Copyright

HarperVoyager

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by Voyager US 2010

Published by HarperVoyager 2012

Copyright © Richard Kadrey 2010

Richard Kadrey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Songs quoted: “Ballad of Thunder Road” by Don Raye and Robert Mitchum © 1958 Universal MCA Music, ASCAP. All rights reserved.

“I’m Waiting for the Man” by Lou Reed © 1967 Oakfield Avenue Music, Ltd. (BMI). Rights for Oakfield Avenue Music, Ltd. (BMI) administered by Spirit One Music (BMI). All rights reserved.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

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Source ISBN: 9780007446001

Ebook Edition © June 2012 ISBN: 9780007446018

Version: 2017-09-08

For G and K

Where all life dies, death lives, and nature breeds

Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things

Abominable, unutterable, and worse …

– PARADISE LOST, Book 2

I don’t want to achieve immortality through my

work. I want to achieve it through not dying.

– WOODY ALLEN

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Imagine shoving

A Courier delivers

I’m sitting in bed

I get up

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Richard Kadrey

About the Publisher

IMAGINE SHOVING A cattle prod up a rhino’s ass, shouting “April fool!”, and hoping the rhino thinks it’s funny. That’s about how much fun it is hunting a vampire.

Personally, I don’t have anything against shroud eaters. They’re just another kind of addict in a city of addicts. Since most of them started out as civilians, the percentage of decent vampires to complete bastards is about the same as regular people. Right now, though, I’m hunting one that’s trying for a Nobel Prize in getting completely up my ass. It isn’t fun work, but it pays the bills.

The vampire’s name is Eleanor Vance. In the Xeroxed passport photo Marshal Wells gave me, she looks like she’s about seventeen. Probably because she is. A pretty blond cheerleader type with big eyes and the kind of smile that got Troy burned to the ground. Bad news for me. Young vampires are all assholes. It’s part of their job description.

I love older vampires. A hundred and fifty, two hundred years old, they’re beautiful. The smart ones mostly stick to the El Hombre Invisible tricks that urban monsters have worked out over centuries. They only feed when they have to. When they’re not hunting, they’re boring, at least to outsiders. They come off like corporate middle management or the guy who runs the corner bodega. What I like best about old bloodsuckers is that when you’ve got one cornered and it knows it’s coffin fodder, they’re like noble cancer patients in TV movies. All they want is to die quietly and with a little dignity. Young vampires, not so much.

The young ones have all grown up watching Slayer videos, Scarface, Halloween, and about a million hours of Japanese anime. They all think they’re Tony Montana with a lightsaber in one hand and a chain saw in the other. Eleanor, tonight’s undead dream date, is a good example. She’s got a homemade flamethrower. I know because when she blasted me back at the parking garage, she fried one of my eyebrows and the left sleeve of my new leather jacket. Ten to one she found the plans on the Web. Why can’t vampires just download porn like normal jailbait?

It’s Sunday, about a quarter to six in the evening. We’re downtown. I follow her along South Hill Street toward Pershing Square. I’m about half a block behind her. Eleanor is wearing long sleeves and carrying an umbrella to keep the sun off. She strolls along happy, like she owns the air and everyone has to pay her royalties whenever they breathe. Only she’s not really relaxed. I can’t read a juicer’s heartbeat or breathing changes because they don’t have them. And she’s too far away to see if her eyes are dilated, but she keeps moving her head. Microscopic twitches left and right. She’s trying to look around without looking around. Hoping to catch my shadow or reflection. Eleanor knows she didn’t kill me back at the garage. Eleanor’s a smart girl. I hate smart dead girls.

At the corner of Third Street, Eleanor shoulder-butts an old lady and what’s probably her grandkid into the street, in front of a flatbed truck carrying a backhoe. The driver slams on the brakes. The old lady is on the ground. Cue the screaming and squealing tires. Cue the sheep who stand around pointing and the Captain Americas who run to help. They pull the old lady and the kid back onto the sidewalk, which is great for them, but it doesn’t do anything for me. Eleanor is gone.

But it’s not hard to find her. Fifty people must have seen her pull the stunt and half of them point as she sprints down Third before cutting right onto Broadway. I take off after her. I’m fast, a hell of a lot faster than the flat-footed civilians trying to chase her down, but I’m not quite as fast as a vampire. Especially one who’s lost her umbrella and wants to get out of the sun before she turns into chicken-fried steak.

She’s gone when I hit Broadway. This part of town isn’t that crowded on Sundays. I have a clear view in both directions. No perky blondes running down the street in flames. It’s mostly stores and office buildings down here, but all the offices and most of the stores are closed. There are a few open doors in the small shops, but Eleanor is too smart to get cornered in one of those little cracker boxes. There’s only one place a smart girl would go.

God said, “Let there be Light, and cheap take-out Chinese,” and the Grand Central Market appeared. The place has been on South Broadway since before the continents divided. Some of the meat they use in the burritos and Szechuan beef is even older. I think I once saw Fred Flintstone’s teeth marks on some barbecued ribs.

Inside, I’m facing down tacos and pizza. There’s a liquor store to my left and ice cream against the far wall. Every spice known to man is mixed with the smell of sweat and cooking meat. Not too much of a crowd at this time of day. Some of the shops and kiosks are already counting up receipts. I don’t see Eleanor down the central walkway or either of the side ones. I start down the middle of the place, cut to the right, and walk by a fish stand. I’m reaching out. Listening, smelling, feeling the movement of the air, trying to pick up any tiny vibrations in the aether. I’m getting better at this kind of hunting. Ambush predator stuff as opposed to my old Tyrannosaurus-with-a-hard-on moves that don’t go down quite as well in the streets of L.A. as they did in the arena.

Subtle hunting, acting like a grown-up, I really miss Hell sometimes.

A tourist dad asks me how they can get back on the freeway to Hollywood from here. I ignore him and he mumbles something about his taxes and how come we don’t have more cops to clear out these drug addicts.

Six months after the New Year’s bash at Avila and I’m still not used to this place, these people. In a lot of ways civilians are worse than Hellions because at least Hellions know they’re miserable sacks of slaughterhouse shit. More and more, I want one of these mortal types to have to face down a vampire, a Jade, or a bat-shit demon elemental. Not a ghost glimpse in the dark, but having to stare straight into a beast’s red meat-grinder eyes hungry for the souls of the terminally clueless.

Be careful what you wish for.

A long orange jet of fire rains from overhead and there’s Eleanor, standing on top of the glass-and-chrome cases at a spice kiosk. The business end of the flamethrower is a little thing, no bigger than a .45 semiauto. A tube runs from the pistol to an Astro Boy backpack, where the gas and propellant are stored.

Eleanor moves her arm in a wide arc, torching produce, signs, and the backs of a few slack-jawed market workers. She’s smiling down at us. Annie Oakley and Charlie Manson’s demon baby, jacked up on that sweet and special prekill adrenaline.

Then she’s down and running with a small bubbling laugh like a naughty six-year-old. I take off after her, running deeper into the market. She’s small and fast and a second later she cuts left, down the far aisle, and doubles back toward Broadway.

I can’t catch her or cut her off, but there’s an empty utility cart by a produce stand. I give it a kick and send it through the empty dining area. Tables and chairs go flying. The cart slams into her legs at the end of the aisle, knocking her through the counter of Grand Central Liquor. Suddenly it’s raining glass and Patrón Silver. Right on cue, people start screaming.

Eleanor is back on her feet a second before I can grab her. She’s not smiling anymore. Her left arm is bent at a funny angle and a chunk of bone the size of a turkey drumstick is sticking out just below her elbow. She has the flamethrower up, but I’m moving flat out. No way I can stop. Instead, I go faster. She pulls the trigger and I’m drowning in fire.

I hit her a millisecond later. I can’t see anything, but I know it’s her because she’s the only thing in the store light enough to fly like that. My vision clears, but even I don’t want to see this. When she pulled the trigger to hose me down, all the liquor on her clothes and the floor went up. Eleanor is an epileptic shadow puppet pirouetting around in a lake of whiskey fire.

Vampires don’t scream like regular humans. I don’t know how they scream at all without lungs, but when they let loose, it’s like a runaway train meets the screech of a million fighting cats. You feel it in your kidneys and bones. Tourists pee and puke at the sound. Fuck ’em. Eleanor still isn’t going down. And the fire is starting to spread. Grease on the grills of nearby food stalls starts going up. A propane tank blows, setting off the sprinkler system. When I look back, Eleanor is sprinting out of the market back onto Broadway, still covered in flames.

Chasing a burning girl down a city street is a lot harder than it sounds. Civilians tend to stop and stare and this turns them into human bowling pins. Slow, whiny bowling pins. You’d think that on some basic animal level they’d want to get the hell out of the way of a burning schoolgirl screaming loud enough to crack store windows and the stupid son of a bitch chasing her. Not that I’m doing this for them. I’m doing it for the money, but they still stand to benefit from it.

When Eleanor runs across Fifth Street she isn’t burning anymore. She’s a black beef-jerky Barbie doll running on charred stick insect legs.

Up ahead, there’s an abandoned wreck of a movie theater called the Roxie. The lobby and marquee areas have been converted into an open-air market. Eleanor blows past the racks of knockoff T-shirts and toxic rubber sandals. Slams straight through the inch-thick plywood screwed over the theater doors where the glass used to be. I follow her inside, but hang back by the smashed door, letting my eyes adjust to the dark.

The na’at would be a smart weapon in a place like this, but I feel like shooting something. Besides, Eleanor won’t know what a na’at is, so it won’t scare her the way I want. I retired Wild Bill’s Navy Colt pistol a while back and replaced it with a Smith & Wesson .460 hunting pistol. The thing is so big and mean it doesn’t even need bullets. I could beat Godzilla to death with it if I stood on a chair. The gun is loaded alternately with massive .460 rounds and shortened .410 shotgun shells, all coated in my special Spiritus Dei, silver, garlic, holy water, and red mercury dipping sauce. It only holds five shots, but it does its job well enough that I’ve never had to reload.

When you’re going in someplace blind, don’t know the layout or what’s waiting inside, a place you know a Lurker likes to hang out, a smart guy will hang back, circle the perimeter, and look for traps and weak points. I’m hot, annoyed, and in a rush, so that’s exactly what I don’t do. Besides, I’m just chasing one dumb little Kentucky fried blonde. She can’t be much trouble now that she’s cornered. Yeah. That’s probably what all those G-men said about Bonnie Parker before they saw the tommy gun.

Inside the theater, it’s a sauna. Burst water pipes in a sealed-up building. I haven’t moved and I’m sweating like a lawyer at the pearly gates. It smells like they invented mildew in here. How the hell did suburban Valley girl Eleanor end up day-squatting here? She didn’t run into the theater by accident. She knew where she was going. By the sound of all the broken beer and wine bottles under my feet, so do a lot of other people. Make that “did,” past tense. The winos are probably what attracted her to the place. Who doesn’t love a free lunch? I have a feeling that there aren’t too many random squatters in here anymore.

Turns out I’m half right.

The squatters aren’t random. They’re vampires. Friends of hers. A guy and a girl.

They jump from the balcony and the guy slams a piece of two-by-four between my shoulders. I go down on my knees in the crunchy glass, but I roll with the blow and come up with the .460 cocked. That’s when Eleanor’s other friends hit me. Two more guys from beneath the seats on either side of the aisle. I grab the smaller one by the throat and toss him into the second. The girl vampire pair hits me from behind and jams a broken bottle into my arm. I drop the gun and it’s too dark to see where it went. I throw an elbow back and feel the side of the girl’s skull crack. She jumps up like a gazelle and stumbles over two rows of seats, screaming. That gives me a second to sprint down the aisle toward the screen and put some distance between Eleanor’s dead friends and me.

That’s where Eleanor has been waiting. Not only is she smart, but she has titanium balls. Even when she was on fire and running through the boarded-up front doors, she never let go of the flamethrower. The other bloodsuckers fall back as she opens up.

The shot back at the market was her just introducing herself. This one is a “fuck you very much and good night” just for me. Eleanor pulls the trigger and doesn’t let up until the gun is empty.

Stabbed and cold-cocked, I’m still not dumb enough to just stand there. I dive to the right, behind a row of seats. Fire wraps around them like it’s reaching for me. I’m getting burned from above and below, steaming like a pork bun in my leather jacket. Even when the flamethrower is empty, the burning seats keep right on cooking me, and the two-by-four shot left me too dizzy to move very fast. I stagger over to the wall and try to run up the aisle, but I’m tripping on the garbage snowdrifts and land face-first in candy wrappers, needles, and malt liquor bottles.

I’ve turned into Buster Keaton and Eleanor and her friends are getting a real kick out of me gimping along on all fours. She’s burned beyond any human recognition, but she’s a juicer and they get over pain pretty quick. I do, too, but I’m not there yet. Not even in the same time zone. I give up and lie down on the sticky-sweet carpet to do what I should have done in the first place.

I press my right hand down into the broken glass and put my weight on it. The jagged bottle shards slice deep into my palm and I keep pushing until I feel glass hit bone. Most hexes don’t need blood to work, but a little of the red stuff is like a nitrous afterburner when you want a hex to come on hard and fast.

Eleanor takes the two-by-four from the boy bloodsucker and thumps it on each seat as she strolls over to me.

“Hey, Speedy Gonzales. You like chasing things? Why don’t I knock your head across the street and you can chase that?”

“Get him, Nellie. Look at that scarred piece of shit. He’s too ugly to drink. Waste that faggot.”

It’s one of the boys talking. The one who got me with the chunk of wood. He has a southern accent. Somewhere deep, old, and hot. You can almost hear the kudzu wrapped around his words.

Eleanor says, “Shut up, Jed Clampett. Jethro is waiting for you to blow him in the parking lot.”

Everyone laughs but Jed.

While Eleanor does an “Evening at the Improv” thing for her dead friends, I do a Hellion chant over and over, keeping my hand in the glass and letting the blood flow. For once, Hellion’s guttural grunts work in my favor. The Lost Boys think I’m moaning.

“Why were you following me, asshole? Did Mutti send you? Mom, I mean? Does Daddy know? All she has to do is put on her knee pads and she can get him to do anything.”

The wind starts as a breeze from the back of the theater, sweeping from the balcony and ripping down the rotten curtains that flank the dead movie screen. Eleanor drops the comedy act and the others go silent as the wind picks up force. Now they’re the ones unsteady on their feet.

Even though I can’t read the dead like the living, vampires still have minds and I feel around for Eleanor’s. I can’t tell you her lottery numbers or her kitten’s name, but I can pick up images and impressions. She’s gone from pissed to nervous and is steering into the skid, heading for scared. She hasn’t been a Lurker long enough to run into anybody with real hoodoo power and she can’t figure out what’s happening.

Mommy is in her head, too, a black hole of anger and fear. Eleanor might even have gotten herself bit just to spite her. She has a secret, too. She thought it would save her in the end, but now she’s having her doubts.

A gust blasts down the aisle like an invisible fist, knocking all five of them ass over horseshoes into the air. Eleanor loses the two-by-four and lands on top of me. I can smell the fear through her burned skin. The wind keeps going, moving up from Hurricane Katrina to space shuttle exhaust.

With all her strength, Eleanor pushes herself off of me.

“It’s him! He’s doing it!” she yells. “What do we do?”

Jed Clampett hauls his ass up off the floor and pulls himself to me using seat backs like crutches. I’ve changed the chant, but he hasn’t noticed yet.

