Читать книгу The Sandman Slim Series Books 1-4 - Richard Kadrey - Страница 13

THE KISSI ARE still nowhere to be seen. Something is definitely up. I look out the Jag’s window at a couple waiting at a red light, not talking to each other, glaring off in different directions about a stupid fight they just had. A couple of kids in front of a newsstand are picking on another kid. Teen gangsters in training hang on a corner by a liquor store passing a joint around. I want to lean out the window and tell them that world is about to end and they should get their shit together, but why bother?

Does anyone really know what goes on in the world? I used to think these people were a joke because they only believed in their concrete reality and never dreamed of looking below the surface of the world. Most of them, even if they ran face-first into a bunch of Sub Rosa necromancing John the Baptist, Billie Holiday, and Wild Bill back from the dead, they’d never believe or understand it.

I don’t understand anything, either. My brain is bouncing back and forth between asking why Mason wants to open up Hell and wondering if that’s what’s really going on at all. It seems like opening Hell, or pretending to open it, might be a nice distraction. While everyone’s looking one way, he does a slip and slide around back and pulls something else. But what?

Mostly, I’m trying not to think at all. I’m never going to get inside Mason’s head. I might have been born a better magician, but he’s always been smarter. That’s why he’s going to end up running the carnival and I’m going to end up biting the heads off chickens. But that’s thinking, too. I want silence. Big, blank, Zen silence. I need to get back to that calm quiet moment I’d have before I went into the arena. No thought. No action. Thought and action as one. I control my breathing and focus on the road ahead. I can feel the calm coming on.

That’s when the siren starts and the light bar pops behind me. Colored lights reflect off the rearview mirror and right into my eyes. A cop’s garbled, amplified voice echoes off the glass buildings. I can’t understand a word, but I know how to translate this cop haiku: You’re driving around in the same stolen Jag you should have ditched an hour ago. It’s not like there aren’t other cars in L.A. to steal. But you started thinking and you got distracted and now look what’s happened.

This is really the last thing I need right now. I wonder if they’ll let me off with a warning if I tell them I’m going to be trying to save the world later tonight?

The cop voice booms again. They hit me from behind with their searchlight. About a billion candlepower. I stop the car and put it in park.

Thanks for the shadow, Dick Tracy. It’s a tight fit, but I can just slip through. I drag the body armor in behind me. I hope that one of the cops sneaks up on the driver’s side window in time to see my feet disappear into the dashboard.

I step out into the lobby of the Bradbury Building. The place is dark. Shut down tight. I get into the elevator hoping they haven’t cut the power over the holiday. I hit the button. The car shivers and rises, and I can breathe again.

It goes up a floor and stops. I press the one and three buttons at the same time and the car starts moving. I get out when it stops, not sure I did it right. Then the Fury in Muninn’s window lunges at me from inside its glass cage. I blow her a kiss, go inside, bump my way through the clutter, and head straight down the stairs in back.

Muninn is waiting for me at the bottom.

“My boy! I heard the bell and wondered who’d be coming here tonight. This is usually a quiet evening for me.”

“Sorry if I’m keeping you from a party or something.”

Muninn laughs.

“My boy, when you’ve seen as many new years as I have, the last thing you want to do is throw a party for the damned thing.”

He takes me by the arm and leads me to a table covered with neatly laid out groups of bones. Fingers. Toes. A whole hand or foot.

“Relics,” he says. “Each bone and appendage belonged to one saint or another. I have a client who wants to build a summer home in the form of a sort of ossuary. But only with the bones of saints. No commoners allowed. As you might imagine, that takes quite a lot of bones. I’m just cataloging this batch tonight.”

He goes to a shelf and takes down the same dusty bottle we drank from after Vidocq and I got back from Avila. He gets two small glasses and pours us each a drink.

“Thanks,” I say, and shotgun it. “I’m in kind of a rush tonight.”

“Of course. Sorry,” he says. “Just because I ignore the new year doesn’t mean you do. My apologies.”

“No problem.” I clear my throat. “Mr. Muninn. I want to make a deal with you. A big one.”

“I’m always open to a good trade. What would you like?”

“It’s not what I want. It’s what you want. You’re going to want this.” I reach under my shirt and take off the coin. I set it on the table and push it toward him. Muninn looks at it without touching it.

“Is that a Veritas?”

“Straight from a Hellion general’s pocket.”

“You’ve had it all this time?”

“I brought it back with me.”

“My boy, I could have made you a very rich man by now, if I’d known that. Does it work?”

“Like a charm. Take it for a test drive.”

“You’re the experienced one. What’s the proper way?”

“There’s no trick to it. Just hold it and ask your question. Say it in your head, not out loud. Saying it out loud won’t ruin the magic. Just makes you sound like a mental patient.”

Muninn picks up the Veritas slowly, like it might shock him. He makes a fist and closes his eyes. A moment later, he opens his hand and laughs at what he sees.

“Well?”

“I asked if buying it would be a good deal. It presented me with a lovely view of Abaddon’s bottomless pit, lit in such way as to look like a large, not terribly clean sphincter. Along with that is a message on one side of the coin telling me that I’m an impotent, flatulent, fat, old fuck, and on the other side, telling me that it’s a good investment only if I like having hot coals shoved down my throat by Hellion cocks.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s brilliant. I must have it. What do you want for it? Money? I know you like money. I’ll give you a lot for this. Enough for this lifetime and for your children’s children.”

“No. This is too big for money. I want something special for the Veritas. Something cool. Something apocalyptic.”

Mr. Muninn smiles at me like he might end up celebrating New Year’s after all.

HAVING LEARNED MY lesson with the Jag, I go through the room to Max Overdrive. Upstairs, I toss the bedroom like a nervous B&E guy, shoving broken furniture and video players against the walls. It’s nice to be strong at moments like this. I shove the bed frame and all the furniture into one corner of the room without breaking a sweat. Eventually, when I’ve tossed enough junk into enough piles, I’ve found all my guns. Then the bullets and shells. Then the bottle of Spiritus Dei. I guess the stuff really is as magical as Vidocq said. The bottle is sitting upright and is perfectly clean. Everything else in the room is covered in plaster dust and lying on its side.

The pistols are already loaded with bullets dipped in Spiritus. I go downstairs and find a paint-caked hacksaw in the little storage room behind the porn section. I take it upstairs and start sawing down the Benelli shotgun. Sawing down a simple double-barrel model is easy. You can cut the barrel down all the way to the front of the shell. Turn your long-range shotgun into a short-range blunderbuss. I don’t want to go that far with the Benelli. I just saw off most of the stock, down to the curved part of the grip, so that it fits into my hand like an oversize pistol. I find a ball of heavy twine from under the bootleg table and tie a tight knot around the grip, then tie off a loop so that the gun can hang off my shoulder under my coat. Simple, crude, and deadly. What Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker called a Whip-It gun because you could whip it out from under your coat before anyone knew what was going on.

I’m moving, staying in motion, doing things that feel like they make sense, but how do you accessorize for the end of the world? When you’re not sure what to bring, I figure you should bring everything. Four handguns, a shotgun, a Hellion knife, and the na’at feel like a good look for me.

I dip each shotgun shell into a little Spiritus and chamber it. Eight rounds in all. Then I sprinkle Spiritus on the shotgun itself. Why be stingy? I sprinkle Spiritus on all the guns, keeping my thumb over the top of the bottle to control the flow. I’m Martha Stewart spritzing my orchids. While I’m on a roll, I toss Spiritus onto the body armor and my coat, and wipe the rest on my hands.

Wild Bill might have been the greatest shootist of his time, but he had a habit that’s come back to bite me in the ass. Wild Bill didn’t believe in holsters. He carried his Navy Colts tucked in a red sash he wore around his waist, a fashion back then. I didn’t grow up using holsters, either. It’s easy to tuck one big gun down the back of your jeans, but it’s not so good for four.

Time for a sacrifice. I slit both side pockets on my coat a few inches, long enough so that the Colt .45 and the LeMat can rest inside, but far enough out that I can quick draw them. When I get the cuts the right length, I reinforce the interior and sides of the pockets with duct tape.

This is one of the reasons I’ll never own a car. I’m hard on things. Everything ends up broken, ripped apart, modified, stuck together, or shot to shit. I’d be naked as Adam and cold as a polar bear if it weren’t for duct tape.

If anyone ever asks you what a desperate man looks like, you can tell them that he looks like this: He’s down on his hands and knees, digging through the ruins of his exploded bedroom, looking for a cigarette. If he looks hard enough, he might find a real treasure, like a bent, but only half-smoked butt. I hold it up like the Holy Grail, blow off as much of the dust as I can, and fire it up with Mason’s lighter. Like my grandmother used to say, “I am blessed and highly favored.”

I get out my cell and dial Kinski’s number. Candy answers.

“Are you always the designated phone answerer over there?”

“Stark? Doc doesn’t like phones. He thinks they’re too disembodied.”

“I’d love to be disembodied. All my problems solved at once.”

“Ghosts don’t smoke or get to drink Jack Daniel’s.”

“Forget it, then. I’ll live forever.”

“That’s a better plan than what you had the last time we talked.”

“That’s why I called. I wanted to ask about some of that. I know you’re taking the cure and trying to stay clean and all, but we’re still a lot the same, too. Still monsters under the skin.”

“Why do you want to talk about that?”

“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to go do something with me tonight. Some friends and me, we’re going to crash a New Year’s Eve party and kill a whole bunch of people.”

“Why, Stark. Are you flirting with me? You bad boy.”

“We’re going to stop a mass sacrifice, so there’s going to be a lot of bad guys. I figure that having as many experienced killers as possible will help even out the odds. But it sounded like Doc Kinski’s clipped your wings. You haven’t tasted a human in a long time, have you?”

“Doc makes me this amazing cocktail. My iced frappuccino people substitute, I call it. I haven’t fed on anyone in two years, three months, and eight days.”

“If you’ve ever had the itch, here’s your chance. And this time when you’re killing, you’ll be on the side of the angels. Literally.”

“You sure know how to turn a girl’s head.” She doesn’t say anything for a minute.

“Candy?”

“I’ll have to talk to Doc first. I can’t lie to him.”

“I understand. It’s up to you. My friends and me, we’re going to be at Club Avila a little after ten. You know where that is?”

“Everyone knows where Avila is.”

“This party is going to be special. Assuming the world doesn’t end, no one is ever going to forget it.”

“I’ll try to be there.”

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for treating me like, you know, a person through all this shit. I know that isn’t always easy.”

“You do have a habit of pissing on other people’s welcome mats. But, when a gentleman gives you a booty call to a massacre, it’s easy to forgive him. Ciao.”

I finish my cigarette and start getting ready. I strap on the body armor, which feels tough enough, but closes with Velcro strips. I know this is state-of-the-art gear, but I’d feel more confident if it wasn’t held together with the same stuff they use to fasten kids’ sneakers.

I’m going to feel really bad if this all falls apart tonight. I don’t want the last thing I say to Vidocq and Allegra to be “Get out.”

I tuck the Navy Colt and the Browning into the back of my jeans.

Two more dead like Alice. Two more who don’t deserve it.

The looped cord on the Benelli Whip-It gun goes over my shoulder and the coat goes on over that.

Will Avila be full of Kissi? If that’s who’s waiting for us, this is going to be a very bad, very short night for anything with a pulse.

The Colt .45 and the LeMat pistols go in the coat pockets, butt ends out.

They must be partying hard Downtown tonight, waiting for the velvet rope to come down and the doors to the VIP section of Creation to be blown off their hinges.

What’s going on in Heaven? Are all the ranks of the angelic throng on their knees, praying for humanity’s faith in the Word to pull them through? Me, I bet it’s more like a sports bar the night before the Super Bowl. Crowds of drunken, winged frat boys with team hats and big foam fingers. Maybe that’s why Heaven is silent and God doesn’t speak to Man anymore. Heavenly intervention would blow the point spread.

THERE’S TOO MUCH weird, magic-cloaking static and protection hoodoo around the Vigil’s warehouse. I don’t have time to find a straight path inside through the room, so I have to use a shadow a few blocks south and run the rest of the way.

A line of low-profile, matte-black transports warm up their engines in the parking lot. They’re nearly silent, and where their bodies touch the dark, they disappear. Stealth party vans. If I’d known about these, I wouldn’t have bothered stealing all those cars.

The rear hatch of the lead van is open. Wells motions me over, squinting at me like a constipated Clint Eastwood.

“Why’d I know you were going to cut it short? Two more minutes and we’d have been gone.”

“Your damned Flatulence Accelerator has the whole area fuzzed out. I had to walk halfway here.”

Wells holds up a hand. “Wait. You couldn’t even get here with the pixie hocus pocus you’re going to use to get us into Avila? I am not filled with confidence.”

