The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2

Nathalie Gray The Demon’s Secret

Demons usually didn’t take so many bullets to die.

“Damn. I don’t have all night,” Cain muttered.

He emptied his magazine into the flying monstrosity as it swooped past, and scowled at the horrid smell that hit him like a slap of hot wind. Pausing only to slam in place a spare drum magazine, he leaped from one building to the next. The boom-boom-boom of his shotgun thundered in the winter night. Nickel-plated, custom-fitted, this combat shotgun was nicknamed “the jackhammer”. Who the hell named guns?

Around him, snow-covered east end Montreal rooftops resembled clouds. Like running in heaven. Except he’d never be allowed in heaven. There were books written about him, even the Book mentioned him.

If Cain didn’t kill the spawn, that’d make him look bad. And weak. In his line of work, looking weak invited all kinds of bad press and the attention of some beings even worse than he was. His own master would love nothing better than to punish him.

“Come on,” he hollered. “I’m freezing my nuts off!”

The demonic spawn came back for another dive, hoping perhaps Cain was too busy trying not to fall off the building. Cain straightened his arm, took aim and didn’t let his finger off the trigger until a sizable chunk of the creature had been blown off. The monster crashed on to a tin roof, tumbled several times and sent a geyser of snow ten feet high before stopping in a flailing, writhing heap. Cain skidded to a halt, pinned one of the demon’s ruined, leathery wings beneath his Italian shoe. The magazine was empty, so he methodically hand-loaded one of the special shells.

He called these rosaries.

“Next time you come after me, you piece of hell-shit, bring a few buddies along, okay?” Cain aimed at the creature’s neck and fired.

The shot dispersed in a stainless steel wire, dotted with silver-plated ball bearings. Like a flying garrote, it hit the creature across the neck, severing it. Black blood sprayed outwards and melted snow over a foot-wide radius. Like an overripe melon bursting. The smell of sulphur and smoke stung Cain’s nose. The black creature’s glistening body caved in on itself and then broke in several smouldering embers that blew away in the wind. No traces of it remained except for despoiled snow.

Not much could hurt those demonic creatures. Holy water, silver, gold, direct sunlight and a couple of other things he never would’ve guessed before becoming. . Whatever he was now.

Cain checked his watch. Maybe he wouldn’t be too late for the harvest.

After retracing his steps to the private clinic’s roof, he opened the door leading into the service stairwell, knocked his feet, one by one, against the jamb to dislodge what he could of snow — and black, viscous blood. Heat like a wave greeted him when he climbed down the stairs to the second floor. He hadn’t realized how cold he was. His fingertips tingled, as did his toes. Cain smoothed down his felt coat, pushed the door leading to the second floor and, staring straight ahead amidst the oblivious staff, returned to the room where he’d first spotted the spawn as it tried to get in through the window. The door was still ajar. Cain slipped in and just by smell he knew he wasn’t too late. The man still lived. Barely.

“Am I going up or down?”

Cain snapped his gaze to the man’s face, where a pair of old but vibrant blue eyes stared at him. Directly at him. Cain had forgotten what it felt like to have someone look at him this way. The only ones who could see him were demons, their spawns — like the one on the rooftop — the angels that still gave a damn, and the lunatics. And of course, the dying. But they were rarely happy to see him.

“Up.”

A look of relief passed over the weathered face. He nodded imperceptibly, except to Cain — because he knew what to look for and already waited for the sign.

“You? You from above or below?”

“Above,” Cain lied. He approached the bed, placed a hand on the man’s wrist. A weak, arrhythmic pulse throbbed against his cold fingers. Not long now. The machine agreed with him and began to bleep.

The man closed his eyes for the last time, Cain knew. He went to work quickly, efficiently. He’d done this thousands of times throughout the centuries. He pulled a gold pillbox from his coat pocket, clicked it open and placed it near the man’s mouth. The last breath created fog on the metal surface. Cain narrowed his eyes when the soul emerged, a manifestation that resembled a thin tendril of silver smoke coiling upward. Within the thin mist glittered tiny white flakes like snow. Cain could never get over how many secrets people kept. This man had dozens. Big ones, little ones, some darker and heavier and others that floated like tiny feathers.

Before the soul could rise further — the lucky man indeed was going “up” — Cain passed the pillbox through the soul several times. He shivered every time his skin came in contact with the gossamer stuff. He tucked his hand against his chest and clipped the box shut. Several of the dead man’s secrets were now stored safely inside. Berith, Great Duke of Hell and almighty asshole, would be happy. And when Master Berith was happy, it meant one more day on the mortal plane, harvesting secrets from the dying, instead of roasting back home down on the seventh level of hell. The special place of those who’d done violence against others. Or themselves. Plus, the more he collected secrets, the more souls Berith could buy, and someday, if he brought enough, Cain would be set free. That was the deal.

Cain was out of the clinic by the time the staff came rushing into the dead man’s room. His car waited on the corner, looking forlorn and broody with its black body and tinted windows. Sunlight didn’t agree with Cain — neither did water and a whole slew of things that never bothered him back when he was. .

When he was a human. So long ago.

He gunned the engine and tore up the street. His breath rose in front of him. Without bothering to warm up the car, he just drove it to his temporary home at the foot of the Jacques-Cartier bridge. Graffiti and detritus covered the brick walls and uneven streets. Montreal was like a bipolar city — elegance and beauty on one side, pestilence and corruption on the other. He parked the car near an abandoned foundry, slipped between the chain link fence doors and then cursed when he splashed cold mud into his shoes. The many locks and chains barring his door meant he had to stand outside as it began to snow. It seeped into his hair, down his collar. Cain was shivering when he pushed the door closed behind him, and repeated the process in reverse order. But at least, he was indoors.

Neon light flickered to life when the motion sensors caught him. Part armory, part gym, part derelict industrial kitchen — the only place in the building that still had running hot water — his home shared nothing with the one he’d left behind all those years ago.

“Forget it. That life is over.”

“Life? Barely,” came a voice behind him. “Existence would be the correct term.”

Cain twitched. “I hate it when you sneak up on me.”

“Life entails a soul,” the voice went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “So ‘existence’ is definitely a better word for you, Damaged One. One can still be damned and exist.”

His demon master had chosen the body of a young woman to possess that night, all slender limbs in the pale grey suit, and shiny black hair. Maybe Berith had developed good taste after all. “You almost look good tonight, Berith.”

The woman’s smile accentuated. “If you were not my favourite secret keeper, I would personally escort you to the eighth level.”

“Maybe I’d be better off with liars and thieves.”

Berith approached him, leisurely caressed the lapel of his suit. Cain curled his upper lip and stared hard.

“Did you do good work tonight?”

“That’s what you call it?” Cain snarled.

