Hellhound

A spy I hated to summon, because it always gave me twice as much trouble as information. My very own personal guilt demon, an Eidolon with the unlikely name of Butterfly.

The uneasy feeling in my gut grew. I let it. Worry, anxiety, any kind of malaise—all these things are like catnip to an Eidolon. When a wave of nausea rose from the pit of my stomach to my throat, I knew now was the time. I jumped off my stool and rushed across the room, past the vampires and their acolytes, to the back hallway. I passed the door marked BOOS and shoved open one marked GHOULS. The bathroom was empty—good. Stomach churning, I leaned on a sink and commanded, “Butterfly! I summon thee here from Uffern!” Uffern is what demons call their own plane.

The sick feeling tightened into a ball. I braced. A black butterfly with razor-sharp wings tore from my body, shooting out from the region of my solar plexus. Damn, that hurt. It bounced off the wall and whacked the side of my head. Then it flew up near the ceiling and hovered there.

“Whaddaya want?” it asked in an irritable voice.

I reached with shaking hands to turn on the faucet. By the time I’d splashed some cold water on my face, I felt better. As I reached for a paper towel, the black butterfly landed on my shoulder.

“And what’d you conjure me in the ladies’ room for? I ain’t a lady. I ain’t comfortable in here.”

“Too bad.” I wiped my face with a handful of paper towels, then leaned forward to look in the mirror. Dark purple circles ringed my eyes. Clinging to my shoulder was a large black insect, with a six-inch wingspan and the hideous face of a demon—beady eyes, a tusked snout, a mouthful of pointy teeth. “I need some information, Butterfly.”

The demon cringed at the nickname. To an Eidolon the most important thing—besides gorging on its victim’s feelings of guilt and anxiety—is its own dignity. If you don’t take a guilt demon seriously, if you mock it and call it names, it loses some of its power over you.

Or at least, that’s the theory.

I’d first conjured this particular Eidolon several weeks ago. Then, as now, I’d needed information about happenings in the demon plane. Unfortunately, in calling it to me I’d drawn a bit too deeply on my feelings of regret and remorse, and ended up with a teensy little demon infestation. Butterfly was keeping a toehold in my gut, always ready to snack on my baser feelings. In a way, I couldn’t blame the demon. The way my life had been going lately, my gut-level emotions were an Eidolon’s dream of an all-you-can-eat buffet.

“Oh, you need information, huh? That would be the same ‘you’ who calls me names, tries to starve me to death, and threatens to kill me with one of your dozens of nasty-looking bronze weapons. Why should I lift a wing to help you?”

“I don’t know. ’Cause you like my pretty face?”

Butterfly’s braying laugh sprayed demon spit in my ear.

Gross. I swatted the demon from my shoulder and grabbed more paper towels. As I wet them and scrubbed out my ear, Butterfly flew up to the fluorescent light fixture, bumping against it a few times. My turn to laugh. “Must be hell for a demon to manifest in the form of a creature that’s attracted to light.”

“I manage.” Butterfly tore itself away from the light and landed on the edge of a sink. Its black, serrated wings quivered. “I like this form. Good mobility.” Usually Eidolons manifest as a giant maggot, with a demon head and a second toothy mouth hidden in its belly. The Eidolon sits on its victim, the demon head taunting while the belly-mouth munches away on the shame, remorse, and despair that arise. The worse the victim feels, the better the Eidolon eats. “That dumb nickname you gave me lets me take this shape. So I don’t even mind when you call me B . . . Buh . . . you know.”

“Sure. The name you can’t bring yourself to say.” I was getting fed up with this conversation. “Cooperate, or I’ll come up with a different name for you, like Horse Poop.”

“Try it. I’ll manifest in a big, steaming pile in the middle of your bed. On your pillow, maybe.” The demon chuckled at the thought. Conjuring this demon was a mistake. I thought of the gun under my jacket, and my demon mark twinged. One bronze bullet, and I’d finally be rid of this pest. My hand on the pistol grip, I wondered how miffed Axel would be about one little bullet hole in the ladies’ room wall. And possibly another in the ceiling. Maybe two. Butterfly was fast.

A tap sounded on the door, which cracked open an inch. I let go of my gun and pulled my jacket shut. “You all right?” Concern threaded Axel’s gruff voice.

“I’m fine.”

“I thought I heard voices.”

“That was me. I’m, um . . . practicing a speech. For the unity rally.” It was the only reason I could think of that I’d be standing in front of a bathroom mirror, talking to myself. Butterfly put two legs over its mouth, trying to hold in the laughter. It staggered on its other four legs and fell over sideways. “Really, Axel, I’m okay.” I raised my voice to cover the sound of demonic laughter. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the door closed.