“Relax. I’ve already broken into Avila. They don’t have anything like your setup.”

“And what if they have? What if they’ve brought in a load of technology and dark magicians?”

“Then we do it your way. Blow the place open. Take heavy losses. Get inside. We’re walking into the O.K. Corral. You want a guarantee that your hair won’t get mussed, Marshal Wells?”

“You get any of my people killed unnecessarily, I’m coming after you.”

“Take a number.”

Wells steps up into the transport. I take a quick look around the lot. No sign of Candy. Guess she really has taken the cure.

I get in the transport and squeeze into a seat next to Wells.

THE TRANSPORT MIGHT have been quiet outside, but inside it’s like sitting in a washing machine. None of the Vigil crew is talking. A few are praying, but most probably don’t want to have to shout over the noise.

Wells’s G-men are wrapped up in weird electronics and nylon webbing, and holding strange guns. Some are in aluminum-coated full-body suits like foundry workers. The rest are in black pants and skintight tops that stretch over their heads like balaclavas. The ones not carrying guns are wrapped up in metal exoskeletons like they’re being raped by robots.

I lean over and shout into Wells’s ear.

“Seriously, you people should try to learn just a little magic. I saw celestial types working at your warehouse. They could teach you something. I know you civilians can’t handle any really heavy magic, but maybe you could pick up something useful so you wouldn’t have to dress up like the Terminator’s retarded cousin.”

Wells shouts back, “Learn your kind of magic so I can spend eternity in Hell with people like you? No thanks. I’ll stick to the weapons Heaven’s given us.”

“You’d think if Heaven was that completely on your side, it’d be a little more helpful.”

“Aelita, God’s hand on Earth, is on our side. You’d be able to understand that if you didn’t have a soul dirtier than a hobo’s boxer shorts.”

“All I’m saying is that I don’t trust either side. Heaven just might be hedging its bets.”

“I’m sure that’s what you think, but our weapons have never failed us yet.”

“Suit yourself. But with magic, I don’t ever run out of ammo.”

“No, just brains.”

WE STICK TO backstreets until we get north of the city, then cut overland through the hills and canyons until we cut south near the Stone Canyon reservoir. Come down through Bel Air, paralleling North Beverly Glen Boulevard. The drivers up front wear helmets like fighter pilots, with night vision and heads-up displays. Monitors over our heads show us what they’re seeing. It’s nothing special. Trees as we mow our way through the hills. Flares and pinpoints of light when we come close to a housing development. This is either the worst amusement park ride in history or I’m back in Hell.

Soon we’re at the bottom of one especially tall hill with lights like a piece of the sun is sitting on top. That’s how Club Avila looks through night vision. To anyone driving by, it would be just another gated mansion.

There are six transports in our convoy. Four of us stay put while two drive onto Beverly Glen so they can roll up to Avila’s front door.

Wells say, “We’re flanking them. A-team will initiate the attack at the front, drawing the club’s security that way. You’re going to get us inside so we can attack from the rear.”

I nod.

“Listen to me,” says Wells. “I don’t want this to be the last night of the world, so I’m going to ask you one more time, are you sure you can get us all inside? There’s still time to catch up with the other team if you can’t.”

I say, “I was in a rush earlier. I didn’t take the time to find a good way in. But I can walk into Heaven or Hell or anywhere in between. I can damn sure walk us into this place.”

“You know I’m going to shoot you if you say you can and you can’t.”

“That won’t kill me, but I tell you what. If I can’t get us inside, I’ll show you what will.”

Wells looks back, nods at his G-men, and then turns back to me.

“Let’s get going.”

I swing up the Whip-It gun and pump a shell into the chamber.

“What was all that BS in the transport about you only using magic?”

“This is magic. Wild Bill magic.”

“Just get us inside, Sandman Slick.”

“Hold on to my shoulder and keep your eyes shut. Tell the guy behind you to do the same thing and all the way down the line. Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes or let go of me until you’re completely inside Avila. You don’t want to be stuck with half your ass sticking out of a hill.”

Wells passes the instructions down the line. I should have bought blindfolds. I hope I scared Wells and his crew enough to really keep their eyes closed. The Vigil just wants to get inside the club. I don’t need everyone who works for them knowing about the Room of Thirteen Doors.

Wells comes back a minute later and thumps his hand on my shoulder.

“Time for you to redeem your sorry ass.”

“Okay, Dorothy, click your heels together three times and say, ‘There’s no place like home.’”

I step into the dark at the bottom of the hill. I’ve never tried to walk this many people in and out of a shadow before. I hope I don’t kill everyone.

A second later, we’re inside Jayne’s office in the club. It looks pretty much the same as when Vidocq and I were here a day or two ago. I doubt anyone has been inside since Jayne turned up dead.

“You can open your eyes,” I say.

“Gabriel’s swinging blue balls, boy. You did it. You actually did something.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

The room fills up fast. Vigil members gasp and cross themselves when they open their eyes and see that they’re still alive. I pull Wells over by the office door so that we’ll be the first ones out. If there’s an ambush outside, I don’t want him to miss a second of it.

“What do we do now?” I ask.

“Wait. I’ll tell you when to go.”

It gets hard to move as the last of the Vigil crew comes through the room.

“This isn’t a raid. It’s a Marx Brothers movie.”

“Shut up.”

A blast rocks the whole building. Another blast hits a second later. Avila shudders, like the building is floating on water. I reach for the door, but Wells grabs my arm.

“Wait,” he says.

Thunder in the hall as people stampede past the office. Harsh voices yelling over the noise.

“Move! Security! Out of the way!”

There’s a sizzle and a wave of static electricity pulses through the wall, making the hairs on my arms stand up. That was a magician, clearing the hall the quick way. The smell of the burned bodies makes some of the Vigil crew gag. I smelled enough of it Downtown that it’s familiar and even sort of comforting. I really hope there aren’t any mind readers with us.

“Okay,” Wells says.

I step into the hall, shotgun first. Wells is behind me, ordering his troops to split up and head out in different directions.

I wait until he’s done and say, “I got you in. That was our deal. Now I have my own to do.”

“This is the world we’re fighting for.”

“You’re fighting for. I’m here for my friends.”

He shakes his head and moves off with some of his people to the back of the club.

I keep my head down and move in a slow lope to the front, where the fighting is the loudest. I have no idea where to start looking for Vidocq or Allegra, but if I can get hold of one of the human security guards, I bet I can make him sing me a song.

It’s all Scarface gunfire and flashes of murder magic up front. A young magician in a bloody tuxedo shirt sprints around the corner, sees me, and shrieks a death hex. A swirling vortex like black smoke shoots from this chest. I fire the Benelli twice. The Spiritus-dipped shot rips through the smoke, tearing it to pieces, before slamming into the magician’s chest. He goes down and doesn’t move.

I run straight into the chaos. I don’t even bother shooting the human security. Why waste supercharged ordnance on civilians? Their gunfire can’t get through the Vigil’s body armor, which gives me plenty of time to work. I elbow one security guard in the throat, crushing his windpipe. Get my arm around another’s head and plant my knee in his back. Pull and push, and his spine snaps.

There are still plenty of magicians firing wildly, hitting as many of Avila’s men as the Vigil’s. Three or four of them spot me in the middle of the firefight. They fire their deadliest spells all at once.

A crawling wave of red lightning rimmed with bright blue sizzles across the floor and ceiling. A smoking death-spell vortex spins through the center.

In the Old West, they called shotguns “street sweepers,” and that’s how I use the Benelli. I open up, firing into the eye of the shitstorm, sweeping the gun barrel from left to right.

The magic breaks apart. Flies like shrapnel in all directions, burning anything it lands on and turning some human security guards into pillars of fire.

Blowing their curses apart catches the magicians off guard. The shotgun blasts three of them dead. The last one, a blond, blue-eyed, fashion-model type, falls over backward, minus her left arm. She’s flat on her back, bone jutting from her shoulder, still screaming curses. They swarm from her mouth and carpet the floor in an army of fat, blue-eyed spiders.

The Benelli empty, I rip the cord off my shoulder and drop it, while pulling the Colt .45 and the LeMat. I dive to the side, getting off one shot with the Colt. It catches Twiggy at the base of the throat and she falls back dead. Her spider army turns to dust.

The Vigil are holding Avila’s killers off, but I need to get out of here and into the back rooms to look for Vidocq and Allegra. All I can do is hunker down and go Wild Bunch on the room. I’m faster than just about anyone else at Avila, so I put my head down and sprint through the gunfire. To anyone else, I look like I’m running scared and firing at anything that moves, but I’m carefully aiming and killing the last few magicians I can find.

Something hits me in the knee. It feels like it’s on fire. I tuck and roll so that I don’t go down on my face. When I get my balance, I’m looking up at another magician ten yards away. A huge, ancient, heavyset man. He could be Lawrence Tierney’s stunt double. I bring up the Colt and pull the trigger. Click. Damn. The LeMat does the same.

If I had another thirty seconds, I know that I’d be able to stand again and kick Lawrence’s head to Argentina. But I don’t have thirty seconds. The old man is so close that I can feel the hex building up inside him. As he starts to shout the spell, his jugular explodes.

Something is on top of him, ripping at his throat. It digs its claws into his chest and cracks him open like a boiled lobster. Lawrence doesn’t move after that. A blur, the creature spins and grabs my ankle, dragging me behind a grand piano in a corner of the room. I twist around and grab the Browning .45 from behind my back just as it turns on me. I have the trigger half pulled when I realize that the rib cracker is Candy. I twist my arm just in time to pop off the shot in the air.

“Miss me?” she asks. Candy is covered in blood and things I don’t want to think about.

“How did you get here?”

“I came up through the woods. When I saw those black trucks, I hitched a ride on top.”

I’ve never seen a Jade in full feral mode before. Candy’s nails have curved out into thick claws. Her eyes are red slit pupils in a sea of black ice. Her lips and tongue are as black as her eyes. Her mouth has a slightly different shape. Like she has a few more teeth or the ones she has are wider and sharper than before. A mouthful of pretty white shark’s teeth. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in eleven years. I want to have monster babies with her right here and now. But something explodes, someone screams, and I remember my other friends and the end of the world.

“Parker probably has Vidocq and Allegra at the center of the club, near the sacrifice,” I tell her. It’s just a guess, but with D-day going on in the front parlor, it’s where I’d go.

Candy helps me to my feet. My knee is knitting itself back together. It can almost take my weight, but it’s not there yet. Candy slings my right arm over her shoulders, puts her left arm around my waist, and practically picks me up. I didn’t know that Jades were that strong. So far, this is the best first date ever.

I talk Candy through the twists and turns I remember from Muninn’s blueprints. There isn’t much action in the inner rooms. Mostly, it’s half-naked civilian assholes cowering behind the furniture, trying not to listen to the slaughterhouse noises from the outer rooms.

Candy and I are almost to the door of the central room.

And about to be monumentally dead.

A couple of Kissi are sitting and smoking on the stone steps outside the sacrifice room. The father-and-son murder act that killed the counter girl at Donut Universe.

“Look what the cat drug in,” says the kid.

“Dragged in, but won’t drag out,” says Dad.

“Let’s eat him this time. Eat him and get the shiny thing inside.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” Dad asks me. He seems to notice Candy for the first time. “Oh, look, he’s bought dessert.”

“What is she?”

“A filthy, dirty monster, son. Maybe you should nibble her first. I want to see what Mr. Shiny Chest tastes like.”

The Kissi aren’t carnivores, like the Jades. There’s a hint of game playing in their voices. Fear and confusion are the Kissi’s favorite snacks and words are a good way to tenderize the meat. Candy takes her arm from around my waist. I can barely stand, but I manage.

The young Kissi circles Candy, but I can’t watch long. Dad is coming for me. My knee still isn’t back yet, so I have to stand my ground. It’s not my favorite place to be, but I’ve been here before. You can’t avoid an attack, so you hang back, leave yourself open, and let the attacker show you what he’s going to do.

The Kissi goes straight for my bad knee. I pivot the best I can to bring the butt of the Browning down on its neck. But he tricks me. Feints for the knee and lunges up at my chest. I’m crippled and off balance. I can’t get out of the way in time.

Daddy Kissi plants his shoulder in my sternum and knocks the wind out of me. He’s on top of me, pinning me down with his weight. I know what’s coming. Fingers inside my chest, like spiders crawling over my ribs. Then he’ll pull out my heart and the key with it. When I fell, my arm twisted behind my back. I can’t use the Browning or reach my knife.

I get ready for the pain. He brings his hand down hard. But just sort of punches me in the chest.

I look down, then at him. The Kissi looks as surprised as I do. He rears back and slams his hand down again. It just bounces off the body armor. I have a feeling that this isn’t part of the armor’s original design. But my heart and the key are still where they should be, so I’m not complaining.

