Personal Demon

HOPE: GOBLIN ROMEO

If the situation alarmed Lucas, there was no trace of it in his voice. He was his usual self-calm and serious, words chosen with care, as if he was addressing a courtroom.

Lucas confirmed everything his father had told me about the gangs. He agreed I was a good choice to infiltrate one and he saw nothing suspicious in his father’s proposal. He would monitor the situation from Portland and, if I had any concerns or questions, he was only a phone call away.

Then Paige came on, and the tone changed. Was I comfortable with the job? How did I feel about it? Did everything seem okay? If the job bothered me at any point, even just a sense that something was amiss, I could call her, day or night-at home, at work or on her cell.

Not knowing the root of my powers-the chaos hunger was my guilty secret-they saw nothing odd about me taking this job. I was relieving myself of an obligation while gaining some experience, and that seemed perfectly reasonable to them.

Nor did they suggest the job might be more than I could handle. That would have been the first comment out of Karl’s mouth. I chalked that up to age. Karl was at least fifteen years older than me-with a werewolf’s slow aging, it was hard to tell exactly-but Paige was my age, and Lucas a year or two older. They could handle a job like this, so they knew I could.

When I hung up, I relaxed, my mind able to refocus on the task at hand.

“I need to know more about this gang,” I said as Benicio sat across from me. “You said there were rumblings. Exactly what are we talking about? Causing more trouble than usual? Or planning a strike against the Cabal?”

“The latter, I suspect, though at this point, it is only rumblings. I doubt they’re considering anything specific yet. You’re only there to get a better idea of the situation.”

He settled back in his seat and opened the window blind, as if that should be all I needed to know.

“So what are these rumblings?” I pressed.

He took a moment before answering. “This gang finds its recruits through an outside agent. That agent is also on my payroll, which is how I’ll get you in. The gang leader, Guy Benoit, knows that this agent was an employee of mine, before an apparent falling out. Benoit has, of late, been asking him questions about the Cabal.”

“Pumping your guy for information?”

The corners of Benicio’s mouth twitched. “No, Benoit would never be so crude. He’s a far cry from your typical street thug, Hope, and you’d do well to keep that in mind when dealing with him. Benoit is a brilliant leader. I sincerely hope to have him on my staff one day, but unfortunately he’s not eager to embrace Cabal life.”

A young woman stepped from the back room, phone in hand. Benicio motioned for her to take a message, then waited until she’d retreated before continuing.

“Guy Benoit is a sorcerer. His father started a small Cabal in Guyana twenty years ago. An ambitious project and one I would have been happy to support, if we hadn’t run into a conflict of interest. The Benoit Cabal was disbanded and Guy’s mother, a Vodoun priestess, fled with him to Louisiana. Five years ago, Benoit appeared in Miami and toppled the former leader of his gang in a masterful coup.”

“Masterful?”

“Guy has a reputation for avoiding violence. Even his coup was bloodless. Ruthless, but bloodless. That’s one reason I very much hope to hire him someday.”

“After what you did to his family? If he’s set up base in Miami, he’s obviously looking for revenge, not a job offer.”

Benicio only shrugged, unruffled by my bluntness. “In five years, Guy has given me very little trouble. Perhaps that was the calm before the storm-settling in and quietly getting the lay of the land-but he seemed to be happy to exact his revenge simply by lining his pockets at our expense, taking advantage of the Cabal’s willingness to protect the gangs. It’s only recently that he’s begun asking my agent vague questions about our security force and our general organization. That must be significant. As for what it portends…”

“Finding out is my job.”

He nodded.

FAITH EDMONDS WAS the undercover name Benicio had chosen for me. A rich college girl, Faith had quit school to enjoy a six-month stint of self-indulgence in Miami-parentally funded in exchange for a promise to return to her studies in the fall. The persona came with a South Beach apartment and a full set of ID, including platinum credit cards to buy a suitable wardrobe.

First, though, I had to pass the initiation. That afternoon, I’d meet a gang liaison who screened potential recruits. Benicio assured me the test would be only a formality. A rare Expisco half-demon would be a prize for any gang, and I was coming highly recommended by the recruiter on Benicio’s payroll. The path had been groomed for me-I just needed to follow it.

ONLY IN MIAMI can you find a gang agent in a beach tent. Before I headed out, I bought suitable camouflage-bikini, sarong and sandals. In the store the bikini had looked lime green. Out in the sunlight, it turned neon. Another typical Hope Adams fashion disaster. I considered trying again, but a glance around the beach assured me I wasn’t the most outrageously dressed. With a big pair of sunglasses, I blended right in. Even had the tan, though mine came with no risk of skin cancer.

