Текст книги "Kill City Blues"

Автор книги: Richard Kadrey

Соавторы: Richard Kadrey,Richard Kadrey
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

After that, there’s nothing to do but wait for handsome, young Matthew to come home, happy and a little crocked. Candy and I sit and lean against the refrigerator.

“This is the first time we’ve been really alone in a month,” she says.

“You’re right.”

“I think we should celebrate.”

“Chicken and waffles?”

“I know something cheaper.”

She climbs on top of me and puts my hands on her breasts. Begins to grind her crotch against mine.

“What time does your mom get home?” I say.

“Not until after her PTA meeting.”

“Then we better hurry.”

“You talked me into it,” she says, and takes off her T-shirt.

We’re discreet. We don’t shatter any windows or crack plaster off the wall and only break the legs off one of Allegra’s kitchen chairs. I’ll blame that on Matthew.

The man of the hour comes rolling back around eleven-thirty. I hear him rattle the doorknob. A little at first and then harder. He bangs on the door. Yells Allegra’s name.

“I know you’re in there. You think this shit is going to keep me out?”

I’m pretty sure I know the next thing that’s going to happen, and it does. A bootheel to the door where the lock meets the frame. Wood splinters. There’s the sound of metal on carpet as the lock slips out of the door. I stand up and get into position. Candy stays put by the kitchen door.

Matthew comes in and tries the hall light. Curses under his breath when it doesn’t come on.

“Bitch, are you playing games with me? You’re not funny.”

Big Boy storms into the living room and straight onto the tarp. Promptly goes down on his face, into a mix of soap and razor-sharp glass.

“Fuck,” he yells, and “Fuck” again, scrambling in the muck like a mule on an ice rink.

I say, “You might want to hold still.”

He stops moving.

“Who the fuck is that? Where’s Allegra?”

I turn on the small lamp I set aside earlier. I took off the shade so the bulb is annoyingly bright and the light harsh, better to bring out all the pretty scars on my face.

“I’m here to tell you to leave Allegra alone.”

He looks at me and then around at the acre of tarp and glass. It dawns on him that he’s at least moderately fucked, but he keeps up a good front.

“You’re Stark, aren’t you?”

“What’s that to you?”

“You’re the one I really wanted to see. Not that cunt.”

Candy comes out of the kitchen, steps carefully onto one of the dry spots on the tarp’s edge, and kicks Matthew in the ribs. He curls into a little ball of pain and surprise.

“Who’s that?”

“The kick fairy. Say something stupid again and she’ll leave another quarter under your pillow.”

It’s hard for him to catch his breath.

“Okay.”

“Good. We’ll deal with how you know me later. Right now I’m here to talk about you and Allegra.”

“She owes me,” he says, trying to sit up. He slips and goes back down again into the glass. Thin streams of red spread out into the soap. “She stole my money and left me to take the rap for everything.”

“Maybe she wanted to get away from you and that life.”

“Fuck the bitch.”

Candy comes out and kicks him again.

“Fuck. Who is that?” he yells.

“Pay attention to me, jailbird. What I’d like to do with a guy like you is handle things simply, but I promised Allegra I wouldn’t kill you.”

“Suck my dick, tough guy,” he says. Then looks around for Candy. Nothing happens this time. So much for chivalry.

“Instead, what I’m going to do to you is more fun.”

“Why don’t you come over here, pussy, and we’ll settle this like men.”

“First off, I’m not a man. Second, I’m comfy right here. But you’re welcome to swim over my way if you can’t hear me.”

He stays put.

“So, I was telling you what I was going to do.”

“Talk me to death?”

“You’re on parole, aren’t you? I’m going to dismantle you so that the only way you’re ever going to see daylight again is to run as far away as fast as you can and never come back.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I thought you’d never ask. Kick him again for me, dear.”

Candy comes out and gives him an especially nice shot in the lower ribs. I toss her a set of the work gloves.