The wind shifts from a wind tunnel to a swirling twister. I haul myself to my knees and shrug off my leather jacket. The twister rips the carpet from the floor, throwing a junkyardful of broken glass into the air. The shards circle us like a million glittering razor blades, which doesn’t do much more than annoy Eleanor and her friends. They bat the glass away like flies. Each of their hundred cuts heals before the second hundred happen. But I’m getting cut, too. In a few seconds I’m the fountain in front of the Bellagio Hotel and all that broken glass is doing a water ballet in my blood.

The swirling air turns pink as I bleed out, which Jed and his girlfriend think is goddamn hysterical. They stick out their tongues and catch drops of my blood like kids catching snowflakes. About ten seconds later they’re both screaming and tearing open their throats with their fingernails. Then the other three start to feel it. They try to run, but the wind and glass are everywhere. It’s one big Veg-O-Matic in here, spraying my tainted blood down their throats and onto their million wounds.

Eleanor already looks like a Chicken McNugget, so it’s hard to tell what’s going on with her, but the others are starting to sizzle and glow from the inside like they swallowed road flares on a bet and lost. That’s what happens to vampires dumb enough to drink angel blood.

It doesn’t take long for them to go catatonic, then flare fast and hot. Human flash paper. They sizzle for a few seconds and cook down to a fine gray ash. I growl the end of the hex and the air grows still. The vampires are all dead, except for Eleanor. She hunkered down and held on to me during the twister. My body blocked enough of the wind for her to survive, but just barely. She moves her cracked lips like she’s trying to talk. I lean my ear close to her.

“When you see Mutti, tell her I’m sorry. I only did what I did to scare her like she scares me and Daddy sometimes.”

When you’re hired to kill someone, the last thing you want is to have to give them absolution. You want them dead fast, not lying there asking you to be their therapist. Worse, you don’t want to hear anything that might make you feel sorry for them. I don’t want Eleanor’s mommy trauma in my head. She’s a monster just like me, but I want her to be a dead monster like her friends. She lets go of my leg and gives me a Say Good Night, Gracie sigh. A couple of minutes ago, I wanted to stick her on a spit and toast marshmallows on her while she burned. Now I cover her eyes with my hand and get out the black knife.

“Don’t move.”

I jam the blade between her ribs. One clean, surgical, pain-free thrust up into her heart. Eleanor stiffens, flares, and ashes out. The dead girl is finally dead.

I look around, making a quick mental map of the bodies and checking that we’re still alone. I can hear voices outside. Now that the wind has died down, some curious civilian is going to stick a nose in here soon. I have to work fast.

Eleanor’s clothes are pretty much gone, but I give her a quick pat-down. She’s wearing a gold locket that’s half-melted into her blackened chest. A couple of rhinestone rings have fallen off her fingers, so I grab those. No money in her pockets, but there’s a flat metal thing, about the size of a rodeo belt buckle. One side is blank. There’s a snarling demon encircled by a spooky monster alphabet on the other. Junk. Goth bling. That’s the other problem with baby Lugosis. Eleanor’s friends were brainless street kids and she wasn’t a vampire long enough for any educated bloodsuckers to clue her in to what she really was. Death in go-go boots. A V-8 devil doll who could explode like a cruise missile and bite like an armor-piercing shark. Silly, stupid kid. Maybe if she hadn’t pissed off whoever it was that got the Golden Vigil to call in the hit, she would have had enough time to figure that out.

Good night, Eleanor. I’m sure Mutti forgives you and maybe even misses you. As long as she never finds what you’ve been up to these last few weeks. She sure won’t find it out from me.

I give the ghoul belt buckle one more look. It’s heavy like metal, but the edges are chipped like an old china saucer. The dumbest fence in L.A. wouldn’t give me a dime for it. I toss it into the dark with the other trash and get to work on Eleanor’s friends, going through their pockets, bags, and backpacks. These aren’t Beverly Hills Lurkers, just a bunch of downtown scroungers, so I’m not exactly coming up with the crown jewels. Still, it’s tourist season, so there’s about three hundred in cash that didn’t burn up when they ashed out. Some joints, movie ticket stubs, car keys, condoms, and Eleanor’s play jewels. I toss everything but the jewelry and the cash. Looting the dead might seem harsh, but they don’t need the stuff anymore and the Vigil doesn’t pay overtime. Besides, killing monsters is my day job. The way I look at it, me stealing from the dead is like regular people pocketing Post-its on their way out of the office.

I go out into the sun and take a breath to clear the greasy flesh smoke and ashed bodies out of my lungs. I sit on my haunches, head down, my back against the broken theater door, just breathing. My face and chest are covered in darkening bruises and enough blood that it looks like I’ve been sumo wrestling in a barbwire kimono. My burned arm, the one Eleanor got back at the garage, is starting to flake black skin. When I look up, a dozen faces are locked on me, mostly old Mexican women holding T-shirts and pink-and-orange flip-flops.

I stand and the women take a step back like maybe they’re doing Swan Lake. There’s a knockoff Evil Dead T-shirt on a hanger at the end of the nearest rack. I take it. The woman by the market cash register is holding an unopened bottle of water. I take that, too, and give her twenty dollars from the cash I took off the shroud eaters.

“Gracias,” I say.

“De nada.”

She nods at me nervously, a big “please get the hell out of here before my brain explodes” smile plastered on her face. I take off my bloody shirt, drop it into the trash can by her register, and slip on the new shirt. I kill the water in three big gulps before walking back into the theater.

In the dark, Mason’s lighter sparks on the first try and I hear sirens just as the cigarette begins to glow.

The woman from behind the counter leans her head in the door.

“Hey, mister.”

She points out at the street.

“Thanks. I heard.”

She shoos me away with her hands.

“Just go. No trouble here.”

“Plenty of trouble here,” I tell her, pointing into the theater, where I left the bodies.

“Los vampiros? No trouble. Only bother turistas and pendejos.”

So, they knew about the pod. L.A. is a get-along kind of town. The ladies work the day shift and los vampiros work the night. As long as they don’t shoplift flip-flops, the undead are probably pretty decent neighbors. The muggers and dealers will learn to stay away. Hell, as long as you wear a muffler 24/7, this might be one of the safer streets in L.A.

The woman standing in the door turns to someone outside. I can hear them talking, but I don’t really listen. The cop’s voice is loud and clear and I know what he’s asking. I take my phone out of my pocket, go to Eleanor’s body, and snap a proof-of-death shot. When I get back to the lobby the cop is coming in, his hand on his Glock. He goes for it when he sees me. He’s pretty smooth, but his body is all wrong for this game. He’s been exercising for bulk at the gym, all showy slow twitch muscles, going for a Terminator look. He can probably throw a mean choke hold, but I bet even the old ladies outside could outdraw him. I flick my cigarette and it bounces off his chest before he has the gun belly-button-high.

He screams “Freeze!”, but I’m already slipping into a shadow.

GETTING IN TO see Wells is always a merry little dance. At the gate, the guys in suits go through an elaborate security and ID check. They scan my photo and fingerprints. Scrape cells off the back of my hand for quickie DNA profiling and species confirmation. Then they have to call inside for verification because maybe there’s another guy who shows up at their gate from out of a shadow.

There are two agents on the gate today. One is the usual fresh-faced new guy that always pulls door duty and the other is a Shut Eye. A salaryman psychic. This one is young, almost as young as the guard. He’s ambitious, too. I can feel him sizing me up. Most people don’t like having their minds read. It doesn’t bother me.

When I was a kid, I once took a sharp piece of wood from the backyard and smacked one of our neighbors’ Dobermans with it. The dog chased me all the way to the end of the block, and when he was done, I had bruises and bloody teeth marks all down my left calf. My father was in the driveway, working on my mom’s old Impala, and saw the whole thing. When I asked why he didn’t stop the dog from biting me, he said, “’Cause you deserved it.”

“What’s that line from The Maltese Falcon?”

“Excuse me?” asks the guard. His name tag reads Huston.

“Bogart says it. ‘The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter.’ You ever think about that when you’re patting people down?”

“We’re just doing our jobs, sir.”

“Trust me, I know. I’ve been coming here about every week for six months. You’re doing a really thorough job of looking at my fingerprints for the four-hundredth time and talking to the same guy inside you always talk to, the one who always gives you the same answer. I mean, I always get invited in, right?”

“We have to establish your identity, sir. It’s procedure.”

“You know who I am. Or do a lot people show up here covered in blood and goofer dust?”

That last bit sets off the Shut Eye. An unsubstantiated claim of identity. Catnip to psychic snoops. I can feel it when they’re slipping their ghost fingers into my skull. It tickles behind my eyes.

There are two basic ways to deal with a peeper. You can back off and go blank. Name all the presidents or run through multiplication tables.

The other way to deal with psychics is to welcome them in. Throw open all the doors and windows and invite them deep inside your mind. Then grab them by the throat and drag them straight down to Hell. Well, that’s what I do. It’s not mandatory. The point is that once you’ve led them deep enough into your psyche, you’re the one behind the wheel and they’re strapped in the kiddy seat in back.

I give them the grand tour of Downtown, starting out with a quick jolt of the early days in Hell when it was all nausea and panic. Give them a quick taste of psychic rape. Experiments and Elephant Man exhibitions. Being the fox in a mounted hunt through forests of flayed, burning souls. Then some highlights from the arena. Killing, eleven years of killing. I let them see exactly what being Sandman Slim is all about. Most of them don’t get that far.

This Shut Eye doesn’t make it past my first week Downtown, when a drunk Hellion guard slit me open and tried to pull out my intestines because he’d heard that’s where humans hid their souls. But I don’t let the Shut Eye off that easy. I hold him inside long enough to feel me running away from the neighbor’s dog and getting my leg chewed up.

When I let go, Criswell flies out of my head like a goose through a jet engine. He gasps and is on the verge of tears when the connection finally breaks.

Huston grabs him by the shoulder.

“Ray, you okay?” Ray doesn’t hear him. He’s looking at me.

“Why?” he asks.

“’Cause you deserved it.”

Ray takes a key card from his jacket, waves it over a magnetic reader, and the gate swings open.

When I go through I turn back to them.

“I don’t have to do this, you know. I could come out of a shadow on this side of the fence and not deal with you assholes. But I’m trying to fit in a little better around here, so I’m polite and I try to play by your rules. You might consider cutting me the tiniest piece of slack.”

I head for the warehouse. Huston keeps asking Ray what happened and Ray keeps telling him to fuck off. I wonder if Ray is just a psychic reader or a projector, too, and what parts of the tour he’ll show Huston to shut him up.

WELLS YELLS AT me halfway across the warehouse floor so that everyone turns to see me looking like an executioner’s practice dummy.

“Damn, son. Did you stop to gut a deer on the way over or did that little girl do all that?”

I hold up my burned jacket with my blackened arm.

“Your little girl did this. Her four friends did the rest.”

“There’s a pod?”

“Was. Five of them.”

“That doesn’t jibe with our intelligence.”

I take four wallets from a jacket pocket and drop them on a table.

“Here’s your goddamn intelligence.”

Wells snaps, “Watch your language.”

“I took those off Eleanor’s pals. Their ash is still on them. Probably prints, too.”

“What about Eleanor?”

I take my cell out of my back pocket, thumb on the photo album, and hold it up so Wells can see the screen.

He frowns.

“What did you do to her?”

“Silly girl had a flamethrower. She fucked—I mean, messed up and set herself on fire. Then she ran out into direct sunlight. I would have been happy to quietly take her heart, but she had to turn it into D-day.”

“Are the remains still at the scene?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll secure the site for now. Clean up isn’t a priority if the pod has been cleared out.”

“I didn’t see anyone else there and they didn’t seem to be looking, so that was probably all of them, but I can’t be a hundred percent. Like I said, I went in thinking it was one girl.”

“I’ll need a copy of that photo. E-mail a copy to my account.”

“Just did.”

Wells isn’t looking at me. He’s put on Nitrile gloves and is examining the wallets.

He says, “They’re empty.”

“Are they?”

“Was there anything inside when you found them?”

“How do I know? I was killing vampires, not checking their IDs. I’ve seen plenty of Lurkers that don’t use money. They steal what they want.”

“Then why carry a wallet?”

Shit. Good point.

“Ask a shrink. I get paid to kill things.”

“Right.”

He turns to a female agent standing on his right.

“Bag these and take them downstairs for identification.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wells motions for me to follow him. We head out across the warehouse floor.

I kind of like the organized chaos of the Golden Vigil’s headquarters. There’s always something fun to scope out and think about stealing. A group of agents in Tyvek suits and respirators forklifting a massive stone idol onto the back of a flatbed truck. The idol is on its back, and from where I’m standing, it’s all tentacles and breasts, but I swear some of the tentacles move a little as they tether the idol down. Across the floor, welders are modifying vehicles. Agents are examining new guns as they’re uncrated. A guy as skinny, leathery, and looking as old as King Tut’s mummy wanders the floor sprinkling holy water on everything.

“What kind of a bonus am I getting for taking out those four extra bloodsuckers?”

“From the look of those wallets, seems to me that you already got your bonus.”

“Is that what it seems to you? If I happened to find anything at the crime scene, trust me, it’s barely enough to cover the cost of a replacement jacket. Besides, with intelligence as bad as that, I deserve extra money just on principle.”

“Do you?”

“Unless you knew what was inside that building.”

Wells stops and looks at me.

“Come again?”

“Unless you knew there was a pod in there, but sent me in looking for one inexperienced girl. Isn’t that exactly the kind of thing you’d tell someone if you were setting them up?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“How’s your lady friend downstairs?”

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

Wells gets a little defensive whenever I mention Aelita. He’s got a thing for her but an angel is just a little out of his league.

“Okay. How is Miss Aelita? Healthy? Happy? I haven’t seen her since right after Avila.”

Aelita is a kind of drill sergeant angel. She runs the Golden Vigil, Heaven’s Pinkertons. She knows I’m a nephilim and has a cute nickname for me: “The Abomination.” I’m pretty sure she’d like to see me dead.

“Did you send candy and flowers on Valentine’s Day, Wells? It’s okay, you know. He was a saint.”

His phone goes off. He walks away and speaks quietly into the receiver. I think an angel’s ears are burning.

Wells nods and pockets the phone.

“You get a twenty percent bonus added on to your next check.”

“Twenty percent? What am I, your waiter? I got you five vampires, not a BLT.”

“Twenty percent is what I’ve been authorized. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it.”

He takes a white business envelope from his jacket and hands it to me. The check for my last Vigil hit. A bunch of suburban Druids in Pomona were trying to resurrect the Invidia, a gaggle of transdimensional chaos deities. The Druids were hilarious. They looked like extras from The Andy Griffith Show trying to call up the devil in matching white housedresses. What’s even funnier was that their plan almost worked. Their scrawny Barney Fife leader was one murdered infant away from annihilating Southern California.

I wonder if I’d just held back a little and Barney did get to unleash the Invidia, would we really be able to tell the difference?

I look at the check and then at Wells.

“Why do you always pull this shit?”

“Do what? Obey the law?”

“I’m a freelancer and you’re deducting things like taxes and Social Security.”

“You don’t strike me as the type who files his taxes on time. I’m doing you a favor.”

“I don’t pay taxes because I don’t exist. You think I’m going to apply for Social Security when I’m sixty-five?”

“You’re going to want to wait until you’re seventy. The extra benefits are worth it.”

“I’m not waiting for anything. I’m legally dead. Why am I paying any of this bullshit?”

“I told you to watch your language.”