The Kissi screeches, “What are you doing? Stop it!”

When he rears back for another try, his weight shifts enough for me to get my hand out from under my leg. This time, when Daddy Kissi slams into my chest, I wrap my arm around his neck, shove the Browning under his chin, and blast away. The Spiritus bullets blow the Grand Canyon out the back of his head.

I shove his carcass off and look around for Candy. She’s on her stomach, tearing out chunks of Avila’s polished wood floors with her claws while Junior is on her back with both hands buried inside her spine.

I can move enough to limp up behind Junior, shove the Browning in his ear, and blow half of his head off. Junior falls one way. I fall the other. Candy pushes herself up onto her elbows, crawls over, and collapses on top of me.

“The sacrifice is in there,” I say. “We can’t stay here.”

“I know,” Candy says. She sits up and pulls me up with her. We’re both streaked with human and Kissi blood. Candy grabs my head and plants a hundred-thousand-volt kiss on my lips. There’s something in her saliva that feels like spider venom and speed. Her black tongue draws my tongue into her mouth and her razor-sharp shark teeth slide down the full length of it.

Candy lets go and smiles. She uses her thumb to wipe off some of the blood she’s smeared on my lips.

“Thanks for getting him off me,” she says.

“Anytime.”

She helps me to my feet. I’m still shaky, but I can walk again. I can tell that Junior hurt her, playing around in her lungs. I give her the Browning and the Navy Colt pistols. I pull the na’at from my coat. Twist the grip to collapse the center shaft so that it hangs like a whip.

I point to the doors.

“Open sesame,” I say.

Candy brings up both guns and blasts open the twin doors.

Inside, it’s almost comical. Don’t devil worshippers have any imagination? It’s like a Hot Topic Halloween party. There’s a circle of men wearing long, black, hooded robes. Each man holds a silver dagger. Between each of the men is a drugged, naked starlet wannabe with an inverted pentagram cut into her chest. Up at the altar, the head priest holds a shiny kris over an unconscious angel. The angels are what make the scene not funny. There are thirteen of them. The ones who’ve been at Avila the longest are filthy. Cut up, pale, and bruised. The newer, less abused ones are hog-tied with bright, diamond-like cords.

With Kissi guards stationed outside, it probably didn’t occur to the devil’s nitwits to have some security inside. Candy and I are pretty beat up, but they don’t know that. Plus, we’re armed. Plus, we’re covered in enough blood and filth that we look like Hell arrived in the room a little sooner than they expected.

One of the robed satanists takes a swipe at Candy with his dagger and she blows a manhole in his chest with a blast from the Navy Colt. More men charge as the big clock over the altar hits the first midnight chime. Candy wades into the crowd and blasts anyone who gets near her. I swing the na’at over my head, let it extend to almost its full length, and crack it like a bullwhip. The high priest’s hand and kris knife fly off in different directions. He screams and falls to his knees. Bye-bye, gates of Hell.

The rest of the old-boy coven doesn’t seem to notice that they’ve already lost. They swarm us. Suddenly I’m back in the arena. Swinging the na’at, feeling it shear bones just right. Bring my arm up and sweep it down. Let the na’at’s own momentum carry it through anything in its way. I could go on killing these guys all night. But I can’t go completely wild. The glassy-eyed starlets are standing around like drugged sheep. I muscle them off the killing floor when I can. They fall over like bowling pins with tits.

More satanists are running out of the room than are staying around to fight, which is fine by me. My knee burns me every time I take a step. Candy isn’t using the guns anymore. She’s back to teeth and claws, a meat grinder in tight jeans and Chuck Taylors.

I collapse the na’at and hold my arms out at my sides. The last few hard cases come at me with their daggers. I don’t even fight them. I don’t have to. They stab and slash and all they hit are my scars. Each knife thrust hurts, but not enough to matter, and none draws blood.

And then it’s over.

The last satanists are dead or limping off into the club where the Vigil is waiting for them with hot cocoa and Tasers. The drugged starlets stare at each other trying to remember exactly what they’re auditioning for and when wardrobe is going to arrive.

Aelita is lying hog-tied and unconscious at the far end of the altar. The black knife cuts through the diamond cord around her wrists and ankles. I free Aelita, then hand Candy the knife and tell her to free the others.

I pick Aelita up off the bloody floor and carry her back to the front room.

I’m not one hundred percent certain, but I think that two monsters just saved the world. And I couldn’t care less.

Parker was supposed to be in the sacrifice room. And he should have had Vidocq and Allegra with him. If they’re dead, the world should be, too. It’s only fair. But I learned a long time ago that fair doesn’t have much to do with how the universe works. If things were fair, Lucifer wouldn’t have had to rebel. Adam and Eve wouldn’t have been cards-harked out of Eden. The big man’s kid wouldn’t have been nailed up at Golgotha. And the Kissi would be just another pack of boring angels. And nothing that’s happened in the last few days would have happened.

Wells and his crew have Avila secured when I get up front. They’re already sorting the living from the dead, the inner-sanctum bastards from the gentleman’s-club morons. All the club members still alive are sitting on their asses in the front room, arms and legs locked together with plastic restraints. Politicians, movie producers, stock-market czars, and fair-haired heirs to Babylonian-size fortunes. If the Vigil really wants to do the world a favor, it’ll burn Avila down with them inside.

I don’t see a single magician among the living. Maybe that’s all the fairness I’m going to get tonight. It’s better than nothing.

I must look worse than I thought. Or maybe it’s because I have Aelita with me. Either way, the entire Vigil crew stops and stares when I carry Aelita in and hand her to Wells.

“She’s okay,” I tell him. “We stopped the thing before it happened.”

“We?”

“My friend Candy and me. She’s back there freeing the rest of the angels. You might want to send some of your people back to help her. And bring some bathrobes.”

Wells nods and some of the Vigil crew head off the way I came.

Wells kneels and sets Aelita on the floor. He takes a small bottle of what looks like holy water out of a jacket pocket and pours a few drops over each of Aelita’s eyes. The angel’s lids open a fraction of an inch. She begins to breathe. A Vigil medical team pushes Wells and me out of the way. They wrap Aelita in a Mylar blanket and give her drugs from bottles that look older than the world.

I take off what’s left of my silk coat. It’s just rags with a hundred bullet holes, a thousand knife slashes, and enough blood to paint a Camaro.

I strip off the body armor and hand it to Wells.

“You should check this out. Either you accidentally made armor that’s Kissi-proof or you can make the armor Kissi-proof with some Spiritus Dei.”

“Thanks.”

I pick up a jacket someone’s dropped on the floor and use it to wipe the filth off of my face.

“I never found my friends,” I say.

“I’m sorry. We got a lot of bad people tonight, but we lost your pal Parker.”

“Parker was here?”

“Yeah. He took off pretty early in the assault. We lost him in the trees below the house. I don’t know how.”

“Mason probably gave him something to make him invisible or to transport him someplace. Was he alone?”

“As far as I know.”

“How well have you searched this place?”

“Well enough that if there were two people who knew you, we’d have found them by now.”

I nod toward the line of bodies on the other side of the room.

“What about the dead?”

“We’ve been watching you, remember? I know what your friends look like. They aren’t here.”

“I’ll need that body armor back for a while.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to go get them.”

“Be realistic. Parker took off. If he had them, he’s killed them. That’s what men like Parker do.”

“No. They’re alive. He wants me to come and find them. Then he can have the fun of killing them in front of me. I think I know where he has them.”

“Where’s that?”

“The Orange Grove Bungalows on Sunset.”

“We used to have that place under surveillance. Sub Rosa kids used it for magic and sex games for years.”

“Yeah, we did.”

“No one goes there now. It’s just pathetic civilians. Strictly crackheads and whores these days.”

“It’s where he’ll have them. It’s his idea of a joke.” I look at the body armor. “Can I have that back?”

To my surprise, Wells hands me the armor. I put it on and go to the line of corpses. Find a guy a little bit taller and fatter than me with a decent-looking jacket. I slip the jacket off his body and try it on. It fits across my shoulders and is loose enough that when I button it closed, it covers the body armor.

I ask Wells, “You find any usable shotguns?”

“Around the corner. There’s a whole pile—help yourself.”

I find a nice sawed-off double barrel, about twelve inches long.

“I’m taking this,” I say, holding up the sawed-off.

“Be my guest.”

Vigil members come from the sacrifice room, carrying angels on stretchers. Candy trails behind them looking more than a little uncomfortable.

I steal a clean cloth from the medical kit of the crew working on Aelita. Go over to Candy. She looks completely human now, except for all the blood and dirt. I put the shotgun in her hands, push her head back, and gently wipe her face. She laughs.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Mr. Stark.”

“I try to keep things interesting for my friends.”

“So far, so good.”

If I was a regular person and Candy was a regular girl and this was a regular moment, I’d be kissing her, but we’re not and this isn’t. She looks at me like she knows what I’m thinking.

“I should probably give doc a call and let him know everything’s all right.”

“Yeah. He’s probably worried.”

“You look like you’re going somewhere.”

“I know where Parker has Vidocq and Allegra. I’m headed down there now.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No,” I say. “I could be wrong. If I am, I want someone here I can trust to look out for them.”

“Okay,” she says, sounding a little hurt.

“I should get going.”

She looks at the medics working on Aelita. The angel is sitting up now.

“I’m going to call doc in a minute and then I’m going home to him because that’s where I belong. I’m going to tell him most of what happened tonight, but not everything. But I want you to know that I’m not sorry for what we did.”

“Me neither,” I say. “The one good thing about an awkward moment like this is that, with the way we look, the longer we stand here torturing each other, the more likely we are get to get some of these Vigil nervous nellies to pee themselves.”

Candy smiles.

“Go,” she says. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

“Thanks.”

I take the sawed-off from her hands, nod at Wells, and step through a shadow behind the dead magicians. Still the best first date ever.

THE PHONE BOOTH outside the Orange Grove Bungalows hasn’t changed much since I was here eleven years ago, except that now there’s a guy living in it.

The Orange Grove is a collection of about two dozen small cabins that were twenty years past their prime before I went Downtown. Now they look like a condo complex in Hiroshima the day after the bomb. The bulletproof glass in front of the check-in counter has had a good workout. In eleven years, no one’s painted anything or cleaned the pool. There are things wiggling down in the stagnant backwash that I don’t even remember seeing in Hell. This is where David Lynch groupies go to lose their virginity on prom night.

There’s one specific cabin where we used to party, but I can’t remember the number. I walk up and down the concrete walkway that snakes between the cabins. It’s New Year’s Eve, so the place is crawling with skinny hookers with black meth teeth and equally skinny johns who can’t walk straight. A lot of smells in the air. Pot. Stale cigarettes. There’s a lot more piss and the weird burning plastic stink of bad crack. Those are the least offensive.

I spot the badness near the back of the third row. It looks just like the others, but to my eyes, it pulses with chaotic energy. The energy fields around the window and front door are brighter and the colors are more intense than the rest of the cabin. When I put my hand out, the brighter energy morphs into teeth, like a giant cartoon version of the bear trap, and snaps at me. When the civilian hookers and their johns wander by, nothing happens. A tired looking hooker, in a miniskirt way too short for her veiny legs, wanders by alone.

I say, “Hey, darlin’, want to make some quick money?”

“I’m done for tonight, honey.”

“No hanky-panky. I’m pranking a friend. I just need you to go over there and bang on that door real loud.”

“How much?”

I pull out a wad of Muninn’s money. What the Hell. It’s New Year’s.

“Five hundred dollars.”

Suddenly Miss Done for Tonight is all smiles.

“Hell, I’d suck the shine off the doorknob for that.”

I give her the money and she stuffs it in an inside jacket pocket in case I change my mind.

“Don’t do anything until I tell you. Then bang on the door as hard as you can and take off.”

I leave her by the door and go around to the back of the cabin.

I hold up my hand, drop it, and say, “Now!”

The hooker takes a step forward and gives the door six or seven good raps. She looks at me and I motion to her to get the hell out of there. Then I step through a shadow into the room. I go through it fast and to the Door of Memory. I make sure the sawed-off is still there. I left it by the door when I came through from Avila. I had a feeling that Parker would have spells up that could detect weapons.

Through the door and into the cabin. Parker is up front, hands on the door, trying to feel who’s out there.

I’m in the bungalow’s bathroom. Allegra and Vidocq are on the floor, their mouths closed with duct tape and their hands tied in front of them. I put a finger to my lips for them to keep quiet.

There’s a wooden plunger behind the toilet. I grab it and sprint at Parker. Just before I reach him, I snap the plunger’s wooden handle and bury the sharp end of the bigger piece in his back.

Parker screams in pain and the sound of his voice knocks me back against the far wall.