“Check him for a gun. Take it and his wallet and toss them to me.”

She fumbles through his clothes for a minute. I should have brought latex gloves with me, but I’m rusty at this and you can’t think of everything.

Finally she comes up with a 9mm Glock and a cheap wallet with a skull and crossbones on the front. I set them on the floor by the lamp. Then grab the barbed-wire cage and hold it over him.

“Set him up straight for me?”

Candy grabs Matthew by the hair and lifts him until he’s on his knees. I drop the wire spiral over his head and Candy pushes him over with her boot, so he’s lying in the soap wrapped in a cage.

“If you thought the glass was bad, try getting frisky in that,” I tell him.

He lets out a couple of little gasps but doesn’t give any back talk.

“Now I’m going out for a few minutes. I don’t want you bothering the kick fairy while I’m gone.”

I hand her the wire cutters.

“Talk too much and she has my blessing to remove your tongue.”

Candy smiles at me. She likes playing dress-up and femme fatale. I don’t think she’ll hurt him while I’m gone, but she won’t be nice either. I put Matthew’s gun and wallet in my pocket and pull up my hood.

“I’m going out for milk and eggs, honey. Be back in a couple of minutes.”

She blows me a kiss and I head out.

There’s a pharmacy a couple of blocks down Beverly from the apartment. It’s a short stroll. A light rain is starting to fall. Early for this time of year. I light a cigarette and smoke until the rain picks up and the foot traffic clears off the street.

The pharmacy isn’t marked around the back of the building, but there’s only one door covered with surveillance cameras and alarm stickers. I pull the hood tighter so only my eyes are showing and kick the door in. The alarm goes off. I have to work fast.

I hop the pharmacy counter and head for the back. Mostly I want to make a mess and grab some Vicodin or OxyContin. I find a couple of jars of vitamin V on a top shelf in the back. I grab both. Stuff one in my pocket and tear open the other, scattering pills on the floor. On my way back over the counter, I leave Matthew’s gun. I drop his wallet in the alley.

When I get back to Allegra’s place, I pop the top of the Vicodin bottle, crush up a few tablets, and scatter the powder over Matthew. Put the rest of the bottle in his pocket, then take off my gloves and stick them in my pocket.

“It’s raining outside,” says Candy.

“Just like a good film noir, right, Matt?”

He looks up at me from the floor.

“What did you do?”

“I just broke into a pharmacy. Took some drugs and left your gun and wallet at the scene.”

“Fuck,” he says. “Fucking fuck you, motherfucker.”

“He’s kind of a poet,” Candy says.

“Kind of one but not really.”

Matthew shakes his head.

“This isn’t going to stick, you know. The guy who told me about you, he’ll fix it.”

“Who’s that?”

Matthew tries to roll onto his side, but it hurts too much.

“Take out my phone and call him. He wants to talk to you. Just hit the most recent call number.”

I put my foot on his cage and roll him onto his back. He groans. I get a phone from his coat pocket, open it, and hit the number that comes up.

It rings a couple of times and someone with a drawl says, “Hello?”

“Who is this?”

A pause.

“That you, Stark? How’s my favorite pixie?”

I know the voice. It’s U.S. Marshal Larson Wells, late of the now-defunct Golden Vigil, the outfit he ran with Aelita. If the drawl didn’t give him away, the way he said “pixie” would. Just the way a redneck says “faggot.”

“How’s tricks, kid? Been keeping busy?”

“I have a feeling you know that.”

“Some. You’ve been making friends with the best of the best. I hear you had high tea with Norris Quay.”

“I ran away from some gunmen into Quay’s arms, if that’s what you mean. The guy was a real piece of work.”

“Isn’t he just? That’s the privilege of being a billionaire.”

“Don’t tell me you’re mixed up with the guy.”

“Not mixed up. He’s just a concerned citizen who wants to do right by his state and his country.”

“Was.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s dead.”

“How?”