“Fuck you, Miss Manners. You get me to kill for you and then you screw me out of my money.”

“That money belongs to the government. It funds what we do here. You don’t like it, run for office.”

I don’t want to run for anything. I want to shove this miserable cheap-ass check so far up Wells’s ass he can read the routing number out the back of his eyes.

But Max Overdrive is just limping along these days and I don’t want to have to find someplace else to live. Landlords in L.A. don’t want you to have pets. What am I going to do with a chain-smoking severed head? Dignity is nice but it’s money makes the lights and shower work.

I watch the welders working across the warehouse so I don’t have to look at Wells while I fold the check and slip it into my pocket.

“At the end of time, when your side loses, I want you to remember this moment.”

Wells narrows his eyes.

“Why?”

“’Cause Lucifer doesn’t expect you to thank him when he fucks you over. That’s why he’s going to win.”

Wells looks down at the floor for a minute. Puts his hands behind his back.

“You know, my mother watched a lot of Christian TV when I was growing up. Hellfire-and-brimstone hucksters telling Bible stories and yelling about damnation to get fools and old people to send them their welfare checks. I never paid much attention to ’em, but one day out of nowhere this one wrinkled old preacher starts telling what he says is a Persian parable. Now, that’s weird for a Baptist Bible-thumper.

“You see, there was once a troubled man in a little village near Qom in ancient Persia.”

“This is the story, right? ’Cause I don’t want to hear about you and your dad going off-roading.”

“Shut up. One day the troubled man got out of bed to work his fields and maybe he was killed or maybe he just kept walking, but he was never heard from again. The sun was shining through the door as the man left and threw his shadow on the wall by the hearth or whatever it is you call it over there. When the man’s wife and children came home and found the house empty, the wife sees her husband’s shadow and asks who he is. The shadow says, ‘The man is gone and become a shadow to this house. I am the shadow of the man who did not go, but will remain here.’ The shadow stayed and over time became a man and he and the woman and her children lived there happily together for many years.”

Wells puts his hands together almost like he’s praying. It creeps me out seeing this side of him.

“Later, when I heard that the Golden Vigil was founded in Persia, I knew it was God speaking to me through the TV that day. He was telling me that here is where I’m supposed to be.”

“That story doesn’t even make sense, and what exactly does it have to do with anything we’re talking about?”

“It means we’ve done our job for more than a thousand years, so you can shove your disapproval.”

“That sounds like the sin of pride, Marshal. Better run downstairs and let Miss December flog it out of you. Webcam it and charge by the minute. You won’t ever have to take government money again.”

Wells looks at me. His phone goes off. He ignores it.

I want to tell him to go fuck himself.

“You done whining? You ready to work? I have something else for you.”

But I need this.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to walk through a murder scene with me. The victim was Sub Rosa. No rough stuff. Just observation.”

“You have forensics people. Why do you need me?”

“I don’t want them getting too deep into this one yet. I want you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been to Hell.”

“So?”

“I want you to take a look at a body and tell me what you think it means.”

“Are you sure it’s just one body and not five?”

“Funny.”

“I want my full fee.”

“Half. No one is asking you to kill anything.”

“You’re using up my valuable drinking and smoking time. I need compensation.”

“As you just pointed out, we’re government funded, which means that we work within a simple and predetermined pay structure. In other words, looking and pointing doesn’t pay the same as hunting and killing.”

“Tell you what, go down to Chinatown, find a club called the Owl’s Shadow, and hire yourself a Deadhead. Those gloomy necromancers are a bunch of low-self-esteem Siouxsie and the Banshees bitches. They’ll fall all over themselves to help a fed do a murder-scene magic show.”

Wells takes the phone from his pocket, looks at the caller ID, and frowns.

“Look, you can sprinkle some pixie dust around while you’re at the scene. Do some damn magic that won’t break anything and I can get you two-thirds of your normal fee. But that’s it.”

“Done.”

I put out my hand. He puts the phone to his ear so he doesn’t have to shake on it.

“We’ll meet at three A.M., when things are quiet and the bars are closed. I’ll call you with the address.”

“Nice doing business with you, Marshal. Give the missus my best.”

“Get out.”

I DECIDE TO skip the Ray and Huston show on the way out, so I slip through a dark patch on a wall outside the warehouse. Come out in the alley across the street from the Bamboo House of Dolls.

What I thought was a one-night blowout right after I saved the world on New Year’s has turned into a six-month running party. After I tossed Mason to the mob Downtown, it seemed like half the Sub Rosa in L.A. showed up at Bamboo House to kiss his ass good-bye. And they never left. Carlos is happy enough. Sub Rosa tip big at civilian places where they can hang out without ending up part of the floor show.

Most Sub Rosa, you’d never notice. They look boringly human, are human, and go out of their way to fit in with other humans, even if they sometimes dress like nineteenth-century dandies or Mayan priests. Others in the bar look like they stepped off a steam-powered zeppelin from Neptune. They’re the Lurkers, and good, upstanding Sub Rosa don’t like them soiling the furniture at their clubs so they come here. There are succubi and transgendered Lamia. Shaggy Nahual wolf and tiger beast men laughing like frat boys and stacking their beer cans in a pyramid until they knock it over. Again. A group of blue-skinned schoolgirls with pale blond hair and horns peeking out through their pigtails are playing some kind of betting game with ivory cups and scorpions.

Carlos is a big part of the reason Bamboo House of Dolls is still standing. He didn’t even blink when the crusty half of L.A.’s magic underground dropped in to get shit-faced. If Jesus was a bartender, He would still only be half as cool as Carlos. With all his newfound lucre, all the man has done to the place is get some new bar stools, a better sound system, and cleaned up the bathrooms so they’re a little less like a Calcutta bus station. It’s good to have one thing that hasn’t changed much. We need a few anchors in our lives to keep us from floating away into the void. Like Mr. Muninn said the one time he came in, “Quid salvum est si Roma perit?” What is safe if Rome perishes?

“Swamp Fire” by Martin Denny is playing on the jukebox. Carlos comes over with a cup of black coffee.

“You didn’t have to get dressed up just for me,” he says.

“Like the look? It’s from the Calvin Klein Book of Revelations line.”

“The crispy black arm is nice even if it is shedding dead skin all over my floor, but that burned-up jacket is un pedazo de basura.”

“Time to let it go?”

“One of you needs to be buried and my Dumpster has a lovely lakeside view of the alley. Give it to me and I’ll get rid of it.”

I push the charred pile of leather across the bar.

“Do me a favor and pour some salt and bleach on it when you put it out.”

“Is that a magic thing or a cop thing?”

“Both. Bleach for DNA. Salt for any leftover hoodoo someone can use in a hex.”

He nods and puts the jacket under the bar.

“I’m guessing since you haven’t even looked at that coffee that you want a drink.”

“Some of the red stuff.”

“You sure?”

“Does the pope live in a nice house?”

“At least have some food, too. I just pulled some pork tamales out of the steamer.”

“Maybe that and some rice?”

“You got it.”

“City of Veils” by Les Baxter comes on. Crazy trumpets and drums at the beginning, then it slides into old-fashioned strings and Hollywood exotica. I half expect to see Errol Flynn dressed like a pirate in a corner booth trying to get a hand job from Lana Turner. After some of the red stuff, maybe I will.

I haven’t heard that Alice song again since the night it came blaring out of the jukebox, like nails being hammered into my ears. I had Carlos check and the song wasn’t even on the machine. He had the company bring him a new box, just so I wouldn’t sit at the bar getting twitchy, waiting for it to come up again.

Later I knew that the song had never been on the machine. It was one of Mason’s hexes. He wanted to watch me go crazy. If he’d pumped me full of LSD and locked me in a spinning mirrored room full of rats, he couldn’t have done any better.

That was six months ago. Half a year since I sent Mason to be poached in Hell and waved bye-bye to his Kissi pals as they burned up and blew away on the solar winds. A hundred and eighty days since I watched Alice’s ashes drift away like fog into the Pacific. I’m doing fine, thanks. Maybe a little bruised around the edges, but I have all the medicine I need right here in this glass.

Carlos sets down the plate of tamales and pours a double shot of the red stuff into a heavy square tumbler, the way we used to drink it in Hell. Aqua Regia is so red it’s almost black, like blood under moonlight. It goes down smooth, like gasoline and pepper spray. It probably saved my life Downtown. When I discovered I could swallow Aqua Regia and keep it down, Hellions starting looking at me differently. I think that’s when one of them got the idea of putting me in the arena instead of killing me. Just when my novelty was wearing off, I was interesting again.

“I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

Carlos shakes his head.

“You weren’t strong enough to kill him.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because you told me. We’ve had this conversation about fifty times before.”

“Really?”

“Maybe you should stick with coffee or maybe a beer. You don’t need the red stuff.”

He reaches for my glass and I slide it away from him.

“Yeah, I really do.”

“You couldn’t have beaten him. He was too strong. You knew it, so you did what you could.”

“Yeah, but sometimes it’s not about winning and losing. It’s about doing the right thing. I didn’t do the right thing. I shouldn’t have walked away. Lucifer was right. By leaving Mason in Hell I gave the prick exactly what he wanted.”

“You’re alive and you’re walking around. Long as you can say that, doing the right thing remains an option. Just keep your head down until you figure out the right time and place.”

“Thanks, Carlos. You’re the best dad a boy could ask for. Will you adopt me?”

“I thought I already did.”

Carlos looks past my shoulder and shakes his head. I don’t have to look. I can feel them. Behind me are college girls with pens and paper. They want to stand too close and ask for my autograph in breathy voices. If I’m dumb enough to sign, as dumb as I used to be, I’ll be able to buy my autograph off eBay in an hour. I sip my drink and dig into the tamales with my fork. Pretend I don’t notice as Carlos waves them off.

The real problem with college girls is that they usually have college boys with them.

A second later someone is leaning on the bar to my right.

“You’re the superhero who can do the portaling trick, aren’t you? Let’s see it.”

He looks like Ziggy Stardust on a GQ cover. NASA engineers built his three-piece pinstripe suit. It’s a work of art.

“Are you talking to me?”

“They say you can shadow-walk. I want to see.”

He looks at me with a combination of arrogance and boredom. You never know what a guy like this is going to do. He has one hand in his pocket. What he’s holding could be anything from a joint to a water pistol to a box cutter.

“Sorry. I don’t speak French. Or is it Chinese? I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“You think you’re hot shit because you have a cartoon nickname and the Golden Vigil watching your back? Do you even know who I am? Do you know who my father is?”

“Maybe what you need is an asshole-to-English phrase book. I hear they have some fine bookstores in Kansas. You should start walking.”

“My family owns this place. This city. L.A. to the Valley and out to the desert.”

Carlos gives me a look and I give him one right back. He stays put, but starts cutting up limes so he has an excuse to hold a knife.

“People listen to me when I talk.”

“I guess the rich really are different. Most of us come from monkeys, but you’re giving off a whiff of rattlesnake.”

Ziggy has a friend with him. Not quite as handsome. His suit isn’t quite as nice. He’s trying to maintain his cool in front of the girls, but he’s about sixty seconds from running.

The friend says, “Please just do the trick, man, and we’ll get out of your hair.”

“I just killed five people. I’ll show you that trick if you like.”

I go back to my drink and the tamales. Ziggy is about to make another strafing run, not knowing that when he opens his mouth, I’m going to stick my fork into his eye and make him dance like a marionette. But the girls get on either side of him and pull him to the door.

As they go out, I hear one of the girls say, “Daddy would say that man looks like a sheep-killing dog.”

When they’re gone, Carlos curses quietly, so fast I can’t tell if it’s English, Spanish, or Urdu.

“I hate that shit.”

He wipes off the spot where Ziggy was leaning.

“No, you don’t. You encourage it. Look at you. You walk in here with that burned-up arm and dried blood all over a monster movie T-shirt and you don’t want to be noticed? Normal people bet on football or collect stamps to pass the time. Your hobby is telling people to fuck off, but you can’t do that unless they notice you in the first place.”

“You understand how being a bartender works, right? I complain and you bring me drinks and sympathy. Don’t start trying to get reasonable with me.”

“You like these little fights because you don’t have any real ones right now, is all I’m saying.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for Armageddon.”

“Don’t sweat it. I think your star is beginning to fade. New people keep coming in, but a lot of old ones have disappeared.”

“If I take up knitting, think the rest will go away?”

“Louie Toadvine is one of them, which is funny because I owe him money.”

Carlos pours himself a glass of seltzer and drops in some of the lime wedges he was cutting.

“Your friend Candy was in here last night.”

I dig into the tamales.

“Good for her.”

I haven’t seen or spoken to Candy more than three times since we saved a bunch of about-to-be-sacrificed angels on New Year’s. We killed a lot of people that night, but none who didn’t deserve it.

“She’s a pretty girl.”

“Is she? I don’t entirely remember.”

Since then I’d only seen her a couple of times with Vidocq and once when I got Doc Kinski to drain the venom from my arm after a Naga purse snatcher went king cobra on me. Kinski is the medical man for a lot of Sub Rosa and Lurkers. Most people think being a doctor is a big deal, but Kinski used to be an archangel, so for him, being a doctor is sort of like flipping burgers at McDonald’s after you were president.

“Candy’s nice. Asked about business. How is it dealing with the Sub Rosa? When am I ever going to get some new tunes on the jukebox?”

“What do I care about any of this?”

He shrugs.

“I thought you two were friends. More than friends maybe.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

Carlos holds up his hands.

“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean nothing. It’s just something I heard. Anyway, she said she and Kinski had been moving around a lot. That’s why she hasn’t been around. She’s heading back out to wherever he is.”

“Did she mention where?”

“Nope.”

“She was sick for a while after Avila. It isn’t good for her to be around all that blood. It affects her funny.”

Candy’s a Jade, which is kind of like a vampire only worse. She’s trying to lay off the people eating, but dragging her up to a massacre pushed her over the edge and she fell off the wagon for a while.

“I didn’t get the feeling she was in here to talk to me. She asked when you usually came in. I had to tell her you come and go and don’t keep regular hours.”

Was Candy looking for me? It’s funny she’d come to Bamboo House. I’d thought about waiting out in the strip mall by Kinski’s clinic, but that felt more stalkerish than friendly.

“I’m glad she’s feeling better.”

“Is she why you’re hitting the red stuff?”

“I’m drinking it because you have it. Do you know how rare Aqua Regia is? Rare isn’t even the word. It doesn’t exist anywhere outside of Hell. I’m going to have to thank Muninn the next time I see him.”

“I don’t know that it comes from Muninn.”

“Who sends it?”

“I don’t know. A bottle just shows up every now and then. First time I found one by the door, I tasted it. It’s disgusting and you’re one sick little pinche for drinking it. And you drink too much of it.”

“Sometimes it’s nice to know I’m not crazy. You know when you wake up and for a minute you don’t know where you are and aren’t sure if you’re awake or still dreaming? This reminds me what’s real. Who I am. Where I’ve been. How I got these scars. Living up here, sometimes I need that.”

“It also gets you hammered fast.”

“And it reminds me of … Never mind.”

Carlos stabs a finger at me.

“Say it. I’ve been waiting to hear you say something like that. Go ahead. Say it out loud so everyone can hear you. This poison that comes from Hell reminds you of home. That’s what was about to come out of your mouth, wasn’t it? Think about that for a minute. How fucked up that is.”

“Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt. One of those men over there said that you were the gentleman they call Sandman Slim.”

Carlos doesn’t miss a beat.

“Now, why would a nice lady like you be looking for a bad man like that?”

