Doomsday Can Wait (22 page)

"Why all the different names?" I asked in a respectful and contrite voice.

Ruthie's attention returned to the children. They all   played together—toddlers and tweens. Whenever we'd tried to start a game of king of the mountain, on the mammoth snowpiles left behind by the city plows, Ruthie had always put the kibosh on it as too dangerous.

Someone's gonna get hurt and then there'll be trouble.

Social services took a dim view of broken arms in foster care. Sadly, they were rarely an accident.

I doubted arms could be broken here no matter what these kids did. So a game of king of the mountain, even with someone three times your age and five times your weight, wasn't going to be dangerous at all. I'd envy them, except they were dead.

"The true name of the Devil is known only to God," Ruthie answered, "who stripped Satan of all identity when he rebelled."

"Then where did the word 'Satan' come from?"

"Hebrew term for the Devil was
Ha Satan.
Lucifer is the name given to him by the Babylonians. He said he was the angel of light, the morning star."

"When, exactly, did he claim this?"

" 'How you have fallen from heaven, O star of morning, son of the dawn!'" Ruthie quoted.
"Isaiah—chapter fourteen, verse twelve."

"I don't remember that one."

Ruthie's eyes narrowed. "Mebe you should have paid better attention in church."

"I knew I was going to regret that." Perhaps not then, but I sure did now. Wasn't that always the way? Church never seemed like a good idea until it was too late.

"The evil one was called different things by different prophets." Ruthie paused, tilting her head until the sun sparked a halo around her graying Afro. "I believe John used the term
'evil one'
Matthew, Mark, and Luke called him 'Beelzebub,' Prince of Demons. In second Corinthians, Paul calls him 'Belial,' or worthless."

Despite Ruthie's admonition, I had a hard time be-lieving I'd zoned out during a sermon on the multiple names of Satan. I doubted the info would be of much use to a layman.

"I still don't understand what purpose is served by confusing everyone with all these names."

"Having too many names is worse than having no name at all. Who are you? No one knows. No one cares,"

"People care." Way too much.

Sometimes I thought the modern world was more in-terested in Satan, in all his incarnations, than they were in God. Which was probably why we were in the fix we were in. Despite my stupidity about all things Dooms-day, I did seem to recall the end times following a pe-roid of disintegrating moral values.

"Naming Satan based on a characteristic separates him into pieces," Ruthie said. "He's parts, not a whole. With no true name, no true identity. He is defeatable."

"You believe that?"

She met my eyes, and in hers I saw utter conviction. "I do."

I took a deep breath and leaned back against the house. I wished I had Ruthie's faith. But I couldn't tell her so. She might knock my block off, and I liked my block right where it was.

Ruthie had always had many colorful ways to threaten us. Along with the aforementioned knocking off of the block, there had been "slap you silly," "slap you stupid," "knock your head to a peak and then knock the peak off," "knock you into next week," "kick your butt so hard you'll be wearing it for a hat," and my particular favorite, "pull your lip over your head until your inside is your outside."

In truth, she rarely touched us except with love. The warning was all that was needed. Usually.

"Why you smilin'?" Ruthie asked.

Remembering Ruthie's threatened retaliations for misbehavior had only made me think of how very much I wanted to save the world. The world was worth saving. Ruthie had been worth saving. Too bad I hadn't known she'd
need
saving until she was dead.

"No reason," I said, and she lifted a brow. Of all her children, I'd probably been the least inclined to smile for no reason. Didn't mean I couldn't change. Not that I had.

"If Satan's confined in Tartarus," I continued, "and has been since the angels fell"—whenever that was— "then how is it that the apostles and prophets were chatting about his deeds long after his imprisonment?"

"Just 'cause he's locked up don't mean he can't cause trouble. That's what the Nephilim are here for. And make no mistake, he's been pullin' their strings all along."

"What about possession?" I sat up again. "Exorcist-type stuff? Does that happen?" "Of course."

"So not only do I have to worry about actual demons on earth—"

"Half demons," she corrected. "Least until one of them opens Tartarus."

