Even Demons have their Demons – 2008
Washington, DC Saturday, August 23rd, 2008
“He has a foul mouth for a priest. Someone should give him some penance . . . ”
“Phaeton is not a priest.”
“Sacerdos in aeternum, Gus”
“Touché.”
“Well then, where did he learn how to swear like that?”
“I did not teach him, Naamah!” Gusoyn threw his hands up in mock protest. “I think he has spent too much time around the Senior Chief.”
“Can’t be – Sungod hasn’t said anything about the Democrats yet.”
“Even the Senior Chief considers some things beyond the pale of the Democrats.”
“Well, Phaeton is certainly being imaginative.”
“True. I do not think that particular position is anatomically possible.”
“Well, you go talk him into being a little less . . . vehement.”
A snort of disgust. “Me? Do you think I want to sleep on those?”
The apartment was furnished in very beautiful, very well cared for, and very small teak couches. Gusoyn was tall for a Demon, let alone a Babylonian. The Demons’ wealth gave them access to food far beyond mere mortals; Gusoyn had been part of the circle since he was a stripling, years before he went through the transition. The improved nutrition showed.
“Well, he’s your partner, you handle him.”
“There is no ‘handling’ him when he is in that particular mood.”
“At least he isn’t throwing things.”
“Phaeton does not throw things at televisions. Unlike a certain Demon I know . . . Naamah.”
“That was a perfectly reasonable reaction to a perfectly unreasonable interception.”
“A bottle?”
“Substandard vintage, and Mike needed a new one. Besides, he said I could yell at the television.”
“Yell, not massacre.”
“Killing one is not a massacre.”
“Well, Phaeton has a point.”
Naamah made a moue. “You’re no fun. You don’t have to agree with him all the time just because you’re sleeping with him. I don’t.”
“Well, how would Henry feel if he watched them butcher his pistol competition?”
“Please. Phaeton dives about as well as I sing. Besides, Henry’s far too busy to pay attention to what they broadcast – or what they don’t.”
“Only because he is watching live. How did he become one of the judges for the Olympic shooting events?”
“Because somebody who shall remain nameless . . . Gusoyn . . . suggested Achillea throw him a bone after she was appointed Executive Assistant to the American Olympic Committee.”
“It is not my fault Advanced Creative Poisoning is not an Olympic sport.”
“Oh please. I can shoot people too. That is an Olympic event.”
Gusoyn rolled his eyes. “The sport is archery, not ‘shooting people.’”
“Same difference.”
“You would just prefer that Lady Snowblood did not see him again.”
“And people say I have a problem with high-flown titles.” Naamah chuckled. “Don’t see me calling myself ‘Lady I-Don’t-Know-What-I-Am-Doing-And-Made-A-Mess,’ now do you?” Snowblood had always rubbed her the wrong way. “Besides, he knows better.”
“Yes, a little laxative in their coffee and they are yours for life.”
“Not life. Just a few centuries. Besides, that way I don’t have to put up with that.” She poked a finger at Phaeton again.
“I thought we had agreed that was a perfectly reasonable reaction to an unacceptable choice in editing?”
“That’s like saying Loki and the Seer have a minor disagreement.”
“Ask Lillith about dealing with Paul when he was grounded.”
“His eyes again?”
Gusoyn nodded.
“Don’t slam him into the headboard next time.”
“Very funny. Phaeton saw the ophthalmologists again last week.” Gusoyn sighed. “This time, there is scar tissue on the retina, and that distorts the center of vision. They can operate, and he should be able to fly again in a few months.” Desk duty was hell on pilots. It was harder on their spouses.
“That explains the apartment. Couldn’t he just use one of ours? Or stay with you?”
“You and Henry keep separate places.”
“We haven’t been together as long as you two.”
“The last 1700 years do not count.”
“Just the last ten?”
Gusoyn shot her a mock glare.
“That was your fault – you and Nell.”
“Hardly. My ten was on murder. Nell bet on marriage.”
“You two locked us out of Parmenio’s house in the middle of a Nor’easter!”
“Somebody had to cure both of you of your manifest stupidity.”
“Pneumonia is not my remedy of choice . . .” The door chime cut him off.
“Ah, saved by the bell. Go pry the other stupid idiot away from the television and get him to greet his guests. This is his housewarming party, after all.”
“You just happened to invite the entire circle . . . ”
“Not everyone.” Naamah ticked them off on her hands as she spoke. “The Seer was ‘unavoidably detained’ as soon as Branwen and Loki’s plane landed at Dulles; Raven said she is coming, though. Henry and Achillea are in Beijing. I invited Lillith, but she and Paul had reservations for the Bolshoi at the Patton Center.” The last was a lie. The reservations were true enough, but while Paul had been part of the circle for twenty years, he still had many Russian attitudes about life.
“Phaeton! Get the door. They’re on commercial!”
“He did not hear you, Naamah.”
“Phaeton wouldn’t hear a Valkyrie, the noise he’s making. Never mind, I’ll get it.”
“Hello, ducks.”
“Hello, Nell. Food’s on the counter and drinks on the island in the kitchen. Sodas mostly, though I’ve brought a nice Asti. Branwen dug out at least two bottles of Gewurz from that mountain of hers.” Sweet white wines were one of Nell’s guilty pleasures, and the German vintages she had been partial to were now very expensive, even for a Demon. “You’ll have to fight Inanna for the remaining glasses, though.
“We’ve not got any rotgut or mouthwash, but if you miss the old country Loki and Tommy Lynch just opened their Christmas presents from Robbie.” Only a Demon could afford to give the entire circle that particular gift every year.
“And Gus here is worried about stains on the carpet, so grab a napkin.”
“What’s with him? I could hear him in the hall.”
“They weren’t showing Phaeton enough of the right young men in speedos.”
“That is not fair, Nammah.”
“What’s not fair, Gus? That is why he’s making a racket. He wants to watch that Aussie . . . M something.”
“Mitcham.”
“Yeah, him.” Naamah winked at Gusoyn mischievously. “Want me to get Phaeton a cup of coffee?”
An exaggerated sigh. “Not particularly, no. I rather prefer him alive, breathing, and not clogging up the plumbing.”
“Oye, Sungod! Get over here and say hello to Nell!”
“Yes, mother.”
“Ungrateful brat.”
Nell giggled. “Nammie, mebbe we get Iggie to stick a knife in him when she gets here?”
Phaeton winced as he took the open spot in the loose circle. “She did, once. Left a scar, too.”
Nell chuckled; Naamah snorted. “How can you tell?”
“Maybe you should have followed Robbie’s example . . .”
“It wasn’t my wallet she was after, and she stuck something in him, too.”
“As if you’d object to that . . .”
Gusoyn’s snicker quickly disappeared into a perfect expressionless mask as Phaeton’s glare shifted targets from Naamah to him.
“Looks like you’re sleeping on the couch tonight!” The boys were ever so much fun to needle. Gusoyn’s precise, deferential courtesy and patience of the chauffer made a perfect straight man, while Phaeton retained the sad little airs that still made him seem like a lost boy who couldn’t believe his good fortune.
“Well, ducks, I’m parched and the smells from the kitchen are just too good to resist.”
“What would you like, Nell?”
“Oh, no need, Gus. Nammie and I have to catch up. Girl talk, ducks.” Nell lied with all the sincerity of a courtier. Gusoyn looked decades younger, and he now laughed and smiled, but she’d seen him in his cups – and worse - far too often to risk it.
The guests had brought all of the alcohol for a reason.