Fergus Unfettered

Cht 4

"And you are…?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"Elizabeth Pendleton," she said archly, eyebrow raised. The name clicked. Crowley stuck his tongue between his teeth, raised his glass as if in a toast and made a mocking bow.

"To your father," he smiled, "the very successful piggy banker."

It was Lizbeth's turn to narrow her eyes. "My father's dead," she replied baldly. "Your demons killed him." Her voice wobbled a bit on the last word, but her pronouncement lost none of its punch.

For a moment, only a moment, Crowley himself actually had no idea what to say. "That's preposterous, darling," he answered. "I honor all my contracts; your dear old dad should have another four years til I send my dogs."

Even at this, Crowley had a sinking suspicion as to what had happened to Pendleton. He was still streaming through thousands of voided contracts that Abaddon had collected on far too soon. In this predicament, however, Crowley was not about to admit that this harried, albeit very attractive looking woman's father was merely collateral damage in a demon war.

"There were no dogs!" she snapped, the angel blade gripped tightly in her hand, all but forgotten. "There were two of them! Two demons." Her voice shook plainly now, as she fought to choke back the lump that had lodged in her throat. "I was there. I heard everything while they tortured and killed my father, I could smell the stench of sulfur on them. No dogs, just demons in meat suits. That's what you and your kind call it, right? A meat suit. That's what we are to you."

"Truly not," Crowley said, raising a placating hand. "We were human once ourselves. All of us, merely humans who gave into vice and temptation, and who let it eat them up after we died. The more enlightened of us," at this he gave a bow of his head, as if in deference, "do realize that we simply deal with people of our own ilk."

"My father—"she began, shaking her head.

"Your father," Crowley cut in sharply, his thin patience waning fast, "was no damned saint woman! He was committing fraud in his corporation, embezzling to the point that the business was about to go under, and was about to be found out."

Lizbeth continued to shake her head, her eyes filled with tears, but other memories of her father surfaced as well while Crowley spoke—memories of late night phone calls her father refused to discuss, of his beleaguered and anxious demeanor, the sheer amounts of alcohol she saw him drink when she was home from college, problems with ulcers. At the time she had attributed it to the high stress position of responsibility in the firm. He was vice president of finance, after all. But now, she wondered as Crowley continued.

"He came to me wanting a bailout, because even the government wouldn't touch him. He would have been put in federal prison for what he had done. He had a whistleblower who was ready to expose him, someone he could not just pay hush money or make disappear. He was a desperate man, love. That's who makes deals: desperate, ruthless people. Yes, he made a ten-year contract, yes, there was unrest and for a time I was deposed," he continued grudgingly. "During that time, many things happened that were beyond my control. I am now back in control, still cleaning up the abhorrent mess that my usurper made—and she did make a royal mess of things—"

"They did make reference to a queen," Lizbeth supplied.

"They did, eh? And what else did they say," Crowley queried cagily. Once he got out of here, and he would get out of here, he told himself, they were dead meat when he found whomever it was. He would carve them up and revive them just to do it again, until the end of time.

"What difference does it make to you?" she gestured with the blade, the entire point of using the thing temporarily forgotten as he kept her talking.

"Darling, do think," Crowley coaxed. "You grew up with the business world at least in your periphery. You know that my contracts are worth naught if I cannot have a brand people can trust. On top of which, these were supporters of my competition. I want to see that any loose ends left hanging are tied up." Trussed up, he mentally corrected, over a spit. "You want your father avenged? Fine. I get it. But having me on your side as well, will expedite that. Tell me what you know, and I can find them."

Lizbeth shifted her stance, the angel blade lowering somewhat, as she regarded him. He was lying; he had to be. That's what demons did. Except every word he said rang with a certain feeling of truth. It made sense what he said, and Lizbeth found her rage dissipating at the demon's calm gaze. He had the eyes of a lazy, muddied river, a murky green with swirls of brown. He tilted his head slightly, smiling a bit. It was disarming, his smile, as though he knew secrets. He probably did.

"If you're the king," she plied him, one last ditch effort to hold on to her anger at him, "wouldn't the queen be your partner?" She hesitated to say wife, because she simply could not imagine demons marrying. Crowley smiled as if reading her thoughts.

"Hardly," he replied. "I have no wife, no consort, no equal in any way. Nor will I. Abbadon was a Knightof hell with delusions of grandeur, and she got exactly what was coming to her. The few rogue demons, such as the ones who murdered your father before his time, those are what I am tracking down now. And I need to find them," he said, his eyes gone sharp. "To do that, I need to know everything that happened, where it happened, what was said, what they looked like, everything, if I'm to help you avenge your father."

So she told him. For the first time since Garth, she had someone willing to listen to the tale who did not stop her, did not interrupt disbelievingly. Crowley listened to the entire tale, his face grim. He paced inside the trap and listened. Lizbeth, the angel blade still clutched in her hand, braced her other arm across her body. It was draining to tell the story, like purging everything from her own soul, so that when she finished, she felt drowsy and hollowed out.

Crowley said nothing for a moment, but continued to pace. He nodded his head slightly, as if muddling through what she had said. "Very well," he said finally. "I need to talk to a few other demons, see what they know. I have a suspicion of who this may have been, but I need to be sure. No point killing the wrong ones." He said this softly, as though still reasoning through it, then stopped and faced Lizbeth. "Alright darling," he smiled grimly, "let's get this done. Give me two days, three tops, and I'll have the matter sorted."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"N-no," Lizbeth shook her head, "I can't let you out. I have no assurance that you would even come back, or that you even did anything! How would I know that you took care of them, or that you got the right ones? What proof would you give me? What, I should take the word of a demon? Or just trust that you got them? I need to know! I need to know that they paid for what they have done, and I want them to see my face when they breathe their last breaths—if they even do…breathe."

She finished the last lamely, but Crowley could see her determination. She would not just let this go. It was vengeance she still wanted and vengeance she would still get. She'd make a fine demon one day, he would wager.

"Fine." Crowley ground out. With that, he upended his glass, grimacing at the idea of the fine aged Scotch being wasted. He swiped his foot across the spilt alcohol and the painted design smeared, ruining the trap and rendering it useless. Lizbeth looked perplexed only momentarily, then took a wary step back as Crowley crossed the circular boundary. "We're done doing it your way, love. We're doing it my way from now."