The demon rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so damn melodramatic. You work for hell. Get over it.”

“And some day I’m going to take your damn job and shove it.”

A dangerous glint shone in Berith’s eyes. “But in the meantime, you belong to me.” She stuck her hand out, palm up.

“Fuck you.” Cain fished the pillbox out of his pocket and slammed it into the small hand so incongruous to the demon’s true form.

“You should not toy with me so, Brother Cain.”

“Don’t call me that.” No one had called him that since. .

“Ashamed of your past? You should not be. It was what drew me to your soul. So grey, so close to turning. But it was his fault, he took credit for something you did. As always.”

The hurt and confusion in his brother’s eyes. Cain would never forget it.

He gritted his teeth hard enough to hurt his jaw. “You didn’t hear me the first time, demon? Fuck. You.”

Maybe if he pushed the creature far enough, he’d kill Cain once and for all. Oblivion. He could taste it.

Berith whispered a word that caused Cain to drop to his knees in searing agony. His chest constricted, his head throbbed so intensely he feared the skull wouldn’t take the pressure, every nerve ending felt on fire, bile rose up his throat and, in the blink of an eye, he was no longer in his temporary home in the slums of Montreal.

He was back in hell.

Ashes and glowing embers flew in twisters around him as the voices of the damned rose in complaints and cries. Everything was dead or dying. People, animals, things. Falling apart, collapsing, burning up in black smoke that choked the crimson sky and created heat vortices darker than night. Black holes in the blood-red sky. Spawns like the one he’d killed earlier that night swooped down on him, lashed his naked back with their talons, cawed in parody of his roars of pain.

In all his squalid grandeur, Berith towered before him, wisps of hair flying in the burning wind, shreds of skin falling off the massive skeleton. But the eyes were intact, always remained intact no matter the body’s decay. They stared at Cain, right into his core. Rage and terror and pain closed in on him.

“What was it about my ‘job’?” Berith asked, leaned over. He smiled as he delicately pressed a rotten finger through Cain’s shoulder.

His world vacillated. And Cain screamed.

They said if a man hurt enough, his body would shut down. In hell, that theory didn’t apply.

Cain flopped to the concrete floor back in Montreal when Berith summarily dismissed him in the middle of a quartering. Lucky someone had interrupted the demon because the last time Cain had pissed Berith off, he’d paid for it dearly. Even by hell standards.

“I need—” He coughed, cleared his raw throat. He really needed a drink.

His clothes hung in tatters and one of his shoes was gone. He shivered, raked a hand through his sweaty hair. Ashes still clung to his eyelashes and lips. Any moist part of him was likewise covered in the stuff. A dull, familiar pain radiated from the inside of his left forearm. Rolling on to his back to cool that side against the concrete, Cain raised his arm in front of his watery eyes. As with any other job, the name of his next “client” was carved in his flesh. It’d disappear. Not because the skin would heal, but because after he’d deliver the secrets, Berith would erase the name. Only to carve another. Then another.

But this one gave him pause. The name of a well-known politician.

“Shit.”

Other demons would want that woman’s secrets, like gold coins to the denizens of hell. Everyone wanted someone else’s secrets, demons included. They could buy souls with the stuff. And nothing was more important to a demon than the number of souls under his or her command. Maybe if Cain harvested a good number, Berith wouldn’t continue where he’d left off.

He showered to get the stench of Berith off him and, once again in a dark suit and Italian shoes — his armour — fired up the laptop to access tax records made available by another of his boss’s many “employees”. The demon had in his charge accountants and artists, politicians and activists, men, women, young and old, of every nation that existed and some that no longer did. Every demon had at least as many as Berith, some more, others less. He’d had to fight through hordes of rival demons’ spawns and secret keepers to get the jobs done. One in particular, Belial, employed only the most vicious and degenerate and commanded legions of lesser demons, spawns, humans and even a couple of renegade angels. No one wanted to mess with him, except Cain. He just didn’t care anymore.

With a triumphant ping, the search yielded a full legal name, an address and more information than Cain could ever use. He noted the address on a piece of paper — since the name was carved in his flesh — and tucked it into his coat pocket. Because he’d never been the positive type and suspected shit would hit the fan again, he loaded up on ammo and weapons, slipped a pair of throwing knives in their sheaths strapped to his calves. He might look like a banker but he hid an arsenal worthy of any specops operative, complete with little sachets of holy water and bullets made of gold and silver.

As he walked out, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. From tall, dark and handsome, he’d turned into tall, dark and haunted.

But first, a drink. He knew just the place and, if he was lucky, he might even meet the closest person he had to a friend.

Half an hour later, Cain pulled the dirty door to a hole-in-the-wall tavern named after the dead proprietor’s wife. It’d changed hands three times in the last fifty years. Cain could name each bartender since the place’s opening.

An older woman in a corner booth caught his attention. So he wouldn’t drink alone that night.

Cain slipped into the booth. “Sister.”

“You look like shit,” she said in rapid-fire sign language. The gold cross resting on her mint-green cardigan gleamed when she raised her hand, three fingers extended. “Eat something.”

The bartender came over and set down an open bottle of Canadian rye whisky and a pair of thick-bottomed tumblers. With a dip of his chin to the woman, the bartender returned to his bar.

The first swallow scorched Cain’s already raw throat all the way down then spread in a nice warm wave in his belly. He inhaled deeply, was about to take another swallow when the bartender returned, this time with a plate of smoked meat sandwich and fries.

Out of habit, Cain thanked the man, remembering too late, as always, that not many would remember him two seconds after talking to him. It’d taken him centuries to get used to it — of people looking through him as if he wasn’t right there in front of them. But the in-between state had its pluses — especially when it came to gunfights. Ha. Yet the solitude had been crushing at first. Then he’d become accustomed to the shroud that seemed to cover him, used it to his advantage. Those like him who didn’t belong on the mortal plane, who’d had their turn and left, were no longer part of the equation. Like ghosts.

He wondered why the Sister could see him though. She’d accosted him a few years ago as he walked across a park. It’d been so long since he’d spoken to someone that he’d temporarily forgotten what it felt like for a person to look straight at him. A real, living person. The dying could see him all right. But she hadn’t been dying — and still wasn’t — neither was she a demon, spawn or angel, that he could tell, anyway (angels had always been sneaky). She must have been a lunatic then. Not that he’d ever tell Sister Evangeline to her face. The woman ran a men’s mission near the old port and no one willingly messed with her, not even the mayor. The thought made him smile.

“I didn’t even know you had them,” Sister Evangeline said. A mocking lift to her mouth rounded her ample cheek.

“Had what?” Cain bit into the sandwich. Juices triggered by the meat and hot mustard forced him to focus on the meal and not the conversation. He wolfed the thing down in four bites.

