Silver-Tongued Devil

Adam stood next to me, his arm casually draped around my waist. “Just be glad Erron sent us balcony tickets.”



“You’ve got to admit, there’s something about that Erron Zorn,” Pussy Willow purred. “I still can’t believe y’all didn’t introduce me to him in New Orleans.”



“Yeah, sorry about that,” I said. “What with the battle for our lives and all, there just wasn’t time for proper introductions.”



“They’re certainly loud,” Georgia yelled. Her fingers were stuck in her ears and she cringed to buffer herself from the pounding bass line. She’d been quiet on the way over and hadn’t said much since we’d arrived. I wondered if part of her mood had to do with the fact she hadn’t heard from Mac. I hoped that seeing the werewolf the next night at the first Roller Derby practice might improve her mood.



Erron stood onstage with his head thrown back and his arms spread wide to receive the spit shower. He wore tight leather pants and little else, except for a self-inflicted chest wound he’d scored into his skin with a razor. The song he sang was a ballad of sorts, and by that I mean it had a slow tempo. The lyrics weren’t much different from all the others—lots of macabre symbolism accented with creative variations on the word “fuck.”



I turned to Adam. “I think this is the last number. Let’s head down.”



On my shoulder, Giguhl growled. “Dammit! Already? We only got to see three songs!”



By the time we got Giguhl dressed in his outfit and found a cab to the club, we’d ended up arriving halfway through the concert. In my opinion, this was far from a tragedy. But I suspected Giguhl would have plenty to be excited about backstage if the after-party was anything like the other Necrospank shindig we’d witnessed.



Adam dragged his eyes from the flashing lights that signaled the finale and blinked. “Maybe we should give Erron some time to grab a shower first.”



“C’mon,” I said. “It’s going to get crowded if we wait too long. And I have no intention of acting like some groupie begging for a moment of his time.”



Fifteen minutes later, we all stepped out of the elevator and directly into gridlock. I shot Adam an I-told-you-so glare. He grimaced and adjusted Giguhl on his shoulder.



“Lead on,” he said. “But don’t hurt anyone.”



I rolled my eyes, but he was right to remind me. My first instinct was to bulldoze through them. Instead, I played fair and tried to be patient as my polite requests to scoot by were ignored. After five minutes, we’d made it only ten feet from the elevator.



Giguhl perked up on Adam’s shoulder. “If you’re not going to start punching them, at least let me change forms. That’ll get ’em all moving.”



“Judging from the looks of Erron’s fan base, they wouldn’t be shocked by a naked demon in their midst.” As I said this, a chick with connect-the-dot piercings on her face turned to hiss at me. She’d had her tongue surgically split down the center and proceeded to waggle the forked thing at me.



“Bitch, please,” Giguhl said. “I’ll show you something forked.”



The chick squinted at me. Her dilated pupils were the size of pennies. “Did your cat just talk?”



“Of course not.” I laughed, the sound false and awkward to my own ears. “You might want to back off on the Special K, sweetie.”



She was unimpressed. “Please. Cat tranqs are so 2007.”



Unable to resist, I asked, “So what’s the big thing now?”



She squinted at me. “Are you a narc or something?”



“Believe me when I say I am as far from a cop as you can get.”



Her pupils were two black holes set into red-veined nebulas. “The newest thing is called Dry Humps.”



“What’s in it?”



Pin Cushion moved in closer. Her breath smelled of old cigarettes and daddy issues. “It’s combination of Viagra, Ecstasy, and Benadryl. Plus a few other goodies.”



“Jesus!” I looked over my shoulder at Adam. Judging from the way his mouth hung down to his clavicles, I figured he’d overheard. “Seriously?”



“It’s invigorating, really,” she said. “Especially once the stool softener hits. You should try it.”



Adam ignored her and stood on his tiptoes, seeing the long corridor ahead and judging our chances of making it through the throng in anything resembling a reasonable amount of time. Behind him, Pussy Willow and Georgia were too busy gawking at the freaks to be much help. “Okay, screw civility. Barge through there, Red.”



I smiled and kissed his cheek. “Yes, sir.”



Thirty seconds, four bruised ribs, two “accidentally” bloodied noses, and bucket loads of cursing later, we stood in front of two burly human security guys. They wore earpieces and sidearms, but they had rent-a-cop written all over them.



If they noticed the carnage we’d left in our wake, they didn’t react. Either they were used to Erron’s fans getting rough with each other, which frankly was a major possibility, or they didn’t care—the more likely option. “Passes?” the one on the right said in a bored tone.