"Fine." I rubbed my forehead. "Right now I'll worry about half demons and people possessed by demons."

"I wouldn't worry too much about the possessed."

"Why not?" I'd seen
The Exorcist.
I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to stop worrying about that.

"These days when people start gibberin' in other languages, throwing up pea soup, and discussing the demons whisperin' in their heads, what do you think happens?"

"They're given antibiotics and a free vacation at Camp Psycho."

"Got that right," Ruthie agreed.

Which meant that the possessed were incarcerated. Though I was certain not all of them were.

"Have you ever tried to find the Book of Samyaza?" I asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"No one's ever seen it. We have no idea what that book looks like, or if it truly exists."

I had a feeling it existed. A really, really bad feeling.

"Wouldn't it be better to have it in our hands, to de-stroy it?"

"Better it stays hidden. Find the book and there's a good chance the thing could be stolen or used by the one who found it to—"

"You think one of us would try and rule the world?"

"Lizbeth," Ruthie said quietly, "even Christ was tempted."

Silence fell between us. When she was right, she was right.

"Never mind," she said at last. "Huntin' for the thing ain't practical. No one knows where the Book of Samyaza is. No legends, no rumors, not a hint."

That we knew of. I couldn't believe that if the Neph-ilim had a weapon like that, they didn't have some inkling where it was. I couldn't believe they weren't searching for it.

"The benandanti has more information to help you," Ruthie said.

The thud of a basketball against pavement had me glancing at the kids. A cement court complete with two baskets had replaced the grassy knoll.

"She couldn't tell me yesterday?"

"You didn't ask " Ruthie stood and moved into the sunlight.

"Ask what?"

"How to kill the woman of smoke."

I blinked. "Seriously?" Ruthie nodded. "Why don't you tell me?"

"I don't know."

"Why didn't you tell me to ask her that when you told me to go and see her?"

'There are rules." Ruthie's lips compressed. She didn't appear too happy about those rules at the moment. "There are things you must do. A path you must take. A path others must follow. Everything happens in its time."

We'd had this discussion before. Since hundreds of people had just died by werewolf, and I hadn't been able to stop it, I wasn't too thrilled with the rules then, either.

Ruthie turned and laid a hand on each of my shoulders. Her bony fingers felt like bird talons against my skin. "You're gonna have to be brave, Lizbeth."

I lifted my eyebrows. "Have I been particularly cow-ardly so far?"

"Listen," she snapped, and her grip tightened. "You'll have to do things you don't wanna do; you'll have to hurt people you don't wanna hurt."

She turned away as quickly as she'd turned to me, dropping her hands to her sides and clenching them tightly.

The house, the kids, Ruthie began to fade. Before it disappeared completely, I could have sworn I heard her whisper, "I did."

I awoke in the hotel room. The sun spilled around the edges of the closed curtains and traced patterns across the floor. Sawyer was gone.

That got me out of bed in a hurry. I pulled back the shades.  The Impala sat exactly where I'd left it; there wasn't a sign of Sawyer anywhere.

Cursing, I hopped around trying to shove my legs into my jeans, catching one foot in the trailing material and nearly falling on my face. I'd just zipped them when the doorknob rattled. I had my gun in my hand before Sawyer came inside. His calm gray gaze lifted from the barrel, pointed at his chest, to my face.

"What did you expect?" I muttered.

He wore one of my dirty T-shirts, a pastel purple I'd never been wild about. The material strained around his pecs and biceps. I was surprised he hadn't burst through it like the Incredible Hulk.

Combined with the red shorts and my tennis shoes— which seemed too big—he looked like a street person. The bags he juggled only added to the ensemble.

"You went shopping?" I was incredulous.

"I have been known to."

I'd figured he lived on his land near the mountains and rarely, if ever, ventured into a nearby town. Though he had to sometimes if only to buy coffee and eggs.

Sure, Sawyer had been confined to the Dinetah for who knows how long, but Navajo land was the size of West Virginia, so they probably had plenty of malls— definitely a Wal-Mart or ten, which, according to the emblem on the bags, was where he'd been.