“Teeth. I didn’t know you had teeth. Never saw them.” She stole a fry from his plate.

“It doesn’t bother you he thinks you’re talking to yourself?” Cain nodded in the bartender’s direction. The man seemed oblivious to Evangline’s gestures as he watched a snowy little TV screen set on a soccer game.

“He can think whatever he wants.” Still holding the fry, she managed to sign at the same time. “It’s you I worry about. I swear to God, you look worse every time I see you. Are you sick?”

Cain pushed the plate away. He wasn’t hungry anymore. But he was still thirsty, so he poured them both a second glass.

She grimaced. “Fine, be the mysterious jerk. If you think it makes you look cool, think again, mon garçon.” Only Evangeline would ever call him a boy. He was older than she was, by a few millennia, too. He’d lived through the Great Flood and listened live on the radio as the Hindenburg burned.

He caught her looking down at his chest and realized the butt of his Luger stuck out of his coat. With his elbow, he surreptitiously slipped the holster back a bit. His forearm throbbed like a neglected wound quickly infecting. He had to get to work.

“Remind me again what you do for a living?” Her eyebrows moved as much as her hands when she talked.

He stood, slipped money from his pants pocket and placed it on the table, drained another glass that didn’t burn half as much as the first two. “I never told you what I do for a living, Sister.”

“Do you know your scripture?”

“What makes you think I’m Catholic?”

She smiled. “You wear guilt and shame like a pair of well worn gloves. So, do you?”

“You know what they say about curiosity. ‘But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt’.”

Sister Evangeline’s French-Irish temper came out in explosive hand signals almost too fast to follow. Cain had always thought the sign word for “asshole” was funny as hell. A reversed version of the symbol for “OK”.

Grinning, he left the seething woman to finish the fries.

Cain felt trouble long before he caught the first whiff. Spawns, a lot of them. The night sky took on a more sombre quality, as if it was thick with activity he couldn’t see. But hear it he could. Hissing, growling, sucking sounds, the flap of wings and scrape of talons against concrete.

Snow fell slowly, in small flakes that didn’t melt when they landed on Cain’s shoulders and coat sleeves. A twister of debris roiled along the sidewalk a few feet away. In front of him like a gargantuan sentinel, stood a tall and thick stone mansion surrounded with a high wrought-iron fence. He checked behind him, noted nothing above the rooftops except for the faraway silhouette of the Olympic Stadium, Montreal’s white elephant, and its inclined tower.

Yet he could feel them. Growing closer. It hadn’t taken them long to sniff him out. Sometimes, he suspected spawns had nothing else to do than wait for a gate to open so they could swoop down on whatever came out.

Movement exploded left, right, above. Snow flew in thick ribbons that lashed and whipped him like tiny grains of salt.

“Here we go,” he snarled.

Cain cocked his shotgun a second before the first spawn swooped down to his left, missed and hit the pavement a couple of inches in front of him, creating a tiny but messy crater. This surprised him. They rarely missed their aerial attacks. They were being careless, therefore desperate. They’d make mistakes. Bad news for them. Very good news for him.

He pumped a quick pair of specialized maximum shredding rounds into the fiend. Each minced a wing and part of its torso and, on a long and angry hiss, the thing lay still. Others replaced it. They always did in his world of in-between — not on Earth, not in hell. Both at once, yet in neither place.

One landed right on top of him, sent him to his knees, dug talons and claws into his back and shoulders. It wailed in his ear a split-second before he aimed the AA-12 straight up and fired. A shower of gooey bits fell around him and burned like acid wherever the stuff touched. The burn of its claws spread to his body. Hellish fever. Cain ran across the deserted street, fired as he went, rounds hitting targets and downing them, others ricocheting on bony ridges and creating scuffs against the stone fence. To mortal eyes, nothing would show, no sound would be heard.

On a run, he leaped on top of the hood of his car, then on to the roof, where he whirled on himself and dispensed death at five rounds a second. One spawn thudded against the trunk, trashing and flailing. One of the wings caught Cain on the arm. His shotgun went sailing ten feet high and landed in the snow bank.

“Shit,” he snarled. His breath was ripped out of his lungs when a spawn struck him with its wing. The talon lacerated his coat across the chest. Despite the adrenaline, he heard a button land on the frozen sidewalk.

Cackling in delight, the spawn raised its misshapen, clawed hand. The final hit. This one would hurt. Cain only had time to pull his Luger out of its holster at his chest. Gold bullets with silver cores dipped in holy water. His best ones, usually reserved for full-fledged demons. Such a waste.

He levelled it at the thing’s chest, fired just as both its wings spread for the coming attack. The shock sent it flying back in a geyser of embers and ashes, sent it colliding against a hydro pole. It bent with the violent collision. Sparks coursed along the wires.

Burning pain exploded in his lower back.

Cain looked down, more shocked than hurt, and spotted a long, glistening claw coming out of his belly.

“Damn.”

Dying meant a split second of suspension where he’d be catapulted back to hell, where no wound was too great to “heal”, then another split second to be sent right back up to the mortal plane as if nothing had happened. Where half a dozen spawns waited for him. The circus would never end. Not until he’d accumulated enough secrets for Berith’s taste. The demon had told him that some day, when Cain had brought enough secrets to sell for souls, he’d be sent up to the purgatory. Still in hell, but a world better than the seventh level.

He aimed back and fired a bullet into the spawn that had backstabbed him. And then he died. Again.

Ashes and smoke, the smell of sulphur and charred flesh, cries and lamentations, crimson sky, black sun, and abruptly, snow replaced it all. It grated against his face as Cain realized he’d come back facedown into the street, where a spawn stood over him, no doubt ready — and delighted — to send him back for another spin downstairs.

“Oh, for Christ’s—”

BOOM.

The explosion drowned the spawn’s shriek just as a wave of energy traversed the air a couple inches above Cain’s head. Gunshot followed the detonation. A lot of gunshot. Someone had their finger on the trigger and wasn’t letting up. He floundered to his hands and knees, ashes choking him, still reeling from his short trip to hell, and turned in time to catch a scene that tore a curse from him.

A lone woman stood in the middle of the street, blond hair in a punk cut, dressed in white vinyl from head to toe except for black military boots that reached up to her knees and an assortment of belts that crisscrossed her muscular frame. Bethany Simard, infamous keeper for one of the most powerful demons, Asmodeus, pain in the butt extraordinaire and probably Cain’s one and only weak spot.

Great timing.

He couldn’t help giving her a good, long look. Hot and dangerous.

“I’m easy on the eyes, huh?” She cracked an irreverent grin. “Behind you, handsome.”

