Finale
Patch shook his head. “I knew him, but not well. More like I knew of him. He had a reputation as a hard-boiled liberal, especially loose on social issues. I’m not surprised he fell hard into gambling, but if I remember right, he was involved in my trial. He must have voted to banish me; strange, since it’s at odds with his reputation.”
“Do you think we can get Pepper to turn on the archangels? His double life might be part of his cover . . . then again, he might be enjoying his time down here just a little too much. If we apply the right kind of pressure, he might talk. If he tells us that a secret faction of archangels sent him here to chain you in hell, at least we’d know what we’re up against.”
A dangerous little smile tightened Patch’s mouth. “I think it’s time to find Pepper.”
I nodded. “Fine. But you’re going to play this one from the sidelines. I don’t want you going anywhere near Pepper. For now, we have to assume he’d do anything to chain you in hell.”
Patch’s eyebrows drew together. “What are you proposing, Angel?”
“I’m meeting Pepper. And I’m taking Scott with me. Don’t even think about arguing with me,” I said warningly before he could veto the idea. “You’ve taken Dabria as backup on more occasions than I want to think about. You swore to me it was a tactical move and nothing more. Well, now it’s my turn. I’m taking Scott, and that’s final. As far as I know, Pepper isn’t holding any one-way tickets to hell with Scott’s name on them.”
Patch’s mouth thinned and his eyes darkened; I could practically feel his objection radiating off him. Patch held no warmth for Scott, but he knew he couldn’t play that card; it would make him a hypocrite.
“You’re going to need an airtight plan,” he said at last. “I’m not letting you out of my sight if there’s any chance things could go south.”
There was always a chance things could go south. If I’d learned anything during my time with Patch, it was that. Patch knew this too, and I wondered if it was part of his plan to keep me from going. I suddenly felt like Cinderella, prevented from going to the ball on a small technicality.
“Scott is stronger than you give him credit for,” I argued. “He’s not going to let anything happen to me. I’ll make sure he understands he can’t tell a soul that you and I are still very much together.”
Patch’s black eyes simmered. “And I’ll make sure he understands that if a single hair on your head is lost, he’ll deal with me. If he’s got any sense, that’s a threat he’ll take to heart.”
I smiled tensely. “Then it’s settled. All we need now is a plan.”
The following night was Saturday. After telling my mom that I was staying at Vee’s all weekend and we’d head to heaschool together on Monday, Scott and I made a trip to the Devil’s Handbag. We weren’t interested in the music or drinks, rather in the basement level. I’d heard rumors about the basement, a burgeoning gambling haven, but had never actually stepped foot inside. Word had it Pepper couldn’t say the same. Patch had supplied us with a list of Pepper’s favorite haunts, and I hoped Scott and I would get lucky on our first try.
I’d flat-ironed my hair for a sleek and mature look. Throw on some liquid eyeliner, lipstick, four-inch heels, and a high-end handbag on loan from Marcie, and I’d magically aged five years. Given Scott’s fully developed and intimidating build, I didn’t think he had to worry about getting carded. He wore tiny silver hoops in his ears, and while his brown hair was closely cropped, he still managed to look both tough and handsome. Scott and I were just friends, but I could easily appreciate what Vee saw in him. I linked my arm through his, a show of being his girlfriend, as he signaled the bartender over to talk.
“We’re looking for Storky,” Scott told the bartender, leaning close to keep his voice low.
The bartender, who I’d never seen before, eyed us shrewdly. I met his gaze, trying to keep my eyes impassive. Don’t look nervous, I told myself. And whatever you do, don’t look like you’ve got something to hide.
“Who’s looking?” he asked gruffly at last.
“We heard there’s a high-stakes game tonight,” Scott said, flashing a stack of hundreds lined up neatly inside his wallet.
The bartender hiked his shoulders and went back to wiping the bar. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Scott laid one of the bills on the bar, covering it with his hand. He slid it toward the bartender. “That’s too bad. You sure we can’t convince you to rethink?”
The bartender eyed the hundred-dollar bill. “Have I seen you around?”
“I play bass for Serpentine. I’ve also played poker from Portland to Concord to Boston, and everywhere in between.”
A nod of recognition. “That’s it. I used to work nights at the Z Pool Hall in Springvale.”
“Fond memories of the place,” Scott said without missing a beat. “Won a lot of cash. Lost even more.” He grinned as though sharing a private joke with the bartender.
Sliding his hand flush with Scott’s, and looking around to be sure he wasn’t under surveillance, the bartender pocketed the bill. “Got to frisk you first,” he told us. “No weapons allowed downstairs.”
