Hell Has a Succession Problem

Nice Chair

Marcel did the sensible thing.

He grabbed a baseball bat from under the bar, took his jacket off the hook, and went upstairs to confront whatever had broken into his office.

The bat had never been used on anything but a stuck keg. Tonight it felt like carrying a breadstick.

Every breath scraped against the gauze on his throat. His hands still smelled like ash.

The office sat at the top of the stairs, above the dance floor, behind a steel door with a double deadbolt.

He stopped on the landing.

The deadbolt was still engaged.

He checked it twice, like an idiot. Locked from the outside.

Only two keys existed. One was in his pocket. The other belonged to Jules, who had gone home at eleven with a migraine.

Warm lamplight leaked under the door. Ice clinked against glass.

Someone in there was pouring a drink.

"Of course," Marcel muttered. "Why the hell wouldn't they."

He unlocked the door, shoved it open with the bat, and stepped inside.

A man sat in his chair.

He was lean, maybe fifty, in a charcoal coat that cost more than Marcel's car. Silver at the temples. A face like a handsome knife.

His boots were on Marcel's desk. His hand held Marcel's best bourbon.

There were no cracks in his skin and no glow under it. This one wasn't borrowing anything.

"You took your time," the man said. "I was starting to think you'd gone home to cry."

"You're in my chair."

"It's an excellent chair."

"Which is why you should get the fuck out of it."

The man smiled, slow and pleased, like Marcel had passed a small exam.

"Nine minutes," he said. "A bottle of whiskey and a bad attitude. Do you know how many people could have managed that?"

Marcel went very still.

"You watched."

"From the balcony."

"You fucking watched."

"I was curious."

"Raven walked in!" The bat came up before Marcel meant it to. "That thing had me by the throat, and you were up here with a drink?"

"Yes." The man sipped. "You handled the doctor worse than you handled the demon."

Marcel's grip tightened until the wood creaked.

"Let me guess," Marcel said. "You're about to tell me I'm special."

"No. You're annoying. The special part is regrettable."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Someone who needs to see one more thing."

A knife appeared in his hand. Marcel never saw it move.

It slammed into the doorframe beside his ear with a crack like a gunshot. Splinters stung his cheek.

Marcel flinched.

"Good," the man said, rising. "The ones who don't flinch are stupid."

Then he was across the room.

Marcel swung. The man caught the bat in one hand and snapped it in half like a breadstick.

"Shit," said Marcel.

A hand closed on his jacket and slammed him into the wall. The picture frames rattled.

"Nothing to say, Hart?" The man's breath smelled like smoke and expensive liquor. "No clever little stall? No lecture on the weather?"

Marcel's eyes slid sideways.

A red canister hung beside the door. It had been there since the Great Absinthe Incident.

He grabbed it, yanked the pin, and squeezed.

White foam exploded into the man's face at point blank range.

The man roared. His grip broke. Marcel swung the canister into his knee, hard, then scrambled behind the desk with his heart trying to claw out through his burned throat.

For a long moment, nobody moved.

Foam dripped from the man's coat. He wiped his eyes with a very slow hand.

Then he started laughing.

"Cold, cheap, and clever," he said. "You fight exactly like..."

He stopped.

Something crossed his face, too fast to read. It was gone before Marcel could name it.

"Like a bartender," he finished.

Marcel filed that away with the rest of the things he would panic about later.

"For the record," he said, "the Great Absinthe Incident was not my fault."

"I know. I read the report."

"There was a report?"

"There is always a report."

Marcel wrenched the knife out of the doorframe. It was warm, like something that had been alive.

"Keep it," Trigon said. "A gift."

"I don't take gifts from men who throw them at my head."

"You're holding it."

Marcel looked down. He was.

"That was a test," he said hoarsely. "You son of a bitch."

"It was."

"I could have died."

"You could have." The man brushed foam off his sleeve. "But you didn't. So now we can talk."

"Pass."

"Trigon," the man said, ignoring him. "That is my name. Remember it. You'll want to curse it later."

"Never heard of you."

"Excellent. That means my enemies haven't either."

"How did you get through the lock?" Marcel demanded. "It's a steel door."

"I didn't use the door."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you'll get tonight."

He dropped into the chair again as if nothing had happened.

In the lamplight, Marcel finally noticed his hands.

A black iron ring on one finger. An old burn scar across both sets of knuckles, as if he had once punched through a furnace.

His eyes were dark, with flecks of gold that moved when he was amused.

"The thing downstairs was a courtesy call," Trigon said. "A scout. Three of the seven sovereigns would like you dead before your father names his successor."

"Seven? Why seven?"

"Hell likes numbers that sound important."

"That's the worst branding I've ever heard."

"It has worked for several thousand years."

Marcel opened his mouth, found nothing, and shut it again.

"I'm not a successor. I'm a guy who runs a bar."

"You are the Devil's son. That isn't a hobby you get to quit."

Marcel stared at him.

"Fine. Say I believe you. What do you want?"

"To keep you alive."

"For what?"

"Later."

"Hard no." Marcel pointed the canister at him. "In my experience, an ally who won't name his price is a mugger with better manners."

Trigon's mouth twitched.

"The next ones won't give you nine minutes. They will come with plans, and teeth, and patience." He leaned back. "And everyone who saw tonight is on the list."

Marcel's blood went cold.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the doctor."

"Don't."

"Raven Blackfire. Emergency medicine." Trigon's voice stayed perfectly mild. "She walks toward things. That's what she told you, isn't it? It makes her useful. It will also make her dead."

Marcel thought of Raven in her wet coat, a dead man's ring in her pocket, driving home alone through the dark.

He had promised her the truth tomorrow. He had not promised it would keep her alive.

Marcel was across the desk before he knew he'd moved.

He had Trigon by the collar, canister raised, and he didn't care what that made him.

"You were in here the whole time," he said. "You heard us."

"I always hear."

"Say her name again and I swear to fucking God..."

"Which one?"

The room went quiet.

Trigon looked at him, calm as a knife on a table.

"Think carefully, Marcel," he said softly. "Who exactly is going to protect her when I leave?"

Marcel's hand shook.

He thought of six fingers on his throat. Of a gold ring tapping on a bar.

He had no answer. That was the worst part.

For years he had built a life with nothing in it anyone could use against him.

Then a woman with takeout had walked in, and he had never once locked that door.

Then, from the floor below, the deadbolt on the front door turned.

Slowly. Deliberately. From the outside.

Click.

All the color left Trigon's face.

It was the first real emotion Marcel had seen on him, and it looked a lot like fear.

"He's early," Trigon whispered.

"Who?"

Trigon didn't answer.

Downstairs, the front door opened. Cold air rolled up the staircase and under the office door, smelling of smoke and old pennies.

Every glass in the club began to sing.

Then a voice floated up the stairs, warm as honey and twice as old.

"Marcel, darling. You locked the door on your own father."