Cain whirled around, thanked his lucky star he still had his gun. A gold and silver bullet took off half of the fiend’s head. The rest hit the fence, dissipated in glowing coals and ash.

Movement registered in the corner of his eye. He turned back to the street. Bethany was gone. Mocking laughter, rapidly diminishing, floated to him from the other side of the fence.

“Shit.”

He took a moment to fish his silvery shotgun from the snow bank before chasing the woman over the fence. He knew exactly where she was going, and he intended to prevent it. Velvety silence greeted him once he landed on the other side of the fence. Cain circumvented the mansion, his heart thumping. Ahead into the gloom, he spotted a figure darting left and right amongst the skeletal bushes separating the mansion from its neighbour. He lengthened his paces, pumped his gun-free arm hard and fast. Cold air burned his lungs. From a tiny darting figure, the woman’s silhouette grew clearer. She’d reached the back porch. Bethany had always been fast. Thankfully, he was a tiny bit faster. Cain caught up to her just as she flipped back a sling strapped across her shoulder like a postman bag. A matte black MP5 submachine gun hung from the sling.

He gripped it, yanked sideways and sent the woman crashing against the stone wall. With a yelp, she extended a hand, caught herself against the balustrade. Cain used his long arms to seize her by an arm, whirled her around and pinned her there with the barrel of his shotgun pressed against her wrist.

“Hey!” She cocked her free arm to punch him, he caught that wrist, too. He knew her too well to let her have a free arm around him.

They stood face to face, their breaths mixing in puffs of steam. He’d neutralized both her arms, but that meant he didn’t have one left either. Cain angled one foot back so she wouldn’t get any ideas to kick him.

“That’s how you thank me?” Bethany twisted one arm then the other. “I thought you were one of the good ones.”

Cain squeezed harder. Her neck tendons corded like violin strings as she struggled to free herself. He wouldn’t hold the diminutive Valkyrie in place for much longer. “Why are you here?”

“Why are you here?” she snapped.

He glared at her. “Don’t make me send you back, Bethany.”

Black eyes heavily rimmed in kohl flared in fear a brief instant, then bravado replaced it. “You’re not like that.”

“You’d be surprised. Your master sends you, or are you on one of your ‘goodwill’ hunts?” He’d had to answer to a very displeased Berith once because of her. Demons didn’t like the idea that lowly keepers would do freelance hunts for others. Or that other keepers didn’t turn the renegades in.

“It’s one of his.”

“Well, you can go back, because this one is mine.”

Bethany smiled, batted her eyelids dramatically. “Maybe we can share?”

“And have Berith after my ass like the last time I ‘shared’ something with you? I don’t think so.”

“Aw, come on, it wasn’t all bad.”

It hadn’t been all bad. In fact, he’d enjoyed working with the cheeky woman. Even damned as she was, she still had a verve for life that he found very intriguing. And appealing. Plus, no one ever talked to him, not with his reputation and “charming” personality. Evangeline and Bethany were basically his entire social circle.

“It was bad. You’re a pain in the ass.” The smudged mascara, crazy hair and attitude didn’t deter him at all. He suspected he found her attractive because of it and not in spite of it.

“But oh-so-irresistible and brilliant. Come on, Cain, we got another kick at the can, we should make the most of it.” She gave him a pronounced once-over, actually winked in a very suggestive way. Simply unflappable.

“I wouldn’t turn my back on you for a second, never mind taking my guns off.” A smile escaped him. “Plus, you’re not my type.”

Liar.

Bethany grinned. “I bet you’ve always been a heartbreaker, even before. .”

“Before I was damned?”

She shrugged. “Call it what you want. I call it a second shot at life.”

“It’s not life, Bethany. Not even close. We’re on borrowed time, with our own personal demons yanking on the leash.”

She lost her smile. “Party-pooper.”

“Look,” he began, regretting the words as they came out. She was his weak spot. Dammit. “Some day, maybe. .”

A sparkle made her dark eyes look like coffee beans. Smile lines appeared at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She arched her hips off the wall and pressed herself against him. Her heat seeped into his clothes. “Maybe what, hm? You’d like to see more of me?”

“Yeah, I’d like to see ‘more’ of you.”

Bethany’s eyes sparkled.

Damn, he couldn’t think when she pulled that shit. “Look. .”

He must have relaxed his hold on her arm and saw his slip too late. The top of her head struck him on the chin. Pain exploded in his brain. His grip failed as he bent over.

And she was gone again, her boots thumping madly.

Cain stumbled into the house through the back door she’d left open. Careless, loud, obnoxious. He could’ve followed her progress from outside the house. Good old Bethany. Two by two, he took the stairs, followed her by the smell he’d come to associate with her — vinyl and body lotion. Up to the third floor, down a carpeted hallway lined with thick frames of dead people. Someone walked by — oblivious to the two gun-toting bounty hunters racing down the hall — as if moved by unseen hands into the place Cain had just occupied a split-second before. He’d always wondered what would happen if a mortal occupied the same space he did? Would they feel him?

There, at the end of the hallway. Light filtered out from underneath a door. Cain gripped his shotgun tighter as he silently pushed against the panel. There she was, his “saviour”, bending over the dying politician, a wizened Asian woman. In the golden glow of a baroque lamp on the dresser, his competitor resembled an elf. But armed to the teeth. Bethany was too busy fishing around in a tiny leather purse strapped to her belt to pay much attention to him.

Cain sneaked up just close enough to press the barrel against her nape. “Don’t make me send you back.”

She froze.

“Start running, Bethany. I’ll give you ten seconds head start.”

“I need this,” she whispered, turned her head slightly so she could look up at him. Tears welled in her eyes. Her chin trembled. He’d never seen her that way, so vulnerable, so afraid. He’d never seen her afraid despite some pretty serious fighting and crappy odds. He could only imagine what a woman went through at the hands of a demon. “Okay? I need this, Cain. Please, I’m not yanking your chain.”

Staring into those pleading eyes wasn’t as easy as he would’ve thought.

“Asmodeus. .” She stopped, swallowed. “He’s going to send me down another level if I don’t bring him this one. You know what that means. .”

Cain twitched in spite of himself. If Berith’s reputation for viciousness was well known in all levels of hell, another demon beat him by miles and bounds. Asmodeus, king of demons, with untold legions at his command. Cain wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the Tormenter if he’d failed to do his bidding. And being sent down another level was dying all over again. She’d have to start over. He could only imagine the horror. No wonder Bethany looked desperate.

But it wasn’t any of his business. Or his problem.

The woman straightened, slowly, turned to face him with her hands at shoulder level on either side of her. “What level are you on, Cain?”

“Seventh.”