Parker turns and smiles at me. Slams his back against the wall so that the sharp end of the wooden handle punches all the way through and comes out his chest. Then he reaches up, pulls it out, and drops it on the floor.

“How fun is that, huh? That’s the kind of thing you would do. Mason knew you’d find me, so he juiced me with a Kissi power enema. Is this how you feel, Sandman Slim? It’s like I could tear the world apart with my hands. Let me show you.”

I bark a Hellion phrase and Parker sinks halfway into the carpet, which is sucking him down like quicksand.

Parker isn’t shocked or scared. He presses his hands into the melting carpet, whispers a few words, and the quicksand reverses itself, pushing him up out of the floor. Before I can get out of the way, he throws one of the plasma balls he was using on Rodeo Drive. Hits me square in the chest. I hit the back wall hard enough that some of the studs snap, leaving the wall bowed out. The body armor keeps my ribs from cracking, but I feel like I got hit by the same meteor that killed the dinosaurs.

Parker comes over and takes a good long look at me on the floor.

“This is the best New Year’s ever. Yeah, you messed up our little Hell surprise on the hill, but that’s okay. Mason’s got lots more ideas, and let me tell you, hanging out with the Kissi is a blast. Those boys really like to party.”

With a superhuman effort I try to push myself to my feet, but only get as far as propping myself on my elbows like a white-trash Sphinx.

Parker smiles and shakes his head. I’ve never seen him so happy. He disappears into the bathroom and comes out holding Allegra by the arm. She holds her hands up in front of her face like she’s afraid he might hit her.

“Is that your new bitch here? Alice two-point-oh? She’s about as pretty as the first Alice.”

He pulls the tape off Allegra’s mouth. Grabs her by the hair and gives her a peck on the lips. Still holding her, he turns back to me.

“You’re the definition of a loser, Stark. You know what a loser is? Someone who can’t keep his women alive.” He winks at Allegra. “Know what I mean, sweetheart?”

When Parker leans in for another kiss, Allegra puffs out a stream of air across her fingers. Flames burst from her fingertips, right into Parker’s eyes. He screams and falls to the floor.

I yell “Get out!” to Allegra and she steps back into the bathroom.

Still blind, Parker screams hexes that shoot around the room, blasting holes in the walls and roof. He pulls a pistol from under his jacket and shoots wildly in all directions. I keep my head down until he’s about an arm’s length away. Then I reach into the shadow under the bed and pull out the sawed-off. Press it against his forehead and give him both barrels.

One minute Parker has a head and the next minute he doesn’t.

I hope Kasabian makes you into his ponyboy in Hell.

Allegra helps me up, then goes into the bathroom and unties Vidocq. When he’s on his feet, he comes over and grabs me like only a two-hundred-year-old Frenchman can.

“It’s good to see you, boy,” he says. Allegra is saying, “Thank you.” I’m calculating the odds that the motel manager or a scared john has called the cops. No reason to wait and find out. I grab both of them and half walk, half fall into a shadow by the door, pulling them with me.

We come out in the hallway by Vidocq’s place. The door is closed and yellow-and-black crime-scene tape is tacked up over the entrance. Allegra tears it down and opens the door. Vidocq helps me to the sofa, where I collapse. He drops to his knees and rummages in the potions and elixirs scattered across the floor. Comes up with a cracked blue bottle, goes back out to the hall, and runs a line of liquid all the way around the door frame. There’s the faint aetheric glow of the glamour as it turns the door back into a blank wall.

Allegra comes back from the kitchen with a cold cloth. I lie back and she drapes it over my forehead. I run a body check, like I used to do after a night in the arena. Flex, move, feel, and evaluate each part of my body, starting with the feet and moving up. Feet and legs work. Knees bend (one is still a little stiff). Gut and ribs are about the same. Arms, neck, and skull intact. Hands and fingers flex. I’m all right. I’m just having a hard time getting my breath after Parker’s fireball love tap. I shrug off my coat, peel off the ruined body armor, and drop it on the floor.

Vidocq is on the floor again, clinking bottles together, looking for usable potions. He comes back to the sofa with a couple.

“These aren’t my first choices, but they will do. Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Mustika Pearl. From Turkey. You’ll feel stronger and heal faster.”

“Christ. It tastes like boiled goddamn roadkill.”

“Have some of this—now. You’ll feel very good and it will help wash away the taste of the other.”

He’s right. The second one is warm and earthy, with a slightly bitter edge.

“That’s nice. What is it?”

“Vin Mariani. Red wine and cocaine.”

I don’t know if it’s the Vin or the Pearl, but within a few minutes, I feel sort of like myself again. A shaky, hot, glued-together version, but definitely me.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I say, “but every rotten thing that’s happened since I got back is my fault.”

“What does that mean?” asks Allegra.

“Wait. It gets better. I could have gone after Mason and the Kissi a long time ago. But I was flat-out chickenshit.”

Vidocq asks, “How is that possible? You didn’t even know about the Kissi until two days ago.”

“I knew about them. Not their name or what they were, but I knew there was something like them right in front of me. What did the Kissi want from me, the moment they knew I had it? The key. Mason would have told them about that. When I followed Kasabian into the Twilight, he told me that he’d been with Mason and Parker somewhere dark. Not empty, but filled with nothing. That’s why Mason and the Kissi want the key.”

“Because they’re in nothing?” asks Allegra.

“Because they want me in nothing. I’ve been through twelve doors in the Room of Thirteen Doors. I’ve never gone through the thirteenth. I’ve always been afraid of it. All the other doors are marked with a symbol. A sun. A crescent moon. A frozen lake. Only the thirteenth door is blank. There’s nothing on it. It’s the Door of Nothing. That’s where the Kissi and Mason will be. And I could have gone there anytime since Azazel gave me the key. Years ago. But I was too afraid of that blank door.”

“You’re going to go there now?” asks Vidocq.

“I should be there already.” I pull a wad of bills out of my pocket and hand them to Allegra. “There should be around a thousand dollars there. The rest of Muninn’s money is in an envelope under all the junk upstairs at Max Overdrive. If I don’t come back, it’s yours. If I do come back, I’ll need some of it back. The place needs a little fixing up.”

Their heart rates and breathing are all over the place. The stress is going to kill them quicker than Mason or the Kissi. They both want to say something. I make sure I have my knife and step through a shadow before either of them can get out a word.

THE THIRTEENTH DOOR looks older and more battered than the others. If the other doors are portals to different planes and places in the universe, the thirteenth is the entrance to a prison. Strange sounds leak through it. Growls. Vibrations. A faint stink of vinegar. What could be the wind or voices whispering. A slow but relentless scratching, like something is trying to dig its way out.

I throw the bolt and open the Door of Nothing.

The name is pretty damned apt. Some of the other doors, I still can’t figure out. What does the Door of Abandoned Melancholy mean? Not much. But the Door of Nothing is right on the money.

There’s nothing beyond on the door. Not darkness. Not emptiness. Nothing. It’s the total and absolute absence of everything. Especially light. I step inside and pull the door closed. Immediately I hear sounds all around me. Scurrying, secret sounds. Bugs under dry leaves. Something wet pulling itself through mud. Hungry things, chewing their claws and grinding their teeth. Things touch me in the nothing. They crawl on me and try to work their way under my clothes. I can’t move. I don’t know where to go. Then I remember the thing Mason left for me because he knew that sooner or later, I’d be standing here. I take out the lighter.

Let there be light.

The Zippo flares, looking like an oil-well fire in all that lightless empty space. A billion soft, pale, half-formed anti-angels limp back into the dark. Their big blank eyes glitter like black chrome. The Kissi are crowded into every inch of their chaotic nonspace. They live piled on top of each other, like dead and dying angels. The piles of bodies look like pictures of Auschwitz. This is what Heaven must have looked like after Lucifer’s war.

When I start walking, the wall of Kissi bodies parts like the Red Sea, then closes in behind me.

I’m moving just to move. Standing still feels like asking for trouble. But every direction looks exactly the same to me. I can’t tell if I’m walking on something solid or just the idea of something. One minute, it feels like I’m on hard-packed dirt, then the next, I’m sinking into sponge cake. I don’t stop or slow down. I keep walking, like I know exactly where I’m going.

A Kissi puts its glowing hand on my arm. I look at it like I talk to zombie angels every day. Its face is half-baked dough. I can’t quite bring it into focus.

“I told you we’d meet again.”

The Kissi’s face rearranges itself for a second. Turns into Josef’s Aryan poster-boy mug. “He’s waiting for you. Straight ahead. We’ve all been so looking forward to this.”

“Hang around, ugly. When I’m done with Mason, the two of us can get some dim sum before I kill you again.”

Josef laughs, turns his sluglike head, and dissolves into the writhing mass of Kissi bodies. They pick up his laugh and it spreads out across the colony, so that in just a few seconds the sound surrounds me. Thunders down on me from a billion throats like a storm. It rattles every molecule in my body. I’m being mugged with sound. I turn and shove the lighter straight into the heart of the closest group of Kissi. They shriek and scatter. Shove the lighter in another group. And another. They still surround me, but they’re not laughing anymore. And they keep their distance.

Straight ahead is the Faim family’s Beverly Hills mansion, a Tudor playhouse standing in a universe of nothing. I don’t bother knocking.

Head straight downstairs to the basement. Mason’s magic room. The room where he sent me to Hell and where I found the lighter.

I open the door at the bottom of the stairs and, like that, it’s eleven years ago.

The room is exactly the way I remember it. Even the circle drawn on the floor in lead is the same. I never figured Mason for the nostalgic type.

“I know you’re not going to believe me, but it’s really good to see you, Jimmy.”

Mason sounds exactly the same. He looks the same, too. I can’t tell if he’s keeping himself young with magic or if time works differently here.

“When you’ve spent as many years as I have with no one to talk to but Parker or the Kissi, it’s a real thrill to run into someone with some brains. Who isn’t here to kiss my ass or be my Renfield.”

“That’s funny. I always thought you and Parker were best buds. Not Vlad and Renfield.”

“You used to call him my attack dog. Maybe that’s a better way of putting it. A dog is man’s best friend, but it doesn’t mean you’re going to talk to it about anything important. You pet a dog. You feed a dog. You put it out back to guard the henhouse. Reward it when it’s been good. Punish it when it’s been bad. That’s pretty much it.”

“Your plan is working out great, if your plan was to sit out here in an empty house in the middle of fuck-all, surrounded by talking army ants. Wow. You really are a genius. I never saw that one coming.”

“You see? Anyone else, I’d want to strangle by now. But noise like that. Criticism. It’s all right coming from you. Because I respect you. You really are the only other Sub Rosa I thought had any real talent and style.”

“That’s why you had to kill me.”

“I didn’t kill you, did I? I could have and you wouldn’t have seen it coming any more than the other thing.”

“You can’t even say it? You sent me to Hell. Say it.”

“I don’t want to reopen old wounds. That’s not why I brought you here. And before you tell me that you found me on your own, we both know that I made sure that Kasabian knew just enough about where we were to help you finally figure it out.”

“If you wanted me here so bad, why didn’t you just send up a flare or have one of your Kissi forward me a Google map link?”

“Because I had to know that you could do it. I haven’t seen you in eleven years. Maybe the air in Hell or all those knocks on the head in the arena turned your brains to butterscotch pudding. I had to see you work it out and here you are. And since you got rid of Parker, I have a staff opening right now. A nice midlevel executive job. Good hours. Terrific benefits. Possible deification. Interested?”

“Keep talking. The more you yammer, the more I want to kill you. That’s the only reason I’m here, in case you forgot about what you did to me and Alice.”

“Alice was Parker’s thing. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t going to make too much of a fuss after you were gone. He took it too far.”

“He was your dog. You sent him out to hunt. Your responsibility.”

“What if I told you that you could get her back? Exactly as she was. And the two of you could live together forever. What would you say?”

I’m not at all surprised by his arrogance and bullshit. What’s so strange about Mason is how young he seems. Like he’s exactly the same little show-off he was all those years ago. Has he really been sitting here alone for eleven years? That’s worse than what happened to me. I’m the old man now, but I saw and did a few things. I didn’t just crawl up my own teenybopper ass for a decade. Imagine eleven years, sitting in a dollhouse version of your childhood home, reading magic books and not talking to anyone but your pet thug and talking roaches. If Mason wasn’t crazy before, he’s definitely joined the banana army now.

“What are you talking about? How could I get back Alice?”

“That’s why I had to make you solve a puzzle to get here. I had to know if you could keep up once the project got rolling. Stage one is why I formed an alliance with the Kissi. To take control of the world.”

He smiles at me like he just got all A’s on his report card.

“Why would anyone want to run the world?” I ask. “It sounds like a huge pain in the ass.”

“That’s just stage one. If all I wanted was to take over the world, believe me, the Kissi and I could have done it already.”

