Chapter 18

Chapter18

Shockingly, Rukhsana did not call me back.

That night I dreamed that I found fake Jordy’s body, but Olivier caught me standing over him with blood on my hands and tried to arrest me. We fought and I escaped, running in circles through unfamiliar streets until Ezra cruised up in a limo and swept me inside. As we sped off, in this car with fuzzy dice hanging and bobbing from the “oh shit” handles, I leaned against Ezra, exhausted and relieved, and picked up a shot of copper-colored booze that awaited me on the popup table.

Ezra laughed and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear and said, “I’ve got you.”

I woke up with gritty eyes, a kink in my shoulders, and a vague horniness that I refused to satisfy, though there was plenty of time before we had to go to HQ. I stormed into my bathroom and slathered on a face mask to zhuzh (Darsh and I had a bet on whether the origin of this word was Yiddish or Romani) up my day with glowing skin, instead of with a mind-blowing orgasm fueled by thoughts of my ex hugging me.

Not even naked hugging.

This was not good. I stuck my tongue out at my reflection with my fetching combination of pink clay cheeks and a foamy toothpaste mouth.

The glass in the mirror melted like one of Dalí’s clocks, and I jerked back. My toothbrush splatted into the sink, spraying me with minty-fresh froth.

A red and purple portal pulsed behind the runny glass.

I darted a glance at the bathroom door, but the mezuzah was still affixed to the frame.

These prayer scrolls, wrapped in a decorative case with a seemingly gibberish word engraved on the back, were actually powerful prayer spells to keep the forces of evil at bay. Jews hung them on the doorways of their homes.

The ones in our condo were the super-protective variety used by all Maccabee chapters as wards, notably against demon attacks. Operatives could bring demons across those wards—though it hurt the fiends—but they couldn’t get in of their own volition.

Half shedim had no problem crossing. A point in our favor that our humanity trumped any inherent evil.

While mezuzahs didn’t keep out vampires, the myth about them needing to be invited into homes was true. Once they were in, it was impossible to keep them out—like any invasive species. Though it wasn’t the same for public buildings, hence why Ezra could come and go at will at Maccabee HQ, much to the director’s dismay.

Given the portal now doubling in size, this mezuzah ward was clearly faulty. Did paying top dollar not mean anything anymore?

Cautiously, I poked the mirror. The glass was springy to the touch, but it still existed.

I nodded, taking back my earlier ire. I’d been wrong: the ward was still functioning, which meant the portal couldn’t open up directly into my home.

I poked it again, a bit harder. My fingertip went through. I immediately yanked it back. No burn or injury.

The portal doubled in size. Tripled. Quadrupled, until it encompassed my entire bathroom wall. It pulsed behind the glass and the drywall, and I couldn’t see what lay beyond it, but the swirling colors darkened as if in displeasure.

Colors, not mesh. This wasn’t a portal to the Copper Hell.

“This is me asking nicely,” Delacroix’s disembodied voice said. “Don’t be rude.”

Did he simply want an update or was there more to this? Delacroix was responsible for the demon magic at the Copper Hell, and I assumed that included whatever presence was inside the portal that had sussed Cherry out. Was this tête-à-tête so he could blackmail me about being a half shedim?

Sadly, refusing wouldn’t make the situation any better. I was going to have to leave the safety of my nice warded-up bathroom.

I eyed the portal, then my bare feet and pajamas. I didn’t know where my slippers were, and getting dressed or wasting more time would only piss the shedim off more. The only weapon that would reliably kill a demon was my Maccabee ring, which I never took off, but I didn’t like my odds of getting close enough to Delacroix for it to be effective.

Fan-freaking-tastic. I took a deep breath. Here went nothing.

Feeling as nervous as a first-year witch standing on Platform 9¾, I ran at the wall, using my hand to protect my nose, but I sailed through.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I hopped up and down on the hot concrete, trying to acclimate to the arid wind blasting me in the face while my brain made sense of what I was seeing.

Nestled against jagged, obsidian cliffs, under an apocalyptic sky, stood a pancake house. It had large, curved windows showcasing an inviting glow, touches of chrome, and a pastel green awning shading the entrance.

A neon sign, complete with a dancing pancake wearing a chef’s hat, proudly announced the restaurant’s name: Flaming Flapjacks. The “S” flickered with a hissed sizzling sound.

I pinched myself, but the pancake house of the damned remained annoyingly real. Where was I? I glanced up, hoping I was in Babel, but the bone-white octagonal moon quashed that.

I was in the demon realm. To the best of our knowledge (since it’s not like we could gather census information, though operatives had been taken there before), there was only one. Babel had originally been a part of it, but it had been abandoned before being claimed by vampires. For some reason, I had no choice there about appearing in my shedim form.

This part of the realm was different. It was definitely demon, but the urge to comply and let Cherry out was a muted siren’s song, not a demand I was unable to refuse. I remained human.

Delacroix might not have any idea I had demon blood. He could have brought me here instead of back to the Copper Hell as an intimidation technique. Were that the case, I wasn’t handing my secret over to him.

I expected my Brimstone Baroness to be yelling at me to take her off her leash, but she thoughtfully regarded our surroundings, sharing my opinion that she’d be best used for a surprise attack.