It’s so obvious even Carlos, the most unmagic übercivilian of all time, can see it. The woman isn’t Sub Rosa. She’s around fifty-five, but picked up a beauty allurement potion so she can tell people she’s thirty. She dressed up to come here. She’s wearing an expensive Hillary Clinton pantsuit, but it’s a little off. The symmetry isn’t quite right, but not in a way most civilians could see. It’s probably from an outlet mall and it’s brand-new.

“He’s not Sandman Slim?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Carlos points to one of the bar stools. The woman sits.

“Would you like some coffee?”

She has dark, pretty gray eyes. Her pupils are pinpoints. This bar isn’t where she wants to be.

I push the tamales and rice away. After Ziggy’s anger, being jolted by her fear has ruined my appetite. I half turn and do a quick scan of the faces in the room. It’s ninety-nine percent Sub Rosa, with a few civilian hangers-on and groupies. If she found me here, she must have asked questions in places she wouldn’t normally go. And when she finally heard about Bamboo House of Dolls, people would have told her what happens to strangers who come here to bug me. But she did it anyway.

Good for her.

“Call me Stark. No one calls me that other name.”

“I’m sorry. It’s the only one I knew.”

“No problem. Why are you looking for me?”

She takes a picture from her purse and sets it in front of me. It’s a young man, about my age when I went Downtown. He’s broad across the shoulders, like a football player. He has her eyes.

“This is my son. His name is Aki. It’s Finnish, like his father.”

“He’s a nice-looking kid. But I don’t know him, if that’s why you’re here.”

“You don’t know him, but he knows you. Your kind, I mean. He’s Sub Rosa, just like my husband’s family. Eighteen years ago we lived here, but we moved to my mother’s property in Lawrence, Kansas, when Aki was born. We weren’t sure we wanted him growing up here …”

She trails off and looks around the room. A bald man in a white silk suit takes what looks like a whiskey flask from his pocket and snaps it open. Inside is damp soil and pale, gray worms. He picks a worm up by its head and blows on it. The bug straightens, and when it’s rigid, the man lights one end with a cigarette lighter and smokes it.

“Aki just had his eighteenth birthday and wanted to come back to where he was born. Alone, of course. A young man wants to feel independent. How could we say no?”

A corn-fed Kansas farm boy full of bumpkin magic loose in L.A., what could possibly go wrong with that?

“My husband still knows people, Sub Rosa, in the area. He asked them to keep an eye on Aki, but it’s a big city. We haven’t heard from him in weeks. I know he knew people out here. He was corresponding with a Sub Rosa girl. I forget her name.”

“Do you have the letters with you?”

“No. They’re gone. He must have taken them with him.”

“Have you talked to your husband’s friends?”

“None of them knows anything.”

“Why are you coming to me about this?”

“I have a feeling something has happened to my son. I heard that you do things other people can’t or don’t want to do. There was a crime in the city earlier this year. I believe a cult was planning on sacrificing a group of kidnapped women. You stopped it.”

Is that what the tabloids are saying happened now? It’s annoyingly close to the truth. Couldn’t they have worked in some ETs?

“Listen, Evelyn.”

“How did you know my name was Evelyn?”

“Listen, Evelyn, I know you need help, but not from me. I’m not what you think I am.”

“What are you?”

“I’m a monster.”

I let that sink in for a second. She’s a nice woman, but Ziggy really fouled my mood. I kill off the tumbler of Aqua Regia.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but if your husband really is Sub Rosa, why isn’t he out here with you doing locator spells? Or echo tracing? Sloppy teenybopper magic usually leaves a fat shiny trail of residue all over the aether. Easy to follow.”

“My husband is dead. It was very recent and sudden. That’s why I was trying to get in touch with Aki. Now I might have lost both of them.”

She looks down at the coffee cup. Her heart is slowing, but not because she’s any more relaxed. My blackened arm is starting to heal. It burns and itches. I can’t help this woman. I don’t want to be here.

Carlos says, “I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself. Why don’t you go to the cops or hire yourself a private investigator? You don’t need magic for this kind of thing. And from what I’ve seen around here, magic doesn’t really help anything. It just makes everything more confusing.”

She puts her hand on my arm.

“You saved all those people. Why won’t you help me?”

“Carlos is right. You need to go to the cops or hire yourself a detective. I’m not Sam Spade. That’s not what I do.”

“But you saved all those people.”

“I didn’t save anyone. I just killed the bastards who needed killing. Get it? I don’t save good people. I murder bad ones.” I wish I was saying this quietly and reasonably, but really, I’m way too loud.

Evelyn straightens and turns to ice. She puts her kid’s photo back in her bag and gets up.

“I’m sorry to have taken up your valuable time.”

“Wait a minute.”

This time I grab her arm. I look around for someone who was here a minute ago.

“Titus. Come on over here.”

A whippet-thin black guy in a purple velvet suit and glasses with round, yellow-tinted lenses walks cautiously to the bar. I hold a hand out at Evelyn.

“Titus, this is Evelyn. Evelyn, this is Titus Eshu. Titus is a Fiddler. Do you know what that is?”

“He reads objects by handling them.”

“Right. He plays around with things, then tells you all about the owner. He can even use them like a divining rod. Do you have any of your son’s things?”

“I have his high school class ring.”

I look at Titus.

“That good enough?”

Titus nods.

“It’s a good start,” he says to Evelyn. To me he says, “And after I do this, you’re going to owe me a favor, right?”

“Right.”

He smiles, takes Evelyn by the elbow, and leads her to his table.

“This way, ma’am. Let’s see if we can track down your wayward child.”

Carlos says, “You were a real world-class prick there for a minute. Then you turned it around right at the last second and came out sort of looking like a person.”

“I’ve gotta get out of here.”

“I’m kidding, man. You did fine with the old lady.”

“No, I didn’t. This is my punishment for not killing Mason. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. There’s no reason for me to exist. I kill things I don’t care about for people I hate. I yell at old ladies. And now I’m going to owe goddamn Titus a favor.”

“I’m going to wrap up this food so you can take it home with you.”

I turn in my seat and look at Evelyn and Titus. He has Aki’s ring in one hand and the photo in the other. His eyes are half closed and he’s whispering an incantation. Evelyn hangs on his every word. She doesn’t look happy, but maybe a little more hopeful.

I’m suddenly aware that while I’m watching Titus, pretty much everyone else in the bar is watching me. I’d like to think they’re staring because of my white-hot animal magnetism, but I know I’m not Elvis. I’m Lobster Boy, hear me roar.

Carlos gives me the tamales in a Styrofoam carrier.

Thanks and good night. Be sure to tip your waitresses.

I leave through a shadow near the fire exit in back.

YOU KNOW HOW they put out oil well fires by setting off an explosion that’s so big it snuffs out the first fireball with a bigger one? Sometimes the only way to get past something impassable is to smash it with itself. Like kills like. When you live with a dead man’s head that won’t shut up and smokes all your cigarettes, the only way to deal with the awfulness is to make it so unbelievably awful that it becomes kind of weirdly beautiful. Like an exploding giraffe full of fireworks. (Hellions really know how to throw a birthday party.)

Kasabian calls it his “pussy wagon,” but I can’t go there, so I call it the “magic carpet.” Really it’s a polished mahogany deck about the size of a dinner plate, supported by a dozen articulated brass legs. When I brought it home from Muninn’s—partial payment for a quick smash-and-grab job—one end of the deck was loaded down with prisms, mirrors, and gears that must have meshed with another long-lost machine. The top is covered in what looked like teeth marks and stained with something black. I don’t want to know what used to drive the thing or what happened to it.

After I unscrewed and sawed off all the extra hardware, I let Kasabian take it out for a test drive. What do you know? His low-rent, third-rate hoodoo was just powerful enough to keep the brass legs in sync, so he can move around on his own now. It’s nice not to have to carry Kasabian everywhere anymore, but it means that every day I come home to a chain-smoking Victorian centipede.

He’s standing on what used to be the video bootlegging table and using his brass legs to tap numbers into a PC. Ever since he got mobile, Kasabian has been doing Max Overdrive’s books again. He and Allegra set up a little in-store wireless network so he can do the banking and buy new inventory online. Race with the Devil, a decent piece of mid-seventies trash with Warren Oates and Peter Fonda trying to outrun a bunch of rural devil worshippers, plays on a monitor next to the PC. Ever since his visit Downtown, Kasabian has been on a devil movie kick. He doesn’t look up when he hears me come in.

“So, how did it go?” He turns and looks at me. “Oh, that bad.”

“Just about that bad, Alfredo Garcia.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“I had to go Wild Bunch in the theater. Left me in a Peckinpah state of mind.”

“Did you get paid, at least?”

“Yeah, here’s the big money. Plus the usual deductions.”

I drop the check next to the keyboard. Kasabian pinches the ends of the check between two of his brass legs and holds it up to read it.

“That prick. He just does this to humiliate you. It makes him feel better about not being able to do the stuff you can do and needing you for his dirty work. It’s pure envy.”

“Yeah, it’s a glamorous life here in Graceland.”

I pick up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the bedside table and pour some into the same glass I’ve been using for three days.

“And he’s trying to keep us on the hook by starving us. You know that, right? You ought to let me hex his ass.”

I sip the Jack. It’s good, but after the Aqua Regia, it’s about as potent as cherry Kool-Aid.

“Save your hoodoo for real work. And, technically, he’s only starving me. If he knew about you, he’d shit his heart out.”

“Great, get him up here. I’ll video it and put it up on YouTube.”

“Aelita would be the fun one to get on tape. I’m an Abomination, but I don’t even know if angels have a word for you.”

“One does. ‘Hey, shithead.’”

“Lucifer always had a way with words. He’s just like Bob Dylan, but without all the annoying talent.”

“That’s hilarious. He loves it when you say stuff like that. Every time you do, he turns up the temperature Downtown ten degrees.”

“Then he should be able to cook biscuits on his tits by now.”

“I’ll ask him for you.”

“No, you won’t. When you download your brain or play video highlights or whatever it is you do for the old man, you’ll only show him what you want him to see. You hold back crumbs ’cause when you know something he doesn’t it gives you power. Just like you hold back things from me. And I hold back things from you and he holds back things from both of us. We’re a little clusterfuck of liars.”

Kasabian nods to the Styrofoam container I set on the bed when I ditched my weapons.

“Do I smell tamales?”

“Yeah, you want them? I lost my appetite.”

Kasabian kneels down on six of his legs and hangs over the edge of the table. He uses four of his free legs to open the door of the minifridge I installed and uses two more legs to grab a bottle of Corona. He pops the top off the beer while pulling himself back onto the table and waggles a bunch of his other legs at me like a horny lobster.

“Slip me some crimson, Jimson.”

I hand him the container.

“Don’t forget your bucket.”

“Have I ever?”

“I just don’t want a first time.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s already diving into Carlos’s spicy tamales, working a plastic fork with two of his front legs. After each bite of food, a glob that looks like white-orange putty oozes from the bottom of his neck, through the hole I drilled in the magic carpet and into a blue kid-size plastic beach bucket. There’s a pop-top trash can at the end of that table. Kasabian is good about dumping his scat when he’s done, but he’s short, so he needs me to step on the pedal to open the top. It’s nice to be needed.

I’m not in the mood for Cirque de Puke right now, so I find a pad and pencil and try to remember what Eleanor’s monster belt buckle looked like. Alice was the artist in my family. Even my handwriting made my teachers weep. When I’m done, I have a sketch that’s pretty good if I was a half-blind mental patient in the last stages of tertiary syphilis. I hold it up so Kasabian can see it.

“You recognize this?”

“I’m on my lunch hour, man.”

“Just look at the goddamn paper.”

He doesn’t move his head from the food, just swivels his eyes and squints at the image.

“Nope. Never seen it before. What is it, some monster you’re supposed to kill or have you started dating again?”

“It’s something I saw today. Like a belt buckle or an icon or something. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but it’s been bugging me.”

“I don’t recognize it.”

Plop goes the tamale putty.

“Can you check it out in the Codex?”

Now he turns to look at me. He hates it when I ask him to look things up. I’m not even supposed to know about the Daimonion Codex.

“I don’t think so. Someone’s using it. Occupado, you know?”

“Bullshit. I saw this kind of thing when I was Downtown. It might be a book, but you don’t read it like one. It’s conceptual, mental. Like a mystical database.”

“If you know so much about it, why don’t you look it up yourself?”

The Daimonion Codex is Lucifer’s private notebook, reference book, strategy, spell and wisdom book, and anything-else-you-can-think-of book.

“The Codex is for official Hellion business and I only use it when the big man asks me because he’s too busy to find something himself.”

Satan’s Big Little Book of Badass. A kind of Bizarro World Boy Scout manual. High-grade Gnostic porn. The Codex is the second most important document in the universe, right after the Scroll of Creation in you-know-who’s personal library.

“Bullshit. Every time I leave the room, you’re in there trying to find some angle that’ll get your body back.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You always were a terrible liar, Kas. A career crook should be able to bull better than that.”

“Leave me alone. When I get a spare minute, I’ll look for your monster. Now let me eat these while they’re warm.”

I sit back on the bed and sip the glass of Jack. On the monitor, Peter Fonda is shooting at carloads of backwoods demon fanciers from the roof of a speeding camper.

“You been watching this all day?”

Kasabian talks between mouthfuls of food.

“No. Before that it was Shout at the Devil, only there wasn’t any devil in it.”

“No. That’s a war movie.”

“Why doesn’t it say that on the box? ‘Warning: Lee Marvin might look pissed off, but he’s not the devil. There’s not one fucking devil in this thing.’”

“Watch what you want, but promise me that I’m never going to ever come in here and find you spanking yourself to The Devil in Miss Jones.”

“You’re a scream, Milton Berle. Now I’m not going to tell you the good news.”

“What good news?”

Kasabian takes a last bite of tamale and lets it fall into the bucket. Then he takes it and the Styrofoam container to the end of the table and waits. I haul my ass up off the bed and step on the trash-can pedal. When it opens, he tosses in the Styrofoam and upends the bucket into the can.

“What good news?”

Kasabian goes back to where he’d been working, leans over the table, and sets the bucket underneath, next to the minifridge. Then he finally looks at me.

“You have an actual job. Starting tonight. Something a lot better than stepping on bugs for the Wells.”

“I’ve already got a job tonight. Straight consulting for the Vigil. No killing.”

“When are you supposed to do it?”

“Around three? Why?”

“Good. You’ll probably be done by then.”

“Done doing what?”

He smiles at me exactly the way you don’t want a dead man to smile at you.

“The big man is in town. He wants to see you tonight at the Chateau Marmont.”

Damn. I finish my drink.

“What’s Lucifer doing in L.A.?”

“What do I know? I’m just the answering machine.”

“And snitch.”

“That, too. He knows every time you jerk off. Unfortunately, so do I. You really need to get a girlfriend.”

“What time am I supposed to be there?”

“Eleven. And be on time. He hates late. It’s a real thing with him.”

“Christ. I don’t even have a jacket anymore. I need to get cleaned up.”

“Don’t freak out, man. You’ve got hours. This is a good thing. We need the money. Doing the deed for the Vigil tonight and picking up some new work from Mr. D might just let us keep the lights on for another month.”

I go into the bathroom, close and lock the door. I’ve never been a shy boy until recently.

I peel the Evil Dead shirt off over my black shoulder. The pink flesh under the peeling black skin looks like the worst sunburn since Hiroshima. I kick off my boots and jeans, and check myself in the mirror.

