Vicious Circle

Gwillam’s brow furrowed. “Tell me your name and lineage,” he snapped. “In nominibus angelorum qui habent potestatem in aere atque—” He broke off as Juliet laughed a rich, suggestive laugh. Either she was recovering from the silver poisoning more quickly than I would have believed possible, or she was putting up a hell of a good front: but then, she always did that.

“I was old when your religion was young, O man,” she murmured in her throat. “I do not fear your god, and I will not come to heel like a bitch when you call on me, whether you know my name or not.”

“Then I’ll tell my men to shoot,” Gwillam said.

“And I will walk through the bullets and feed upon their hearts, new-ripped from their chests,” she said. “But you I will kill after the manner of my kind, for I am succubus and mazzikim. I will make you love me, and be lost.”

Gwillam’s face went pale, and I could see that that threat had gone home. It struck me, though, that Juliet was actually making the threat at all rather than just going ahead and doing it. Subtlety isn’t her strong point, as a rule. I wondered whether the silver she’d inhaled and the time she’d spent in thrall to Asmodeus had left her weaker than she looked.

With an effort, and slowly, Gwillam turned his attention to me.

“You killed the girl?” he demanded. “Snuffed out her spirit? Was that why the ritual failed?”

“You tell me,” I suggested.

His eyes narrowed, and he stared down at my hands as I fished the locket back up from where it lay in the crook of Pen’s armpit.

“No,” he said. “She’s still there.”

“If he goes for his Bible,” I said to Juliet without looking up, “feel free to rip his throat out.”

I stood, slowly.

“If I can prove to you that Abbie Torrington isn’t a threat anymore, then will you walk away?” I asked Gwillam.

“If you can prove that, yes,” he said, without a pause. “You have my word, Castor. I wouldn’t snuff out an innocent soul without powerful reason.”

I nodded. Good enough.

“Asmodeus already has a human host,” I said.

“I know that,” said Gwillam. “We assessed that situation two years ago, and decided that it was better not to act: to kill Rafael Ditko might simply set Asmodeus free to act on the human plane.”

“And you’d have to do it,” I reminded him bluntly, a bit annoyed by the supercilious tone. “With Asmodeus bonded to his flesh and spirit, killing him wouldn’t be anyone’s idea of a picnic.”

Gwillam acknowledged the point with an impatient wave of the hand.

“I cut a lock of his hair,” I said, hesitating slightly because I shied away from saying this—from bringing what I’d just done out of hiding and nailing it down with words for other people to see. “Rafi’s hair. I tied it around my finger. And then when Fanke had made his invocation—when he’d summoned Asmodeus to feast on the sacrifice inside the circle—I got there first. It was Rafi’s hair that burned, not Abbie’s. It was Rafi’s soul that was consecrated and offered up, and it was Rafi’s soul that Asmodeus got a mouthful of as he came down to feed.”

Gwillam stared at me in dead silence, waiting for me to go on. Juliet was looking at me, too, her expression unreadable.

“Asmodeus had never entirely left Rafi. Part of him was stuck inside the stones here, waiting to be released by the offering of Abbie’s soul: the other half was still where it’s been for the past two years—stuck like shrapnel in Rafi Ditko’s flesh and spirit.”

Gwillam’s expression was one of profound shock. “So the demon—?”

“—was starting to eat itself. It’s like a very nasty version of trying to lift yourself up by your bootstraps. If Asmodeus devoured Rafi’s soul instead of Abbie’s, the ritual that was meant to free him was going to consume him at the same time. He had no choice but to back off, even if bailing out in the middle of the show aborted the ritual and undid everything that Fanke had managed to achieve. That was why it all fell apart in there. And that’s why Abbie doesn’t matter now—at least as a weapon in your fucking holy war. Asmodeus severed the link, and went scuttling back to the prison he was trying to escape from in the first place.”

“Rafael Ditko.”

“Rafi Ditko,” I agreed. My friend, who I’d just betrayed for the second time. And as if to make things worse than they were already, I saw that Pen’s eyes were open and she was hearing this. The gag taped across her mouth prevented her from commenting, except with her eyes—but they were eloquent enough.