Anger smoldered alongside my icy fear. I didn’t sign up for this crap. I was an operative investigating a case, not Delacroix’s minion who he could threaten and beckon at will. I clomped inside, steeling myself to be greeted by a variety of musical options: “Highway to Hell,” “Sympathy for the Devil,” or an endless loop of dental chair Muzak. Instead, I was treated to the old ’50s hit “Great Balls of Fire.” Still on brand and catchy in a nostalgic way.

The hostess, in a beribboned red and ebony minidress, was pretty cute for a giant fly with human hands, though her bristly, stick-thin legs were a bit unnerving. She greeted me with an unintelligible buzzing, narrowing her large bulbous eyes, which she’d dolled up with glittery green mascara.

“Delacroix is expecting me.”

Her buzzed reply sounded a lot like muttered swearing, but she grabbed a plastic laminate menu and set off through the busy restaurant, flying a few feet above the ground.

The place smelled like maple syrup, but also sulfur.

I locked eyes with a shedim who was all hands and mouths, shoveling some sort of pulled meat product into at least six gaping maws, and had a sudden desire to go vegetarian. At the sight of me, he dropped his food, shot to his feet, and lurched in my direction.

Before I could react, the hostess broke apart into a swarm of flies, the plastic menu fluttering to the floor. The flies enveloped the other demon with a furious buzzing.

I stood there, frozen.

Her attack only lasted seconds, at which point the swarm calmly reformed into the hostess.

There was no sign of the other shedim. The (waffle) house always wins.

She picked up the fallen menu and with a weirdly clear expression of exasperation for a giant fly, jabbed her index finger at a large sign on the wall in jaunty script that read, “Bring your appetite; leave your grudges!”

Any remaining demons still eyeing me turned hastily back to their food.

Maybe Delacroix hadn’t brought me here to blackmail me?

Thrilled as I was that no one gave me a second glance despite being the lone human in the place, part of me wanted to give in to my Cherry Bomb form and blend in while forced to spend time in this dangerous space.

I was about halfway across the restaurant now and it was taking all my acting abilities to keep my expression neutral, because holy shit. Some of the patrons had human glamors—more or less—but one booth was occupied by a sea slug demon oozing dark liquid onto his short stack of blueberry pancakes, while another table held a party of shadows with eerie glowing eyes, cutting their eggs Benedict in silent tandem movements.

I made the mistake of peering closer at their meals and almost vomited because what I’d taken for poached eggs was a pockmarked puck thing dotted with teeth. I did not care to educate myself about the sauce.

Thankfully, the floor wasn’t sticky, and I didn’t have to worry about stepping in acid, molten lava—or worse.

The hostess led me out a door onto a screened veranda where the fans spinning lazily overhead did little to dispel the four hundred percent humidity. She gave me the menu and left.

There was only one group out here, eight shedim seated around a long table. Their ability or desire to look human varied wildly. One had an old man’s face, but the rest of him was a person-sized bat. He ate directly off his plate.

Actually, the human glamors all involved looking like old men, some pudgy, one with Popeye biceps, and one with a gaunt face and bugged-out eyes.

A few hadn’t bothered. One demon was basically a goat in an oversize sweatshirt. There were holes cut into his top hat to accommodate his curved horns.

I frowned.

There was a Kangol on a demon with a pompadour, and a floppy hat adorned with sharp metal lures worn by a blue demon with one eye and four tusks. I doubted the hooks were used for fishing.

Okay, what was up with the hats? Awww. Perhaps a shared love of headgear and evil had brought them together.

The other shedim went with baseball caps bearing fun sayings like “Flame-Grilled for Flavor,” “I went to Hell and all I got was this lousy cap,” and “Demon Tested, Hellfire Approved.”

One cap boasted the dancing pancake logo from the restaurant’s sign with “Devilishly Good Eats!” on it. I had to hand it to the business, their branding was perfection.

“Welcome to Brimstone Breakfast Club.” Delacroix beckoned to me from the head of the table.

Okay, boomer.

A half-eaten plate of waffles piled high with whipped cream and strawberries was in front of him, and I grimaced because waffles were one of my most favorite foods and I didn’t want anything in common with this demon.

He eyed me, his lip curling in a sneer. “Pink pajamas. What are you, five?” He’d traded his heavy fisherman’s sweater for a shirt in a shimmering fabric with an iridescent quality. It shifted from deep sapphire blues to emerald greens as it caught the filtered, hazy light, its buttons tiny gold anchors. He’d tucked his hair under a black baseball cap with “Hotter than Hades, Cooler than You” in jaunty white script.

I smoothed down the front of my pj top. “We can’t all be the fashionista you are.”

He put his cigarette out on the cheek of the demon next to him. The gloomy-looking creature had a donkey’s face and a mane attached to a sunburst of short hooved legs that sprouted from his neck.

Delacroix was picking on Eeyore demon. What a dick.

Except Eeyore demon perked up at the literal burn, nudged Delacroix’s head affectionately with a hoof, then used his disconcertingly long tongue to extinguish the smoldering hair. Whatever floats your boat, buddy.

