of course. Jesus fuck, ain’t been no one who’s found a hex that can take care of those bastards.” They exchanged a smile. Lucifer had tried to claim credit for the U.S. tax code for years, but something that complex and sinister was beyond even his abilities. “And…”
“And?”
The barman’s eyes took measure of an empty spot on the counter, clawing at it. “Funny, I could have sworn there was something here a few minutes ago.”
The implication was lame, but it was so much easier—and cleaner—to hand over a few pieces of symbolic paper rather than waste magic hexing information from the brute. Jerry reached into his pocket and pulled out $43 in cash. Not an amazing amount, but Mark had been a priest all his adult life and had left behind the bank account to prove it.
Fortunately, it sated his informant. With a smile, he whisked away the accordioned bills and stuffed them into his teal green push-up bra. “You didn’t hear it from me, and sure as shit it didn’t happen here, but we’re having some record Grigori sightings as of late.”
“Get the fuck out.” Jerry didn’t need to feign surprise. Sincere shock ran the length of him, right into his baby toe. “Why would Hell’s board of directors be visiting our fair city this time of year? Walking the Freedom Trail?”
The barman choked on a chuckle. “Don’t think fallen archangels are exactly the ‘one if by night, two if by sea’ types. They’re trying hard as Hecate to look like they have no problem being seen, like they got nothing to hide. Real hiding in plain sight vibe, from what the grapevine says.” As though that statement had brought him to realize something, the barman froze while wiping off of the counter. “Makes me wonder about a mortal wiccan can wield hellfire at will showing up here, to tell the truth.”
His welcome was officially overstayed. Unless he was willing to put more coins in the meter, that was. Unfortunately, Jerry’s pockets were as empty as the glass on the counter. In a flash, his arm shot out, grabbing the barman’s wrist. An incantation filled the air, transforming words into weapons. A dozen unseen knives cut into the goon’s flesh, leaving an ancient symbol of three intertwined circles burned into a green patch of skin.
“Do you know of the Honest Herald’s charm?” Jerry asked in response to a confused stare. “One of my favorites I picked up in my less holy days. Anyways, you rub this mark with three drops of blood on the tip of your left hand’s middle finger and invoke the word clarate, and I get pinged, letting us spend some more quality time together. It’s like instant messaging, psychic style. You hear anything more, use it.”
His breath panting, the barman’s eyes flashed to a spot behind the counter, where a cell phone sat. “I’m signed up with Verizon.”
Jerry let out a chuckle, releasing his hold. “Yeah, but my plan comes with a sign-up bonus. See, if you dare try to tip anyone off about this conversation or let anyone know I was here, the circles will start spinning, and end up slicing off this pretty little hand of yours. Your phone got that app?”
“You got no right to… Who the hell are you anyway?”
The ex-demon’s mouth cracked into a smile. “Dude, look at your face!” He tossed a business card with his digits on the counter. “What kind of sick fuck would use Ancient Egyptian magic on a fine imp such as yourself? Nah, man. I’m just pulling your leg. Look, you get words you think I’d like to hear, call this number and ask for Father Angeletti. That charm’s just a temp magical tattoo; it will dissolve in a few hours. God, you thought I was for real!”
First a confused glare, then a smirk, and finally the barman broke out in a round of raucous laughter that complimented Jerry’s own. Jerry shook hands with him with all the sincerity of a candidate vying for public office before turning on heel and making his way out into the street. The pack of cigs doled out sweet relief rolled in crinkly paper before he had even felt the light of the sun on his face. Jerry took a few steps, paused to find the lighter in the depths of Marc’s jacket pocket, tilted his head to the side, and cupped his hands around his mouth to ward off the wind.
The door had just closed behind him when the barman’s screams erupted.
He flicked ashes from the end of his smoke. “Maybe I should have told him the part about being a joke, was the joke.”
He hadn’t come to the bar to vanquish anything except his ignorance. Still, if life handed you lemons, you chased down some vodka and made lemon drops. Besides, demon slaying burned major carbs, when done right. Nothing wrong with a resurrected Keystone witch moonlighting outside the group as a personal hobby.
Nothing wrong at all.