ta risk our necks for others, but we'll decide when and where, and this isn't it; not under these circumstances."
"El Dorado, Paramount Pictures, 1966, directed by Howard Hawks; starring John Wayne and Robert Mitchum."
M'Esad did a double-take, then frowned in a derisive manner at Sunny and focused her attention on Eile. "What makes you think there's any risk involved?"
She and Sunny barked laughs. "Yer kiddin', right? If there was no risk you wouldn't be tryin' ta hire us. Plus, yer tryin' ta keep yer purpose a secret. That registers an eight-point-oh on the suspicion scale all by itself. That most likely means that whatever yer up to, we doubt it's anything legitimate, and it probably ain't legal, either. That makes some element of risk virtually certain."
"I assure you --"
"Don't bother; it doesn't matter. Look, Sunny and I aren't squeamish. We don't care if it's illegal, though we draw the line at pillage, rape, and murder. But you gotta spill it all, otherwise no deal. You willin' ta do that?"
M'Esad displayed a frustrated sneer that indicated she didn't know how to respond, but didn't want to appear weak.
"Fine. Whatever."
"It's probably just as well," Sunny said, "because we'll be leaving in the morning, after we finish some quick business."
They turned to leave, but Ravaroc blocked their way.
"I strongly suggest you change your attitudes, and your minds," m'Esad said.
She and Sunny looked back over their shoulders. "You don't wanna threaten us, lady." Sunny's voice sounded quiet, calm, but quite firm. Eile knew that when she used that tone she had shifted from scatterbrained airhead to her alias namesake.
They turned their attention back front. "Get out of our way," Sunny told Ravaroc.
From "A Deliberation of Morality"
A pop startled her, and when she opened her eyes and slipped her glasses back on she saw a small column of fire and smoke standing in the middle of the report she had been writing, accompanied by a deep, resonant bass organ chord. Alarmed, she half rose out of her chair when it disappeared. In its place stood a feminine anthropomorphic figure inside a ring of char. It was no more than six inches high, dressed in an erotic bodice with a cross in the cleavage lacings, a pair of belted panties, fishnet stockings, and stiletto-heeled shoes, with a garter on her left thigh, two more on her upper arms, and a spiked collar around her neck. The clothes were fiery red while the collar, belt, garters, and shoes were night-black, and the spikes, buckles, and cross coin-silver. It took her a moment to realize the tiny woman looked exactly like her, even down to the glasses, except for the two red horns sprouting from either side of her head, and the long, sinuous barbed tail that emerged from her backside.
She looked up at Differel with a sly, devilish expression as the aristocrat stood up, but as soon as she saw who it was, she jumped, a shocked look on her face.
"Good God!" Despite her size, her voice sounded normal, and identical to her own. "Whatever I did, it couldn't have been bad enough to deserve this!"
"Who, or what, the bloody hell are you!?" Differel leaned over the desk, her hands braced against the top.
Recovering quickly, the diminutive Differel gave her a look admonishing her not to be daft. "That should be obvious. I'm your shoulder devil."
"My...what?!"
The devil-doll sighed in frustration and shook her head. "Do you have a hearing problem? Shoul--der--de--vil!"
"And just what is that supposed to be, exactly?"
She threw up her hands and looked towards the ceiling. "Oh for the love of Evil! How dense can you possibly be? I'm one of the two personifications that sit on your shoulders and offer advice on moral dilemmas. In my case, I personify temptation, and appeal to your selfish motivations."
Differel felt faint for a moment and resumed sitting. "I must be dreaming," she half-whispered, leaning forward. She held her head in her hands with her elbows resting on the desktop. "Yes, of course, I've fallen asleep over my work and I'm having a guilt-ridden nightmare."
"I wish!" The devilish-Differel sounded peeved as she placed her hands on her hips and turned away. "Being assigned to you is hardly what you would call a plum assignment. In fact, it's usually reserved either as a way to haze rookie tempters, or as a form of punishment."
Differel looked up and crossed her arms over the desk. "I beg your pardon?"
She spared her an exasperated glance over her shoulder. "Being a shoulder devil is an occupation, not a vocation. It's usually a devil's first job after graduating from the tempters training academy. However, it can be assigned to retirees who wish to keep their hands in the business, or to incompetents or malcontents as a way to teach them humility and the error of their ways. Haven't you ever read C. S. Lewis? The Screwtape Letters?"