A chair shot out of the main part of the restaurant, hitting me in the backs of the knees, and knocking me onto it. It slid into place between Delacroix and the donkey.

“Try the Hellfire Hash.” Delacroix tapped a photo on my menu of a greasy lump. “Evander swears by it, right?”

Bat demon looked up from his plate, fluttering his leathery wings enthusiastically. A noxious orange sauce dripped off his chin. He didn’t close his mouth when he chewed, and the eyeball he bit down on squirted viscous fluid.

“I’ll pass, thanks,” I said weakly.

“Your loss.” Delacroix’s eyes danced with amusement. “But if you aren’t going to eat, then you can get right to the part where you tell me you’ve found Calista.”

This would have been the perfect opportunity for him to trot out my secret, but he cut into his waffles without uttering any threats.

A modicum of tension drained from my shoulders. Like ten percent of cautious optimism’s worth.

“Miss her that much, do you?” I said sarcastically. Unwise? Yes. But he was a demon, not a grieving family member. He didn’t want her back for sentimental reasons.

“I miss her running the business. Dealing with mundane bullshit in her absence was not part of our agreement. I gave her the magic tools, I kept up my end. I’ve got a sweet setup. No more working hard, no more looking over my shoulder for backstabbing shedim and irritating do-gooders. Just sit back and enjoy the delicious flow of misery and greed in peace.”

Called it.

One of the demons said something in a language I didn’t understand.

Delacroix laughed. “Right. And hang out with old friends. Now.” The air grew cold and damp. “Where is she?”

Every single demon stopped eating and swiveled their heads toward me expectantly, transforming in a blink from a bunch of—admittedly weird and monstrous—old people at their favorite diner to a panel of judges eager to pronounce a death sentence.

I flashed on Quentin’s agonized madness, haunting his house while agonizing over whether he was still alive, and revised my opinion of what they’d do to me. Death would be too easy. I swallowed and crossed my arms so no one would see my trembling hands. “We found the man who attacked her and are very close to finding whoever ordered⁠—”

A wave crashed through the veranda. The shedim who could grab their plates did so, but everything else was swept into the far wall.

Including me.

I tumbled off my chair, fighting to swim my way out while holding my breath, but my lungs were burning, and my brain insisted that breathing was better than not breathing. I opened my mouth—and choked. Water went down my throat with the force of a fist and I panicked, flailing hard.

An invisible hook pulled me up to the surface. I sucked down a huge breath through my coughing fit and then a plume of water slapped me back under the localized waves.

I couldn’t let Cherry out to see if that gave us a fighting chance because I was too busy not drowning and grabbing precious gulps of air before being forced under once more.

My arms and legs no longer worked properly, and I had about as much energy to fight back as a newborn kitten, but I refused to give that bastard the satisfaction of giving up.

At long last, the water disappeared and I bashed my nose on the damp floorboards, numb.

Delacroix stood over me, his hands on his hips. “The next time we meet, you better have earned your girl detective badge.”

I’ll kill you someday. I unclenched my fists and shakily pushed to my knees. “How long until next time? I’d like to set up a countdown to that happy day.”

The shedim pulled a cigarette out from behind his ear. “Whenever I decide.” He flapped a hand at me and another stream of water washed me away.

I didn’t have time to freak out because almost immediately I was back in my bathroom, sprawled in my tub, soaking wet, and unable to calm my racing heart or the shivers racking my body. I couldn’t make myself move, scared that time didn’t pass in the demon realm in the same way, and that if I left this room, I’d find myself twenty years in the future.

It didn’t matter that my robe hung on the back of my door, or that my glass soap dispenser sat next to my bottle of hand cream. The lights in here couldn’t banish the watery darkness that still permeated every pore of my body.

I tried to take a deep breath through my tight rib cage. Humans didn’t want me because I was a monster, and the monsters dismissed and toyed with me. Any sense of safety, of empowerment, all my hard-won agency in becoming a Maccabee and working toward my dream, all of it had been ripped away with that first splash of water.

I gritted my teeth, determined to sit up, but it proved a Herculean task. At first, I managed only to raise my chin off my chest, then I gripped the sides of the tub, but little by little I was upright, my spine straight.

Beaten but not broken.

I’d speak with a Maccabee trauma counselor at some point—those rare operatives who entered the demon realm didn’t exactly leave unscathed, and the situation was treated very seriously. However, if I did it now, Michael would remove me from the case.

I pushed my anxiety away, leaving me with a hot, tight anger making my skin itchy, so I threw on my gear and went for a run in the woods at Stanley Park where I pounded out—and screamed out—my frustration and fury.

I didn’t come across any demons to vent my murderous rage on, but when I emerged from the trail onto the beach, sweaty and hoarse, to a muted sunrise with dark clouds and frothy waves tumbling against the shore, I laughed.

I was Aviva fucking Fleischer. I’d survived hiding my true nature, heartbreak, driving with Sach on the regular, and the demon realm. I was here, I was alive, and I had big plans for my future. No one, not even a crotchety evil hellspawn, was going to ruin them.

But one day? I made my vow on the darkest storm cloud. Delacroix would pay.