"Yuh, yeah." I try to swallow, feeling the sensation of venom sacs throbbing urgently inside my cheeks begin to fade. I shudder. There's a trailing wisp of wistfulness from Ramona, and a malicious giggle: she doesn't have fangs, she just has a really good somatic imagination. **Let me get my head together,** I tell her, and then try to do the invisible v pink elephant thing in her general direction.
"How do you feel?" asks Brains. He sounds curious.
"How the fuck do you think you'd feel?" I snarl. "Jesus fuck, give me ibuprofen or give me a straight razor. My head is killing me." Then I realize something else. "And cut me loose from here. Someone's got to go next door and release Ramona, and I don't think any of you guys want to get within spitting range of her without a chair, a whip, and a can of pepper spray."
I remember the shape of her anger at her employers and shiver again. Working with Ramona is going to be like riding sidesaddle on a black mamba. And that's before I get to tell Mo, "Honey, they partnered me with a demon."
3: TANGLED UP IN GRUE
THEY WAIT FOR THE IBUPROFEN TO START WORKING before they untie me from the chair, which is extremely prudent of them.
"Right," I say, leaning against the back of the chair and breathing deeply. "Boris, what the fuck is this about"
"It is to be stopping her from killing you." Boris glowers at me. He's annoyed about something, which makes two of us. "And to be creating an untappable communication, for mission which you have not be briefed on because — " He gestures at the laptop and I realize why he's so irritated: they weren't joking when they said the briefing would selfdestruct.
"Here are your ticket for flight, is open for next available seat. Will continue the briefing in Saint Martin."
He shoves a booklet of flight vouchers at me.
"Where?" I nearly drop them.
"They're sending us to the Caribbean!" It's Pinky. He's almost turning handstands. "Sun! Sand! And skullduggery!
And we've got great toys to play with!" Brains is methodically packing up the entanglement rig, which breaks down into a big rolling suitcase. He seems amused by something.
I try to catch Boris's eye: Boris is staring at Pinky in either deep fascination, pity, or something in between. "Where in the Caribbean?" I ask.
Boris shakes himself. "Is joint operation," he explains. "Is European territory, joint Franco-Dutch government — they ask us to operate in there. But Caribbean is American sea. So L Black Chamber send Ramona to be working with you."
I wince. "Tell me you're joking."
Another voice interrupts, inaudible to everyone else: **Hey, Bob! I'm still stuck here. A girl could get bored waiting.** I have a feeling that a bored Ramona would be a very bad girl indeed, in a your-life-insurance-policy-just-expired kind of way.
"Am not joking. This is joint operation. Lots of shit to spread all round." He carefully picks up his dead laptop and drops it into an open briefcase. "Go to committee meeting tomorrow, take memos, then go to airport and fly out. Can file liaison report later, after save the universe."
"Uh-huh. First I better go unlock Ramona from that containment you stuck her in." **I'm coming,** I send her way.
"How trustworthy is she, really"
Boris smiles thinly. "How trustworthy is rattlesnake"
I excuse myself and stagger out into the corridor, my head still throbbing and the world crinkling slightly at the edges. I guess I now know what that spike of entropy change was. I pause at the door to my room but the handle is no longer dewed with liquid nitrogen, and is merely cold to the touch.
Ramona is sitting in an armchair opposite the wall with the holes in it. She smiles at me, but the expression doesn't reach her eyes. **Bob. Get me out of this.** This is the pentacle someone has stenciled on the carpet around her chair and plugged into a compact, blue, noise generator. It's still running — Brains didn't hook it up to his remote. **Give me a moment.** I sit down on the bed opposite her, kick off my trainers, and rub my head. **If I let you go, what are you going to do?** Her smile broadens. **Well, personally — ** she glances at the door ** — nothing much.** I get a momentary flicker of unpleasantness involving extremely sharp knives and gouts of arterial blood, then she clamps down on it, with an almost regretful edge, and I realize she's just daydreaming about someone else, someone a very long way away. **Honest.**
**Second question. Who's your real target?**
**Are you going to let me go once we get through this game of twenty questions? Or do you have something else in mind?** She crosses her legs, watching me alertly. Every guy I've ever slept with died less than twenty-four hours later, I recall.
**I wasn't joking,** she adds, defensively.
**I didn't think you were. I just want to know who your real target is.** She sniffs. **Ellis Billington. What's your problem?**
**I'm not sure. Bear with me for one last test?**
**What?** She half stands as I get off the bed, but the constraining field prohibits her from reaching me: **Hey!
Ow! You bastard!** It brings tears to my eyes. I clutch my right foot and wait for the pain to subside from where I kicked the bed-base.
Ramona is bent over, hugging her foot as well. **Okay,** I mumble, then kneel down and switch off the signal generator.
I don't particularly want to switch it off — I feel a hell of a lot safer with Ramona trapped inside a pentacle; the idea of setting her free makes my skin crawl — but the flip side of the entanglement is fairly clear: not only can we talk without being overheard, there are other (and drastically less pleasant) side effects.
**You're not a masochist, are you?** she asks tightly as she hobbles towards the bathroom.
**No **
**Good.** She slams the door shut. A few seconds later I clutch at my crotch in horror as I feel the unmistakable sensation of a full bladder emptying. It takes me seconds to realize it's not mine. My fingers are dry.
**Bitch!** Two can play at that game.
**It's your fault for keeping me waiting for ages.** I breathe deeply. **Look. I didn't ask for this — **
**Me neither!**
** — so why don't we call it a truce?** Silence, punctuated by a sharp sense of impatience.
**Took you long enough, monkey-boy.**
**What's with the monkey-boy business?** I complain.
**What's with the abhuman-bloodsucking-demon-whore imagery?** she responds acidly. **Try to keep your gibbering religious bigotry out of my head and I'll leave your bladder alone. Deal?**
**Deal — hey! How the hell am I a gibbering religious bigot? I'm an atheist!**
**Yeah, and the horse you rode in on is a member of the College of Cardinals.** I hear the toilet flush through the door, a sudden reminder that we're not actually talking.
**You may not believe in God but you still believe in Hell.
And you think it's where people like me belong.**
**But isn't that where you come from ...?** The door opens. Her glamour's as strong as ever: she looks like she just stepped out of a cocktail party to powder her nose.
**We can go over it some other time, Bob. You can just call room service if you want to eat, I have to make more elaborate arrangements. See you tomorrow.** With that, she picks up her evening bag from the bedside table and departs in a snit.
"Mo"
"Hi! Where are — hold on a moment — Bob? You still there? I was about to jump in the bath. How's it going"
Gulp. "About a ton of horse manure just landed on me.
Have you seen Angleton this week"
"No, they've billeted me in the Monkfish Motel again and it's really dull — you know what the night life in Dunwich is like. So what's Angleton up to now"