The Devil You Know (20 page)

I got up, turned away, and vomited Mountain Dew and Skittles all over the forest floor and over my own boots. Then I got down on my hands and knees and vomited again, out of my mouth and my nose. That was likely tea and Honey Buns. My stomach cramped up as it searched for more; it was really reaching now. I put my face against leaf litter and just waited until my heart slowed down, my pulse resumed a normal rhythm and my stomach stopped spasming. I told myself I could do this, then I said no fucking way, then I told myself to get my shit together. “Hell,” I said.

Breathing deeply, I pushed myself up and sat back on my haunches. That put me at eye level with a pair of long crossed legs clad in Yves Saint Laurent blue pinstripe, year-round wool trousers. I felt a lurching panic in my chest that I should be taken so unaware, at a point of vulnerability, then I realized who the slacks and the painfully expensive snakeskin Prada loafers belonged to. I raised my eyes and saw the matching blazer and the pressed white polo shirt opened casually at the throat. My dad has this thing about dressing like Tony Soprano. Go figure. He was sitting on a low-hanging pine branch, smoking a Dunhill luxury cigarette and watching me with a combination of sympathy, interest and contempt. I think mostly contempt.

The pine tree was mostly green, but the branch he sat on had already turned a mottle black color like it had tree leprosy. I knew that in a matter of days the whole tree would be dead.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as I struggled into a more dignified kneeling position on the ground at his feet.

The Devil smiled at me pleasantly. “I always drop by when you’re in trouble, Nicky, you know that,” he said.

My dad looks like me, only worse. Fey. Angelic.

I’ve never actually met a demon that was ugly. I mean, what’s the point? If it was ugly, you’d have nothing to do with it, right? Not to mention that would seriously screw with its ego, and if it’s one thing demons have, it’s egos. My Grandpa’s signature sin was beauty and pride. I met him once, and he’s actually a pretty cool guy, believe it or not, very laid back. He passed that on down to my dad and me. My dad’s sin, though, was war and pestilence, hence all the trouble since around the Twelfth Century. But because sins are accumulative in the Lucifer line, my dad is beautiful, proud, high-strung, a warmonger, and a huge pain in the ass. I mean, it’s like meeting a big-name Hollywood actor—awesome for about the first half hour. After that, you just want to punch him in the mouth to get him to shut up about himself.

My dad uncrossed his long legs and leaned forward, offering me a handkerchief with a helpful smile so I could wipe my mouth. I pushed his arm away and climbed unsteadily to my feet, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket instead.

He looked disappointed. “‘Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far from him,’” he quoted.

“Fuck you,” I said. “What would you know about disciplining a child?”

“You’re angry.”

Count on my dad to point out the obvious.

I turned and leaned on the shovel stuck in the earth, trying to figure out what I was going to do about the angel in the box. Maybe if I ignored him, my dad would go away. Then I could think straight.

My dad hates being ignored. “The Throne is empty,” he said.

I turned on him. “I
knew
you wouldn’t be here unless you wanted something. What is it now?”

“I thought you might want to know our great enemy has departed the administrative office.”

“I know.”

“The Cherubim,” my dad said, smirking around his smoke. “You did a good job on those two chumps. The first one’s still entertaining me.”

“Why is the Throne empty?” I asked.

“So
now
you want me to tell you.”

“You’re going to tell me anyway.”

My dad shrugged and leaned back against the tree. The tree developed more tree-leprosy. “He stepped down. I guess He was sick of all the bullshit. Can’t say I really blame Him. I certainly wouldn’t want His job. In any event, Gabe and Mike are standing in for now.”

“Lovely,” I said. “So that’s the reason for the Dominion over everyone.”

“And the reason you need to be aware of all this. Gabe declared open season on all daemons, and about half the holy Host are behind him. The other half is undecided at this time.”

That made sense, I guess. If the Throne was empty, that meant the angels effectively had free will to make up their own minds who they wanted to follow, if anyone. I wondered how they were taking that. Not well, likely. That was a little like a bird born and raised in a cage, then set free one day. I was willing to bet about half of the holy Host were on the verge of having a nervous breakdown.

“Naturally, you’re at the top of their to-do list,” my dad informed me. He picked invisible lint off his jacket. “Hence the reason I’m here. I want you to come home, Nicky.”

“Excuse me?”

He looked up at me, his amazingly blue eyes simmering under his arched brows, then reached up and straightened my jacket for me. “I want you to come home where I can keep an eye on you, protect you.”

I laughed in his face. “You must be fucking kidding me. You haven’t given a shit about me in forty-four years and
now
you want to protect me?” I pulled my jacket out of his hold. I stepped back. I could barely keep the disdain from dripping out of my mouth. “I hate to break this to you, old man, but I can take care of myself just fine. I don’t need
you
.”

“You’re so much like your grandfather, Nicky, do you know that? Impetuous. Rebellious.” His hand moved faster than I thought humanely possible. He wrapped it around my left hand, where the scars still burned. That made them hurt. A lot. He jerked me closer. “But you’re not prepared for this. You’re not trained to handle legions of angels operating under their own free will. No one saw this coming.”

“And yet, I’ll manage. As always.” I tried to shake his hold off. I couldn’t. “I can handle angels. I trashed two Cherubim just yesterday. Remember?”

“There’s more than angels to worry about now.”

“Like?”

“Like the Arcana.”

I shook my head. That was one of the names that Spencer had given me. “Tarot?”

“Not Tarot. They’re an ancient order of angel-eaters. They date back to the Crusades.” He let go of my hand. “In fact, they’re likely the ones who killed your little friend Peter.”

Well, that got my attention, and he well knew it. “What do you mean? Why would anyone want to harm Peter?”

