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10:42 p.m.
Waking up inside a body bag was nothing new.
Fontaine groaned, shifting strange limbs, squirming like a caterpillar in a black vinyl cocoon. The formaldehyde in his veins, burning sludge, rippled and pulsed. He had sawdust behind his eyes, like the hangover after an all-weekend bender, and his fingers traced the Y-shaped stitches of an autopsy incision along his chest. They'd scooped out his organs, stuffed them in a cold plastic bag, and shoved them back behind his broken ribs before sewing him up again.
Just enough wiggle room at the top of the zipper to slip a finger through. He worked the zipper all the way down, but the darkness remained. Fontaine sighed, clenched his fist, and punched the roof of the stainless-steel mortuary drawer.
"Swear to the abyss, I don't know what I pay that boy for," he muttered. "Irving!"
Casters rattled as the drawer slid open. Blinding fluorescent overheads banished the dark. Still lying on the slab, nestled in the half-open body bag, Fontaine cupped a hand over his aching eyes. Irving shifted from foot to foot anxiously, light glare bouncing off his chunky Buddy Holly glasses. His hair was mussed like a California surfer's, and a splatter of acne marred his greasy forehead.
"Sorry, boss. Wasn't sure which body you were going to wake up in."
Fontaine groaned as he swung his legs over the slab, bare feet touching down on the icy morgue floor. Red candles burned all around the room, propped up on empty gurneys and tables, and the scent of frankincense hung in the stagnant air. Irving had splashed his glyph of evocation across the grimy tile, the sigils drawn in rusty scarlet, not far from the corpse of a pale and throat-cut rabbit. Fontaine took a step forward, testing his new legs, and nearly slipped in a smear of blood.
"Did you have to use the entire bunny? Moderation is a virtue, son." His words had a smooth, fluid drawl, half from waking up, and half from accent and habit. He paused. "Still, your summoning technique is getting better."
Fontaine eyed himself in a mirror on the far side of the morgue. His new host looked about forty, reasonably fit, adequate for the job. His hairline had receded like the polar ice caps, though, for which he'd absurdly compensated by growing what was left of his stringy blond hair out past his shoulders.
"Business in the front, party in the back," Fontaine muttered. "Fuck me running. Where are we, anyway?"
Irving rummaged through a pair of bulky suitcases, looking Fontaine up and down, tugging out rumpled clothes to fit his stolen body. A twill button-down shirt, a pair of stone-washed jeans. A shoulder holster of soft calfskin and a battered old overcoat to hide it under.
"Detroit," Irving said with a wince. "Sorry. On the plus side, I got exactly what you asked for. It's a Green Letter contract, just came through. Top priority, and straight from Prince Malphas. You pull this off, it's a huge payday. And, um, your new apprentice just got here."
Fontaine slapped his forehead. "Is that today? I thought that was next week. Can you get me out of it? Make up a story, tell 'em the hunt's been canceled?"
"She's right outside . . ." Irving paused as the mortuary door swung open. The new arrival looked like someone's nightmare of a twelve-year-old girl, with a flat pale face and huge dead-fish eyes. Her long black hair draped down the back of her frilled dress, a dirty white frock with pearl buttons, straight out of a Dickens novel.
"Gotta be kidding me," Fontaine said. "You look like Wednesday Addams on the back of a milk carton. And the milk's gone sour."
"You look like you fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down," she chirped. "Nice hair, fucko."
"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"I ate my mother," the little girl said. "Probably ate yours, too. She probably liked it."
Irving coughed into his hand, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world. "Um, Mr. Fontaine, meet Rache. Rache, Mr. Fontaine will be conducting your evaluation of fitness for formal investment in the Revered Order of Chainmen, hallowed be their--"
"Get to the good part." Rache propped a hand on her hip and stared him down.
"Right. The briefing. Okay, it's a Green Letter bounty. High risk, high reward. The Redemption Choir is operating in Detroit, and Prince Malphas wants an example made."
Fontaine's brow furrowed. "I thought that outfit got busted up out in Nevada." He glanced to Rache. "Self-styled 'freedom fighters,' looking to overthrow the courts of hell and earn a little of that old-time salvation."
Irving shook his head. "Intel says their old leader died and most of the membership walked out, but a few hard-core followers are still in play, and they're getting ready for something big. Their new head honcho calls himself the Madrigal. Word is, his top agents are all in town tonight. Malphas wants the whole set, and he wants them collected by sunrise."
"How many targets are we talkin', here?" Fontaine asked.
Irving produced a slim sandalwood box. He turned it in his palm, flicking brass clasps to open it wide. Inside, on a bed of crushed maroon velvet, nestled four vials of forged black iron. Spidery glyphs covered their curving faces, words in a forgotten and dead language, glittering like silver.
"Four targets. Sunrise is at 7:02 a.m., which gives you just a little over eight hours to get the job done. All four souls, delivered by the deadline, or the contract is canceled and we don't get a dime. This is an all-or-nothing deal."
Rache cocked her head to one side. "So even if we catch three of them, we don't get paid? At all? That's bullshit."
"Malphas is a prince of hell," Irving said. "His bounty, his rules. Oh, and I figure this Madrigal guy probably skipped town already, but there's a bonus if you can snatch him, too. Like, a huge bonus. A 'down payment on my new house' bonus. He's worth more than the other four put together. Considering taking him out would pretty
much destroy what's left of the Redemption Choir, it'd be a huge boost to your professional reputation. So maybe keep your ears open?"