A pretty sight, I am not. I turn the light on over the sink and lean close to the mirror, turn my head from side to side. The thousand tiny cuts from the flying glass at the theater are mostly gone. I tilt my head forward and back. Run my hands over my face and neck, looking at the shadows of the lines and creases from my neck to my forehead, feeling familiar contours.

Maybe not so familiar.

I felt the changes before, but over the last month they’re undeniable.

I’m pretty sure my scars are healing.

The one thing I brought back from Hell that I wanted. The one thing I counted on. I spent eleven years and shed a thousand pounds of blood, flesh, and bone to grow my armor, and after six months of living in the light, I’m losing it.

I hate this place.

Hell is simple. There are no friends, just an ever-shifting series of allies and enemies. There’s no pity, loyalty, or rest. Hell is twenty-four-hour party people, and the buddy you shared a foxhole with yesterday is a head on the end of a stick today, letting everyone in shouting distance know, “Abandon all hope ye who piss me off.”

Back here in the world it’s all soft, fish-belly white, “normal” people with jelly for backbones and not even the basic kill-or-be-killed honor of the arena. The L.A. sky doesn’t turn brown because of smog. It’s the metric tons of shit coming out of people’s mouths every time they open them to talk. Know the old joke, “How do you know when a lawyer is lying?” “He’s moving his lips.” Up here, everyone is Perry Mason.

Little by little, I’ve been preparing for this moment, when I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.

I upgraded my guns. Easy.

Before I got my ass kicked by malt-liquor-swilling teenyboppers this afternoon, my new working policy has been to duck when I see bullets, knives, and/or two-by-fours coming at me.

I’ve been shifting back more to hoodoo and hexes and relying less on muscle. It isn’t as fun, but so far, the change has helped me keep my internal organs internal, where they fit better and don’t attract flies.

A scalding shower helps to scrub off Eleanor and Ziggy Stardust. With an old hand towel, I scrape off as much of the burned skin as I can.

I even shave. It’s a good, mindless activity and I’m sure the boss will appreciate me looking like I live indoors when I go to his hotel.

I wish I hadn’t given Wells that body armor back after the shoot-out at Avila. The next time I’m at the Vigil’s playhouse, I’m going to have to steal some.

Of course, to wear armor in the street, I’m going to need a new jacket. But not now. Not this second.

I go back into the bedroom with a towel around my waist, leaving my clothes on the bathroom floor. The dead girl’s ash sifts onto the tiles. Except for the boots, I doubt that I’ll ever wear those clothes again.

The bedroom reeks of cigarettes, whiskey, and tamales. I crack open a window.

Kasabian is back working at the computer.

“Careful, you’re going to make L.A. smell funny.”

Walking back to the bed I feel dizzy. All of a sudden I’m very tired. I shove the weapons to one side of the mattress, lie down, and pour a little bit of Jack.

“Do me a favor and watch that with headphones. I need to lie down for an hour.”

“No problem.”

Kasabian takes a set of earbuds, plugs them in, and the movie sound cuts out. He takes another beer from the minifridge and pops off the top.

“Before you zone out, have you heard anything about Mason?”

Ever since he became Lucifer’s conduit to Hell, Kasabian has learned to overhear and “accidentally” stumble on a lot of information he’s not supposed to have. He’s Lucifer’s personal ghost, so he doesn’t really exist Downtown. Even Hellions can tell the truth when they think no one is listening.

He says, “Not much. He’s in deep with some of the boss’s old generals. Lucifer’s original bunch. Abaddon. Baphomet. Mammon. They’re trying to recruit the younger officers for a full-on revolution. But I haven’t heard anything from Mason himself. He’s pretty well insulated. He’s the man with the plan, so they’re keeping him out of harm’s way.”

“Is that the truth?”

Kasabian sets down his beer and looks at me.

“I wouldn’t lie to you about Mason. I want him as dead as spats.”

“Okay.”

“Get some sleep. You want to look good for the cotillion.”

“I’ll save you a slow dance.”

“Just keep your hands off my ass.”

“What ass?”

THERE’S THIS GUILTY dream I have. Been having it on and off for six months, since right after I dropped Alice’s ashes in the ocean.

We’re in the apartment smoking and talking. The Third Man is playing on TV, but the sound is off. A desperate Harry Lime runs through the sewers under Vienna. What I hate about the dream is that I can’t tell if I’m remembering something that happened or inventing something. A confession or apology to the ghost that lives in my head.

“I blew up at a junkie on the street today. He just bumped into me. He smelled like piss and I wanted to strangle him and I almost did.”

“Your father beat the shit out of you. Everyone who’s been abused has those thoughts.”

Alice is pretty forgiving when I get like this. She’s a better human than me in almost every way possible. I don’t know if I could be with someone whose main topics of conversations were movies and who I wanted to kill today.

“You need to get away from Mason and those others. They’re no good for you,” she says.

“You’re right. But I’ve already blown off the Sub Rosa world. If I walk from the Circle, what am I? Should I pretend I don’t have power? That was my whole childhood. Hiding so people wouldn’t know I was what my granddad called an ‘odd case.’”

“You’re not an odd case.”

“What am I?”

“You’re my odd case.”

“I’ll tell you a secret. Mason’s an odd case, too, but he doesn’t care. I admire the hell out of him for that.”

Alice rolls her eyes like she’s a silent-movie star.

“Put a dress on, drama queen. Admiring anything about him is kind of fucked up.”

“It’s most definitely fucked up. But it’s true. He’s relentless. He’s a force of nature. And he’s always going to be just a little better than me. You should see the old books he’s collected. Half of them are in Latin and Greek. He knows magic I’ve never even heard of.”

“I thought you didn’t need those things, all the books and objects he uses. You can pull magic out of the air.”

“Maybe. Maybe that’s not enough.”

“From what I’ve seen and heard he’s jealous of what you can do, which means you’re doing fine.”

“He says he can invoke an angel.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“To gain secret knowledge. Learn how the universe runs behind the scenes. And to prove he can. He says he’s talked to demons, too.”

“Now, that’s just bullshit.”

“Probably.”

“Is that where all this is coming from? Demon and angel envy?”

“I can’t help it. The sheer balls to say it is something. And if he can do it, I don’t know. He’ll be my hero and I’ll have to put up a poster of him, like Bruce Lee over my bed back home.”

“I hope you like this couch ’cause you’re talking yourself into sleeping here tonight.”

“Mason says he’s making a deal with some kind of demons to get even more power.”

“I don’t believe in angels and devils.”

“Why not?”

“I was raised Catholic.”

She stubs out her cigarette and lights another. She was in a Robert Smith mood before I pissed her off, so she’s smoking cloves. The apartment smells like a junior high girls’ bathroom.

“He’s Beverly Hills hoodoo. Going to be big in the Sub Rosa. He plans ahead. I skate by.”

“So? If Mason’s your big guy crush, be more like him and make some plans.”

I smoke for a minute and watch Joseph Cotton following Harry Lime’s girlfriend on the road from his grave.

“You’re right. I can’t just wing it for the rest of my life. Time to turn over a new leaf. I’ll start planning ahead tomorrow. Or the day after.”

“Or the day after that.”

“Maybe next week.”

“You’re better than Mason and you can read people really well. If he starts waving his dick around and wants a Dodge City gris-gris shoot-out, you’ll see it coming a mile away and kick his ass.”

“Maybe I ought to get some of my own demons.”

“Next week. Or the week after.”

“Yeah. There’s always time, right?”

IT TOOK ME months to start thinking of the apartment as Vidocq’s and not mine and Alice’s. François-Eugène Vidocq is my oldest friend. He’s two hundred years old and French, but don’t hold that against him. I’m glad he took the place after Alice died. Six months in, the apartment is so transformed that I can’t find a shred of my or Alice’s life there. It was strange the first time I saw it that way. Allegra told me that in ancient Egypt, when the new pharaoh smashed the statues and hieroglyphs of the old one, it wasn’t just good old-fashioned hooligan fun. The new pharaoh was trying to wipe the old one out of existence, erase him from the universe. To the Egyptians, no images meant no person. That’s how it was when I first walked in. I felt erased. Now it’s a relief not to be reminded of my old life every time I go over.

Vidocq, with Allegra’s help, has turned the place into the Library of Alexandria, only French, with a schmear of L.A. art school punk. On a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf sits the foot-high three-thousand-year-old statue of Bast that Vidocq stole from an aristocratic bastard back in France. Next to Bast, Allegra has propped a pink Hello Kitty doll with tentacles. Hello Cthulhu.

The rest of the place is stacks of old manuscripts, crystals, weird scientific instruments, potions, herbs, and the gear to cut, cook, and mix them. Merlin’s workshop with a big flat-screen TV and stacks of movies Allegra brings home from the Max Overdrive. There’s porn stashed under the sofa, but they don’t know I know about that. I think they watch it together.

“Where did Vidocq say he was going?”

“Out for mazarine ice.”

“Sounds like wine cooler. What is it?”

“When he gets back, he can tell us both.”

When I met Allegra her head was shaved smooth. Now she’s letting it grow out short and shaggy. It suits her. It’s pretty.

My shirt is off as she smears green jasmine-smelling paste on my burned shoulder with her hand. Somewhere in L.A. there’s some poor guy who dreams about having a pretty girl rub paste on him, but none of the girls he knows will do it. Here I am taking his turn at bat and not even appreciating it.

“Does this hurt?”

“It’s fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Nurse, some psycho is making mud pies on my blisters with her hairy meat hooks and it hurts.”

“That’s more like it, baby boy. Knowing when I’m hurting you and not hurting is how I get better at this.”

“You’re doing fine. I’m a happy guinea pig.”

Allegra sets down the jar and uses the lid to rub the excess paste from her hand.

“Why is it you come to me these days instead of Kinski? I’m not complaining. Patching you up is a great crash course in the whole healing thing.”

“You’re good at it, too. When people find out, you’ll steal all of the doc’s business.”

She puts a couple of wide red leaves on top of the paste and wraps my arm in gauze, then uses white medical tape to hold the gauze in place.

I put my shirt back on. The arm still hurts, but it’s definitely better.

“As for Kinski, I don’t need any more neurotic angels in my life. Aelita wants to mount my head on a wall like a stuffed trout and Kinski is in his own remake of Earth Girls Are Easy.”

“Avoiding Kinski doesn’t have anything to do with Candy?”

“You’re the second person who’s asked me about her today.”

“You should call her.”

“Candy doesn’t factor into anything. And I have called. She doesn’t answer the phone anymore. It was only Kinski for a while. Now it’s no one. I haven’t talked to either of them in weeks.”

“You only come over here anymore when you’re bleeding. You don’t talk to Eugène. Kinski is gone. You’ve been avoiding everyone who cares about you. All you do is lock yourself up with Kasabian, drink, and drive each other crazy. Speaking as your doctor, you’ve got serious issues. You’re like those old guys you see at diners, staring at the same cup of coffee all afternoon, just sitting around waiting to die.”

“Sitting around? Tell that to my burns.”

“That’s not what I mean. You came back to get the people who hurt you and Alice and you did it. Great. Now you need to find the next thing you’re going to do with your life.”

“Like learn the flute or maybe save the whales?”

“You should grow up, clean up, and treat yourself like a decent person.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not either of those things.”

“Says who?”

“God. At least everyone who works for Him.”

Allegra looks past me into space, thinking.

“If I gave you some Saint-John’s-wort, would you take it? It might help your mood.”

“Give it to Kasabian. He’s the shut-in.”

Allegra pulls me over to the window and examines me under the light.

“Do you think your face is getting worse?”

“Define ‘worse.’”

“Are the changes becoming more noticeable?”

“I know what I think. Tell me what you think.”

She nods.

“It’s worse. Your old scars are healing and your new cuts aren’t disappearing like they used to. You still heal fast, just not ridiculously fast.”

“Can you stop it?”

“Leave it to you to ask for the opposite of everything I’ve been learning for the last six months.”

“I need my scars. Come on, if you can fix something you should be able to break it, too, right?”

“I can beat the shit out of you with a claw hammer. That’d be easier than working up a scar potion.”

“What about something that’ll just stop the healing where it is?”

“I don’t know about that.”

The door opens as Allegra is talking.

“But I do,” says Vidocq.

He comes in with a paper bag full of what looks like weeds, bugs, and most of the animal parts the dog food company rejected. He holds up a jar full of turquoise liquid.

“Blue amber.”

He hands the jar to Allegra, who gets up and gives him a peck on the cheek.

“That’s mazarine ice?”

“Oui. If you look in The Enochocian Treatise, the large gray book by the old alembic, you’ll find notes on the Cupbearer’s elixir. Take the amber and start gathering the other ingredients.”

“That will bring my scars back?”

“No, but we might be able to halt the healing. The Cupbearer brewed and served the gods the elixir that gave them eternal life, keeping them as they were forever. Her elixir doesn’t cure; it holds illness and infection in place. Teutonic knights brought it back from the Holy Lands during the Crusades for comrades who had contracted leprosy. I suspect that if it will stop the spread of a disease, I can make it hold your scars where they are.”

“But you don’t know.”

“How could I? Only un homme fou asks for a way to stop healing.”

“Fou me up, man. Give me skin like rhino hide. Make me look like the Elephant Man.”

“It might take some time to get it right, but we’ll see what we can do.”

Vidocq and Allegra gather plants and potions, cutters and crushers, on the worktable. They don’t have to talk much. Just whisper a word or two to let the other one know what they need. They’re a nice team. Batman and Robin, but without the rough-trade undertones. For a second, I really hate their guts. I could have been like that with the right partner, but I’m stuck with the Beast That Wouldn’t Shut Up. I wonder how smooth these two would be after a week of Kasabian screaming for porn and cigarettes. I should bring him over for a family dinner. Vidocq must have a ball gag around here somewhere.

Damn. What a childish little prick I am. There they are, working to save my ass, and all I can do is whine about poor, poor pitiful me. I need to go kill something real, not snuff dead cheerleaders, but something alive and nasty, something that deserves it.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?”

I look up into Vidocq’s eyes.

“You spent all those years in Hell fighting to stay alive, becoming injured and earning your scars. Then you come back home in hopes of destroying both your enemies and yourself, but instead you find yourself healing and becoming your old self again.”

I get up and glance at my phone. There’s still time to make a couple of stops before I have to be at the Chateau.

“Fuck my old self. My old self got his life stolen by morons and the person he cared about most killed. If I start turning into that asshole again, I’ll peel these scars off myself and put a shotgun to my forehead.”

“But how do you really feel?” asks Allegra.

“Thanks for fixing me up. I’ll see you later.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to buy a prom dress.”

I MAKE A quick stop at the Bamboo House of Dolls. You don’t want to play into the “do me a favor, I’m a rock star” thing too often, but when you’re being followed around because you’re the celebrity killer of the month, why not use it occasionally, like when you need a human in the paranormal biz and you don’t have time to screw around?

Mediums, exorcists, and sin eaters at Bamboo House aren’t the big-money kind, so most of them have to do odd jobs to stay afloat. When you’ve been career-counseling ghosts all night, it’s hard to answer phones or sling lattes for yuppies all day. Most human paranormals tend to dabble in things like gambling, sex work, and cream-puff crime. I only have to ask a couple of people to find a well-stocked thief. He sells me a new leather sport jacket and a rifle frock coat for a hundred, which even by booster standards is cheap. Of course, now he can tell his clients that he sells to Sandman Slim and jack up his prices. Let the circle of celebrity be unbroken. Amen.