Butterfly lay on its back, howling with laughter, its legs kicking the air. “That’s the lamest excuse I ever heard. Hey, do you think that later on you could feel, you know, dumb about it? Idiotic, even? Those feelings are delicious.”

Anger welled, and I thought again of my gun. “Forget I conjured you. And stay out of my emotions. I’ll kill you, I swear.”

Ever seen a butterfly look skeptical? That was the look the Eidolon gave me. My anger skyrocketed, and my demon mark flared into a bonfire. I wanted to make Butterfly hurt, bad. Okay, the gun would get me banned from Creature Comforts, but I didn’t have to shoot the Eidolon. I could swat it with my shoe and smear demon guts across the sink. Squashing the demon wouldn’t be fatal, but it might teach the damn thing some manners. I reached down and pulled off my shoe.

Butterfly felt the change in my mood. It launched from the sink and flew around my head, then alighted on the farthest stall door. “You know, you really need to look into an anger-management class or something,” it said. “You’re not safe to be around.”

“Then quit infesting me. Whether I call you or not, just leave me alone!” I shouted. I punched the door open and stomped out into the hallway. I hurled myself back onto my barstool. It wasn’t until I slapped my shoe on the bar that I realized I hadn’t put it back on.

Axel stared, one eyebrow raised. I opened my mouth to explain, but I couldn’t think of a single reason why my supposed speech about unity would end with me taking off my shoe and screaming, “Leave me alone.” So instead I drained my club soda and asked for another.

He picked up my glass and, giving me a funny look, sniffed it. I took the opportunity to study my fingernails. The one on my right index finger was looking a little ragged; had I been chewing it lately?

Axel put the empty glass in the sink and took a clean one from the shelf. He filled it with ice and club soda and sniffed it again, then cut a couple of lime wedges.

On the television above the bar, the closing credits for the chef competition show were rolling. The picture cut to a shot of the police commissioner, Fred Hampson, all dressed up in a dark blue suit and staring into the camera. He had a narrow face, with deep bags pulling down his eyes and a thin mouth made thinner by his grim expression.

“This is a public safety announcement,” he said. “Until further notice, a curfew is in effect for Designated Area One. Starting immediately, all previously deceased residents must be off the streets and in their homes from two hours before sunrise until two hours after sunset. Extra patrols will be dispatched to the area to ensure compliance.

“In addition, the code for Designated Area One is now yellow. I repeat: Code Yellow. All previously deceased humans are restricted to DA-1. Other paranormals may pass through the checkpoints with proper identification. At this time, twenty-seven of the previously deceased remain at large.”

A list of names, organized alphabetically, scrolled up the screen. Wendy Abingdon. Mario Bello. Oliver Burnes. As the list went by I didn’t see any names I knew.

Hampson’s face reappeared. “If you encounter any of these fugitives, you must inform the authorities immediately. Call 911 or the Paranormal Reporting Hotline.” A phone number flashed across the bottom of the screen. “Anyone with knowledge of the whereabouts of a fugitive who fails to make a report may be subject to arrest. Thank you for your cooperation.” Again, the list of names scrolled up the screen.

“What a prick.”

That wasn’t Axel’s voice. I looked up to see who’d spoken. Not a vampire; they’d left and taken their groupies with them. But Butterfly—now in its giant maggot form—had slithered onto the barstool beside mine. The Eidolon sat there in all its maggoty glory, fat and white and glistening grotesquely. Its demon face leered at me.

“I hate guys like that.” Butterfly gestured with its chin toward the TV where Hampson had spoken. “Always convinced he’s right. He’s a prick, but there’s not a remorseful bone in his body. No guilt, no regrets. You know what would happen if everybody was like him? There wouldn’t be any Eidolons, that’s what. We’d starve out of existence.”

“Why are you still here?”

Axel, who’d just set my drink down, gave me a sharp look.

“Not you,” I said. “That thing.” I gestured toward the next stool.

Butterfly chuckled. It was exactly the kind of sloppy gurgling sound you’d imagine if you ever happened to think of a chuckling maggot. “He can’t see me.”

Oh, great. If they choose, personal demons can manifest only to the person they’ve infested. The victim can see and hear them, but they’re invisible to everyone else. That’s the option Butterfly was taking, making me look like a crazy woman talking to herself.

“I mean that guy,” I said, changing my gesture to sweep vaguely toward the TV. “Hampson. Why couldn’t Boston have a police commissioner who’s more sympathetic to paranormals?”