She nodded. “So you have a temper, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“Look, I’ll help you with something else. Anytime, anywhere. But please, let me have this one here.” She turned toward the older woman on the bed who lay with her eyes closed and a rosary tucked in her joined hands. Except for the ones his ammunitions contact made for him, he hadn’t seen a real rosary in over thirty years. Traditions were dying at an alarming rate.

Cain shook his head. “And you think Berith will be happy to see me when I go back empty-handed?”

“I have connections, you know I do. I’ll help you. I swear, okay? Name it.” She grinned wide. “Anything for you my cutie patootie.”

“Don’t push it.” Cain cursed under his breath. “Anything?”

Her gaze hardened. She lifted her chin defiantly. “Yeah, anything, even that.”

He wasn’t thinking about that, but preferred to keep the dangerous woman on her toes. “You owe me.”

Since when did he give breaks to people? Was he losing his edge? Would Berith keep him in hell instead of sending him back to the mortal plane for another job? Damn that woman!

Bethany blew him a kiss, turned to the dying woman and pulled out a tiny black lacquered box when she noticed the telltale sign of the woman’s passing. She collected the secrets — a whole cluster of them, he was so in shit over this — slipped the box back into its home at her belt and backed to the door.

“Would you have helped if it hadn’t been me?” she asked.

“Why do you care?”

“Is that a no?”

“Just get the hell out. You owe me, Bethany. Big time.”

She agreed with a nod. “In all the years we’ve known each other, you never once asked what level I’m on.”

Cain sighed long and hard. This was turning out to be a very bad day. He hated bad days. They invariably ended with his butt in hell, being tortured and taunted then tossed back up. “I don’t give a shit.”

“Yes you do. You’re just too proud to admit you care.” She winked. “I’m on the eighth.”

Before Cain could process the implications, she was gone.

The eighth level of hell was reserved for usurpers and swindlers. And liars.

The one time he gave someone a break and this was what happened. That woman would be the end of him.

“Bethany, you trouble-making little shit.”

He took off after her. She was easy to follow if only because of the racket she caused. As if she didn’t care if he followed. Or maybe she didn’t mind.

Winter air blasted him across the face when he burst out on to the back porch, ran along the fence and cleared the mansion corner just in time to catch Bethany leaping over the fence. While running, he aimed more or less in her direction and fired once. The shot clanged against the iron fence, busted the closing mechanism, and Cain only had to dip his shoulder as he ran into the opening.

As Cain chased the little liar down Avenue Pierre de Coubertin, the air filled with the flap of wings. A leathery fap-fap-fap that presaged nothing good for either of them.

“Give me the box!”

He was out of time. She could disappear down below whenever she wanted. She just ignored him and kept on running.

A city bus on its lonely night run temporarily obscured her when she crossed the wind-swept street. The stadium loomed in front. If she lost him in the maze of concrete ramps and walkways, he’d never find her again.

Three silhouettes suddenly rose near the underground parking entrance. Cain only had time to mutter a curse when Bethany ran right past them. In her haste, she must not have spotted them. Bright muzzle flashes preceded the thunder of several firearms. With a yelp, the woman stumbled, managed to fire a shot before she crashed against the concrete ramp. Like vultures, the three attackers jumped from their perch to finish the job. By that time, Cain had silently caught up to them. Wind drowned what little noise he made as he crept up behind the trio of men.

“Do not kill her yet,” said the man to the right, a tall fellow with a dark coat that reached the ground. His courtly speech pattern tickled Cain’s memory. “There is no reason to be hasty, is there?”

Bethany used the ramp for support as she gingerly climbed back to her feet. “Guys, guys, it’s just a misunderstanding. We can work through this, right. Just hear me out.”

Cain levelled his shotgun at their backs. He could have given them fair warning, a chance to step away and get lost. He might have felt a bit more lenient toward them if Bethany hadn’t already wasted what little goodwill he possessed. As it were, he’d already lost too much time. Plus, the kind of men who ganged up on a woman wouldn’t be missed if they suddenly exited the gene pool.

He opened fire.

Two collapsed right away, the air instantly filling with the smell of sulphur and the acrid taste of ash. He should’ve known. Keepers. They’d be back within seconds, “resurrected” by their demon masters, just like Berith had done for him earlier that night. Bethany nimbly jumped on the other side of the ramp.

It figures.

The third man, however, growled in pain but seemed otherwise unaffected by the silver slugs dipped in holy water. So, not a keeper then. And not a human either.

Cain understood why when the man whirled around. Massive wings shredded the long coat, spread high and wide. Contrary to popular belief, angel wings weren’t feathered but made of tough hide like those of demons. In fact, the only distinguishing factor between the two — other than their disposition — was the smell. Cain swore under his breath. He didn’t have time for this.

“Thanks for the hand,” he growled for Bethany’s benefit. No doubt she was already long gone.

Grinning, the angel began to pull a sword from within what remained of his coat. Cain didn’t wait to see the tip before he emptied his magazine. Each slug propelled the snarling angel back a step. Barely. When Cain knew he’d just chambered the last shell, he slipped his Luger out. A gold bullet ought to do the trick.

With a smile, the angel bowed slightly. “Wait.”

“Oh? Okay.”

Cain fired twice. Both times, the angel used his blade to smack the bullets away. Deafening metal-against-metal clangs made Cain’s teeth hurt.

“I can help you, monkey-man,” the angel said.

“Shutting up would help.”

The angel smiled. A bit too wide, a bit too forced. Mimicking humans. They could never get it right and could never understand it wasn’t about the mouth. It was all in the eyes. And theirs never smiled.

“I can help you get back.”

Cain aimed straight between the thing’s eyes. Maybe he’d get lucky and blind it long enough to slip his last rosary shell in his shotgun. “Get back where?”

“Here.” The angel’s grin widened, as did his wings. Like a hawk trapping its prey. “You could have another chance at life. If you give me what she stole.”

“Life? I tried it once, it wasn’t all that.” Liar. He’d do anything for another shot. “Plus, why don’t you take the soul yourself? Oh, that’s right, you can’t, it has to be freely given.”

“You wasted yours away,” the angel snarled. Greed and anger blasted out in a furious wave that hit Cain in the chest. “You took His gift, and threw it back at Him. But I can help you get back in His good graces, monkey-man. He is forgiving.”

The wall of rage dissipated and Cain shook his head. “You’re no more in his good graces than I am, so quit flapping your wings.”

“Hey.” Bethany slowly walked around the concrete ramp, hands well in view. A little black pouch dangled from one. “Here, take it.”

Cain couldn’t believe she’d returned. Maybe she wasn’t all bad. Just mostly bad. “Bethany, don’t—”

“Freely given?” The angel cut Cain off and turned slightly in Bethany’s direction. Avarice narrowed his eyes. His fingers twitched by his side. The sword tip wavered just the slightest bit. For an angel to get his hands on a bit of human soul was like an addict finding half a pound of cocaine. Jackpot.