There’s still time to kill before I have to head over to Chateau Marmont and I’m restless. I haven’t stolen a car in a month. All death and no play makes Stark a dull boy.

Hollywood Boulevard is long and the side streets aren’t always well lit. You’d be surprised how cheap rich people can be when it comes to parking. They’d rather leave a half-million-dollar Lamborghini in a drugstore parking lot after hours than pay a valet fifteen bucks. Their car insurance payments are what most people put out for a mortgage, and they pay them for the privilege of being stupid, so they can leave their car on the street alone and unprotected, like a four-wheel Red Riding Hood waiting for a wolf like me. I’m doing people like that a favor when I take their cars. Every time stupid rich people get ripped off, it makes them feel better about hating poor people. All they did was leave the equivalent of a big pile of cash by a parking meter, and when they came back, they were horrified to find it was gone. Leaving their stuff out for people to steal proves to them that people want to steal their stuff. Fear is like curling up under a warm blanket for some people, especially the rich.

Something evil and full of testosterone must be smiling down on me tonight. About half a block from Sunset on Cahuenga Boulevard, parked right out in the street like Grandma’s Camry, is a silver Bugatti Veyron 16.4. An easy two million dollars in precision engineering and eyeball kicks. If Hugh Hefner designed the Space Shuttle, it would look like the Veyron. Luke Skywalker would be conceived in the backseat of this car, if it had a backseat.

The Veyron is stuffed with more tech than a particle accelerator, so the black blade won’t get me through the electronic lock without alerting every screaming bit of it. Fortunately, this isn’t the first time the genius who owns the car has left it out in the open. A thin layer of dust covers the top. Just enough for me to draw in. I face west and move my finger slowly over the swept-back plastic roof, trying not to trip the alarm. I finish with a counterclockwise twist on Murmur’s sigil. Murmur is a big-mouth Hellion prick with a voice like a 747 engine, but when you reverse his name, you can hear a pin drop from a mile away. When I’m done, I give the car a good shove. It rocks for a second, the lights flutter as the alarm tries to activate, but it gives up and dies. I slip inside through a shadow, jam the black blade into the ignition, and start it up. There’s something very satisfying about stabbing two million dollars in the heart.

Murmur’s silence fills the car inside and out. My brain starts to untangle after a long, weird day.

Which is good and bad. It leaves me asking the big question I need answered: Why is Lucifer in L.A.? There’s nothing I’ve picked up from Kasabian that gives me a clue, and he can’t lie as well as a five-year-old. Have I done anything to piss Lucifer off or make him especially happy lately? Not that I know of. I haven’t done anything for him at all except take his cash. His retainer checks are a decent amount of money, and if I didn’t piss it all away on the big black money pit that is Max Overdrive, I’d be doing all right. If I was a regular desk monkey with a regular apartment and a used Honda Civic, I’d be living pretty well. But I like my little tree fort. Any more room and I’d get lost. Vidocq would find me a week later, starving and hallucinating in the breakfast nook. Max Overdrive is all I need or want. There’s a bed, a closet, a bathroom, and a million movies downstairs. I didn’t crawl out of Hell to hit the pillow sales at Bed, Bath & Beyond. I have a hard enough time keeping clothes for more than a week.

So, what the hell does Lucifer want? I don’t have my gun or the na’at with me, which is probably just as well. I have the black knife and the stone Lucifer gave me the last time we saw each other. I tested it. I’ve thrown every kind of magic I can think of at it and it seems to just be a rock. I don’t know why I carry the damned thing around. Superstition, maybe. When the devil tells you you might need something someday, I figure it pays to listen. Between the rock, Azazel’s knife, the na’at, Mason’s lighter, and Kasabian’s head, I’m starting to feel like a Gnostic junkyard.

As I cruise the streets, my mind wanders. Never a good idea. An image of Alice tries to form in my brain, but I concentrate on the lights, the billboards, and the other cars and it goes away. I spend a fair amount of time and energy not thinking about Alice these days. On the other hand, I think about Mason all the time. I know Kasabian knows more about Mason than he’s telling me. I’d love to get some alone time with the Daimonion Codex, but I’m not willing to get my head cut off for the privilege.

THE KISSI I don’t think about much, but I dream about them. Their vinegar reek chokes me while their fingers dig around inside my chest like bony worms.

I PUSH A recessed sci-fi button on the armrest and one of the Veyron’s windows slides down silently, like a tinted ghost. I turn off Hollywood Boulevard onto Sunset, go about half a block, and flip a James Bond U-turn in the middle of the street. Kick the Veyron back into gear and burn rubber to the little strip mall where Doc Kinski’s clinic is located. The Veyron bottoms out as I turn into the parking lot. A couple of local geniuses have broken into the doc’s office and are carrying out armloads of junk. Nice timing. I’m just in the mood to hit someone.

I throw open the door and come around the car looking for which one to smack first and all the fun goes out of it. It isn’t thieves after all. It’s Kinski and Candy. They’re loading boxes of scrolls and the doc’s strange medicines and elixirs. They’re as surprised to see me as I am seeing them. We all just stand there looking at each other for a minute like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. I threw a perfectly good cigarette out the window for this. The doc hands a box to Candy. She keeps loading while he comes over to talk to me.

“Nice to see you, doc. I don’t suppose you got any of the like fifty messages I left you? With most people I’d stop calling, but I used to think we were friends. Then after a while I kept calling because I was plain pissed off and thought I’d spread the joy.”

“Things have been a little crazy. Sorry. We’re doing a lot of work away from the clinic.”

“So I noticed.”

Candy is carrying smaller and smaller boxes one at a time to the car so she doesn’t have to come over. I give her a big talk-show smile.

“Hi. How are you?”

She stops loading for a second, but stays by the rear of the car.

“Okay. How have you been?”

“Getting my arm about burned off and the rest of me beat to shit by vampires. I was hoping maybe one of you would return my call and help me out with that since that’s what I thought you did for a living. Don’t worry, though. I got some Bactine.”

“Problem solved, then,” says Kinski.

“I hope you’re doing some superfine doctoring wherever it is you’ve been going. You better have figured out how to cure cancer with ice cream or something ’cause your reputation is going to shit around here.”

Kinski takes a step closer, speaking quietly.

“There’s a lot going on in the world that doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re always going to get burned up. Or your ass kicked by vampires. Sinatra sings ‘My Way’ and you crack your ribs. You’re a walking disaster area and I can’t fix that for you.”

“Thanks all to hell, doc. You’re a real chip off the Hippocratic oath. I’d ask you for a referral to another doctor but L.A. is full of assholes, so it shouldn’t be hard to find one.”

“You want some advice? Start stealing ambulances instead of flashy cars. Allegra can take care of you until we get back. That’s all I can do for you right now.”

“Where is it you need to be so fast? Are you two okay?”

“Candy and I need to be elsewhere. We need to be there soon, and standing here talking to you isn’t getting us any closer.”

Kinski goes to his car and Candy gets inside. I walk around to the passenger side and look in the window at her. She looks at me, away, and then back. There’s something in her eyes that I can’t quite figure out. It’s more than being uncomfortable about when we kissed at Avila, but I can’t tell what. Did she fall off the wagon again and kill someone?

Kinski starts the car and guns the engine. He takes the brake off, and I step out of the way so he can line up the car for the street. I’m getting back in the Veyron when I hear a car door open and slam shut. A second later Candy is next to me. She grabs me around the neck.

“I miss you, but we have to go. Things will be okay soon. You’ll see.”

She pecks me on the lips, turns, and gets back in the car. The doc steers them out onto Sunset, where they disappear into traffic.

THE CHATEAU MARMOT is a giant white castle on a green hill and it looms over Sunset like it fell out of a passing UFO. It fits in with the surrounding city with all the subtlety of a rat on a birthday cake. Make that a French rat. The place is a château, after all.

When the parking attendant sees the Bugatti, he mistakes me for someone he should care about and rushes over. His interest lasts for maybe a second, the exact amount of time it takes me to step out of the car. People have cash registers for eyes at places like this. By the time my feet are on the ground, he’s totaled up exactly how much my clothes and haircut are worth and I’ve come up short. Still, I’m driving a two-million-dollar car, so I might be an eccentric foreign director who’s just flown in for some meetings and sodomy, which means he can’t quite work up the nerve to shoo me away like a stray dog that just crapped in the pope’s big hat.

“Good evening, sir.”

“What time do you have?”

He checks his watch.

“Ten to eleven.”

“Thanks.”

He tears a numbered parking tag in half, hands me half, and sets the other half on the Bugatti’s dashboard.

“Are you staying at the hotel?”

“No. Meeting a friend.”

“That will be twenty dollars, sir.”

I tear up the parking tag and drop the pieces on the ground.

“I’ve got a better idea. Keep the car.”

“Sir?”

He wants to come after me, but other cars are arriving, so he drives the Bugatti into the garage.

Inside, I go the front desk and it hits me that I don’t have a room number or any idea who to ask for. Point for Kasabian.

“Good evening, sir. How can I help you?”

The desk clerk looks like Montgomery Clift and is better dressed than the president. He’s smiling at me, but his pupils are dilating like he thinks I’m going to start stealing furniture from the lobby. I stashed the leather jacket in the Room of Thirteen Doors before coming over and am wearing the rifle coat. I thought it looked classier and more formal, but maybe I was wrong.

“A friend of mine is staying here, but I don’t have his room number.”

“Of course. What’s your friend’s name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s not going to give his real name and I don’t know what name he’s using. He has a lot of them.”

The clerk raises his eyebrows a little. Now he has an excuse to release his inner snotty creep.

“Well, I’m not sure what I can do about that. You and your friend should probably have dealt with that in advance. Are you even sure he’s here? We specialize in a fairly exclusive clientele.”

“He’ll be in your penthouse. The biggest one you have.”

The clerk smiles like I’m a bug and he’s deciding whether to step on me or hose me down with Raid.

“Unless your friend is a Saudi prince with an entourage of thirty-five, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

“Check your register again. I know he’s here, Maybe the prince checked out.”

“The prince’s rooms are booked through the summer, so, no, there’s no mistake.”

I get out my phone and dial the direct line to my room above Max Overdrive. I know Kasabian is there, but he doesn’t answer. He knows what time it is and he’s probably dancing a centipede jig and laughing at me as the phone rings and rings. I put the phone back in my pocket. The clerk is looking at me. His expression hasn’t changed. What I want to do is punch a hole in the front of the desk, reach through, grab his balls, and make him sing The Mickey Mouse Club song. But these days, I’m working on the theory that killing everyone I don’t like might be counterproductive. I’m learning to use my indoor voice like a big boy, so I smile back at the clerk.

“Are you sure you don’t have another penthouse lying around here somewhere? Some off-the-books place you keep for special guests?”

“No, I’m sure we don’t have anything like that. And without a name or a room number, I need to ask you to leave the hotel.”

“Is needing to ask me to leave the same as telling me to leave? That’s a really confusing sentence.”

“Please, sir. I don’t want to have to call security.”

No, you don’t want to call them because then I’d have to make you into a sock puppet.

“Would you like me to tell your fortune?”

“Excuse me?”

I pick up a pen from the counter.

“Give me your hand a minute.”

He tries to pull both of his hands away, but I’m faster by a mile and get a death grip on his right wrist. His heart is pumping as fast as the Bugatti’s engine. He wants to yell for security, but he can’t even open his mouth. I don’t want the poor guy to stroke out, so I draw a single Hellion character on the palm of his hand, and then ball it closed. It’s a mind trick I saw Azazel use a few times on his dumber enemies. It’s like sticking the magic word in a golem’s mouth. The clerk’s eyes glaze over and he stares past me at nothing in particular.

“Can you hear me, hotshot?”

He smiles at me. It’s nice this time. Like he’s a human talking to another human.

“Yes, of course. How can I help you?”

“I need you to tell me the names of your extra-special guests. Not princes or movie stars. Your really special guests.”

He looks away and taps something into the computer terminal behind the desk.

“We only have one guest who sounds like the kind of person you’re looking for. A Mr. Macheath.”

Another point for Kasabian. Alice loved The Threepenny Opera and I played the 1930s German version at the store a few times when I was extra drunk and maudlin. Kasabian must have told Lucifer. I wonder what else I let slip that he could pass on to his boss.

“Yeah, that’ll be him. Where’s his room?”

“That particular room isn’t a where. It’s a when.”

“Say that again, but use smaller words.”

The clerk laughs a little. I might have to leave him like this.

“You take the elevator to the top floor. On the east wall you’ll see a very beautiful old grandfather clock. Open the cabinet where the pendulum swings and hold it to one side. Count to three and step into the cabinet.”

“Inside the grandfather clock?”

“Of course, you’re not actually stepping into the clock, but through it. A kind of time membrane that opens into the room. I don’t know if the room is forward or backward in time, but I’m sure it’s one of those.”

“I’ll try it. Thanks.”

“Thank you. And Mr. Macheath.”

“How are you feeling right now?”

“Wonderful, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“Yeah, that’s going to wear off in a while, so enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Thank you. I will.”

I go to the elevator and get out on the top floor. The grandfather clock is where he said it would be. I don’t pick up any hoodoo from it, so I open the front and grab the pendulum.

One. Two. Three.

I push the pendulum to the side and step through.

And come out in a room so big, so stuffed with golden statues, marble, and antiques, that Caligula would think it’s tacky.

“You’re late.”

Lucifer stands by a marble pillar as big around as a redwood. A tailor is marking his suit with chalk, doing a final fitting.

“I would have been here early if you and Kasabian weren’t playing name games with me.”

“You should have noticed that little detail before or factored in more time to work it out when you arrived.”

“Kas said you hated it when people were late.”

“I hate when people I pay aren’t doing their best work. You’re a smarter boy than you act, Jimmy. You need to start taking things more seriously.”

“I’m taking this room seriously. This is what Liberace’s nightmares must have looked like.”

Lucifer turns around and looks at me. He’s an angel, so I can’t read him at all.

He tilts his head slightly and says, “Love the coat. Are you on your way to the O.K. Corral?”

I nod.

“Yeah, it’s a little Doc Holliday, but it’s called a rifle coat for a reason. I can hide a double-barreled shotgun under here. Or do you want me in slippers and a sweater vest, fighting off your enemies with a hot cocoa?”

“Not now, but when you come back down below, I hope you’ll fight that way in the arena.”

“Is that why you’re here? To take me back?”

He frowns.

“No, no. That was just a terrible joke. Forgive me.”

He turns to the tailor.

“We’re done for tonight.”

The tailor gives him a small bow and helps Lucifer take off the half-finished jacket and pants. Suddenly I’m alone in a room with the Prince of Darkness in his underwear. I wouldn’t have pegged him for a boxers guy.

Actually, he’s still wearing a silk maroon shirt and he slips on a pair of pressed black slacks folded over the back of a chair. I can’t get into Lucifer’s mood or mind the way I can with humans, but I can see him move. As he pulls on pants, he makes the tiniest imaginable move with his shoulders. He flinches, almost like he’s in pain. I look over at a statue of a headless woman with wings before he turns around.

“Would you like a drink?”

I don’t turn right away.

“That sounds great.”

“I have some Aqua Regia, but I hear that’s not such a rare thing for you these days.”

“No. Are you the one sending it up?”

“Don’t be stupid. I pay you enough to take care of your own vices. I’d like to know who is importing the stuff.”

“You don’t know?”

“I have a fairly full plate at the moment what with your friend Mason trying to turn my armies against me. Or hadn’t you heard?”

