Only the Chosen could see.

When the woman slapped the man and fled up the stairs, Rodney had called out for her to wait, but his mashed-up mouth could only emit a moan. After the door slammed, giggles slithered from the corners of the basement.

After the door slammed, the man gave a slow turn at the foot of the stairs, as if only now acknowledging his surroundings. “Beetch,” he said.

Rodney called again, this time doing a better job of wiggling his tongue.

“Who’s there?” the man said, squinting beneath the stairs and backing up a couple of steps. Toward the furnace.

Rodney slid a hand in the gap between the crude steps so the man could see he was human. “SSI,” he said, in a sibilant mush.

“One of the paranormal people?” The man had a French accent.

Rodney used his grip on the step to raise himself to his knees and moved his ruined face into the light.

“Mon dieu,” the man said. “What happened?”

“Belial happened,” Rodney said, though the words were unclear and he doubted the man would know the demon’s name anyway.

The man rushed to help him, but Rodney was reluctant to leave the relative safety of his hiding place. He licked the blood from his lips and said, “She locked you in?”

The man nodded. “What were you doing down here?”

Rodney pointed to his camera and the meters on his belt.

“Ah. The ghosts in the basement, no?”

“Worse than ghosts.” His words were still a little mushy, but his tongue and lips were now on speaking terms with one another.

“You must have fallen in the dark? The manager was afraid this might happen.”

“I’ve fallen, all right.” Rodney let the man help him to his feet, and the rush of blood to his head carried an electric jolt of pain. He leaned against the steps and checked his equipment. The EMF meter, audio recorder, and thermal-imaging camera now seemed like stage props. He hadn’t needed them to detect the demons. All he’d needed was his blind faith. “Do you work here?”

“I’m a chef.”

“My cell phone and walkie talkie are dead,.”

“I’ll check the door,” the man said. He thundered up the stairs and tried the handle, though they’d both heard the lock click into place after the woman slammed it. “American women. I should have heeded everyone’s advice. Don’t play where you make your pay.”

Rodney wasn’t listening. He was studying the coal boiler at the far end of the basement, where Nancy’s body had been consumed. If Belial were upstairs, inhabiting Eloise’s body, then what entity was down there feeding?

The man banged on the door. “Maybe one of the ghost-hunting groups will come.”

“No,” Rodney said, fingering his crucifix. “The basement is off limits.”

“Then why—oh. You don’t like to follow rules, either.”

“Join the club.” Easing around the steps, holding on for balance, Rodney’s head began to clear a little. His night-vision goggles lay in the dirt 20 feet away. He retrieved them, along with his video camera and flashlight. The camera lens dangled loose and the data card was cracked, the card slot crammed full of mud. Any footage he’d taken of the encounter was likely ruined. So much for proof.

“What do we do now?” the man said, sitting on the top step. “Wait for morning?”

“There’s probably a service access that leads to the outside.” Rodney checked his flashlight to verify it was dead. “You want to wait here?”

“As if she’s going to come back? No, mon ami, I have been slapped like that before.”

“Okay, then, let’s get out of here.”

“Your face—”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” It was probably worse, but he didn’t want to risk slipping into unconsciousness again. If he kept moving, perhaps the pain would keep him awake.

“This isn’t a place for a man to be alone.” The man tried the door again and came down the stairs. “I’m Phillippe.”

“Rodney,” he replied, without shaking hands.

“So how does this ghost-hunting thing work?”

“You get all this equipment out, you raise hell, and you hope you get some evidence.”

“Have you ever found anything which convinces you?”

“Not lately.”

“You sure your head is okay?”

“It only hurts when I laugh.”

“That is funny, no?”

“Yeah.”

Rodney tried to recall his reconnaissance of the building’s foundation. Because of the Margaret Percival disappearance, SSI had made notes on the structure and its access points. Such maps helped debunk noises caused by wind, rain, or even someone’s inadvertently entering a hunt zone and later being dubbed a supernatural anomaly.

Because Rodney had suspected demonic activity in the lower levels of the building, he’d paid particular attention to the stonework. If demons had been passing through on a regular basis, there were apt to be scorch marks in the cracks.

Where there was smoke, there was fire, and where there was fire, there were demons.

Some believed that Lucifer’s greatest trick was getting people to not believe in him. But Lucifer, like all gods, angels, and demons, needed belief in order to exist. Lucifer didn’t invest a whole lot of energy in human subterfuge. He simply didn’t care.

In the same vein, demons were indifferent to the various classifications described by sages and scholars, from King Solomon to Peter Binsfield to modern role-playing-game companies. Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the titles didn’t matter. Evil always knew its name, and evil always knew which hearts had a little room to spare.

Rodney gave the furnace plenty of distance, navigating around the crumbling block wall that marked off the newer wing of the hotel. Phillippe followed close behind.

Beyond the support wall, the basement was darker, with only a couple of dangling bare bulbs for illumination. Above them came the muted thunder of footsteps and the throbbing of bass and drums.

“We’re under the bar,” Phillippe said. “They’re past closing time.”

“I don’t think it’s closing at all tonight,” Rodney said. Belial had already poisoned the conference. The disintegration would be subtle and insidious, but that was how evil performed its best work.

“The kitchen is back there,” Phillippe said, motioning to the right.

“Is there a service access? You probably have to deal with rats and grease drains and things like that.”

“No rats,” Philippe said. “We run a clean ship.”

Rodney leaned against a support post, letting his head settle a little. He considered shedding his equipment belt, but he might need the gear later. The basement was lower in the newer wing and they’d had to crouch as they looked for an access. “You think all this is a bunch of crap, don’t you?”

“Strange things happen. Like a woman gives up a chance with me. Crazy world.”

Rodney’s walkie talkie sputtered. Batteries that appeared drained sometimes contained a last reserve. Or maybe he’d moved beyond the immediate influence of Lucifer and back into the good graces of God. He spoke into it. “Roach here.”

“You’re not finished,” came the response.

“Who is that?” Phillippe said.

Rodney looked at the power level on the walkie talkie. It was flat. Whatever had brought the device to life had provided its own power source. “The boss.”

“Mr. Wilson?”

“A higher authority.”

“More,” came the crackling voice from the walkie talkie.

Rodney fingered his crucifix, sweating despite the moist air of the basement. When God spoke, he had no choice but to obey. He freed the long silver crucifix from its clasp.

“What ees thees?” Phillippe said, losing his carefully controlled English.

“Strange things happen.” Rodney brought the crucifix sweeping upward before Phillippe could detect the motion in the dark. It pierced his throat.

“Gak,” the Frenchman uttered, spouting blood from both the wound and his mouth. He wobbled around for a second, clutching at the crucifix. He slid it out with a thip and looked at it with wide eyes, not comprehending why Jesus would want to share the torments of the cross.