“What do you want the world for?”

“In any military campaign, you need a few basic things. Troops. Equipment. Support staff. Supply lines, that kind of thing. Earth is the perfect staging area for that.”

“When I knew you, all you wanted was to prove that you were the best little magician in Candyland. Now you want to be Patton, too? What is wrong with you?”

He goes to a large ebony desk, piled high with books, writing paper, and maps of the universe like Aelita had, from Heaven looking down and from Hell looking up. Mason grabs an old book about the size and weight of a bag of cement and shows me the pages he’s been studying. A single word crosses the two pages of the spread: L’Infernus. Below that is a detailed map of Hell’s topography.

“We’re invading Hell. I have the troops and the plan. You know Hell’s strengths and weaknesses. You’ve already softened the place up for invasion. How many of Lucifer’s generals have you killed? A dozen? Two? More?”

“You want to rule this world, a not particularly great place, so you can take over an even worse place? Is that basically it? That’s why you ruined me, killed Alice, and fucked over everyone who ever trusted you?”

“Firstly, fuck all those people who trusted me. Except for Parker, every one of them was greedy and then turned jellyfish the moment you stuck your nose out of the grave. I gave all of them their heart’s desire and they folded the moment things got a little weird.”

“You didn’t exactly give Kasabian his heart’s desire.”

“Yeah, I did sort of screw him, didn’t I? But admit it. There’s the opposite of love at first sight. There are people walking the earth that the moment you meet them, you want to punch them and keep punching them.”

“I can’t argue with you about Kas, but what do you want with Hell? It’s already on the verge of a civil war. You want to walk into the middle of warring Hellions?”

“With the Kissi and you to back me up, yes. I really do. Because with our combined strength and your contacts with Lucifer’s generals, we could find which to kill and which will make good allies. Then march in and take Hell, just the way we took Earth. Once we’ve secured the place, we’ll combine the armies from Earth and Hell with the Kissi. Then go to stage three.”

“You want to invade Heaven.”

“I want to storm Heaven. I want to rip open the Pearly Gates and throw them from the firmament. I want to see all nine ranks of angels on their knees bowing down to the humans that conquered them. And I want to throw out that senile old fart that runs the place. Ship Him off to a retirement home for old deities. He can get a duplex with Zeus or Odin. He ruined the universe at the beginning of time and He’s been ruining it ever since. He needs to be off playing golf in Boca and power walking at the mall, not running the fundamental laws of time and space. One day, He’s going to forget where he put the remote, get all distracted, and forget about gravity. Then where will we be? I know you know I’m right. I know how you think.”

I look at him. I don’t know what else to do. He’s right, of course. I agree with pretty much everything he said about Heaven and Hell. I wouldn’t mind seeing God and Lucifer stuck on a cruise ship—shuffleboard, all-day buffets, a decent band in the bar, and a passable magic act in the lounge for all eternity. But the idea of replacing the current fuckups with Mason? That part doesn’t scan and he knows I’d never go for it.

“So, I help you become the new Yahweh, and what do I get out of it?”

“The world. It’s yours. And Alice. You and she can live forever. If you want her to. Once we’re in charge, we’ll control that kind of thing.”

“Who gets Hell? The Kissi?”

“Who better to run the place of torments than a race of natural-born torturers and killers?”

This isn’t what I was expecting. I don’t know what I thought would be waiting for me here in Never Never Land, but it wasn’t this. I came ready to fight Genghis Khan and I walk in on a shut-in playing the biggest Dungeons and Dragons game in history.

“You’re right. I can’t think of anyone better suited to run Hell than the Kissi.”

I walk around the room, admiring how detailed his memory must be to have built this place. I stop at a bin full of maps that runs from the floor to the ceiling. City maps. World maps. Maps of time and celestial mechanics. Maps of the edges of the universe. I’m still holding Mason’s lighter. I flick it and hold it to one of the maps.

“What are you doing over there?”

Old maps are printed on good, heavy paper stock. They burn well. Old ones are dry enough to burn fast. When Mason runs to the maps, I use the lighter to fire up the books and papers on his desk.

“Stop it!” he yells.

I hold the lighter to a book on his lectern. The book is written in Aramaic. It looks very rare and expensive.

“Stop it!”

That’s the one I’d been waiting for. He’s losing his shit. Getting sloppy with his power. The demonic boom of his voice knocks the house off its foundation and cracks the walls. Books, globes, and old specimen jars fly off the shelves. I lose my balance and knock over a spiderlike Kissi skeleton.

“The problem, Mason, is you only know me from the old days when breaking things was more fun. Your plan is so completely brain damaged that I might have gone for it back then. But all that matters now is one thing. You killed Alice and I’m going to kill you.”

I set fire to anatomy charts and diagrams of mystical automata.

He uses a throw rug to smother the fire on the lectern.

“When I’m sitting on my golden throne in the sky, I’m going to make you and your bitch my special project.”

Mason blurs across the room at me, faster than I could ever move. He knocks me out of the way so that he can rescue the papers I’ve set on fire. He’s working really well for a few seconds, but then the black knife that I stuck in his side when he cuffed me away really starts to hurt. He reaches around to take the knife out. But I’m pretty fast, too. I leap and roll, jam my boot heel into the knife hilt, plunging it another six inches into his side. Mason groans and falls on his face.

I climb on top of him and rip the knife out with my left hand. Get my right arm around his throat and stab up, slipping the blade between his ribs and into his heart. Mason shudders and so does the house. The walls and ceiling crack. Bricks, lath, and plaster rain down on us. I push the knife in farther and hear the upstairs collapse.

A bookcase comes loose from the wall and crashes down on me. Mason throws an elbow and knocks me onto my back. Then he’s on top of me. I get the knife up in time and jam it right back between his ribs. But Mason does a trick I didn’t know he could do.

He’s been doing more with the Kissi than exchanging sea stories and brownie recipes. He slips his hand through my body and right into my chest. Instantly I’m cold and nauseous, remembering what it was like in Josef’s office. With every wave of pain and sickness, I twist the knife deeper into him.

The mansion walls are dust and the floor is sagging under our weight. A great, black dome of nothingness hangs over our heads. Then even the floor is gone and we’re in the dark, surrounded by the chittering, scuttling noises of the Kissi, the only reminder that we haven’t fallen out of the universe completely.

I shout Hellion control curses and poison hexes into Mason’s ear. He digs his hand into my chest and gets his fingers around the key. The whole universe shifts, like a car sliding on black ice. I drag the black blade between Mason’s ribs. Throw attack spells. Mason chatters in Kissi, trying to fill my head with dread and confusion. Luckily, I’m already confused and full of dread, so the spell is kind of redundant.

The darkness shreds around us. Streaks of something leak through the opaque wall of nothing. A billion Kissi scream as light burns into their hiding place.

We’re falling. Or things are swirling past us. I can’t tell which. I catch glimpses of the Room of Thirteen Doors. Every time Mason tries to rip the key from my chest, the room shifts at the center of time and space, warping the universe.

Time flows like lava. Mason pulls on the key and the pain lasts a million years. The room swirls by, larger than the whole universe. One door. A dozen. A million. A blinking zoetrope as doors open, close, appear, and disappear.

We’re crushed to the size of atoms. We expand to fill the Milky Way. I jerk the blade from Mason’s side and sweep it through the center of a star. Slash the white-hot blade through the thin fabric that separates the Kissi’s chaos realm from ours. The Kissi scream and scatter as light floods inside. They try to patch the holes, but I keep slashing new ones. The Kissi’s bubble of nothingness swells and explodes, scattering their burning bodies away from the light and into the frozen void on the far edge of the universe.

The next time the room appears, I raise the knife and slice down through Mason’s arm. His screams shake the nearby planets. I pull his severed hand from my chest and dive for the room. Get one hand around the edge of the Door of Shadows and pull myself inside. Mason hangs on with his one good hand. I have to drag him inside with me.

We collapse on the stones. I catch my breath and get to my feet. Mason is on his back, cradling his severed arm to his chest. He’s pale and shaking, shirt soaked through with blood. I’ve been looking forward to killing Mason for so long and now he’s spoiling it. In my fantasies, I kill the bullyboy, arrogant Mason. But this little guy on the floor, shivering like a goldfish that’s fallen out of its bowl, isn’t the monster I came to slay.

Mason says something, but I can’t hear him. He says it again, but still too low to hear. I lean my ear to his mouth when he says it again. It’s Kissi. I can’t understand the word, but there’s a crunch that I heard enough in the arena to know that it’s either the sound of a bone breaking or being magically knit back together. This being Mason, of course, it’s a bit of both, with something worse thrown in just for fun.

Something white and larvalike protrudes from where Mason’s right arm used to be. Sounds come from beneath his skin, like termites eating glass. A final crunch and Mason’s arm rips from his shoulder as a faintly glowing Kissi arm emerges to take its place. Mason’s eyes pop open. Suddenly he’s back to being the monster I’ve dreamed of killing. However, there’s something about this new Mason that makes every cell in my body decide simultaneously that it would like to be at least a continent away from him.

Mason sits up and smiles. He knows exactly where he is. The space is too small and he’s too fast for me to try taking his new arm off. There’s an old saying among fighters in the arena, “A retreat is a good as an advance, especially if your opponent just grew an angel’s arm.”

I open the nearest door, slam it shut, and start running. I hear Mason behind me a second later. There’s a sort of town square up ahead. I keep running, knocking people out of my way. At the far side of the square is a makeshift bar selling Aqua Regia. I jump on top and kick the drinkers’ glasses in their faces. A Hellion infantryman lunges at me with his spear. I sidestep him and snap it in two with the black blade. Thanks, man. Anyone who wasn’t sure who I was before, just saw Azazel’s knife and now knows for certain.

“Hello you shit-sucking sulfur monkeys. In case you haven’t guessed, I’m Sandman Slim and I crawled back down to perdition’s ball sac for just a moment of your time. And if you don’t believe I’m Sandman Slim, step up closer and I’ll take a lot more than a moment from you.

“Now, I know what a lot of you would like to do to me, but I want you to think about this first: I might be the monster who kills monsters and the biggest bastard in existence, but that’s your real enemy right there. The man who followed me here. Look at his arm. He’s Kissi. And he’s been chasing me all over Creation because he wants me to help him bring a Kissi army down here to turn you into the slaves you refused to be in Heaven. I didn’t bring his army, but I brought him. And I’m giving him to you. A New Year’s gift from Sandman Slim.”

By now, most of the crowd is fixated on Mason and his arm. He transforms it to look human, but that just pisses them off even more. They press in on Mason from every direction, but no one wants to make the first move. I pick up one of the Hellion beer mugs and, just when I feel a wave of tension pass through the crowd, smash it. There’s something magical about the sound of breaking glass. Especially around a mob. It works for both humans and Hellions. If you want to start a riot, throw a bottle.

The moment the mug shatters, the crowd surges forward, banshee-howling, crushing Mason at its center. Hellion gendarmes are heading toward the square. That guarantees a full-scale devil’s night party riot. I duck, stay low, and move from table to table until I’m out of the square. Then I take off running for the Door of Fire.

I make it through and just about have the door closed when someone grabs it from the other side.

A skinny Hellion adolescent in a uniform I’ve never see before gets as close to the door as he can.

“You killed my master, Abaddon. I’ll get to your world somehow someday, and I’ll avenge him.”

“Why don’t you come out here and tell me all about it, sweetheart? Oh, wait. You can’t come out here, can you? Magic is such a tease. When you figure out how to get yourself on the other side of this door, be sure to look me up. Until then, stay in school. Say your prayers. And just before you fall asleep tonight, pucker up and kiss my ass.”

I pull the Door of Fire closed. I know I probably ought to be worried, but I can’t get worked up about one more Hellion who hates my guts.

I step out of the room and into Vidocq’s apartment. Allegra is on her knees, sorting broken potion bottles from ones she can salvage. Vidocq is in the kitchen making coffee. They both look at me.

“If I just did to the Kissi what I think I did, I might have just saved the world twice in one night.”

“And Mason?” asks Vidocq.

“Last I saw, he was being torn limb from claw by a bunch of highly motivated Hellions.”

“How are you?” asks Allegra.

“My chest hurts, but I’ll be great as soon as I get a cigarette, a drink, and a lobotomy.”

A FEW DAYS later.

It’s sunny out, a tourist postcard L.A. afternoon at Donut Universe. I’m still not great at paying attention to dates, but I know it’s a Sunday. A perfect day for a date with an angel.

I push the tissue paper at her.

“Have an apple fritter. A friend told me this place has the best in town.”

“Thank you.”

Aelita looks at the fritter like I just passed her a dog turd.

“The food’s better at the Bamboo House of Dolls, but you didn’t want to meet there.”

“I don’t drink.”