That did seem rather familiar. "Alright, I see what you're getting at."
The devil-doll nodded her head and turned to face her again. "Finally! Now we can get down to business. Oh, by the way, the name's Differel Diabolique, but you can call me DeeDee. I prefer informality among friends."
Differel frowned. Her attitude was getting on her nerves. "Just a moment. If what you say is true, then there should be a 'shoulder angel', correct?"
"Exactly. She personifies your conscience and appeals to your altruistic motivations."
"Shouldn't she be here as well?"
Her face split into silly grin. "Are you kidding? You don't need her, you're a bigger stiff than she is."
Differel felt her anger flare as she sat upright. "Now just a bloody minute--!"
DeeDee's own face turned fiery red as she became upset. "I meant it as a compliment! Jesus, but you have a temper. I told you, being assigned to you is considered onerous duty. Why do you suppose that is, huh? It's because you're such a straight-arrow no tempter has a chance of getting you to commit any kind of sin, no matter how insignificant. So why would you need a shoulder angel? You do her job better than she would. In fact, I hear being assigned to you is considered a rather cushy posting Upstairs. She's probably off somewhere working on her tan, the stuck-up little bitch! Me, I'll probably spend my time doing my nails. Big whoop."
Differel forced herself to relax. If she was having a dream, she should be able to control it, but she would have to be calm, and if she wasn't, getting mad still wouldn't help her situation.
"Hey." DeeDee broke into her thoughts. "Do you mind if I change into something more comfortable?"
Before Differel had a chance to respond, the devil-doll disappeared in a flash of fire and a puff a smoke. A larger column of smoke and flame sprang up in front of the desk, startling her, accompanied again by the organ note, now loud enough to shake the desk. DeeDee reappeared, full-sized, but otherwise no different. She stretched in a languid, almost provocative, manner, as if working the kinks out of the compacted muscles.
"Man, does that feel good! Being shoulder-size gets to be pretty confining after awhile."
Somehow, Differel found her larger size more disturbing, in more ways than one. "Are you sure this isn't a dream?"
DeeDee walked around the desk to her side. Differel reached under the top to grip her pistol, but didn't pull it when she leaned backwards against the edge. "If you don't believe me, call someone. If this is a dream, they'll see me, otherwise they won't."
She raised an eyebrow as she removed her hand. "I can call anyone?"
"Anybody you like."
She smirked. "Hmph. As you wish." And she sent out a familiar mental summons.
Vlad Drakulya emerged from the corner closest to the door. "You rang, My Master?" he said in his deep bass voice.
From "Pyrrhic Victory"
Lt. Richard West scanned the barricade as he stood behind the forward squad. The dead swarmed over in ever greater numbers; in a little under an hour they had gone from a mere handful to a mob, and more arrived every minute. Not for the first time, he wondered how and where they knew to come.
A tracer round flashed above him and slammed into the skull of a corpse standing o
n the roof of a car, the explosive bullet disintegrating the head. It came from the top of a fifteen-foot platform behind him where lay a half-dozen sharpshooters. But even as the decapitated cadaver fell back off the barricade, its seven companions leapt off the crest and charged the line of jarheads at the base. Until a short while ago, the riflemen had been enough to stop the revenants from coming over the top, but at the moment too many came too quickly; another handful followed the first lot, and the snipers had to concentrate on them. Meanwhile, he could see the heads of more appearing over the crest of the ridge of rubble and debris that closed off the cul-de-sac.
The men and women in front of him did not hesitate. They fired at will with their forty-five automatics, modified to accept special clips that held 120 rounds each, and if the cadavers came within hand-to-hand range, they used machetes. The revenants could only be stopped by severe head trauma. That made automatic rifles and submachine guns useless, especially at close range. Though any form of head trauma would do the trick, a .45 caliber slug or sharp, heavy blade had proven themselves to be the most effective and efficient means.
Even as the squad cut down the last corpse, Sgt. Kaylee Summers jogged up beside him. Though she had cut her luscious honey-blonde hair down to a severe crew-cut, her close-fitting fatigues accentuated