“Yeah.” She flicked a quick glance at Cain. “I don’t want to go back to the eighth. Please, okay, please give me another chance. Here, that soul is yours.”

The pouch dangled invitingly at the end of its cord. Bethany’s hand trembled.

His nostrils and eyes flared, the angel bent over to take the little pouch from the much smaller woman.

Cain wouldn’t get another chance like this.

Years of practice kicked in. Within a second, a rosary shell was loaded into the shotgun. Thunder reverberated when he shot the renegade angel. For a split second, he thought he’d missed as the thing straightened, rage and hatred disfiguring the handsome face and making him even more imposing. Everything slowed, time itself ticked away one grain at a time. The silvery wire spread, each dot like a silver teardrop, flew at the angel’s neck, where it bit into the flesh, sliced right through and embedded itself into the concrete wall behind. The wings shook with a spasm. Bethany cursed. Cain barely had time to protect his face with his arm when ashes and embers swirled like a mini twister, higher, wider, peppered him with burning bits, disintegrated into black smoke until only a scuff marked the angel’s spot. Through the smoke, Bethany’s face was like a tiny white moon, eyes huge.

Cain slipped his Luger into its holster. “You’re a good liar. You had me going with that pouch. That a decoy?”

She beamed. “Smart and beautiful. I have it all.”

He aimed the shotgun at her. “No more tricks, Bethany. Give me the secrets.”

In the distance, the flap of wings heralded the spawns’ return, their cackling and shrieking growing louder. Shit.

A blast of wind fretted her hair. She backed against the ramp. “I wasn’t lying to you. I need this.”

“Argh, come on! You think I’m—”

Cain froze and looked up into the sky. He felt them clearly now. Close. Very close. By the sound, he knew there were hundreds of them. Carrions. He wouldn’t have time to make it to his car.

She approached despite the barrel of the gun digging in her chest. “We need to work together. If we make it to dawn, we’ll be okay.”

He checked his watch. 04:33 glowed aqua-green. “Shut up. Let me think.”

Unfortunately, Bethany was right. No time to reach his car and lose them in narrow alleys. Even less time to find the temporary sanctuary of a church and wait for daylight. They’d have to fight them out here in the open, in the dark. If he died before getting the secrets, he’d go back to Berith empty-handed. He should’ve stayed in bed.

“If you stab me in the back again. .”

To his astonishment, she winked. “I may not be a good woman, Cain, but I’m a smart one.”

“What do you have left?” He had one magazine left for his shotgun, some incendiary magnesium shells, the four gold bullets that remained in his Luger, and his knives. Not that these would help much against spawns, only against fellow keepers. He threw her a dark look. Maybe he should get rid of her now and hope to get lucky with the demonic hordes. Yeah, his luck had been so good so far. .

She checked her various straps, winced. “I don’t have enough.”

The first spawn landed not ten feet away, spread its wings wide and let out an ear-piercing shriek of triumph.

A very bad day, indeed.

Other shrieks echoed around them, a dozen, a hundred, more. Countless demonic wings flapped in the night sky, creating snow twisters that temporarily blinded Cain and sent icy pellets into his eyes and mouth. They abraded his skin when they sliced into his ruined coat and exposed hands. Growling, he charged into the underground parking, Bethany on his heels. Booms reverberated as she peppered their escape with bullets.

“Don’t waste your ammo!”

Fluorescent tubes fluttered to life when they triggered the motion sensors, but immediately blinked out as the demonic hordes followed them underground. They couldn’t do anything against daylight, but artificial light and fragile conductors were no match against the vile presence. Yellow placards flashed by, parsing the Olympic grounds into sectors and levels. A maze of concrete. Cain tried to read as best he could as he sprinted down the gentle incline, gripped the corner of a metal handrail and leaped over it so he could open the door leading to the stairs. The concrete well leading upwards smelled of urine and humidity. Behind him, Bethany cursed under her breath. Two by two, they climbed up to the first level. He was about to get out that way when she grabbed his coat and yanked him back.

“Wait!” she panted. “Dawn. It’s close. Let’s fight. Outside.”

“Too late!” He yanked his coat out of her hand and would have kept on going when a faint sound stopped him cold, all but froze the blood in his veins. It came from inside the stairwell, below them. Close.

“Brother Cain,” called a man. The whisper grew to chuckles. “I know you are here.”

Berith had found a human to possess.

Bethany pointed her submachine gun into the space between the handrail and arched to get a better shot. “I can see him,” she mouthed silently.

The urge to take the secrets from her almost overtook him. It’d be easy. The pouch was right there at her belt, not four feet away, and contained the little black box. He was stronger, he could take it by force and push her into the void. By the time Asmodeus brought her back, Berith would have the bit of soul he wanted. Maybe their deal wouldn’t be over.

But it wouldn’t change a damn thing, would it? Berith would find some other reason to torture him. He never lacked imagination that one. Fuck him. If he wanted to get the secrets, he could move his demonic ass and come get them.

Cain shook his head no at Bethany — this was an innocent man possessed by the demon — and resumed climbing the stairs. Bethany followed but clearly would have preferred putting a few bullets in their pursuer.

“There.” He pointed to the third line of text on a nearby placard. Tour de Montréal.

He opened the door, let it clatter against the wall then soundlessly began to climb to the next level. Grinning, his impromptu ally followed, passed and afforded him a very nice view of her body clad in white vinyl and black straps. He’d always wondered what she’d done to end up in hell.

Their ploy must have worked because the door opened and closed below them, noisily, the sound like gunshot. While Berith searched that level, Cain would be on his way to his true destination — the Tower of Montreal. It’d give them a couple minutes tops before Berith sensed, even in his diminished form, he’d been duped. If Cain was going to piss off his demon master, he might as well go all the way. Plus, Bethany was right. Dawn wasn’t that far off, so if they could make sure to be outdoors when the sun crested the horizon, the spawns wouldn’t be able to tolerate the light. Neither would Berith. Cain could buy a few precious hours of peace before. .

For the first time in his second life — his existence, Berith had called it — he was sick of it all. Sick of always running, always fighting, always dying. Again and again and again. He’d love to just stay dead one time. Life just wasn’t worth it. Not when he ended up in hell every time.

But then again, after what he’d done, he deserved to fry.

She must have guessed their destination because Bethany planted an index finger on the placard. Dark eyes stared back at him to wait for confirmation. Like a team player. He hadn’t been on any “team” in ages, if ever. When he’d been a living, breathing man with a soul, a lot of people had looked at him for guidance, for instructions and directives. He’d been the older brother, the firstborn son. Until that day he’d found out his brother had betrayed him — or so Cain had thought. The rage had been too much to contain.