“We didn’t have to drink.”

“I don’t like the smell of liquor.”

“What about all the wine in the Church’s holy magic shows?”

“Wine isn’t liquor. It’s the blood of our Lord.”

I take a sip of coffee. It’s hot and good, but good coffee in restaurants kind of depresses me. I always wonder why it doesn’t come in a cigarette flavor for places where you can’t smoke.

“The state of California disagrees, otherwise teenyboppers would ask me to buy stuff for them at twenty-four-hour blood stores.”

“This is exactly the kind of talk I’d expect from you.”

“An Abomination?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get you a thesaurus next Christmas. You need to expand your vocabulary.”

“Some things are beyond redemption.”

“I thought anyone could get through the Pearly Gates if they repented.”

“No. Not everyone.”

“Maybe I should take back my fritter.”

Aelita sighs and looks out the window. She’d rather be having lunch in a volcano than sitting here with me.

“Not everyone deserves God’s grace, but everything in existence has a purpose and a use. Even the abhorrent. Given that, I’ve come here to ask you one more time, will you work for the righteous cause of the Golden Vigil?”

“When you ask so nicely, it makes me feel all nonabhorrent.”

“This is your chance to redeem yourself, if only just a little.”

“Sure. I’ll work for the Vigil. But on a freelance basis. And I want to be paid. In cash and in advance. I don’t exactly trust holy rollers.”

“You want money for doing God’s work?”

“Yes. A lot of money. You practically have Area 51 tucked away in your warehouse. You can afford it.”

“I didn’t think you could possibly be more vile, but you’ve managed to surprise me.”

“I know. I’m worse than the bogeyman and tooth decay. But the offer still stands. I don’t have a business card, but you know where to find me.”

I take my own apple fritter out of the bag and take a bite. The Kissi was right. It really is that good.

“Every day you’re alive is like someone spitting in the face of God. I showed you mercy when I let Eugène save you. You won’t get mercy from me again.”

“I saved your celestial ass the other night.”

“You put me in that awful place.”

“No. The Kissi did. Or did you forget about them?”

She pushes her fritter and coffee across the table.

“This food smells like death. I’m sure you love it. I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other. I’m leaving.”

“You going to hide and massacre me in the parking lot?”

“It’s tempting.”

“No, it’s not, and here’s why. I went to some people and I traded some things. Got myself a kill switch.”

“What is that?”

“They have them on trains. Tractors. Some other equipment. It’s a button the operator has to hold down for the machine to work. The operator has a heart attack and dies, he lets go of the button. The switch kills the engine and the machine stops. A kill switch.”

“Are you thinking of becoming a train conductor?”

“Better. I’m keeping an eye on this.” I take out a small wooden box I bought the day before, a pyx, and slide it across the table to her. “You know what that is. It’s usually for a consecrated host, but I put something better inside. Take a look.”

Aelita looks at me for a minute, and then touches the box. Probably doing some angel magic to see if it’s poison or a bomb or a poison bomb. Finally, she opens it and looks inside. There’s a tiny light on the bottom. So small, a human couldn’t see it.

“What is this?”

“Look closer, angel. Don’t you recognize it?”

She drops the box.

“A piece of the Mithras.”

“That’s right. A fragment of a fragment of a fragment. I put the rest in the Room of Thirteen Doors. As long as I’m alive, it’s safe. But if you ever run me through with that sword again, the glass holding the Mithras will break and burn its way out through all thirteen doors.”

“You’re lying.”

“You kill me and I’ll torch this whole little puppet show. Then, when Heaven itself is burning, you can explain to your boss how it’s all your fault.”

“Even you aren’t this mad.”

“There’s an easy way to find out.”

I put the pyx in my pocket and get up. Slide her pastry and mine into the paper bag and roll it closed.

“You don’t deserve a fritter.”

I leave Aelita there in the booth with the sun coming through the window, thinking about doughnuts and the end of everything.

I DIAL DOC Kinski’s number and he picks up.

“Damn. When did you start answering phones?”

“It’s a recent and very temporary development. What can I do for you?”

“How’s Candy doing?”

“Still a little overexcited. When someone falls off the murder wagon, it can take ’em a while to calm down.”

“That’s why some of us don’t ever stop.”

Silence. Nothing. Crickets.

“That was a joke,” I say.

“I’ll take your word for it. That’s not all you called about, is it?”

“No. I’m calling about the bullets. You said you’d take them out when things calmed down. Things have.”

“Okay. Come by today.”

“When?”

“How about right now?”

WHEN I PULL into the minimall, Kinski is outside smoking a cigarette. I park the stolen Mercedes SLR McLaren at the rear of lot, behind a pizza delivery van. The McLaren’s doors don’t open out. They flip up like insect wings.

Kinski drops his cigarette and grinds it out with his boot.

“You couldn’t find anything more conspicuous to drive over here? Maybe a blimp or an ocean liner?”

“No one can see it from the street.”

“I suppose. You ready for this?”

“Yeah. I’m sick of things banging around inside me every time I sneeze.”

“All right, then. Let’s get them out.”

He leads me back into the clinic. Nothing has changed in the reception area. Even the magazines are sitting exactly where they were the last time I was here. If this was anybody else’s office, I’d guess that he was a bookie or selling dope out the back door.

I wait while the doc washes his hands.

“Take off your shirt and lie down.”

When I’m on the treatment table, I ask, “You going to use your magic glass rocks on me?”

“Not this time, I’m afraid. This is more of a hands-on procedure. I’m going to have to go in there and get those slugs out manually.”

I watch him dry his hands on a small towel covered with pictures of palm trees. The word Orlando is printed in bright red letters in one corner.

“A Kissi ran his hands around inside me. I didn’t like it.”

“This won’t be like that. For one thing, you won’t feel it. I have some special salve that’ll numb you up good.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Let’s just get started.”

He takes a stoppered bottle from the counter, opens it, and pours something thick, like Karo syrup, in a line down my chest. Then he takes a sponge-headed brush and paints the stuff across my body, from my neck down to my stomach.

He puts the brush back on the counter and says, “Tell me when that stuff gets warm.”

“I think it’s there already.”

“Close your eyes for a minute.”

I close them and he says, “Feel that?”

“No. Did you already put your hand in my chest?”

“Does it feel like I did?”

“No.”

“Good. Then you’re ready. Feel free to keep your eyes closed.”

“Are you going to wear gloves or something, at least?”

“Of course I’m wearing goddamn gloves. I’m not a goddamn Kissi.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

There’s a clank. Like metal on metal.

“What was that?”

“That’s bullet one.”

“That was easy.”

“See? We could have done this a long time ago and saved you some pain.”

“I’ll call you after my next shooting.”

“Or you could try not getting shot.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He laughs a little.

“That’s why you and Candy get along. That’s what she’d say.”

Candy is the last thing I want to talk to Kinski about when he has his hands in my guts.

“What’s the going rate for magic surgery?”

Another piece of metal drops.

“It’s on the house.”

I don’t say anything for a minute.

“How the hell do you make a living? You never have any patients and you don’t charge me for surgery or for dragging my friends in here. What’s going on?”

“You’re tensing up. Relax. Every time you move, the bullets shift.”

“Okay.”

“And for your information, how I make a living is my business, not yours. As for why I don’t charge you, let me ask you a question. Have you ever asked yourself how you survived all those years in Hell? Do really think you lived with Hellions and survived the arena because you’re that much of a badass?”

“I don’t know. I used to think about it, but I could never find any reasons. And I was kind of busy getting my ass kicked, so I stopped worrying about it.”

“Well, you’re back and there aren’t any monsters chasing you right now. Tell me how it is that you, by yourself, managed to stay alive all those years.”

“I don’t know.”

“Guess.”

“I don’t know. I’m nothing special.”

“You think so? You fell into the bottom of the cesspool of Creation, survived and crawled out again. Doesn’t that sound just a little special?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. A regular person, a civilian, wouldn’t have lasted a day down there, much less eleven years.”

Another piece of metal falls.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Maybe it means you’re different. Maybe it means that you’re not who you think you are. Maybe it means you’re not entirely human.”

I open my eyes and look at him. No matter how hard I look and listen, I can’t read him. Can’t hear his heart or his breathing. Nothing.

“I don’t like where this is going, doc.”

“Another minute. We’re almost there.”

I close my eyes and try to calm my breathing. I didn’t like seeing his hands moving around under my skin.

“You haven’t answered the question. Are you human or not?”

“If I’m not human, what am I?”

“Same as me. An angel not quite fit for heaven or hell.”

Another piece of metal falls. The fifth bullet.

I feel Kinski lean back. Hear him walk to the sink and wash his hands.

He says, “You can put your shirt back on.”

I sit up on the table.

“What did you just say to me, man?”

He wipes his hands on a towel and says, “It’s going to be harder for you than it is for me. I made concious choices that got me here. Half the universe hated you before you were born.”

He moves slowly, choosing his words carefully. That much I can see. He’s not high or drunk and he doesn’t give off a Looney Tunes vibe. Still.

“Put your shirt on. Let’s go have a smoke.”

I follow him into the parking lot. The sun hurts my eyes after having them closed. I watch the doc, looking for any signs of obvious craziness. I could make a break for the Benz, but I’m a little woozy from the surgery.

Kinski is looking at me. He takes out a cigarette and offers me the pack. I take one.

“If you don’t want to hear this, I’m not going to force you. I just thought that maybe you’d like to know who you are, why certain things have happened to you, and why certain other things are going to happen in the future.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m sure Miss Aelita told you about God’s great fuckup at the beginning of time. The thing is, there are other stories regular folks aren’t supposed to know about. One is about how in the early days of the world, after what happened in Eden, yet another great fuckup, God sent angels to Earth to look after humans. These angels didn’t float around in the sky with big white wings and harps. They lived as ordinary people. Had jobs. Farmed. Fought in wars. All the things regular people do. The only thing they couldn’t do was fraternize with humanity. They had to remain apart and aloof so that they could be watchful.”

I smoked my cigarette and watched the smog rim the clouds with funny shades of blue and gold.

“The problem with this plan is that you can’t take anything, even angels, put them in a human body, give them a human life, and not expect them to start feeling and acting just a little human. Even falling in love. Even having children.

“The children these angels had with mortal women were called nephilim. There were a lot of them around once upon a time. Now, not so many.”

“Why not?”

“They were killed. So were the angels who fathered them and the mothers who gave birth to them.”

“Why?”

“They had to. There had to be no record, no trace that they ever existed. Most of those doing the killing didn’t call the children nephilim. They had another name for them.”

“Abomination.”

Kinski nods.

“Smart boy.”

“If you’re not Doc Kinski, who the hell are you?”

“They took away my real name when they kicked me out of Heaven. Normally, when an angel falls from grace, that angel ends up with other fallen ones in Hell. That would have been too embarrassing in my case. See, I was an archangel. Uriel, the Guardian of the Earth. If they’d sent me all the way down, they knew what would happen. Lucifer would have thrown me a ticker tape parade. God wasn’t going to let that happen. So, here I am. I run a little under-the-radar human fix-it shop next to some nice ladies who do other ladies’ nails.”

“What did you do to the kicked out of heaven?”

“I killed another angel.”

“Why?”

“He deserved it.”

I flick the remains of my cigarette out into the parking lot.

“Can I get another?”

The doc offers me one from the pack. I light it with Mason’s lighter.

“Does Vidocq knew about this nephilim thing?”

“You mean, does he know what you are? He’s a smart man who’s read a lot of book. He can do the math.”

“This is fucking ridiculous. I’m no goddam angel.”

“Sure, you’re a perfectly normal boy. You were born able to do more magic than most Sub Rosa learn in a lifetime. You survived Hell. You saved the world and you corraled the Kissi. Typical underachiever.”

A skinny kid in a striped shirt and backward baseball cap comes out of the pizza joint, carrying a pile of boxes to the delivery van.

The doc nods toward him. “That kid is smarter than both of us put together. He’s got a car and all the pizza he can eat. What more does a man need?”

He smiles at his own joke. It’s the first time I’ve seen him be anything but serious.

“If I believe all this, where does that leave me?”

The smile fades.

“Not anywhere good, I am sorry to say. You’re an Abomination. You’ll always be an Abomination. Hell hates you for being more than a human and Heaven hates you for being less than an angel.”

“No wonder I couldn’t get a date for the prom.”

“There’s something else you need to know.” He looks at his watch. “I should call Candy soon. See how she’s doing. I have her on double doses of the blood substitute.”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“Hard to say. It’s hard to fight your own nature. I couldn’t do it. Angels are creatures made to love and protect humanity, only we weren’t supposed to fall in love. But I did. Candy’s a predator. A killer through and through. She’s trying to change that and I’m trying to help her. Maybe that’s a mistake.”

“I thought it was you who was making her give up the kill.”