I squinted at him, looking for some sign of life behind his dark glasses. I flicked my wrist up to show the backstage passes Erron had sent over that afternoon.



The left guard gave the passes a cursory glance. Then he straightened and looked at Giguhl. “No pets allowed.”



“Who, him?” I nodded toward the hairless cat on Adam’s shoulder. “He’s not a pet.”



Leftie lowered his shades a fraction. “Do you really expect me to believe that hideous cat is a service animal?”



The cat in question tensed, ready to deliver a barbed retort, no doubt. Adam pulled Giguhl off his shoulder and squeezed him tight against his chest, just in case. My lip twitched. “As a matter of fact, he is a service animal, of sorts.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. As my minion, Giguhl performed all sorts of services. Granted, his specialty was lip service, but still.



The guards didn’t look like they were buying it, so I soldiered on before they could refuse us entrance. “Listen, ask Erron. Tell him Giguhl the cat is out here. He’ll let us in.”



The right guy looked unconvinced. But since we had passes and seemed not the least bit nervous that he’d call my bluff, he spoke into the mouthpiece. “Ask Erron if he knows a cat named Giguhl.” Pause. “Yes, a fucking cat. Just do it.”



Adam crossed his arms and looked about ready to just flash us directly into the room. That was the problem with trying to fit into the mortal world. Having to ignore that we had the ability to circumvent their rules and little inconveniences at will.



The guard put his hand to his ear. He looked at me with a frown. “Is your name Sabina Kane?”



I paused, not liking his tone. “Maybe.” It’s not that any of us had reason to feel threatened by the dude. A couple of humans versus a mage, a vampire, a demon cat, a transsexual faery, and a former assassin with death magic skills? Please. No contest. But I’d had enough experience with people gunning for me that I knew better than to not be on guard.



He murmured something into the mouthpiece. “Hold on. Someone’s coming to get you.”



A few moments later, the door opened behind him and a familiar face peeked out. It was Ziggy, Necrospank 5000’s drummer. Like Erron, he was a Recreant, or shunned, mage. Unlike Erron, he didn’t go for the industrial aesthetic in his choice of hair or clothing. Instead, Ziggy sported his usual rockabilly look—black T-shirt with a pack of cigs rolled up in one sleeve, dark jeans with a silver chain at his hip, and ankle cuffs rolled up over red Converse. Both arms were tattooed up with pinups, swallows, and four-leaf clovers. A gigantic pompadour towered over his face like the prow of an ocean liner. He was also angry, judging from the flurry of signs jumping off his fingers.



“What?” the guard yelled.



“Dude, he’s deaf,” I said. “Screaming isn’t going to help.” I waved at Ziggy to get his attention. Shrugged to let him know we weren’t following. He sighed and shot us an annoyed look. Finally, with exaggerated movements he pointed to Adam, Giguhl, PW, Georgia, and me and waved us toward the door. From behind the steel panel, the sounds of breaking furniture and more cursing than a group of horny sailors on shore leave echoed down the hallway.



“Let’s go.” With that, I pushed past the guards, high-fived Ziggy on my way by, and stormed straight into the eye of a Necrospank 5000 hurricane. We’d entered a dressing room, or at least it used to be one. The band members had broken most of the furniture. The things that hadn’t been broken were covered in various liquor, foodstuffs, and body fluids. In the corner, a groupie gave the bassist oral pleasure. Another chick lay on her stomach on the coffee table, where the keyboardist snorted white lines off her ass.



I suppose they believed they were being shocking and edgy. But the whole thing was so stereotypical that it struck me as a little desperate and pedestrian. I looked over my shoulder at Ziggy. He shrugged and made a wanking gesture with his hand. With his free hand, he pointed to a doorway to the right. Adam nodded and made toward the door, looking as unimpressed as I felt. But Giguhl and the others were rubbernecking like crazy.



“But—” The demon strained to get a better view. “But—”



I looked at the three sets of eager gazes watching the party. Since Erron’s information about Cain really affected only Adam and me, I decided it was probably best to leave the others there. “Okay, you three stay here and enjoy the party. Adam and I will be back in a few.” I lifted the cat from my shoulder and handed him over to PW. “Behave.”



The cat blinked his eyes at me. “Sabina, you wound me.”



“Whatever. Just don’t hump anyone. You don’t know where these humans have been.”



We left them and followed Ziggy into a dark hallway that led to another dressing room. This one was larger than the other. Instead of the moldy Berber and office furniture of the other room, this one had plush shag carpeting and velvet divans and a tufted ottoman. Clearly, we’d entered the sanctuary reserved for the real star.