My dad stared at me, the cigarette clenched in his eternally white teeth. I noticed that it never seemed to get any smaller, unlike my Camels. I thought that was a neat trick. “The Arcana seek power, as so many cults do, but not for the reasons you think. They don’t consider themselves evil. If anything, they want to save humankind from itself. And as you already know, zealotry can be devastating.” He took a deep breath and let it out. The smoke that came out of his mouth was slightly greenish. “Their prophets told of this day, Nick. The day when the Throne would be abandoned, though no one believed it, including myself. As a result, the cult has been extremely vigilant for over four thousand years. They know the angels serve God in two capacities, as servants
and
as food, and they believe that if one among their number can absorb enough of the angels’ flesh and power, they can ascend to the Throne.”

I looked at him a long, hard moment. “Ascend as in
be
God?”

“Correct.”

“By eating the angels?”

“Exactly.”

I stopped to absorb that. It made me wonder if that wasn’t part of the motivation behind my grandfather’s rebellion in the first place. I knew
I
wouldn’t want to be anyone’s lunch, even God’s. I looked at my dad a little sideways. “Angels are food?”

“Sometimes. Yes.”

“God eats his own angels?”

“If His power must be increased, then yes. He consumed legions before creating the world we know today.” His hand loosened on my wrist somewhat. “It is no different than drone bees sacrificing themselves to the betterment of a hive, or worker ants dying for their queen. In the end, all of nature mimics its Creator, Nick.”

I swallowed. “But why would this Arcana kill Peter? He had no power. He was just a flatfoot from Bensonhurst. He wasn’t a daemon. He wasn’t even a witch.”

“You share your power with mortals, Nick. That can be very attractive to the wrong type of people. If the Arcana cannot have the whole, they will take the part.”

I didn’t understand this at all. “Do they know about me?”

Dad waved that away as if it was merely bothersome to him. “They’ve been watching you since the day you were born, Nick. They know who you are. I’m sure the only reason they haven’t targeted your Morgana yet is because she has her own power and her spirit guides to protect her.” He looked at me gravely in a way I had never seen before. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said he was concerned for me. But I knew better. Dad was only concerned about his investment. “It wasn’t random that they should have chosen Peter. They knew what your relationship with him was, and it attracted them.”

I laughed bitterly at that. “Well, then, they were wrong! I never had sexual relations with Peter. He never shared in my power.” I swallowed again, hard. It felt like a walnut was stuck in my throat. “They didn’t let him live long enough for that to happen.”

He shrugged. “Ultimately, the Arcana are only human, Nick. They make mistakes.”

I stared at him in shock and horror. A kind of electric rage ripped through my body in that moment and the wind picked up substantially, lashing the trees around us. I felt like hitting my dad over and over even though I knew it wasn’t his fault. I wanted to pummel him until he was broken and bruised and his beautiful suit was in tatters. I couldn’t believe what he was saying, or the flippant way he was saying it. “So that’s it? They fucked up and Peter died because he knew me?
He died for no reason?
”

He glared at me. “I wouldn’t say for no reason, Nicky. After all, you got a chance to see what they’re capable of.”

“I don’t give a shit what they’re capable of!” I raged at him.

“You should. I put a tremendous amount of power into you. If they catch you . . . consume your flesh . . . .” He shook his head. “Nick, they could conquer this world. They could conquer a
thousand
worlds. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“And you just care
so
much about this world that you mean to save it.”

He looked insulted. “I care about
balance
. It’s what I do,” he shouted back. “Without me, there is no free will in this whole world. Do you understand that?” He lowered his voice then. He considered. “And I care about
you
,” he said in a softer voice. “You’re an idiot and I worry about you constantly, Nicky. So does your mother.”

The trees settled down as I really looked at him. I could hardly believe what he was telling me. “Mom’s alive?”

His brows arched in exasperation. “Yes, of course. Did you think she was not?”

“How am I supposed to know?” I yelled at him, gesturing wildly. “You took her away!”

The wind picked up again, this time fiercer than ever. My dad glanced up at the roiling black clouds forming a massive funnel cloud far overhead. Debris suddenly raked past us, kicked up by the storm. Something like admiration flickered in his eyes. He smiled in the seconds before the wind ripped him from his perch and flung him hundreds of feet into the air. I looked on in surprise . . . and vague horror. I had never done such a thing in my life. I did not even know how I had done it, or how I could undo it.

When my dad reached the thrashing treetops he halted his own momentum and spread his wings. An archangel, he had eight of them, all of a purest, blinding, feathery white armored in steel and gold. The moment he unfurled them the night sky lit up like noontime. They formed two massive blinding satellites that made me cringe and turn away as he reversed his trajectory and rocketed through the impromptu storm I had kicked up.

In seconds, he was standing in front of me once more, untouched by my rage. He was smirking. I lunged at him. I punched him in the mouth as his enormous blinding wings beat about me. I clawed at his face, but it was like trying to harm a statue. There was nothing there to hurt, just all burning cold stone. He pushed me down and I landed hard on my ass, staring up at him, ashamed of the way I was acting, the way I wanted to sob like some little kid told there would be no Christmas, no presents, no parents.

My dad dissolved his wings. The forest immediately went from noontime to midnight. He snorted and used his handkerchief to staunch the flow of blue blood trickling over his face from the broken nose I’d dealt him. “That’s a good left hook you have there, son. Maybe anger is your signature sin.” He did not sound entirely displeased by the idea.

I didn’t answer. The storm had died down, leaving the ground wet and covered in debris. I was sitting in mud, I realized, and my ass was wet and cold.
I
was wet and cold. And tired. And done. My dad dropped down beside me in a lotus position. His suit, though slightly creased, was still immaculate, even in the mud. It wasn’t fair. “Feel better?” he asked.