“No. She came to me.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“Like I said, I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing by helping her. There’s something else you ought to know about the nephilim. Not all of them were killed off by God’s hit squads. Your kind is mostly gone because you tend to kill yourselves. You’re not the most stable being, but I guess you knew that.”

“Is that how you got that wound on your arm? Those guys who tried to shove you into a car. Those were angels trying to kill you?”

Kinski laughs.

“No, boy. Heaven doesn’t worry about me anymore. Those were Kissi. They were shopping for one last angel for their New Year’s party.”

I look at him hard, trying to read him. Wanting a final, for-real take on him. But he’s a blank wall.

He smiles at me.

“I know what you’re doing. You can’t read angels like regular people. Even angels can’t always read other angels. Otherwise we would have never had that little dustup with Lucifer in Heaven.”

“Can you read me?”

“Of course.”

“What am I thinking?”

“You’re afraid I’m crazy because that’s one more person you can’t count on. And you’re afraid I’m telling the truth ’cause that means you were screwed before you ever drew your first breath.”

That’s exactly what I’m thinking.

“Will I be like you? Will I be able to read you someday?”

He shrugs.

“It’s hard to say. With nephilim, it’s always different. Some are more human and some are almost angels and can do almost anything angels do. You’ll know what you can do when you can do it. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Let’s say I believe this story. Could you fix me up with a cocktail like Candy’s? Make me like a regular person?”

“I wouldn’t even try.”

“Why not?”

“You always had magic, but you came into your real power in Hell. You were running wild, not holding yourself back like the nephilim that grew up around humans. You found yourself and accepted what you could do without all the angst and bullshit that they went through.”

“And what is it I can do?”

“Warrior is the nice word, the traditional word, but that’s just a polite way of saying that you’re a natural-born killer. You’re Sandman Slim, the monster who kills monsters. I’m not going to drug you up to change that.”

“Even if I wanted to change it?”

“Especially then. How many angels showed up to save the world the other night? Did Aelita and her little quilting bee conquer the evil at Avila’s heart? No. It took a monster to walk between all the forces massed there and to beat them all. No one else could have done that.”

“There were two monsters there,” I remind him.

He nods.

“Right. Two monsters.”

The pizza delivery boy brings out a second pile of pizza boxes, loads them in the van, backs up, and heads into the afternoon traffic. He gives us the finger on the way out of the parking lot.

“I can feel a lot of stuff pinballing around in your head. You want to tell me what you think about all this?”

“If your story is true, then one of my parents fucked an angel. Which one?”

“Why does that matter?”

“It doesn’t, but I want to know.”

“Your mother.”

“I thought so. My father was gone a lot on sales calls. Mom was lonely and pretty. I guess that explains some things about my father.”

“If you say so.”

“He knew I wasn’t his.”

“But he still raised you. Give him credit for that.”

“He wanted me dead.”

“Hell, boy. At some point, all fathers want to kill their sons. Just like all sons think about killing their old man. They’re too much alike or the’re not enough alike. It doesn’t matter. What’s beautiful is that they don’t do it.”

“Are there other nephilim around?”

“It’s not like there’s a newsletter or anything, but as far as I know, you’re the only one.”

“I used to worry all the time about being boring. Suddenly boring looks pretty good.”

“Try not to sing too many sad songs for yourself. The universe already hates you. Self-pity isn’t going to help.”

Whenever the hammer has come down in my life, I’ve always wondered what my father would do. Then I usually do the opposite, but I still always think of him first. But now I’m seeing my mother’s face instead of my father’s. And I’m thinking about Alice. And Candy. And Allegra breathing fire into Parker’s eyes. And Vidocq, who isn’t a father, but who makes being a man easier than any of the men in my family.

I flick my cigarette butt at a rat that’s stalking a couple of pigeons in the parking lot.

“You know what I’m thinking right now?”

Kinski is silent for a minute.

“That you really want a drink.”

“Yeah, but that’s too easy. I always want a drink. Guess again.”

“You’re back wondering if I’m crazy or not and leaning toward crazy.”

I nod and take few steps in the direction of the Mercedes.

“Actaully, I’m not. I’m leaning toward I don’t give a goddam. I’m sick of Heaven and Hell and angels and nephilim and all the rest of it. I knew what I was doing there. And no one told me that I’m not who I am. Be a fallen archangel if you want, but leave me out of it. I don’t want to be part of your soap opera. I don’t want to be mythological.”

I start back for the Mercedes, but it looks ridiculous to me now. A brain dead cross between a giant grasshopper and a Cubist Corvette. I walk past the car and into the shadow of a lampost at the corner of the lot. Kinski watches me go. As I slip into the Room of Thirteen Doors, for just a second, some annoying part of my brain whispers, “You know that thing that you’re doing right now, going from a parking lot to the center of the universe and out again? That’s pretty seriously mythological.”

THERE’S ONLY ONE problem with L.A.

It exists.

L.A. is what happens when a bunch of Lovecraftian elder gods and porn starlets spend a weekend locked up in the Chateau Marmont snorting lines of crank off Jim Morrison’s bones. If the Viagra and illegal Traci Lords videos don’t get you going, then the Japanese tentacle porn will.

New York has short con cannibals and sewer gators. Chicago is all snowbound yetis and the ghosts of a million angry steers with horns like jackhammers. Texas is crisscrossed with ghost railroads that kidnap demon-possessed Lolitas to play strip Russian roulette with six shells in the chamber.

L.A. is all assholes and angels, bloodsuckers and trust-fund satanists, black magic and movie moguls with more bodies buried under the house than John Wayne Gacy.

There are more surveillance cameras and razor wire here than around the pope. L.A. is one traffic jam from going completely Hiroshima.

God, I love this town.

I NEED FOOD. I need booze. I need to smoke a cigarette outside a bar where you can hear people dry humping in the alley behind the Dumpster.

I walk from Max Overdrive to the Bamboo House of Dolls, sucking down stage-six smog-alert air and lingering over a sunset as bloody as the fall of the Roman Empire.

People stare and point at me as I go inside. For a second I have that anxiety-dream paranoia that I’m not wearing any pants. But no one’s laughing and I’ve got a pocket full of money and a knife tucked in the back of my jeans, so I think I’m covered on the pants thing.

More girls smile at me going into Bamboo House than have smiled at me in my entire life. There must be a scar-fetish convention in town.

An older guy in a purple velvet Edwardian jacket holds the door for me when I go inside. Scratch the scar convention. We’ve been invaded by Renn Faire rejects on acid. I stand for a minute in the alcove. Let my eyes adjust to the dim inside.

The place goes dead silent. Carlos even kills the music. My balls shrink up inside my body and my hand sneaks back for my knife. I open my eyes and about a hundred schizophrenics start applauding. In a minute, they’re all chanting “Sandman! Sandman!” There’s a banner over the bar. In silver glitter it says DING DONG, THE WITCH IS DEAD. There’s a framed picture of Mason with a black wreath around it on the bar. Someone’s drawn a mustache and devil horns on him in Magic Marker.

People rush forward and start shaking my hand. Patting me on the back. Women kiss me. Guys with funny accents kiss me, too. Some are dressed like ordinary businessmen and women, students, hipsters, and adolescent neopunks. Others look like they’re on a weekend pass from an asylum in Oz.

Holy shit. The Sub Rosa have taken over my bar.

Word must have gotten around about my cage match with Mason and the Kissi.

Fuck me. I’m a rock star. And all I really wanted was a burrito.

I belly up to the bar and Carlos beams at me.

“Your friends are a blast!” he yells over the din. “Why didn’t you bring them in before?”

“I didn’t know they were my friends.”

He keeps smiling. He can’t hear a word I say. He motions me to get closer so he can whisper something to me. I get right up to him and he says, “Some of these people, no shit, can do magic.”

“Can you magic me some rice and beans? I’m hungry enough to eat Orange County.”

Two minutes later, Carlos brings me enough food to feed the Pacific Rim. I hold up my tumbler full of Jack and Carlos and I toast each other. He looks extremely happy. The Sub Rosa might be a bunch of lunatics, show-offs, and bureaucrats, but they’re a big part of the underground economy that keeps California afloat. And they’re not shy about splashing around cash. If the Bamboo House of Dolls stays Sub Rosa central, Carlos will have enough money to retire by Friday.

I try to eat, but people keep coming up and introducing themselves. If I need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call. About fifty different women slip me their phone numbers. So do at least that many guys. I don’t remember anyone’s name. It’s one big lovefest blur, and as nice as these people are being, it’s really getting to me. I pretend that I’m going out for a smoke, but what I really need is a shadow to disappear into.

On the other hand, I really need a smoke, too.

I light up by the side of the bar. A woman walks over to me. She’s dressed like Stevie Nicks in her how-fast-can-I-burn-out-my-nose-with-coke period. When she gets closer, she becomes really interesting. She has the whitest skin I’ve ever seen. And there’s something strange about her face: it moves whether she talks or not. Her face is like the phases of the moon, going from a gorgeous bride-to-be to an old woman with a face like shattered granite.

“Are you having fun inside?” she asks.

I shrug.

“It’s nice, but it’s a little much. I’m going to finish this and sneak off.”

“I’m glad I caught you then. I’m Medea Bava. Did you get the package I left with your friend Vidocq?”

Feathers. Wolf teeth. Blood.

“I got it. And it was after Christmas, but you still cared enough to get me something.”

The young woman’s and the old woman’s faces turn serious.

“You might be a hero to those fools inside, but you’re not to me. To me, you’re a dangerous man. A criminal for sure. Possibly a wild dog that needs to be put down.”

“You’re from the Inquisition, aren’t you?”

She laughs.

“My boy, I am the Inquisition. And from this moment onward, I will be watching every move you make.”

“Isn’t that a song by the Police?”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing that will get you another package. Only this one will be a bit more, let’s say, lively.”

“Lady, I’ve seen Hell and I’ve seen Hollywood and I have a pretty good idea what Heaven looks like. So, take your threats and shove ’em straight up your deviated septum. For me to worry about your finger wagging, I’d have to give a damn about something, and I’ve pretty much reached my limit there. Anytime you want to get all junkyard dog, give me a call. You might kill me, but trust me, you’re going to have a limp and that face of yours isn’t going to move so easily anymore.”

She keeps looking at me. No reaction. Nothing. Just her stare shifting through the phases of the moon.

“Have a nice party, young man.”

“Leave a light on. Maybe I won’t wait for you to come after me.”

That makes her laugh. A high titter, like crystal wineglasses tinkling together.

That’s enough fun for one night. I throw my cigarette into the gutter and look around for a comfy shadow.

“Littering is a crime, even in L.A.”

I’ll be hearing that drawl in my dreams for the next hundred years.

“U.S. Marshal Wells. Come to party with the pixies?”

“Don’t be obscene,” he says. “I can smell the crazy on these people from here.”

“Don’t knock it. You might get lucky. Some of them inside are going to love a man in uniform.”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t like wasting my time talking to people too crazy or stupid or addled to understand what I’m saying.”

“Then maybe what you were going to say, it’s not worth saying.”

“No. It is. You did a good thing the other night. I don’t know that we could have stopped the ceremony without you.”

“And Candy.”

“Yes, your sidekick monster. So, are you Batman and Robin now?”

“I think that was our first and last date.”

“Too bad. You might have been good assets.”

“I’ll tell her we have Homeland Security’s blessing. And you can hire us, if you want. I’m sure for the right price, I can get her out of retirement.”

“Aelita told me about your business proposition. I’ll never understand people like you. You respect nothing. You value nothing. But you went out of your way to take on the biggest evil this city has seen in a good long while.”

“I value plenty. Probably just not things you’d care about.”

“You might just be surprised.”

He looks away. His heartbeat is up. He’s hiding something.

“It’s okay to be in love with an angel. Trust me. You wouldn’t be the first.”

He nods, but he still won’t look at me. There’s a package under his arm. He holds it out for me.

“I thought you might want this. We found it when we were searching Avila. There was a whole room of similar items. It’s your girlfriend’s ashes.”

And there goes L.A., dropping down fifty thousand feet right under me. Swallowed up by the San Andreas fault. My head swims, but I don’t want him to see that. I start to say thank you, but nothing comes out.

“Don’t say anything. It’s okay even for an asshole to get choked up. Trust me. You wouldn’t be the first.”

He walks away and gets into one of his blacked-out vans. I step into the first shadow I can find.

I WANT TO steal a car. Something big. Something ugly. A Hummer or a director’s decked-out Land Rover. Reinforced suspension, emergency winch, and self-sealing tires, like he thinks he can four-wheel his way out of the Apocalypse. I want to steal something bright and shiny and stupid and expensive, set it on fire, climb into the driver’s seat, and pile-drive it into the ocean at a hundred and twenty. Feel the windshield cave. The crack as the safety glass pops out, hits me in the face, and snaps my neck. I want to feel the cold black water swallow me up and spit me out on the sandy bottom of the world. Just blind crabs and bone-white starfish down here. I don’t want death. I know what’s waiting for me when I die, and Hell is too bright. Too loud. I want oblivion. I want to not exist. I want to feel something that’s not pain.