“He followed me into Kill City and thought he could buy off all the crazies inside.”

“Damn. He was going to be quite an asset.”

“For what?”

“For the new project. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I want you to come work for me again.”

“ ’Cause it worked out so well the first time?”

“I seem to remember you bringing in your share of rogue magicians and miscreant pixies.”

It’s true. I did some bounty-hunter work for the Golden Vigil a while back. I was at loose ends after killing most of the people involved in Alice’s murder and sending Mason Faim to Hell. I was still pretty full of unfocused rage and needed something to vent it on. Hoodoo fuckups seemed like a good idea at the time. It was while working for Wells that I killed the young vampire Eleanor Vance. Just a dumb teenybopper. Yeah, she tried to burn me with a flamethrower, but in the end, she was just as screwed up as I was.

I say, “Are you going to recruit Aelita for the dream team?”

“No. She’s gone way off the reservation. This holy vendetta of hers, it’s made her useless for any Marshals Service work.”

“I’m glad to hear that. She’s dead too.”

Wells doesn’t say anything for a minute. Once upon a time he was in love with Aelita. That was when she was just a zealot and not a batshit holy terror.

“Did you do it?”

“I wish I could take credit. But I saw it happen and I’m not sorry it did. On a personal note, you’ll be happy to hear that the person who killed her is also dead.”

“Who was it?”

“Medea Bava.”

He laughs.

“They’re both really dead? Where are the bodies?”

“At the bottom of the Pacific.”

Another cold little laugh.

“It’s a funny world, huh?”

“That it is. Now riddle me this, why should I work for you? I’m the one with the Qomrama. Really, you should work for me.”

“But you don’t know how to use the thing, do you? That’s not easy information to come by, even for someone with friends like the Frenchman and Father Traven.”

“Don’t talk about Traven.”

“Oh, so he’s gone too? You’re getting soft. Dead people didn’t used to bother you so much.”

“Well, he had my copy of Cat Ballou and I never got it back.”

“Funny. You’re still a funny guy.”

Candy is giving me a what-the-fuck look. I hold up a hand, telling her to be patient.

“I used the 8 Ball a couple of times, you know. I can figure out how to use it again.”

“Well enough to fight a horde of angry Devil gods?”

I don’t say anything since we both already know the answer.

“Let’s let bygones by bygones. We need each other now. You have the power and I have the infrastructure to fight these unholy bastards coming for our world. Work for the new Golden Vigil. We’re back together and fully funded by Homeland Security.”

“If I say yes, you’re going to pay me.”

“Of course. Same deal as before.”

“Wrong. I have the 8 Ball in my back pocket. I figure that makes me kind of a defense contractor. And I ought to get paid like one, meaning grossly overpaid.”

“There are rules to these things.”

“I’m sick of hearing about everyone else’s rules. Break the rules. You have no idea what getting back the Qomrama cost.”

“You’re going to let that pretty girl of yours die if you can’t blackmail the U.S. government out of a few more dollars?”

“Pay me or you can fight the Angra with pitchforks and torches.”

“How much do you want?”

“Someone offered me a million dollars for it. Match the offer and we’re both yours.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I’m the weapons guy. Tell them I invented a nuclear water balloon or something.”

“You mean this, don’t you? You’d kill the world for money?”

“The more people like you tell me I can’t have things, the more I want them. And you’re forgetting something.”

“What’s that?”

“I have the key to the Room of Thirteen Doors. My girlfriend that you’re so worried about . . . we can hide in there. God can’t get in there. Lucifer can’t get in there. I bet the Angra can’t either. We can drink champagne in my own little bomb shelter while the rest of you are snacks for demon dogs.”

Wells doesn’t say anything. Candy winks at me. Matthew doesn’t know what the fuck is going on.

“I might be able to do a hundred-thousand-dollar consulting fee.”

“Not even close.”

“One and a half.”

“Nine.”

“Two and a half.”

“Eight.”

“Four.”