Cain pushed the memories down and nodded to Bethany.

A tic pulled at her cheek. Maybe she was trying to work the situation to her advantage. He wouldn’t put it past her to try to double-cross him, even with untold spawns on their heels and a demon in corporeal form within shouting distance. Cain gripped his shotgun a bit tighter. He didn’t want to hurt her, for some strange reason didn’t want to be the one to send her for another trip downstairs. Not Bethany. She might be a pain in the butt, but for a keeper, she wasn’t all that bad.

She flashed him a smile and rolled her finger by her temple. “As cute as you’re crazy,” she whispered.

Yeah, crazy, damned, and soon, back in hell.

When they arrived on the main level, Cain pressed his open hand on the door, pushed just enough to get a glimpse of what waited for them on the terrace. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t smell anything either. But across the large concrete expense, reflections in the mammoth glass walls flitted back and forth, like vultures circling a dying beast. The spawns must have flown up to a safer height — for them — to get a better look.

A warm body pressed against his side as Bethany squeezed into the embrasure so she could get a look, too. His breath caught. It’d been so long.

“We have half a chance.” Bethany pulled back. Cold replaced warmth and made him shiver. “If that.”

“It’s better than sitting on our hands and waiting for it.” He checked his pockets to make sure he’d counted the shells right the first time. Not enough. Not nearly. This whole thing wasn’t going to end nicely for either of them. Berith already knew Cain was fucking with him, so there’d be no break that way even if he managed to take the secrets from the other keeper. But Asmodeus didn’t know anything yet. Bethany still had a chance to bring the secrets back to her master. It was only logical. Unless he was going soft for her again, thinking with his dick instead of his brain.

Cain leaned back against the wall as he checked and rechecked his ammo supply and the silvery shotgun’s functionality. “Go. I’ll keep them busy.”

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat something so stupid, okay?”

Bethany planted herself in front of him, close enough for Cain to feel her warmth again. But it was more than warmth he saw in her expressive face. White-hot anger. “You think I’m that kind of woman?”

“Says the girl who lied to my face about ten times in the past two hours.”

“I won’t let you take the hit for me.”

“I would if it were me.”

“Bullshit. You’re a decent guy, even if you work very hard at playing the asshole.”

Cain peeled his back from the concrete wall. As much as arguing with the pain in the butt made him feel more alive than he’d felt in years, they didn’t have time for this. “Fine. Stay here and get a faceful of spawn. Just don’t call me asshole again. Ever.”

She cracked an irreverent grin. “Then stop acting like one.”

“Ready?”

Bethany lost her smile. She shortened the sling on her submachine gun so it rested directly on her chest, pulled a fresh magazine — her last that Cain could see — from her belt and clipped it on her harness. To Cain’s shock, she fished a gold-coloured grenade from her jacket pocket.

“What?” she asked. “You don’t use these?”

He would’ve loved having a bit of time to ask where she got her gear. In fact, he would’ve loved just spending some time with her without having half of hell trying to make ribbons of them. “The glass wall across the terrace, the funicular to the tower is there. I’ll make us a door as we run for it.”

Before he could react, Bethany fisted the front of his ruined coat, hoisted herself up to him and kissed him square on the mouth. “I don’t care what they say, I like you.”

It took him a good five seconds to get his wits about him once more. The timing couldn’t possibly have been worse. He took a long breath, nodded.

“Here we go.”

Cain kicked the door wide and ran out.

They barely made it ten feet when the first few spawns to catch a whiff of them wailed and screeched a warning to the rest of the horde. Like fingernails on blackboard. The sky became alive with black wings as the air filled with the smell of ash and sulphur. Concrete chunks rained down around them, broken loose by talons and claws, or ridged wings hitting walls as the spawns spiralled downwards to catch their prey. Cain fired ten shots out of his thirty-two magazine before he’d taken ten steps. The glass wall was still at least 300 feet away. By his side, Bethany’s small black MP5 tack-tack-tacked death at eleven bullets a second. He hoped the trigger-happy woman would keep a few for later because something told him they were in for more “fun”.

As if the power of his thought alone had made the real thing manifest itself, gunshot that was neither hers nor his echoed around them. Muzzle flashes to the right registered in the corner of his eye. More keepers. Dammit.

“Cain!” Bethany yelled. “Door!”

Just as Cain aimed his shotgun in front of him and fired, a giant spawn landed ahead of them, blocking their access to the tower base. Cain fired half a dozen slugs into the spawn. He’d never seen one so big. Leathery wings made miniature tornadoes of snow when it raised itself to its fullest. The thing must have been twenty feet tall!

A small golden item arced ahead of them.

Bethany skidded to a halt, gripped his coat tails, which barely slowed Cain. He understood a split second before thunder temporarily deafened him. He only had time to turn his face away. The detonation happened right between the spawn’s legs. It blew up in a giant geyser of gooey chunks and thick, dark liquid that splattered in a wide radius. Bethany and he were pelted with debris both hard and soft, liquid and solid. More spawns landed around them. Some seemed more interested in feeding off their brethren’s remains than in attacking the two humans, but others came for them. One in particular made a beeline for Bethany. She turned her MP5 to it, let fly bullets that slowed the beast. But didn’t stop it.

Cain could do nothing but watch from the corner of his eye as half a dozen smaller spawns came at him, wings spread and talons out. His shotgun recoiled with each shot. His wrist throbbed but he kept going.

When Bethany screamed — pain had a universal sound, no matter the victim’s location, age or culture — Cain whipped around, thinking he could pump a few into the spawns after her. Too late.

Like in a slow-motion movie, the demonic fiend struck in an arc. Bethany caught the taloned appendage in the side, bent over the limb before being projected sideways. More gunshot from the other keepers erupted in tiny concrete volcanoes around him. They had seconds before the enemy closed in enough to place their bullets with more accuracy.

While Bethany tumbled to a stop, Cain pumped one, two, three, four shots into the advancing spawn. Finally, he hit its head. He didn’t wait for it to hit the ground before he ran to Bethany, who struggled to stand.

“I–I’m good.” She slung her submachine gun in front, stumbled forward. “I’m good.”

Together, they ran at the wall of glass panels. As he’d said he would, Cain fired a single shot at the connection between two panels. For a second, the wall turned milky-white. Just when Cain was considering wasting another round on his “door”, the wall disintegrated into a cascade of cubic diamonds. Broken tempered glass crunched like gravel when Bethany and Cain rushed into the base of the tower. A counter curved away from the wall and would provide temporary shelter as they waited for the funicular elevator. Bullets hit the marble wall on either side of the steel doors. Cain crawled amidst the raining debris, mashed the button on the access panel.