I’d been to Miami before, but there’s something deliciously surreal about standing on the sand under the blazing sun mere hours after being splashed with slush. While I knew I had a job to do, I couldn’t resist taking the longer route, strolling along the beach.

As I wove through the carpet of rainbow-hued bikinis and umbrellas, I kept my face uplifted to the sky like a sun-starved flower, and almost tripped over a few outstretched legs. Sandals hanging over my arm, I scrunched through the hot sand to the shore, letting the ocean lap around my feet. When the breeze changed, the smell of empanadas broke through the heady mix of sea salt and sunscreen, and my stomach growled.

I paused by a vendor selling Latin sodas, drawn by the bright, unfamiliar labels, throat constricting as I eyed the sweaty, ice-cold bottles. But walking into this meeting casually sipping a soda wouldn’t set the right tone. So I pushed on and quickened my pace until I saw the tent ahead.

A poster was plastered on the side: Spring Break Party Videos-Come On Girls, Show Us What Ya Got. A blond grinned out from it, her shirt lifted, a blackout banner with the company logo across her chest. I checked Benicio’s directions again, in case I’d taken a wrong turn and missed the “Instructional Tai Chi” video tent where I was supposed to be. No such luck.

My contact was the dramatically named Caesar Romeo. He wasn’t a gang member, just a supernatural they hired to weed through potential recruits sent by Benicio’s agent. As for what kind of supernatural he was, either it wasn’t important or Benicio thought I could figure it out. Doing so-safely-was my next goal.

I took my time sliding my sandals back on, then slowly walked along the side of the tent, but caught not so much as a vision flicker. My sense for supernaturals has about a 60 percent accuracy rating: the “weaker” someone’s power is, the less likely I’d detect it. I’d been told I could hone this skill, but had no idea how except through practice and concentration. There were maybe a half-dozen other Expisco half-demons in the world and I had no idea how to find them, so I was stuck muddling through on my own.

Two girls stood at the tent flap, daring each other to go inside as a male friend egged them on. Typical students on a spring break, with burnt noses and bad dye jobs from a last-minute decision to test whether blonds really did have more fun.

“I hope she’s not trying out for a spot,” one girl muttered as I headed their way. “My fourteen-year-old sister has bigger boobs.”

“She can practice her Kama Sutra on me anytime,” the guy said.

I nodded to them as I passed, pretending I hadn’t heard. Just like Mom would have done…though she probably wouldn’t have added the mental “Fuck you.”

I pulled the tent flap open a crack. A stomach-churning blend of pot and incense rolled out.

“Caesar Romeo?” I called.

“Who’s askin’?”

“Faith Edmonds. You’re expecting me?”

The dimly lit tent was divided into rooms. The front one was a reception area, complete with chairs and magazines-Playboy and Penthouse. Maybe for inspiration.

“Well?” the voice barked. “If I’m expecting you, what the fuck are you waiting for? Get your ass in here.”

I followed the voice into a room that looked like a sultan’s tent. Multicolored pillows carpeted the sand floor. A huge gilt mirror on a stand had been tilted at an odd angle-odd until I followed the reflection to the pillows.

Caesar Romeo perched on an ornate wood seat, so huge it looked like a throne. He was no taller than my five feet. His skin was wizened, and so darkened by the sun I couldn’t guess his age or ethnic background. Beady black eyes glared out from deep-set sockets. A flame-red Afro, gold lamé shirt and tight white leather pants completed the look. If I believed in goblins, that’s what I’d peg him as-one of the pisacha from my mother’s tales.

His gaze crawled up me, then down, as cold and critical as a matron eying a slab of beef she wouldn’t serve to her dog.

“Turn around,” he said.

“I’m not trying out for a part,” I said. “I’m Faith Edmonds. Ned Baker sent me.”

Romeo waved a hand and I thought he was motioning at me, until I noticed a man smoking a joint off to the side, who was giving me a much more flattering appraisal.

“Felippe,” Romeo said. “Go. Shoot those bimbos giggling at the door.”

“Should I give them T-shirts?” Felippe asked.

“Don’t waste the merchandise. They’ll be lucky if they make the cut.”

Felippe stubbed out his joint on a brass urn and left. Romeo’s gaze followed him, and he listened as his assistant offered the girls a “role.”