“Seven.”

“Five.”

“Six and a half.”

“Five and a half.”

“Deal,” I say.

“I’ll have to confirm with back east.”

“Tell them if anyone tries to lowball me, the Qomrama disappears with me and mine.”

Matthew yells, “Let me talk to the man.”

I put the phone on speaker and hold it out to him.

“Mr. Wells? It’s Matthew.”

“Matthew? You’re still alive? Stark really is getting soft.”

Matthew frowns. He’s not getting the sympathy he was hoping for.

“Listen, Mr. Wells, this psycho set me up. He robbed a drugstore and left my wallet behind.”

“And a gun,” I say.

“A gun? Matt, you know you’re not supposed to be carrying firearms. You just violated your parole.”

“I needed protection. You said you’d take care of me.”

“I said to get in touch with your ex and use her to get to Stark. Not to stalk and terrorize the girl. As far at the Marshal’s Service is concerned, you invalidated the terms of our agreement and we have no further obligation toward you.”

“You can’t hang me out to dry like this,” says Matthew.

“I think he can,” Candy says.

“We’re done, Matthew. Stark, take me off speaker.”

I push the button and put the phone back to my ear.

“It will take me a few days to work things out with Washington on the payment situation.”

“Take your time. It’s only the end of the world. Anyway, you have my number.”

“I sure do, pal.”

“Call me back before the Christmas sales start. I want a new flat-screen for the bedroom.”

“Are you sure you didn’t kill Aelita?”

“I wish I could say yes, but no, I didn’t.”

“Pity. I’d have respected you more if you’d had the wherewithal.”

“That reminds me. If I work with the Vigil, you’ll square me with LAPD, right?”

“If you’ll stop stealing so many goddamn cars.”

“Marshal Wells. I’ve never heard you take the Lord’s name in vain before. Shame on you.”

“You let me worry about me and the Lord.”

“Maybe you can get me a company car. Or maybe you can get the Hellion hog declared street legal.”

“The what?”

“Call me when you have an answer on the money. If things work out, maybe we’ll get to spend the holidays together.”

“Imagine my glee.”

“I’m going to cut this idiot loose now. That okay with you?”

“Do whatever you want with the scumbag.”

“Good night, Marshal.”

The line goes dead.

“Matthew,” I say. “I think you’re about fresh out of friends. If I were you, the first thing I’d think about is getting out of California. Sorry I took your wallet and all your money.”

“I’ll pay you back for this,” he says.

“Careful, son. I’m about to become a federal law enforcement officer. They send you to Guantánamo for threatening fine upstanding types like me.”

I nod to Candy and turn off the lamp. Drop the wire cutters on the tarp next to Matthew.

“Feel free to let yourself out,” I say. “And you’ll want to be quick about it. The cops will be at the pharmacy by now and I kind of left a trail of pills from there to here. See you in the funny papers, Matt.”

We leave and I pull the broken door shut.

Candy says, “You didn’t really leave a trail of pills to the apartment, did you? Allegra could get in trouble.”

“No, but Brainiac back there doesn’t know that. Anyway, even if he cuts himself out of the wire, I give him forty-eight hours before he’s back in county.”

The rain has slacked off a bit. Just a slow drizzle. Maybe global warming will wash L.A. away before the Angra get a chance to.

Candy says, “I’m sleeping with a G-man.”

“A rich G-man.”

“Let’s go home, J. Edgar. We have money to break furniture again.”

I DUMP THE Escalade across from Donut Universe and Candy and I walk home in the rain like a stock photo on a greeting card.

When I open the front door to Max Overdrive, Kasabian gimps over to us like his tail is on fire, glancing upstairs and talking quietly. The rain has cooled down the city, but he’s pale and sweating.

“What’s going on?”

He looks over his shoulder.

“They’re upstairs. I told them that’s your room.”

“Who is it?” says Candy.

Kasabian goes back behind the video racks that form the walls of his bedroom shanty.

