you actually think yourself worthy to receive the attention of the Lord of Darkness, you impudent maggot?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't -"
"I am Astaroth, a Crowned Prince of the Netherworld. If we were back there, you would address me as Lord Astaroth. But one shouldn't stand on formality on this side, I suppose."
"So, 'back there' is Hell?"
"There may be hope for you yet. Yes, Hell, Gehenna, Pandemonium, Hades - 'where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.'"
"That sounds like a quote, the last part."
"It is. Mark 9:48, to be precise. Now let us move on to more important matters."
"Matters like what I'm doing here."
"Exactly. You were sent back because we - some of us - thought you could be useful. In your first sojourn on this plane, after all, you were a professional murderer."
Peters' eyes narrowed. "You mean, like a hit man?" He was thinking about the pistol and silencer in his coat.
"In a sense. You committed your murders - sixteen, all told - in the service of the United States government, which allowed you to rationalize them to yourself as acts of patriotism. Of course, at your Judgment, that excuse worked about as well as it ever does - which is to say, not at all. You were judged guilty of Murder without Repentance, and your soul was turned over to us. All very routine. That was in 1983, as you reckon time on this side."
"And you've sent me back here, because you want me to kill somebody else."
"Indeed. There is no shortage of murderers in Hell, as you might imagine. But one capable of carrying out an assassination skillfully, dispassionately, and on command is harder to find - and many of them are in areas that are under the control of... others. Since we wanted an American, in order to blend in, you were determined to be the best of those available."
"And who is it you expect me to skillfully and dispassionately kill?"
"A Senator, who would be President. His name is Howard Stark."
"So, what did you think of our political mercenary?" the demon, Sargatanas, asked.
"I think he'll do," Mary Margaret Doyle said, slipping off her shoes. "He's had quite a lot of experience with the rougher side of the business, and he seems to be utterly without scruple. Oh, and he needs the money. He hasn't had a job worth mentioning since Bush left office."
"He's unwilling to compromise his... principles and work for the Democrats?" He sounded amused at the prospect.
"His only principles are the ones printed by the U.S. Mint. No, he's radioactive. He did one too many dirty jobs for the Bushies - mostly for Cheney, I understand - and word got around town. When you're so dirty that even Karl Rove won't take your calls anymore..."
She presented her back to him, lifting her hair off her shoulders. "Help me with this zipper, will you? I want to shower and change before the fund-raising dinner."
"Hold still a moment. There."
"Thank you."
"The only thing I dislike about human politics is that it sometimes makes me homesick," the demon said.
She was bent over, sliding her pantyhose down her calves when suddenly she felt him, pressing against her. "Why don't you stay like that for the moment," he said, his voice suddenly husky. "In fact, you might bend over just a little more."
When a Member of Congress dies without a physician in attendance, the FBI is called in. The investigation may involve no more than a couple of witness interviews and a quick read-through of the autopsy report, but the Bureau always gets its two cents in.
Such routine tasks, when they occur in or near the nation's capitol, are given to the D.C. field office - which is an entirely separate operation from the main FBI Headquarters in the Hoover Building. Special Agents Blaise and Garvin got the job by virtue of being the only team in the office when the Special Agent in Charge got the call.
Melanie Blaise was the senior agent of the pair, so she was the one who showed FBI creds to the police detective guarding the door of Brooks's
"I'm sorry, I didn't -"
"I am Astaroth, a Crowned Prince of the Netherworld. If we were back there, you would address me as Lord Astaroth. But one shouldn't stand on formality on this side, I suppose."
"So, 'back there' is Hell?"
"There may be hope for you yet. Yes, Hell, Gehenna, Pandemonium, Hades - 'where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.'"
"That sounds like a quote, the last part."
"It is. Mark 9:48, to be precise. Now let us move on to more important matters."
"Matters like what I'm doing here."
"Exactly. You were sent back because we - some of us - thought you could be useful. In your first sojourn on this plane, after all, you were a professional murderer."
Peters' eyes narrowed. "You mean, like a hit man?" He was thinking about the pistol and silencer in his coat.
"In a sense. You committed your murders - sixteen, all told - in the service of the United States government, which allowed you to rationalize them to yourself as acts of patriotism. Of course, at your Judgment, that excuse worked about as well as it ever does - which is to say, not at all. You were judged guilty of Murder without Repentance, and your soul was turned over to us. All very routine. That was in 1983, as you reckon time on this side."
"And you've sent me back here, because you want me to kill somebody else."
"Indeed. There is no shortage of murderers in Hell, as you might imagine. But one capable of carrying out an assassination skillfully, dispassionately, and on command is harder to find - and many of them are in areas that are under the control of... others. Since we wanted an American, in order to blend in, you were determined to be the best of those available."
"And who is it you expect me to skillfully and dispassionately kill?"
"A Senator, who would be President. His name is Howard Stark."
"So, what did you think of our political mercenary?" the demon, Sargatanas, asked.
"I think he'll do," Mary Margaret Doyle said, slipping off her shoes. "He's had quite a lot of experience with the rougher side of the business, and he seems to be utterly without scruple. Oh, and he needs the money. He hasn't had a job worth mentioning since Bush left office."
"He's unwilling to compromise his... principles and work for the Democrats?" He sounded amused at the prospect.
"His only principles are the ones printed by the U.S. Mint. No, he's radioactive. He did one too many dirty jobs for the Bushies - mostly for Cheney, I understand - and word got around town. When you're so dirty that even Karl Rove won't take your calls anymore..."
She presented her back to him, lifting her hair off her shoulders. "Help me with this zipper, will you? I want to shower and change before the fund-raising dinner."
"Hold still a moment. There."
"Thank you."
"The only thing I dislike about human politics is that it sometimes makes me homesick," the demon said.
She was bent over, sliding her pantyhose down her calves when suddenly she felt him, pressing against her. "Why don't you stay like that for the moment," he said, his voice suddenly husky. "In fact, you might bend over just a little more."
When a Member of Congress dies without a physician in attendance, the FBI is called in. The investigation may involve no more than a couple of witness interviews and a quick read-through of the autopsy report, but the Bureau always gets its two cents in.
Such routine tasks, when they occur in or near the nation's capitol, are given to the D.C. field office - which is an entirely separate operation from the main FBI Headquarters in the Hoover Building. Special Agents Blaise and Garvin got the job by virtue of being the only team in the office when the Special Agent in Charge got the call.
Melanie Blaise was the senior agent of the pair, so she was the one who showed FBI creds to the police detective guarding the door of Brooks's
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