“Hear that?” Romeo said. “They’ll flash their tits on film for nothing but the honor of being ogled by men they’d cross the road to avoid. Teasing little bitches. Like all you girls. Can’t resist flaunting it at some guy who doesn’t have a hope of touching.”

Knowing I had to play nice, I settled for a noncommittal shrug.

“You disagree?” he said.

“I’m sure that applies to some women.”

“But not all?”

“I can’t speak for ‘all.’ Now, Baker tells me I need to pass some kind of test-”

“I suppose you think you’re better than those girls, don’t you? Smarter. More dignified.” His lips curled in what I presumed was a smile. “Or maybe just more expensive.”

“Maybe. Now, this test-”

“I have a better idea. There’s another line of tapes I’m working on, high-end videos for more discriminating customers who want something more…exotic. The kind of girl they won’t find humping poles. That sound more your style, princess?”

“I’m…flattered.” I struggled to get the word out. I failed on the accompanying smile, though. “I’d rather just take the test.”

He leaned back in his chair. “What if we skip the video? You undress right here, stretch out on the pillows…amuse yourself for a few minutes. No camera. No audience except me.”

There was no lust in his eyes. No interest even. He didn’t want to see me naked. Probably wouldn’t even get a rise out of watching me masturbate. He just wanted to make me do it.

I smiled as sweetly as I could. “I’m afraid I’m pretty shy. My upbringing, the culture, you know…”

I tried to read him for chaos thoughts, but detected only a swirl of low-level negativity.

“What if I said there wasn’t a choice? Do this or I tell Baker you failed the test?”

The chaos level rose. I shivered, but found little pleasure in it. My survival instinct ensures I don’t enjoy chaotic impulses directed at me, thankfully.

I met his gaze. “Then I guess that’s what you’ll have to do.”

I started to leave. Benicio had hired a spy, not a whore. He’d have to find another way to get me into the gang.

Romeo waited until I was almost out of earshot, then called me back.

“Take the fucking test. I was only trying to give you an easy way out. Just remember, when you change your mind, it’ll take more than twiddling your knob to get a pass-card from me.” He threw a scrap of paper on the floor. “An address. You’re looking for a conch shell there. A tourist knickknack with Welcome to Miami and a girl in a bikini painted on it. Get it, bring it back, you get your pass.”

I looked at the address. “Is this a house or a-”

“Could be a house. Could be a warehouse. Could be a fucking cemetery with the shell buried in one of the graves. Have fun, princess.”

I kept my expression neutral and turned to leave.

“Oh, and did I mention it’s a race?”

I stopped. “A race?”

“You think you’re the only piece of pussy fancies herself a gangster? There’s another girl out there with that same address, and there’s only one spot to fill.” He glanced down at his fake Rolex. “She left about an hour ago.”

I FUMED THROUGH the entire cab ride. Was I surprised? I’d foiled that goblin’s little game and I should have expected to pay for that. But how badly was he going to screw me over? Was there a competitor? Or was he just saying that, hoping I’d rush and make a mistake?

Even if Benicio found me another way into the gang, the failure would sting. Yes, Mr. Cortez, I know you tried to make it easy, but it wasn’t my fault.

Whining. Complaining. Blaming someone else. I hate those traits in others, and I loathe seeing them in myself. Fate makes you a half-demon? Gives you visions of death and destruction? Makes you crave them like candy and cigarettes? Too bad. Suck it up and move on.

While I was damning myself for not handling Romeo better, I was heaping a generous dose of curses on his head too. My mother would have told me to look at the guy and imagine how many times he’d been rejected or laughed at by a pretty girl. Even if that didn’t excuse his behavior, I should rise above it. But I couldn’t. I wanted to win this race, drop the conch shell on his lap and guzzle the sweet chaos of his rage.

And I would. One way or another.

I CHANGED BACK into jeans and T-shirt, and had the cab drop me off in a tourist section that looked as if it’d been born in the fifties and untouched since. I stood in front of the Ocean View Resort, the kind of decrepit motel unwitting families book by name alone, only to arrive and discover they could indeed view the ocean-if they stood on the roof with binoculars.

Next door a soda fountain promised “authentic malt sodas.” Having once tried a malt soda, this was not a selling point for me. On the other side was the ubiquitous Florida T-shirt shop. Three shirts for ten dollars. If they didn’t survive the first wash after you got them home, you wouldn’t fly back for a refund.

The address Romeo had given me was across the road. A souvenir shop with painted conch shells in the window. None had the markings he’d described, but the sign promised more designs inside.

This was too easy. I wasn’t waltzing into that store until I’d taken a look around.