“You deal. I don’t want any part of this shit.”

Candy and I look at each other. She gets out her knife and I pull the Colt. We walk into the bedroom.

Samael is sitting on the bed drinking one of Kasabian’s beers. Mr. Muninn is in the swivel chair by the desk drinking coffee from a ceramic Max Overdrive mug. I hope to hell Kasabian washed the thing before giving it to him.

“Hi, Samael,” I say. He raises his beer to me in greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Muninn.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. I turn to Candy.

“Why don’t you go downstairs and keep Kasabian company for a while?”

“You’ll be all right?”

“No, he won’t,” says Mr. Muninn. “Nothing is all right, young lady.”

Candy stands in the doorway.

“Go on. I’ll see you in a few minutes,” I tell her.

Mr. Muninn says, “Don’t worry. There won’t be any floods or lightning bolts tonight at least. We’re just going to talk like reasonable beings.”

“That leaves out at least one of us,” says Samael, glancing at me.

Mr. Muninn sets down his coffee cup.

“You’re not helping the situation.”

“Just trying to clarify which side each of us is on,” says Samael.

“I presume you’re here because you’re on my side.”

“Of course, Father. But I think I know some of Stark’s argument, and for once it’s not entirely dismissible.”

“Fine. Then let’s hear what he has to say for himself.”

I say, “I’m not giving you back Father Traven.”

Muninn looks at Samael.

“That’s not an argument. That’s a statement. Where’s the argument in that?”

“Stark, would you mind elaborating a bit for Father?” says Samael.

“I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry I had to do what I did the way I did it, but I’m not letting Traven go back to Hell.”

“And you think that’s your decision?” says Mr. Muninn.

“As long as he’s in the Room it is.”

Mr. Muninn crosses his legs. Laces his fingers together.

“What I meant,” say Samael, “is that perhaps you’d state your reasons why you took Father Traven in the first place.”

I try to put the whole thing together in my head before saying anything.

“It’s not fair,” I say. “The father published a book. Big deal. Your book’s gotten a lot of people in trouble over the years. Do you deserve to be damned for that?”

“You forget, Stark. I am in Hell. You sent me there.”

“And you agreed to it.”

“More fool me. I thought I could trust you. You’re a great disappointment.”

“What do you want? I’m an Abomination.”

Mr. Muninn dismisses the comment with a wave.

“Please. That’s no excuse.”

“You don’t care that I’m an Abomination, do you? You’ve never cared.”

Samael smiles. Mr. Muninn nods.

“I see where you’re going with this. You’ve trapped me into saying that I reject the technicality that you, a nephilim, are Abomination. And if I can do that, why can’t I reject the technicality that your friend the father wrote an offensive book?”

“Well? Why can’t you?”

“Because it’s not that simple, is it? You made it complicated by stealing him right from under my, Lucifer’s, nose. Do you know how that makes me look?”

“Of course. The three of us know all about how shitty it is to be Lucifer.”

“And yet you did it anyway.”

“I got a little rash maybe. Okay. Sorry. Smite me with a lightning bolt.”

Samael says, “It’s God that does lightning bolts. There’s just us little Devils here.”

“Then stick me with a pitchfork. Look, if I’d come to you and asked for Traven’s soul, would you have given it to me?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because there are rules that shape the universe. We might not like all of them, but without them there would be anarchy and nothing would work.”

“Nothing works now.”

“Now you’re being melodramatic.”

“Are you happy? Am I happy? Is he happy?” I say, pointing to Samael. He takes a swig of beer.

“Name me one happy creature in this universe. You can’t, can you?”

“ ‘Call no man happy until he is dead,’ ” says Samael.

“That’s Marcus Aurelius, right?”

He makes a tsk noise.

“Aeschylus. A Greek playwright. Didn’t you read any of the books I left for you?”

“I remember the one where Curious George got to be a fireman.”

