Hellfire Drop (Brimstone Cycle Book 2)
Robert McKinney
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CHAPTER ONE
“Good evening, little imp.”
I wake up in a diner sitting across from a devil. The smell clinging to him, brimstone and a hint of fresh sweat, is the bulk of what gives it away. His face, or rather the face that the devil is wearing, looks familiar to me, but the the tone is one that I’ve never heard before.
“You’re not Ole Beeze.” I say, naming the bastard who’d given me that nickname. Devils rarely wear the same faces twice, but you can identify them if you pay attention to their accents, their diction, and the way that they move. This one lacks the flair and busy hands of the one I know best. He’s new to me, which makes him no less dangerous.
The devil just shrugs for a moment before answering.
“Try and think of me as a simple admirer of your work.” he says. “There are more than a few like me out there, these days.”
Uneasy with receiving direct praise from a devil, I look away from his face and down to the table between us. I see a half eaten waffle beside an empty cup of coffee sitting on the table in front of me. I don’t remember having ordered either of them, or how I’d come to this diner in the first place.
I reach for the coffee, and find that the movement is clumsy and spastic. As if my body’s forgotten how to move, how to be. Almost as if I haven’t been using my body to do anything for a while.
Shit, I think, as a trickle of anxiety begins flowing through me.
I’ve been in this situation before, coming to my senses in a place I don’t know. It had been a while back, but it’s not the kind of sensation that one is likely to forget.
“How much time did I lose?” I ask.
“From what I hear?” replies the devil sitting across from me. “Three years.”
His words feed the seed of anxiety in me. Three years is not something that I can afford to lose. My name’s Robinette Kohl. I’m a sister, an arms smuggler, and last but not least, a devil dog. The description, which is more of an insult than a title, comes from the fact that I’d once made a deal with a fallen angel in exchange for power. Ole Beeze, the devil I knew best, had given me the ability to leave creation, drop through Hell, and land anywhere in the world that I chose an instant later. It changed my life for the better, and my sister’s along with me. All he’d required in exchange was control of my body. A voluntary case of demonic possession, for the span of one year.
I run my tongue over my teeth, then the inside of my cheek. Toothpaste, waffle and coffee are the only things I detect, which is a step up from the blood, none of it mine, that I’d gagged on after waking up last time.
I never thought that I’d be willing to go through that again. And still, here I am, missing not one year, but three.
“Do you know what I gained?” I ask, trying to be pragmatic. Whatever I’d traded for, it had to be big.
The devil pokes a finger at the scar on his cheek.
“Something to do with this, I’d say.” responds the devil. “This body remembers you giving it to him.”
I take another look at the devil, or rather the man it’s wearing. His left cheek scarred with what looks like a combination of burns and knife-edged lacerations.
Shrapnel, I think. A man wounded by an IED. I’ve had my fair share of his kind in my profession. Usually on the sidelines guarding those who can pay.
While the devil’s borrowed form may have clear memories, I don’t recall a time where I’d blown up anyone with a bomb, improvised or otherwise. I shrug, and in response the devil across the table smiles at me. The expression is distinct on him, and not just because of the scars on his face. This smile isn’t a bad one, but seeing it makes something painful twist and start to shake loose inside me.
I brace my hands on the table, my motions clumsy. It feels like I’m an inch away from recognizing the face that this devil is wearing. I bite my lip, determined to figure out who he is.
It must work, because the answer comes to me a moment later. I flinch away from the devil, as a wave of memories floods into me. The tide is eager and almost overwhelms me. I feel a jolt of adrenaline pass through my limbs, making my arms jerk, my fingers twitch. The memories of my last hours, my last minutes, drag something else, something ugly, along with them. I clench my fists and fight to control my voice before I speak. I almost succeed, my voice only slightly breaking when I say, “The man you’re wearing now was an asshole named Tom.”
My words are quiet, but ragged, as if the force of memory that’s come through me has damaged my throat, in addition to my heart. I take a deep breath and continue, bearing down hard on myself to take the edge from my voice.
“Was, because I killed him.” I say, remembering everything. “Just like I’m going to kill Ole Beeze.”
CHAPTER TWO
“You may want to lower your voice, little imp.” says the devil, the nickname again sounding strange on his lips. “We’re far from being alone in here.”