Through the window, the sky was taking on brown and orange hues. Dawn couldn’t be far off. He checked his watch again. Half past five or so.

“It’s here.” Bethany’s voice sounded higher-pitched than usual. She popped up above the counter, emptied her magazine through the broken wall then crouched back. A riposte several seconds long made ribbons of decorative banners, swiss cheese of partitions and clanged against the waiting area’s aluminium poles. Cain pulled the empty magazine, dropped it, loaded the last three shells he had. The incendiaries.

The doors slid apart. He didn’t need to urge her to be quick about it when she passed him at full sprint. He backpedalled into the giant funicular made of bay windows and steel beams. Spawns had begun to land around the broken glass and scrambled inside the tight opening. Like vultures trying to squeeze in through a doggy door. Gunshot accompanied them. The keepers were close, too.

Cain fired the first of the incendiary shells. Magnesium and flint cores, they’d been meant to penetrate the target and blow it up from the inside. The closest spawn caught it in the belly. Its bony ridges and skeleton triggered the charge. As the elevator pinged its arrival, the spawn exploded. A firestorm that reached the cathedral ceiling. Flames leaped out in all directions. Because he wouldn’t be able to use the incendiary shell up in the tower, he fired a second one into the lobby. The conflagration turned the air desert-dry and oven-hot. Gunshot stopped. Wails and shrieks drowned even the swoosh of blood flow in his ears. As the doors closed, a wave of heat buffeted the cabin.

At the rate of seven feet a second, the funicular took them up towards the tower’s apex. Around them, Montreal had begun to wake. Deep orange slashes crisscrossed the sky. Dawn was less than an hour away.

“We need a plan.” Cain turned to her, caught the look of pain she quickly masked beneath her usual bravado. “Ideas?”

“Lemme think, okay.” Bethany leaned against the wall, closed her eyes. Cain wasn’t fast enough to keep her from sinking to her butt. Her rictus of agony cut through his temporary shell shock.

“Where are you hurt?” He leaned over so he could take a look.

“I’m good,” she replied through her teeth. “Nothing to it.”

Bright red blood seeped through her fingers as she pressed a hand to her hip. Cain knelt by her side. “You’re not good, a spawn got you.”

“Not for the first time.” She grinned, grimaced. “We should start our own biz, you and me. It’d be fun.”

“Fun like tonight? No, thanks.”

Cain peeled her fingers off the messy wound. An injury from a spawn’s demonic touch wouldn’t heal unless cleansed with holy water. Fever would set in, infection, hallucinations. For this woman, a long and agonizing death that could take years before another trip downstairs. At least she had a run of secrets to show for it. Asmodeus might leave her alone and send her back up right away. If she were very lucky.

“You know how it goes, Bethany. You know how it always ends for those like us.”

“I know. I just. .” She cleared her throat. “I wanted it to be different.”

As soon as they reached the top, Cain slipped his arms under Bethany and carried her just outside the door. She winced when he deposited her back on to the carpeted floor. He then dragged a metal garbage can from the landing, dropped it in the funicular doorway so none of the keepers or Berith’s unfortunate host could call it down to them. The doors closed with a ping, hit the garbage can and slid back out again. And again. The funicular would stay at the top. Plus, if all went well — and his luck suddenly turned for the better — they’d need a ride down.

The sky was turning orange and mauve, with bands of brown and amber across the horizons. Daylight was minutes away. Not fast enough.

“Hold still.” Cain pulled out of his coat pocket a handful of the little bags of holy water. They looked like fast food packets of ketchup. He tore one open, dribbled some between her fingers, then more right into the wound while she held the torn vinyl wide. Blood and holy water turned her white outfit pink.

The spawn’s talon must have dug deeper than he’d thought. There was so much blood. Too much. He used all his holy water to make sure the wound was clean. Working on the gash also meant he didn’t have to meet her gaze, which she kept on his face the entire time. Neither stated the obvious futility of cleaning a mortal wound.

“Would you stay?” Bethany asked.

He knew what she meant.

“Yeah.” He sat by her side, knees drawn up. She’d pulled herself to a sitting position along the wall. A more dignified way to go.

Fresh blood continued seeping through her fingers. “It’s too bad.”

“What is?”

“Timing,” she grunted. “I–I would’ve. . asked you out. . like on a real date. Been meaning to for years.” She smiled despite what must have been terrible pain. “You won’t. . b— believe this, but I’m kind of shy.”

Cain laughed. Couldn’t help it. “Yeah, shy. We can always plan for next time.” He didn’t know if either of them would be sent back to the mortal plane after such a huge fuck-up. He knew for a fact Berith would want some time to play with him before he shot him back up to earth. If he did.

“I just wish. . I–I just wish things were different.”

He patted her knee. Heat seeped into his cold hand and he found taking it off her was much harder than it should have been. So he left it on her leg. She pressed her own hand over his. Blood coated their skin. A bond made of pain.

“Take them, okay.”

Cain shook his head. “It’s your only bargaining chip, without them, Asmodeus—”

“He would anyway. And I d — don’t give a shit.” She grimaced as she reached into her belt. “Take them.”

Earlier that night, he would’ve done anything to get his hand on the little black box Bethany presently proffered. But as he looked at it now, he didn’t have the heart to take it from a dying woman’s hands. Especially Bethany’s hands. “It won’t make a difference for me. I pissed him off too many times.”

Bethany rested her head on his shoulder. “Lied to the cops. Wrapped my car. . around a telephone pole.” She pulled her hand away from the wound, rubbed her crimson fingers together. “Killed t-two others. . was drunk.”

Cain understood then why she’d been sent directly to the eighth level. He’d always wondered about that, because if the woman was a major pain in the butt, she didn’t look like a hardened criminal. But liars, cheaters and usurpers populated the eighth. And drunk drivers who pretended to be sober.

“You?”

Cain swallowed hard. “I killed two people, too. My brother Abel, then later, myself.”

“I knew. . y-you were the Cain.”

What was there to say? He acquiesced with a nod.

She pressed the little box in his hand. “D-don’t be a hero.” Her voice grew weak, her eyes closed. “I hope. . see you. .” Her head lolled on her chest.

He knew she still lived because her body hadn’t yet burst out in ashes and glowing embers. But he checked for a pulse at her neck, wanting it to be steady and strong. Weak, shallow. Barely there. She wouldn’t be waking again.

Cain took the little black box, slippery with Bethany’s blood, and turned it around in his hand. He’d watched Berith gorge on secrets, all at once like a glutton, or savour them one at a time, placing the fragile gold paillettes on his tongue. He’d seen demons sell them for more damned souls like Bethany and him. Like cards on a poker table.

He was done being played.

Around him, the Montreal skyline turned brighter. Almost dawn.