Redemption Song (Daniel Faust #2)(63)

“Sullivan,” Harmony said. “That’s your name, right? Do you understand the consequences of what you’re doing here? You’re kidnapping a federal agent—”

His eyes went wide with surprise. It actually looked genuine, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

“Kidnapping? Oh, heavens no! You misunderstand me, agent. To keep my enthusiastic young friend from slicing your lovely throat from ear to ear, Mr. Faust is going to hand over the soul of Gilles de Rais. Once he’s done so, you’re both free to go. I have no reason to hurt you once I have what I want. I’m not sure what tall tales he’s spun for you, but I’m simply a man of peace, trying to atone for a misspent youth.”

Six shells sat nestled in the Judge’s cylinders, ready for war. Not enough to win a gunfight. I’d have to drop every one of Sullivan’s cultists with a single shot, not to mention pull off some Wild West trick shooting to kill the one holding Harmony without hurting her in the process. I just wasn’t that good.

Besides, there was Sullivan himself to deal with. I wasn’t sure if unloading all six shots right into his smug face would even slow the bastard down.

Harmony looked me in the eye. Then she flicked her glance downward. Her free hand rested against her hip, and as she bent her shoulder, lifting the sleeve of her blazer an inch, I saw what she wanted me to see. A plastic teardrop dangled against her wrist, held in place by a strap of tape. She’d taken precautions, meeting with me. Wired herself for sound in case of an emergency. Clever.

She moved as if squirming against the knife man’s grip, but I saw what she was really doing: rubbing her arm against her side, pressing the switch to turn on her concealed radio.

“This is hardly fair,” I said, loud enough that the teardrop mike would pick up my words. “I mean, here you are with, what, five guys? And you’ve all got guns?”

Now her backup knew what they were up against. Normally I’d be offended—after all, she promised she’d come alone, and I’d kept my word on that particular bargain—but I’d save my complaints for after we got out of this mess.

Sullivan raised his chin, looking down his nose at me. “Fair? Not a word that belongs on your lips, Mr. Faust. Now please. The contract if you would. Take it out with one hand, very slowly, and throw it to me.”

I let go of the gun. There’d be time for that later. I curled my fingers around the rolled-up scroll. My heart sank as I tossed it to him.

Everything I’d done, I’d just handed away. My deal with Sitri, with Naavarasi too. All the risks I’d taken, for nothing. I’d clawed a little bit of ground for myself, and now Sullivan had snatched it away from me. Again. He unfurled the scroll on the hood of the SUV and gave it a brisk read. He nodded and held out an open hand. One of the Choirboys handed him a fountain pen.

He signed his name with a flourish. I watched my own signature, above it, flare to life with a crackle of flame. A moment later, only his name remained.

A flicker of movement caught my eye, far behind Sullivan. Lars and Gary, on opposite sides of the gallery, creeping their way up and using the parked cars for cover. It wasn’t exactly a full-on cavalry charge, but it would have to do.

“And now the soul bottle, please,” Sullivan said.

I looked at Harmony, flicking my gaze left and right. She seemed to get the message. We’d have to take care of the cambion with the knife before her boys could move in. Otherwise, he’d kill her the second they opened fire.

I focused, reaching out with a slender tendril of magic. It wriggled through the air like a silver eel, invisible and silent, and brushed up against the enchanted bangle on Harmony’s wrist. It flared, warningly.

She felt it too. It was the best I could do, the closest I could come to hinting that she needed to prepare herself. I reached back into the duffel bag and took hold of the bottle. Not the soul bottle, though. The bottle of Bud I’d taken from Melanie.

I looked to Sullivan and said, “You know, if anybody opens this thing, de Rais’s soul will get loose.”

“Yes,” he said, irritably. “I do know how these devices work. Please don’t patronize me.”

I shook my head, looking at the cambion. “Oh, I just mean, I hope you warned your buddies here. The second it opens, de Rais’s soul is going to fly out and look for a skull to crawl into. You ever see somebody get possessed by a free-floating spirit? Scary stuff. Their eyes bulge out, they foam at the mouth, and all their muscles go rigid. That’s just the outside. Inside, their minds get chewed to pieces. Their personality, memories, shredded and gone forever—”

“Enough,” Sullivan snapped. “You are woefully misinformed, Mr. Faust. I expected better of you. Now the bottle, please.”

From the looks on his follower’s faces, I’d done a decent enough job of creeping them out. Two of them looked nervously at the duffel, as if they’d just found out I’d brought a pi?ata stuffed with anthrax to the party.

Sullivan was right. The only speck of truth in that entire thing was that de Rais’s soul needed a host body. I was pretty sure cambion couldn’t even get possessed. Before they had a chance to think things through, I sprang the trap.

“Catch!”

I tossed the beer bottle through the air, but not at Sullivan. I threw it to the cambion with the knife. He panicked, let go of Harmony’s wrist, and tried to catch the bottle. That was the opening she needed to spin on her heel and slam the flat of her hand up into his nose, snapping cartilage and dropping him like a rock. The bottle flew past, shattering against a car hood and spattering beer and foam across the windshield.