I want Alice.

But Alice wouldn’t want me to disappear. She didn’t like me stealing or breaking other people’s things, so I won’t do any of that tonight.

See? Even dead she makes me a better whatever-the-hell it is I am. A less stupid person. A more considerate monster.

I step out of a shadow and onto Venice Beach. Alice is under my arm in a brown plastic box. There are bonfires fifty yards down the sand. A boom box pumps out something that, at this distance, is just beats and the buzz of overloaded speakers. People cop drugs on the street behind me. Couples grope and sweat in the dark.

I knew a drug dealer from Marin County. A hippie, but the kind who slept with a .45 under his pillow. When he got into organic pot farming, he stopped using the toilet. He’d shit on a black plastic tarp behind his house, staked out in the sun, so his droppings would dry out and he could use them to fertilize his plants. He told me that he got the idea from a friend who made sun dried tomatoes.

He did the fertilizer experiment for a year. Collected each dried-out nugget after a month in the sun. He told me that at the end of that year, everything he dropped on the tarp fit inside one shoe box.

I don’t know why I think of that, except that the only person I ever loved now fits into something about the same size as that dead hippie dealer’s shit box.

There’s a crescent moon out. Does that mean it’s a good night to let Alice go or a bad one? If I was better at magic than murder, I’m sure I’d know.

The water is cold and calm. Low tide. I have to walk out a good ten or twenty yards to feel the waves on my legs, boots sinking into the wet sand all the way out. I wade into the sluggish waves until I’m in waist deep.

Pop the top of Alice’s plastic sarcophagus. Her ashes are in a plastic bag, like something you’d put your lunch in. I hold out the bag so that the bottom is about an inch underwater. Pull the black knife and slit the side.

The waves lap at the bag, washing out her ashes. Alice floats on the surface of the ocean, a white cloud spreading out in all directions. When the bag is empty, I drop it and the box into the water. I wade out, following the ash cloud as it’s drawn away with the tide.

I want to follow her all the way out, over my head, and keep on going. But she wouldn’t like that, either.

I stop when the water is up to my chest and watch Alice spread out into the black Pacific. Scoop up a handful of her ashes, but they wash away when the water runs between my fingers. That damn song is stuck in my head again.

“It’s dreamy weather we’re on

You waved your crooked wand

Along an icy pond with a frozen moon

A murder of silhouette crows I saw

And the tears on my face

And the skates on the pond

They spell Alice.”

My legs are good and numb when the last of her drifts out of sight. I’m not even cold anymore, but I can’t stop shaking.

Good-bye, Alice. I know you probably don’t like the idea of me killing, but it’s all I have left to give you. And I’ve gone too far to stop now. When I’m sure about Mason, this thing is done. I’ll go back down where I belong and dream about you in Hell. Till then, sleep tight.

WHO WOULD HAVE guessed that Kasabian had his act wired tight enough to have accident insurance? Allegra found the papers in the bottom of the safe when she was closing up the one night a week she still works at Max Overdrive.

Drop cloths, ladders, and paint cans are stacked along the edge of the staircase leading to my bedroom. The broken walls and ceiling have new drywall. In the morning (not too early; I tipped the foreman not to show up until after eleven), the crew will start plastering one end of the room and start painting the other.

I’m lying in bed after a shower, staring up at streaks of drywall tape and mud, the long white scars that hold the new ceiling panels together. I’m trying to talk myself into getting my ass out of bed and down to the Bamboo House of Dolls for some decent food.

“Knock. Knock.”

I have the Navy Colt up and cocked in a fraction of a second. Lucifer is standing in the doorway, holding a red-and-white-checkered bowling bag. I lower the Colt’s hammer and set it back down on the bedside table.

Lucifer says, “Don’t get up. This is just a social call.”

The Prince of Darkness is dressed in a tailored charcoal-gray suit that looks like it cost more than this building. He sets down the bowling bag on the bootlegging table and leans back against the door frame.

“Careful. That might not be dry,” I say.

“Thank you.” He stands up and checks his jacket for spots. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by and congratulate you on outfoxing Mason. I honestly didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Up until he was gone, neither did I.”

“It was clever how you tricked him into following you to Hell. It’s just too bad that when you locked him in, you probably gave him exactly what he wanted. You don’t really think that ritual at Avila was to let me or my kind out of Hell, do you?”

“No, it was to let him in. I didn’t figure that out until later. So, the mob didn’t rip him to shreds?”

“Of course not. Mason won’t die that easily. And now he’s free to crawl around down below, like a viper at my bosom, and conspire with my generals to overthrow me.”

“It’s going to be a lot harder for him now that he doesn’t have the Kissi to back him up.”

“Maybe.”

“You telling me that the Prince of Darkness can’t handle one lousy human? You’ve done it before.”

“Not when he’s protected by my entire general corps and the aristocracy. Things were chaotic enough before his arrival. I could gather the troops who remain loyal to me, find and kill him tomorrow, but I’d have to destroy half my kingdom to do it.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Not yet.”

Lucifer takes out a pack of thin black silver-tipped cigarettes.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

“Damn. Are those Maledictions?”

“Right. You can’t get these up here.” He tosses me the pack. “Keep them. I have more.”

“Thanks.”

I tap a Malediction out of the box, fire it up, and puff. It tastes like a tire fire in a candy factory next door to a strip club. The best cigarettes in the universe.

“I heard a funny story the other day. Doc Kinski told me one about angels and human women and something called a nephilim. He says I might be one. You know anything about that?”

“I know all about Uriel and his disgrace. Do you think an archangel could fall without me knowing? I’d hoped that Heaven would cast him all the way down to me. I would have thrown him a ticker-tape parade.”

“So, he was telling the truth?”

“Of course. I’d heard stories about the nephilim over the centuries, but I’d never seen one. I wasn’t sure they even existed. When the Kissi dropped you down with us, I wasn’t terribly interested. Unlike my brethren, I’d seen more than my share of humans. Then days passed and you refused to die. That’s when you got interesting. I moved you from household to household. Put you in direct conflict with powerful Hellions. Decided who you would fight in the arena.”

“I was your science project.”

“You still are.”

“What does that mean?”

Lucifer looks away and picks up an import DVD of Lucio Fulci’s Zombi.

“This looks fun. May I take it?”

“Happy New Year. It’s yours.”

He throws back the drop cloth and starts going through the stacks of discs on the table.

I say, “I’ve been wondering, just how much of everything since I got back was your doing?”

Lucifer keeps going through the stacks of movies.

“The Veritas aimed me straight at Kasabian. Then some mysterious buyer wanted Muninn to get something for him, only Muninn needed my help and that sent me to Jayne-Anne and Avila, which led me to the Golden Vigil and Mason. Don’t you think that’s an awful lot of coincidences?”

He holds up a copy of To the Devil a Daughter.

I shake my head. “Don’t bother.”

He makes a disappointed face and tosses the disc back onto the pile.

“You’re too hard on yourself, Jimmy” he says. “I’m sure you’re simply a much better detective than you give yourself credit for.”

“Really, I’m not.”

He holds up a copy of L’Inferno, a 1911 silent version of Dante’s Inferno.

“You’ll love that one,” I say. “Why would you tweak things so they ended up with me still alive and Mason in Hell? Either you never saw it coming or you were lying before and you really wanted him Downtown.”

“Why would I want Mason where he’ll cause me the most trouble?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Don’t overthink things. It’s not your strong suit. I do have an ulterior motive for coming here tonight, besides raiding your movie collection. Now that you’ve beaten Mason and the Kissi, there’s really no reason for you to be concerned with the Room of Thirteen Doors. I’d like to buy the key from you.”

“How much?”

“Name a figure and don’t be shy. You can be the richest man in the world. The richest man ever.”

“No thanks. Sounds like there’d be a lot of paperwork.”

“If you’re worried about getting hurt, I’m not a butcher like the Kissi. I can take the key out and you won’t feel a thing.”

“But I have a feeling I might need it again sometime. You just said that Mason’s busy conspiring with your generals. I might have to do something about that, and the key came in handy when I had to to kill a few of them. Besides, I’d still like another shot at Mason, so, thanks, but I think I’ll hold on to the key for now.”

“Suit yourself.”

Lucifer turns away. Starts flipping through another pile of discs. I wish angels weren’t so impossible to read. I know that he’s got to be pissed, but I can’t tell how much.

“But I’ll work for you, if you want.”

Lucifer turns and looks at me.

“Strictly freelance. On a case-by-case basis. Cash up front. And I have to not object to the job.”

“Is this the same deal you offered to Aelita?”

“Exactly.”

“All right. But I’d still rather have the key.”

I go to the bathroom and take some pebbles from a pot in the window holding the remains of a dead flower. I take the stones back to the bedroom and hand them to Lucifer.

“You can have these.”

He looks at them and gives me a big, toothy Prince of Darkness smile.

“Seven stones. Seven stones to chase away the devil. Are you trying to prove that you’re not afraid of me, Jimmy? That’s adorable. And how very Old Testament. Don’t tell me that you’ve gone and read a book?”

“I saw it in an old monster movie.”

“Phew.”

Lucifer picks up a stone between his thumb and forefinger, takes my hand, and drops the stone into it.

“Keep it. You just might need it someday, Sandman Slim.”

I don’t know what that means, but the way he says it makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

He looks at his watch.

“I’ve got to run. Thanks for the flickers.”

He gives me a wink and starts down the stairs.

I yell down after him, “You forgot your bowling bag.”

Lucifer looks up at me.

“That’s for you. I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to give it to you, but after you gave me this lovely gift”—he holds up the stones—“I think you deserve it.”

That doesn’t sound good. But if he wanted me dead, he could have done it without me even knowing he was there. I open the bag. Kasabian’s head looks up at me from inside.

“Hello, asshole.”

I slam the bag shut.

“I can’t make these personal calls all the time,” Lucifer says. “Kasabian here will be my voice when I want to get in touch. Of course, you can also relay messages to me through him.”

“And the rest of the time he’ll be your spy.”

“O ye of little faith.”

Lucifer vanishes from the stairs.

I can hear Kasabian’s voice from inside the bag. I open it about an inch.

“Come on, man. You think I wanted this gig? You told me to ask for a job.”

I open the bag the rest of the way and take Kasabian out. Clear a spot on the table and set him down.

“Is that a Malediction?” Kasabian asks. “Can I have one?”

I take mine, put it between his lips, and let him puff.

“So what’s being dead like?” I ask.

“Eh. I’ve felt worse.”

“You know. I thought I’d be dead now. That’s how I always pictured it. When the Circle was gone, I was supposed to be gone, too.”

“Aw. Dying didn’t work out for you? Boo hoo. Shove your James Dean wet dreams up your ass. At the end of the day, you’re still Sandman Slim and I’m still a head in a bag that smells like someone used it to store an extra ass.”

“I miss Alice.”

“I miss my balls.” Kasabian looks around. “Who fucked up my room?”

“It’s my room now and you did. When you blew yourself up.”

“Oh, right. That sucked. I heard you got Parker.”

“Yeah. Back at the old motel.”

“I haven’t thought about that place in a long time. You think it hurt when you killed him?”

“Definitely.”

“Good.”

I take a puff of the Malediction and let Kasabian finish it off.

I say, “Maybe us being stuck here isn’t the worst thing imaginable.”

“No, it is. It really is.”

“I felt so guilty about everything that’s happened. Then I remembered that half of this shit is just because humans are jokes to Heaven and Hell. We’re the punching bags in their family psychodrama. I know I can’t change that, but I can make it more fun. A mosquito can’t kill an elephant, but it can drive it crazy. Maybe that’s enough. Fucking with Lucifer’s bullyboys and God’s Pinkertons. Maybe that’s a good enough reason not to be dead.”

“That’s really beautiful. Why don’t you go and knit that on a sweater, Heidi? Here’s an even better idea—don’t talk anymore. Put on a movie.”

“What do you want to see?”

“Porn.”

“There’s no way I’m watching porn with you.”

“You’re such an old lady. What’s on top of the player?”

“Master of the Flying Guillotine and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”

“The Good, the Bad and the Ugly first. Then The Flying Guillotine.”

I take Kasabian to the bedside table, hit on, thumb play on the remote, and lie back on the bed. The no-copying warning comes up.

“Can we order in pizza later?” asks Kasabian.

“Can you eat?”

“I can chew.”

“I’ll put a bucket under you.”

“Shut up. The movie’s starting.”