Blood Price

rhythm.
    "And do I look like I'm working?"

    "You always look like you're working."

    Vicki sighed and checked him out. Physically, he'd didn't look good. The patina of dirt he wore told her he'd been sleeping rough, and his face had the pinched look that said meals had been infrequent of late. "You don't look so great."

    "Things have been better," he admitted. "Could use a burger and some fries."

    "Why not." Henry's answering machine insisted he still wasn't available. "You can tell me what you've been doing lately."

    He rolled his eyes. "Do I look like I'm crazy?"

    * * *
    The three coals burned in the bottom of a cast iron frying pan his mother had bought him. It was the first time he'd ever used it. The gold, the frankincense, the myrrh, had all been added.

    The three drops of blood sizzled in the heat and Norman backed quickly away, just in case.

    Something had stopped the demon from materializing last night but, as that was the first and only time it had occurred, statistically, tonight, the demon should be able to get through. Norman believed strongly in statistics.

    The air in the center of the pentagram shivered. Norman's bandaged fingers began to burn and he wondered if it was going to happen again. It shouldn't. Statistically, it shouldn't.

    It didn't.

    "I have called you," he declared, bouncing forward when the demon had fully formed. "I am your master."

    "You are master," the demon agreed. It seemed somewhat subdued and kept turning to look behind it.

    Norman sneered at this pitiful tool. After tonight he would command a real demon and nothing could stop him then.

Twelve
    "Do you know what a grimoire is?"

    "Yes, master." It hunched down in the exact center of the pentagram, still leery after the pain that had flung it back from the last calling.

    "Good. You will go here."

    The master showed it a building marked on a map. It translated the information to its own image of the city, a much more complex and less limited view.

    "You will go to this building by the most direct route. You will get the grimoire from unit 1407 and you will bring it immediately back to the pentagram using the same route. Do not allow people to see you."

    "Must feed," it reminded the master sullenly.

    "Yeah, okay, then feed on the way. I want that grimoire as soon as possible. Do you understand?"

    "Yes, master." In time it would feed on this one who called it. It had been promised.

    It could feel the Demon Lord it served waiting. Could feel the rage growing as it moved farther from the path of the name. Knew it would feel that rage more closely still when it returned from the world.

    There were lives in plenty on its route and as it had so many from which to pick and choose, it fed at last where the life would end to mark the name of another Demon Lord. The name would take another four deaths to finish, but perhaps this second Lord would protect if from the first on the chance that it would control the gate.

    It did not know hope, for hope was foreign to the demonkind, but it did know opportunity and so it did what it could.

    It fed quickly, though, and traveled warily lest it attract the attention of the power that had broken the calling the night before. The demonkind had battled this power in the past and it had no desire to do so now, on its own.

    It could feel the grimoire as it approached the building the master had indicated. Wings spread, it drifted lower, a shadow against the stars, and settled on the balcony. The call of the book grew stronger, the dark power reacting to one of the demonkind.

    It sensed a life close by but did not recognize it; too slow to be mortal, too fast to be demon.
    It did not understand, but then, understanding was not necessary.

    Sniffing the metal around the glass, it was not impressed. A soft metal, a mortal metal.

    Do not be seen.

    If it could not see the street, then the lives on the street could not see it. It sank its claws into the frame and pulled the glass from its setting.

    * * *
    Captain Roxborough stepped closer, his hands out from his sides, his gray eyes never leaving the blade. "Surely, you don't think . . ."he began. Only lightning reflexes saved him as the razor arced forward and he jumped back. A billowing fold of his shirt had been neatly sliced, but the skin beneath had not been touched. With an effort, he held his temper. "I am beginning to lose patience with you, Smith. "

    Henry froze, fingers bent over the keyboard. He'd heard something on the