“Tell the truth, the revolution was already going when he got there. He just jumped on the crazy train.”

“And I have you to thank for that.”

“I didn’t plan it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I would never accuse you of planning things. Come over and sit down.”

I follow him to an area where chairs and sofas are grouped together, facing one another. I sit on a leather easy chair. It’s the most comfortable piece of furniture in the universe. My ass wants to divorce me and marry it.

“So, Jimmy, killed anyone interesting lately?”

“No. The ones I killed today were already dead and just needed reminding.”

“I’m sure they appreciated that.”

“No one complained.”

“What flavor of undead were they?”

“Vampires.”

“Young ones? God, I hate them.”

Lucifer lights up a Malediction. I know he wants me to ask for one, so I don’t.

“Why are you up here? Shouldn’t you be Downtown spanking the guilty and slaughtering your generals? Or are you taking early retirement so you can spend more time with the grandkids?”

“Nothing so dramatic. I’m in town doing some consulting work.”

“What kind?”

“Why does anyone come to L.A.?”

“To kill people.”

“No, that’s just you. Normal people come here to get into the movies.”

“You’re in a movie?”

“Of course not. I’m here as a technical adviser. A producer friend is in preproduction for a big-budget film of my life story.”

“Please tell me you’re bringing Ed Wood back from the dead to direct it.”

“This is strictly an A-list project. I’m disappointed, Jimmy. I thought you’d be more excited. You love movies.”

“Why do you need a biopic? About half the movies ever made are horror flicks and aren’t all horror flicks really about you? So, you already have about ten thousand movies.”

“But those are metaphorical. Even the ones where I’m depicted, it’s never really me. This will be the real thing. The true story. My side of the story.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but who fucking cares? Are there really enough Satanists and girls in striped stockings to pay for a flick like that?”

“It’s a prestige picture, Jimmy. Sometimes a studio makes a movie it knows won’t show a near-term profit because they know that it’s the right thing to do artistically.”

“You own the head of the studio, don’t you? Someone sold you their soul for fame and power and hot and cold running starlets and this is them paying you off.”

“It’s only a partial payoff. I still own the soul.”

Lucifer goes to a desk and comes back with a framed piece of black velvet, like something a jeweler would have. It’s covered with small shiny objects. A pocketknife. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses missing one lens. A pair of Shriner cuff links. A sleeping netsuke cat. He picks up a small gold necklace.

“I take something from everyone whose soul I hold. Not take. They choose what they want to give me. It’s a symbolic act. A physical reminder of our deal. These are trinkets from Hollywood friends.”

He holds the gold necklace higher so I can get a good look.

“This is Simon’s. Simon Ritchie. The head of the studio. Simon imagines that he’s very clever. Very ironic. The necklace belonged to his first wife. It was her First Communion gift. A rosary necklace with a pretty little cross. Of course, she was just a girl when she received it, so at some point she added a gold unicorn charm. A darling thing, though I’m not sure the Church would approve.”

“What does he or she get for all this?”

“Simon? He gets a little more time.”

Lucifer takes a long drag on the Malediction and puts the necklace back with the other soul souvenirs.

“That’s all you people ever want. A little more time in a world that all of you, in your heart of hearts, secretly despise.”

“I don’t keep it a secret.”

“And that’s why I like you, Jimmy. We’re alike in so many ways. Plus, you’re so very good at making things dead. That’s what you’re going to do for me while I’m here. Not kill so much as prevent a killing, namely mine. You’re going to be my bodyguard whenever I’m out in public.”

“You’re the devil. You gave God a rusty trombone and lived to talk about it. Why would you need a bodyguard?”

“Of course, no one can kill me permanently, but this physical body I inhabit on earth can be injured, even destroyed. Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if it turned up riddled with bullets? We don’t want that kind of negative buzz just as the production is getting off the ground.”

“You need a new PR guy, not a bodyguard.”

“All the most famous people travel with private security these days, don’t they? You’re mine. Sandman Slim by my side, ready to snap necks at a moment’s notice. That will be quite a photo op. For both of us.”

“That’s exactly what I want. More people knowing who I am.”

Lucifer laughs.

“Don’t worry. The civilian media won’t see either of us. This is purely for the benefit of our sort of people.”

“The Sub Rosa.”

“Exactly.”

“Is that who owns the studio?”

“No. It’s a civilian gentleman, but most of his staff is Sub Rosa. The studio even has an outreach program, providing unskilled jobs to Lurkers that want to crawl out of the sewers and into the real world.”

“Sub Rosas get the corner office and Lurkers get to clean the toilets. Same as it ever was.”

“That sounds like class warfare, Jimmy. You’re not a socialist, are you?”

“Considering who and what I am …”

“An abomination?”

“Right. Considering that most Sub Rosa probably consider me a Lurker, do you really want me around so one of them can say something cute at a party and I have to pry his head off with a shrimp fork?”

Lucifer seems to think for a moment, sets down his drink, and leans forward in his seat. He speaks very quietly.

“Do you think for one second that I would allow any of the walking excrement that infests this world to insult me or anyone in my employ? You might be a natural-born killer, but I specialize in torment that lasts a million years. You think you’ve seen horrors because you were in the arena. Trust me, you have no idea what real horror looks like or the terrible things I’ve done to keep my throne. You’ll be by my side while I’m in Los Angeles because in this task and in all others, I’m as much your bodyguard as you are mine.”

It’s moments like this, when Lucifer gets rolling and the words and the intensity start flowing, that I understand how one lone angel convinced a third of Heaven’s worker bees to turn the dump over. And that was just the third with the cojones to follow him. I have a feeling that a lot of other angels listened, but were too scared to join the party. If I was some lower-class grease-monkey angel caught in the cross fire of an argument between Lucifer and Aelita—oh wait, I am—I’d probably think twice about giving God the finger and running off to never-never land with Satan and the Lost Boys. But I’d still go.

I want to ask what that part about us being each other’s bodyguard means, but when he gets like this, it’s scary to ask direct questions, so I go another way.

“What do I have to do as your bodyguard?”

He picks up his drink and relaxes like nothing ever happened.

“Not much. I don’t expect any trouble, but all the major celebrities travel with their own security these days. Who better for me to have by my side than Sandman Slim? All you have to do is remember to wear pants and occasionally look menacing. Really, you’ll be less my bodyguard and more of a branding opportunity, like Ronald McDonald.”

“It sounds better and better all the time.”

“You’ve already taken a lot of my money and you’re not in a position to pay it back, so let’s not argue the point. You know you’re going to take the job. You knew it before you walked in here.”

“When do I start?”

“Tomorrow night. Mr. Ritchie, the head of the studio, is throwing me a little welcome party. We’ll make our debut then.”

“I have something I have to do later tonight.”

“I’m not going anywhere tonight, so feel free.”

“Does Kasabian know about all this?”

“Why would I tell him my business? His job is to send me information.”

“What’s he been telling you about me?”

“That you’re at loose ends. That you’re depressed. That you’re drunk much of the time. That ever since you locked up Mason, all you’ve done is kill things, smoke, and drink. You need to get out more, Jimmy. This will be the perfect job for you. You’ll meet lots of exciting new people to hate.”

“I hope you’re a better salesman when you’re buying suckers’ souls.”

He pours us both more Aqua Regia. When he holds out the pack of Maledictions, I take one and he lights it for me.

“I’m not a salesman. I don’t have to be. People offer me their souls every second of every day. They bring them to my door ready to eat. It’s like having pizza delivered.”

“You’re making me hungry. There any food around here?”

“You want to eat with me? You don’t know much mythology, do you? Persephone’s story?”

“Who’s she?”

“She was abducted by Hades and taken to the Underworld, where she ate a single pomegranate seed. She was able to return home, but for the rest of her life she had to spend half of the year with her husband on earth and half of the year with Hades in the Underworld.”

“Was she hungry when she ate the seed?”

“I expect so.”

“Then what’s the problem? I once ate some greasy scrambled eggs at a truck stop near Fresno and puked and shit myself for two days. That was six months in Hell right there.”

Lucifer picks up a phone next to his chair.

“I’ll call room service.”

LATER, MY PHONE goes off. It’s Wells texting me the address of where I’m supposed to meet him. I go out the Alice in Wonderland clock and down to the garage, where top-of-the-line cars are laid out like Christmas morning on repoman island. There’s a white ’57 T-bird with a white top. I pop the knife into the ignition, fire it up, and head outside. On my way out of the lot, I nod to the valet I gave the Bugatti to. He raises one arm and gives me an unsure little half wave. He won’t be able to keep the Veyron, of course, the cops and insurance company will make sure of that, but I hope he gets to have some fun before he has to ditch it.

I DRIVE EAST along Sunset. Cut south into what the chamber of commerce calls Central City East, but the rest of the universe calls skid row. The corner of Alameda and East Sixth is so boring and anonymous it’s amazing it’s allowed on maps. Warehouses, metal fences, dusty trucks, and a handful of beat-up trees that look like they’re on parole from tree jail. I turn right on Sixth and drive until I find a vacant lot. It’s not hard. A half dozen of the Vigil’s stealth supervans are parked by the curb, looking just a little out of place. Flying saucers at a rodeo.

The lot isn’t one hundred percent vacant. There’s a small house in the middle, an overgrown wood-frame shit box that’s so swallowed up by weeds, vines, and mold that I can’t even tell the original color. It’s not much more than a shack. A leftover from the days when L.A. was open enough to have orchards, oil wells, and sheep farms. Not that this place was ever any of those.

Rich Sub Rosas aren’t like rich civilians. Civilians wear their wealth on their sleeve. They get flash cars, like the Bugatti. Twenty-thousand-dollar watches that can tell you how long it takes an electron to fart. And big beautiful mansions in the hills, like Avila, far away from God’s abandoned children, the flatlanders.

Sub Rosa wealth works on sort of the opposite idea. How secret and invisible can you make yourself, your wealth, and your power? Big-time Sub Rosa families don’t live in Westwood, Benedict Canyon, or the hills. They prefer abandoned housing projects and ugly anonymous commercial areas with strip malls or warehouses. If they’re lucky or been around long enough, they might have scored themselves an overgrown wood-frame shit box in a vacant lot on skid row. Chances are this house has looked exactly this feral and miserable for the last hundred years. Before that, it was probably a broken-down log cabin.

I park the T-bird across the street and jog over to the house. Just a few streetlights and warehouse security lights. There’s nothing else alive. Not a headlight in sight.

There’s a tarnished knocker on the door. I use it. A woman opens the door. Another marshal. She’s in the female equivalent of Wells’s men-in-black chic.

“Evening, ma’am, I’m collecting for UNICEF.”

“Stark, right? Get in here. Marshal Wells is waiting.”

“And you are?”

“No one you need to know.”

She lets me inside. The interior of the place is as rotten and decayed as the outside. She leads me into the kitchen.

“Nice. Defensiveness and moral superiority in two-point-four seconds. A new land speed record.”

“Marshal Wells said you liked to talk.”

“I’m a people person.”

“Is that before or after you cut people’s heads off?”

“I only cut off my enemies’ heads. I break my friends’ hearts.”

“So, that’s, what, zero hearts broken?”

“The night’s still young.”

She stops by the door. Where the back porch would be, if it hadn’t collapsed back when Columbus took his big cruise.

“Wells is in the study.”

“Thanks, Julie.”

“How did you know my name is Julie?”

Her heartbeat just spiked. I’m here in the middle of the night and being underpaid because of Wells. I don’t need to take it out on her. I smile, trying to look pleasant and reassuring.

“It’s nothing. Just a silly trick.”

“Don’t do it again.”

“It’d be a little stupid guessing someone’s name twice.”

Marshal Julie listens to something coming through her earpiece.

She says “Got it” into her cuff and looks at me.

“Is that your Thunderbird across the street?”

“No.”

“But you drove it here.”

“Yes.”

“You came here in a stolen vehicle?”

“Define ‘stolen.’ It’s not like I’m keeping it.”

“I don’t suppose you have the keys?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She walks back to the front door, talking to whoever is in her earpiece.

“I need someone to evacuate a red and white Thunderbird coupe from the 6th Street inquiry.”

I head out back, pretty sure that Marshal Julie will not be my secret Santa at the Homeland Security Christmas party.

I’VE ALREADY GONE down one rabbit hole tonight at the Chateau, so it’s no surprise that the house beyond the porch door has nothing to do with the wreck I entered. The house through the door is a sprawling old-fashioned California mansion. Very western. Almost cowboy. Lots of wood. Two-story-high ceilings. Leather and animal-print furniture right out of an old Rat Pack movie. Massive picture windows look out over the desert and San Gabriel Mountains.

This, the Sub Rosa house hidden inside the other, is crowded with Wells’s people. There are at least a dozen forensic agents in the living room alone. They’re using a lot of strange gear I’ve never seen before, more of the Vigil’s weird angelic technology. The room is full of agents lost behind flashing lights, on their knees shoving beeping probes under furniture or lost behind transparent floating screens showing weird images of supermagnified carpet fibers.

“Down here, dead man.”

It’s Wells, yelling to me from the far end of the house. He never gets tired of reminding me that I’m officially dead and off the radar of the cops and most of the government. But only as long as I make nice with the Vigil. It’s a good threat. Without them, my life would be a lot more complicated.

I pass another ten agents in the hall on the way to the study and six more in the study. Between agents chattering, vacuums sucking up evidence, and probes flying around checking for aether residue, I can hardly hear my own voice.

“Why the hell do you need so many people, Wells?”

The marshal doesn’t look at me. He’s staring off at something across the room.

“You do your job and let my people do theirs.”

What Wells is looking at is worthy of some top-drawer staring. There’s an altar and above it, a six-foot-tall statue of Santa Muerte, a kind of grim reaper parody of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Despite her bony looks, she’s someone her believers pray to for protection. I guess whoever owned the statue wasn’t very good at it. It looks like half of his blood is sprayed across Saint Death, the altar, and the walls. The rest is in a nice congealed pool of rust-colored Jell-O around what’s left of his body. You can’t even call what’s on the floor a corpse. There isn’t enough of it. It looks like he tried to crawl into a jet engine, changed his mind, and tried to crawl out again.

I say, “I think he’s dead.”

Wells nods, still staring at the slaughter.

“I’ll be sure to write that down. Anything else?”

“This was no boating accident.”

Wells looks at me like he’s a trash compactor and I’m week-old bacon.

“Damn you, boy. A man is dead here and he was one of yours. Sub Rosa. And he died badly. Do you have anything to contribute to our finding out what the hell happened here?”

I want to get closer to the death scene and I have to walk around several agents to do it. Glad I’m not claustrophobic.

The body is lying in pieces scattered inside a strangely modified calling circle. The edges are sharp. It’s not a circle. It’s a hexagon, a shape only used in dark magic. It looks like at least part of the circle was painted with blood, though it’s hard to be sure with pieces of the guy laid out across the floor like a buffet. There are a lot of bones scattered around. Too many to all be his. He probably used them to reinforce the hexagon.

I have to walk all the way around the room to get back to Wells.

“He doesn’t stink. How long has he been lying there?”

“At least two days. There’s been very little tissue breakdown. No blowfly eggs. Not even rigor mortis in the one elbow joint we found.”

“Did you find anything in aether tracings?”

“There’s definitely dark magic residue. We’re not sure what kind yet.”