I upended several. Clothes poured out. Underwear, shoes, socks, also toiletries. His bags held food. Tiny chocolate doughnuts and bananas, granola—I don't think so—juice and a pack of cigarettes.

I picked them up. "Seriously?"

He lifted a brow. Stupid question. He was probably half mad for a cigarette after loping about without any for however long he'd been loping.

I didn't bother to preach about the dangers. I was a bartender, after all. Those who smoked, smoked. Those who quit would still be smoking if it weren't for that killer of joy everywhere: lung cancer. Since Sawyer didn't have such a worry, I tossed him the pack.

"Any sign of her?" I asked.

Sawyer shook his head.

"You were taking a chance going off on your own."

His lips curved. "You think you could protect me?"

Probably not, but—

"She could have killed you. Then she'd have come for me." I fingered the turquoise. "Will this thing work if you're dead?"

He shrugged. I had a feeling that was Sawyer code for no.

I ate a doughnut, slugged some juice, wished for coffee and started the tiny pot in the bathroom.

"Why hasn't she killed you?" I didn't think the woman of smoke would be bothered by a little kidicide or whatever the term was for murdering one's own child. In my opinion she'd done worse—the thought of which put me off my doughnuts.

Sawyer glanced up from his handful of grass and pinecones—I mean granola. "I told you, she wants my power."

And the only way for her to get it was to seduce him to her side or kill him and remove it from ours. "Still not seeing why she hasn't hit you with a lightning bolt or something."

"She's not ready to give up on bringing me to her point of view."

I went into the bathroom and poured coffee into two Styrofoam cups. His words made me uneasy. I didn't see the woman of smoke as the eternal-optimist type, which only meant there was a better than average chance that Sawyer would turn traitor.

Hell,
I
should probably kill him. But I still didn't know how.

I returned to the main room and handed Sawyer his coffee.

"I'm not going to help her," he said softly.

Sawyer insisted that he didn't read minds, he read faces, and mine was easy, but sometimes I wondered.

"You think after what she did to me that I could?" he continued.

I held his gaze, saw nothing there but honesty, which I didn't trust because I didn't think he knew what honesty was. And while I really couldn't blame him for not knowing—evil spirit bitches were notorious liars— I needed more of an answer than just another question.

"Jimmy said you aren't a member of the federation, that you only train DKs and seers for money."

"So?"

"The 'If you aren't with us you're against us' adage works for you, too."

"Where am I now if not with you?"

"Question with a question," I muttered. He ignored me.

"You say you won't join the woman of smoke, but what about other leaders who've come and gone, did you join them? Would you join a promising up-and-comer in the future?"

He took a sip of his coffee. "Hard to say."

I resisted the urge to stomp my foot and throw something. He could be so damned annoying.

The man who'd touched my face, kissed my hair, who'd held me last night was gone, and that was probably for the best.

I'd wanted to show him that sex could mean something, and maybe I had. Maybe that was why he was behaving the way he was. Neither one of us could afford to get attached. Most likely we were both going to die.

War was hell; in the case of Armageddon, the cliche was going to be literal.

"Let's get out of here before your mo—" His eyes narrowed. "Before
she
comes knocking."

I took the bag that held what I assumed were my new clothes, considering the tank top with the flowers and the white denim shorts, then went into the bathroom where I'd left my duffel. Ten minutes later I returned, dressed, brushed, and packed.

Sawyer sat on the bed, also in shorts, though his were khaki, and a white wife-beater T-shirt. On his feet he wore brown huaraches sandals that matched the white ones on my own feet. If not for the tattoos he might look like a tourist.

I snorted. Sawyer could never, under any known circumstances, resemble a tourist. Instead, he resembled a member of the New Mexico branch of the Hell's An-gels who'd lost his knapsack and been forced to shop at Wal-Mart. Which was damn close to the truth if you took
Hell's Angel
in the literal sense.

We each brought another cup of coffee along for the ride, tossed our bags in the backseat, and I slid behind the wheel. Sawyer never asked where we were going— until I turned off the freeway and then down Carla's street.