I started to sweat even more. Patch had warned us they’d be on the lookout for guns, knives, and any other sharp object that could be used as a weapon. So we’d gotten creative. The belt holding up Scott’s jeans, and hidden beneath his shirt, h his shwas in fact a whip enchanted with devilcraft. Scott had sworn up and down he wasn’t ingesting devilcraft, and had never heard of the super-drink, but I figured we might as well make use of the enchanted whip he’d lifted from Dante’s car on a whim. The whip glowed the telltale shade of iridescent blue, but as long as the bartender didn’t raise Scott’s shirt, we’d be safe.
At the bartender’s invitation, Scott and I walked around the bar, stepped behind a privacy screen, and lifted our arms. I went first, enduring a brief, cursory pat-down. The bartender moved to Scott, brushing down his inseams and patting under his arms and across his back. It was dim behind the bar, and even though Scott had worn a thick cotton shirt, I thought I saw the whip glow faintly through it. The bartender seemed to see it too. His eyebrows pulled together, and he reached for Scott’s shirt.
I dropped my handbag at his feet. Several hundred-dollar bills spilled out. Just like that, the bartender’s attention was drawn to the money. “Oops,” I said, feigning a flirty smile as I swept the bills back inside. “This cash is burning a hole. Ready to play, hot stuff?”
Hot stuff? Scott echoed to my thoughts. Nice. He grinned and leaned down to kiss me, hard, on the mouth. I was so surprised by this, I froze at his touch.
Relax, he spoke to my mind. We’re almost in.
I gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “You’re going to win big tonight, babe, I can feel it,” I crooned.
The bartender unlocked a big steel door, and grasping Scott’s hand, I followed him down a dark, uninviting staircase that smelled of mildew and standing water. At the bottom, we followed a hallway around several bends, until we came out in an open space sparsely decorated with poker tables. A single Mason-jar-turned-pendant hung above each table, shedding minimal light. No music, no drinks, no warm, friendly welcome.
One table was in use—four players—and I instantly spotted Pepper. He had his back to us, and he didn’t turn at our approach. Not unusual. None of the other players glanced at us either. They were all tuned intently to the cards in their hands. Poker chips stood in neat towers at the center of the table. I had no idea how much money was involved, but I was betting those who lost would feel it, and deeply.
“We’re looking for Pepper Friberg,” Scott announced. He kept his tone light, but the way his muscles bulged when he crossed his arms sent a different message.
“Sorry, sweetheart, my dance card’s full for the night,” Pepper shot back cynically, brooding over the hand he’d been dealt. I studied him closely, thinking he was much too involved in the game for this to be a cover. In fact, he was so sucked in, he’d apparently completely missed that I stood beside Scott.
Scott snagged a chair from a nearby table and made room for it right next to Pepper. “I’ve got two left feet anyway. You’d be better off dancing with . . . Nora Grey.”
Now Pepper reacted. He set his cards facedown, turning that round, full body of his to see me for himself.
“Kidnapping is a federal offense for us Earth dwellers,” Scott chimed in. “Something tells me it’s frowned on in heaven, too.”
“Keep your voice down,” Pepper growled, nervously eyeing the other players.
I swept my eyebrows up, speaking directly to Pepper’s thoughts. You haven’t told your human friends what you really are? Although I don’t suppose they’d be too happy to learn that your poker skills have a lot more to do with mind-compulsion than luck or skill.
“Let’s take this outside,” Pepper told me, folding from the game.
“Up you go,” Scott said, hoisting him up by the elbow.
In the alley behind the Devil’s Handbag, I spoke first. “We’re going to make this simple for you, Pepper. As fun as it’s been having you use me to get to Patch, I’m ready to move on. The way I figure it, that’s only going to happen if I find out who’s really blackmailing you,” I said, testing him. I wanted to tell him my theory: that he was playing errand boy for a secret group of archangels and needed a half-decent excuse to send Patch to hell. But in the name of playing it safe, I decided to hold off and see how this shook out.
Pepper squinted at me, his features as disgruntled as they were skeptical. “What’s this about?”
“Which is where we come in,” Scott chimed in. “We’re motivated to find your blackmailer.”
Pepper narrowed his eyes further at Scott. “Who are you?”
“Think of me as the ticking bomb under your seat. If you don’t make a decision to agree to Nora’s terms, I’ll make it for you.” Scott started rolling up his sleeves.
“Are you threatening me?” Pepper asked incredulously.
“Here are my terms,” I said. “We’ll find your blackmailer, and we’ll deliver them to you. What we want in return is simple. Swear an oath to leave Patch alone.” I slapped a pointy toothpick into Pepper’s fleshy palm. Since the bartender had frisked me, it was the best I could do. “A little blood and a few earnest words should do the trick.” If I got him to swear an oath, he’d have to slink back to the archangels with his tail between his legs and confess failure. If he refused, it only gave more validity to my theory.