I go back to the body and stand as close as I can without touching it. Even without trying, I can feel something radiating off the mangled flesh and bones. But I can’t tell what. It’s ancient and cold. For a minute I wonder if the Kissi could have done it, but there’s no vinegar reek. If Wells’s crew would quiet down for a goddamn second, it probably wouldn’t be hard to figure out. Some of the angel devices are pumping out celestial energy fields, stinking up the aether.

“Can you get these people to quiet the hell down for a minute?”

“This is a priority job. It’s a big crew and everybody works. Do some magic, Sandman Slim. You’ve worked loud rooms before.”

I can’t get hold of whatever it is that’s coming off the body. I touch part of what I think is an arm with the toe of my boot. Turn it over. One of the forensic techs says something.

“Get that machine out of my way so I can work,” I say.

I’m not sure exactly how I sounded, but half of Wells’s crew suddenly find other parts of the room to work.

Kneeling down, I take a close look at the not-rotting skin. There are funny marks there. Old ones. He’d tattooed over them, like he was trying to camouflage them. There are marks on the bones, too. New ones.

The altar is a jumble of magic objects. Saints and rosaries. A sephirot stitched together from separate pieces of parchment and linen. Pentagrams and swastikas drawn on Post-its. An old bottle of no-name whiskey. Animal bones. Bowls full of meth, joints, and poppers. Yojimbe bark. Gray’s Anatomy. And a very nice selection of dildos, gags, butt plugs, nipple clamps, and antique handcuffs.

I drag a chair over to where Wells is standing. The forensic crew is falling in love with me.

“Who is this guy? Was this guy?” I ask.

“Enoch Springheel.”

“Springheel, like the Springheels?”

“Yep. Supposedly, the first Sub Rosa family in L.A. I guess a couple of hundred years back, when this was mostly Indians and coyotes, they were the cock of the walk. But other families settled here and things sort of fell apart for the Springheels. Lost most of their land. Lost their status. Homeland Security doesn’t know why. Neither does the Vigil. I was hoping maybe you knew something.”

“When I was a kid, I spent most of my time trying to get away from the Sub Rosa. I know the names, but not much of the family histories.”

“What a blessing it is to have you around.”

While Wells complains I climb on the chair to get a better view of the room. Whenever I reach out with my mind, the combination of whatever is coming off the body and the Vigil’s goddamn machines start making me dizzy. But from up on high something clicks in my brain and the scene falls together like a series of snapshots of things I’ve seen over the last eleven years.

Who needs nephilim superpowers when you’ve got the devil’s slide projector in your head?

I go back to the body and cut some skin and bone with the black blade. Then I spit on the incisions. That gets their attention.

“Give me some salt.”

One of the forensic drones pulls a vial from a potion case and tosses it to me. I sprinkle the salt over where I just spit. Nothing happens. Then there are bubbles. Steam. The saliva begins to boil.

“You know much about demons, Marshal Wells? What they are? How they work?”

“They’re elementals. Not like you pixies or Lurkers. Demons are primitives. Like insects. They’re pretty much programmed to do a single thing. Killing. Inciting lust. Planting lies.”

“They’re so dumb because they’re fragments of the Angra Om Ya. The old gods. They’re powerful but brain-dead crumbs of whatever god they fell from.”

“That’s blasphemy, boy. There were no gods before God.”

“Okay, forget that. Did your team take a look at these marks on the skin? They’re teeth marks. Señor Chew Toy could have healed himself, but he didn’t. He liked the scars. He just covered them with tattoos to hide his dirty little secret from the other Sub Rosa.”

Wells is looking at me now.

“Keep going.”

“If you find Enoch Shitheel’s head, check his teeth. I bet you’ll find he gave himself some of those scars.”

“Demon possession?”

“Think simpler. Ever heard of autophagia?”

“No.”

“I bet you’ve never seen any Sub Rosa porn either. You’re out of your depth, choirboy. In the books, autophagia is a mental disorder, but Springheel made it into a fetish. He got off on eating himself.”

Wells is giving me his disapproving squint, but he’s listening. His team edges in closer, not even pretending to work anymore.

“Santa Muerte is death and protection all rolled into one. A gangster Kali. She’d tighten Springheel’s jeans.”

“Watch your language.”

“Fuck you. You brought me in. I’ll do this my way.”

Pause.

“Keep going.”

“The altar is a dark-magic sex shop. All you need is Lucifer’s cock ring to have the party of the century. I only mention that because that’s what Springheel wanted to do. Party very hard.”

I walk over and stand in the hexagon, trying to step around the sticky bits.

“The hexagon with blood and bone calls dark power. Yojimbe mixes in sexual energy, but that’s not a big surprise considering all the speed and poppers on the altar. Well, maybe for you. Look at this one side of the hexagon. There’s maybe a half-inch gap where the edges don’t touch. If this is a protection configuration, it won’t work. Whatever Enoch calls will be able to slip in through that hole. That’s stupid and it’s sloppy. Unless it’s deliberate.”

“What did Springheel invoke and why did he let it in?”

I step forward to the broken edge of the hexagon.

“He would have been here, near the opening. He’s thrown yojimbe around. He’s probably been snorting meth and doing his poppers. He starts his spell and he calls up a demon.”

“What kind of demon?”

I hold up one of the still-smoking bones with my fingertips and point to the broken edge.

“An eater. Five hundred years ago, an eater was what you called when you wanted it to look like locusts chewed up on your neighbor’s crops or wolves killed their cattle. Enoch wanted something more up close and personal. That’s why there’s a break in the hexagon. Springheel built himself a cosmic glory hole. He was a Bone Daddy.”

Wells is frowning. He really wants me to shut up. I keep going.

“He’s got a hard-on for demons. For eaters. Springheel wanted to stick as much of himself as he could get through that glory hole and get it nibbled on by a primordial retard with ten rows of shark teeth. Only something went wrong.”

“What?”

“Damned if I know. Let your techs figure it out. Springheel called an eater because that’s how he got off. But he fucked up. Broke the circle too wide or made some stupid stoner mistake to completely break the hexagon’s protection and got himself eaten.”

“You’re sure about this sick shit?”

“Who else lived here?”

“No one. He was the last of the Springheels.”

“All alone with no one to look over his shoulder. That’s a nice setting to work out really elaborate fantasies. There’s one other thing you probably ought to check out.”

“What’s that?”

“If end-of-the-line Enoch was the last member of a house that went from number one to less than zero, getting eaten might not have been a mistake. It could have been a nasty, lonely little suicide. A hard-core player partying one last time as he pisses off this mortal coil.”

Wells turns and walks away.

“Enough. How do you live inside your head? I’m not saying you’re wrong or that I disagree with your conclusions or that disgusting scenario that you obviously know a lot about. All I’m saying is stop. I don’t want to hear any more. You’ve done your job. My team will finish up. Thank you for your valuable contribution to the investigation. Now please, get the hell out of here. I don’t want to look at you for a while.”

I’ve seen Wells screaming crazy, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him upset. I guess when you’re in love with an angel, the idea of someone spending his alone time shoving his cock down demons’ throats might be disturbing. Welcome to my world, G-man. I’ll show you Hellion hobbies that make Enoch Springheel look like Jiminy Cricket.

I go back to the porch and into the kitchen. Marshal Julie is still alone up front.

When she sees me she asks, “Did you do your job?”

“I just got thrown out. That usually means I did.”

“Good for you. I’m sure the marshal is grateful that you came through for him.”

“Not really.”

“Your car is gone.”

“It wasn’t my car.”

“That’s why it’s gone. Do you need a ride?”

“Are you offering?”

She gets quiet for a minute. Stares past me over my shoulder.

“What’s going on back there? I know it’s a murder scene, but I’m supposed to stay up here and guard the doorknobs.”

“You’re the new kid, right? They give you the worst hours, shit duty, and they short-sheet your halo?”

She almost smiles.

“Something like that.”

“Yeah, it’s a murder scene. A rotten one, too. Dark magic gone bad. It even got your boss upset.”

“Damn. I wish I could see that. You don’t know how much I want to be back there.”

“Cool your jets, Honey West. Don’t be in such a rush to get what’s back there stuck in your head. It doesn’t come out again.”

“I don’t care. I need to know what’s in rooms like that. I’ve prepared for it my whole life. Now I’m here, but I’m still missing out.”

Scratch a cop, find a pervert.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “L.A.’s not going to run out of psychos anytime soon.”

I go outside. The steps crack and crunch beneath my feet. Good special effects.

Marshal Julie says, “You never told me if you wanted a ride.”

“Mind if I steal one of your vans?”

This time she does smile.

“Yeah. I kind of do.”

“Then I think I’ll walk awhile. I can use the air.”

I get half a block down Sixth Street before I’m sure that someone is following me. Whoever it is isn’t very good at it. The heavy footfalls say it’s a he. And he’s dragging one of his feet. He kicks and steps on things. For a second I wonder if it’s Marshal Julie, but no one from the Vigil would be that amateur hour. I turn around twice, but the street is always empty.

At the corner of South Broadway, I look again. A man stands half lit under a streetlight. His posture is funny, like he needs a back brace but forgot his on the bus. He just stands there. When he tries to turn around, he stumbles on the foot he’s been dragging. For a split second, his face is in the light. I swear it’s Mason. His face is dead white and gaunt, the skin torn. But then it isn’t him. It never was. I don’t recognize him. By the time I run over to where the stranger is standing, he’s moved back into the dark and disappeared.

Hissing sounds of car tires rolling by on Broadway. Gurgle of water from the sewer at my feet. There’s nothing else. I’m the only thing alive on the street. Serves me right for turning down a ride home from a cannibal play party, even if it was with a cop.

I step through a shadow into the Room and stay there long enough to smoke a cigarette. I’m nowhere in here. I’m outside space and time. The universe crashes around me like cosmic bumper cars. Somewhere out there stars are being born while others flare out, frying planets and whole populations. A few billion here. A few billion there. Lucifer promises some pimply kid ten years at the top of the music charts for his soul. Of course, the kid is too dumb to specify which charts and is about to find himself with number one singles in Mongolia and Uzbekistan. God watches while a bus full of his worshippers spins out on a patch of black ice, flips, and catches fire, burning everyone inside alive.

The universe is a meat grinder and we’re just pork in designer shoes, keeping busy so we can pretend we’re not all headed for the sausage factory. Maybe I’ve been hallucinating this whole time and there is no Heaven and Hell. Instead of having to choose between God and the devil, maybe our only real choice comes down to link or patty?

When I got back to my room above Max Overdrive, I put Kasabian in the closet where I used to lock him up. I built him a bachelor pad in there. Padded the shelves with cabinets where he can keep beer and snacks, along with a bucket where he can slop the remains. There’s a computer inside, so he can surf the Web and watch any movies he wants. It’s soundproof so I can sleep and not hear if he’s watching Behind the Green Door. I know I’m going to dream about Springheel’s chewed-up carcass tonight and I don’t need Kasabian and Marilyn Chambers joining the party.

I DON’T WAKE up until almost two the next day. It took a fair amount of drinking to fall asleep last night. All the pillows are on the floor and the blankets are in a knot by my feet, so I know I dreamed, but I can’t remember what about. Kasabian probably knows. He’s back over on the table at the PC going through online video catalogs, pretending he doesn’t know I’m awake. I think Lucifer gave him a touch of clairvoyance so he can get snapshots of my mind. That’s okay. I’ve been playing a lot more with hexes lately so I don’t always have to go for the knife or gun. I have some tricks I’ve worked up that he doesn’t know about yet.

Losing the Bugatti has punched a car-size hole in my heart, so I steal a Corvette from in front of Donut Universe and drive to Vidocq’s. Maybe I should start thinking of it as Vidocq and Allegra’s. She’s always there when I go. I don’t think she goes back to her apartment to do anything but change clothes.

I hate Corvettes, so I leave it in front of the most obvious crack house in Vidocq’s neighborhood and walk the last few blocks to his place.

Inside, I take the elevator to the third floor and head down the hallway. I can’t find my cigarettes, so I stop in the hall to pat myself down. A gray-haired guy in a green windbreaker and worn chinos stops beside me.

“Didn’t you used to live here?”

I nod, still patting myself down. If I left the cigarettes in the car, the crackheads have them by now, dammit.

“A long time ago.”

“With a girl, right? Pretty. And she kept the place after you left.”

Why do I do this to myself? This is what happens every time I try to be a person. I do something normal, like walk in the front door of a building, and the Neighborhood Watch is on me.

“Yeah, she was very pretty.”

He gives me a just-between-us-guys half smile.

“What happened, man? She throw you out for doing her sister?”

Sometimes there’s nothing worse than the truth. It can be harder and sharper and hurt more than a knife. The truth can clear a room faster than tear gas. The problem with telling the truth is that someone then has something on you that they can use against you. The good part is that you don’t have to remember which lie you told who.

“I got dragged to Hell by demons from the dawn of time. While I was down there, I killed monsters and became a hit man for the devil’s friends. How have you been?”

The guy’s smile curdles. He takes a step back.

“Don’t let me catch you hanging around the halls anymore, okay? I’ll have to call the manager.”

“No problem, Brenda. You have an extra cigarette?”

“My name’s Phil.”

“You have an extra cigarette, Chet?”

He walks away and gets a good twenty feet before he mumbles “Fuck you,” sure I can’t hear him.

I knock on Vidocq’s door to let him know I’m there and go inside.

“Hi,” says Allegra from behind the big cutting table where she and Vidocq prepare their potions. Vidocq is in the kitchen making coffee. He holds up the pot when he sees me.

“Good afternoon. You look like you’re still asleep.”

“I’m fine, just don’t wake my brain. I think it’s been drinking.”

Allegra walks over with a shit-eating grin on her face.

“No thank you, little girl. I don’t want to buy any of your cookies.”

Her smile doesn’t waver.

“Is it true? Is Lucifer really here in L.A.?”

I look at Vidocq.

“Word travels fast around these parts.”

He shrugs.

“We have no secrets.”

I turn back to Allegra.

“I spent the evening with a guy in a magic hotel room the size of Texas and decorated like the Vatican, if the Vatican was a whorehouse. I think there’s a pretty good chance it was Lucifer.”

“You knew him down in Hell, right? What’s he like?”

Vidocq brings me a cup of black coffee, holds up his cup in a little toast.

“Girls are obsessed with bad boys, man. How can we compete with the Prince of Darkness?” I ask.

He sits on the worn sofa and shrugs.

“We’ve already lost the battle. We accept defeat and move along, sadder but wiser.”

“Well?” says Allegra.

“What do I know that isn’t in the Bible or Paradise Lost?”

“Are those right? Are they accurate?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I never read ’em, but they’re popular.”

She takes away my coffee cup and sets it on the table behind her.

“I want to hear it from you. Tell me what he’s like.”

“He’s exactly what you think he is. He’s good-looking, smart, and the scariest son of a bitch you can possibly imagine. He purrs like a cat one minute, and the next, he’s Lex Luthor with a migraine. He’s David Bowie, Charlie Manson, and Einstein all rolled into one.”

“That sounds pretty hot.”

“Of course he’s hot. That’s his job. He’s the guy you meet at a party that you take home and fuck even though every sensible part of your brain is screaming at you not to.”

“What’s so scary about him?”

“He’s the devil.”

“I mean have you ever seen him do any devil stuff. Anything really evil?”

“I live with a dead man’s talking head. I’d say that’s pretty fucked up.”

She hands me back my coffee, but is clearly not satisfied.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I’ve never seen him turn a city into salt or make it rain blood. He doesn’t do that kind of thing. Why should he? We do most of the shitty stuff in this world. He can just sit back and watch us like HBO.”

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