“Getting back to the topic at hand,” says Mr. Muninn. “We’ve had this discussion before, Stark. You want me to take sides in the religious dispute between Hell’s old Church and the new. You want me to make mankind happy and cheerful and free from strife. You want me to be all things to all creatures.”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Where would free will come into this scenario? The ability to make choices, good or bad.”

“You never gave the angels free will. That’s why this one rebelled,” I say, pointing at Samael. “Maybe that’s another rule you should have broken.”

Samael looks away. He doesn’t want to get dragged into this particular argument.

“As I said to you once before, you don’t know what it is to be a ruler and you certainly have no idea what a deity is.”

“Do you? Are you really a deity, or were the Gnostics right and you’re just the Demiurge, a caretaker who’s gotten in over his head and can’t keep the plumbing working?”

“That’s an offensive question.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Who are you talking to? Stark or the Abomination?”

“Both, I suspect.”

“You know that both Deumos and Merihim are against you, right? They’re as bad as Aelita. Just more subtle.”

He looks at me hard.

“What makes you think that?”

“Things I’ve seen and things I’ve been thinking about. Hey, here’s one good bit of news. Aelita is dead.”

Mr. Muninn sits back in the chair. Rests his elbows on the arms.

“I’m sorry to hear that. She was a troubled child, but at one time she was one of the ones closest to me.”

“You could say we rebel angels had troubled childhoods, but I blame video games,” says Samael.

Mr. Muninn says, “Quiet, you. Why don’t you go home and check on things at the palace.” He looks at me. “It’s getting crowded down there.”

Samael looks disappointed.

“You said I could come along. This is Stark we’re talking to. Not Mary Magdalen.”

“Well, you’re not helping, so please keep your contributions on topic.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, Aelita is still one of your kids,” I say.

“Of course. Even at his worst, so was Samael. So are you. So is all humankind.”

“Let’s just keep this focused. Aelita is your kid. Samael is your kid. Merihim and Deumos are your kids.”

“Yes. All the rebel angels are my children.”

“Then you are one child-abusing motherfucker.”

“Excuse me?” says Muninn. Thunder rumbles outside.

“I’m an Abomination. A little outside everyone, right? I’m both sides and neither side of the argument. And I have your solution.”

“To what?”

“Your misery. And your kids’ misery.”

“Please, enlighten us all with the revelation of Saint Stark.”

“Close down Hell.”

Samael crushes his beer can and belches.

“Excuse me.”

The prick knew where I was going all along. He wanted me to say it first.

“I’m telling you as an ex-Lucifer, as someone who’s seen how miserable not just the damned are but the angels guarding them. Turn off the lights. Roll up the carpets and lock the doors. Whatever point you were making by tossing the rebels there has been made. Hell hasn’t redeemed the fallen angels. It’s created the biggest suicide cult in history. That’s why the generals agreed to Mason Faim’s idiot plan to storm Heaven. They knew it would fail and that Heaven’s armies would destroy them. Suicide by cop.”

Mr. Muninn picks up his coffee. Sips it and makes a face. It’s gone cold. He moves his hand over it and it’s hot again. He takes another sip.

“Nice trick,” I say.

“Are you going to point out how weak I am now that I’ve split into pieces? Don’t bother. I feel it every day.”

“I met Nefesh yesterday.”

Mr. Muninn nods.

“Yes, he told me all about it. My brother has come to stay with me.”

“And me,” says Samael. “Two fathers in the same house. Can you imagine my joy?”

“What about it, Mr. Muninn? Shut down Hell.”

He shakes his head.

“I’ll admit I’ve thought about it. I don’t know how I’d go about doing it. What to do with the angels that still want to rebel. What to do with the lost souls. Broken as I am, I don’t even know if I have the strength to do it anymore.”

“Now you have Nefesh to help. Maybe the two of you could do it together.”

“It’s a mad idea to consider as reality. Destroying Hell is an abstract notion. A philosophical argument. Nothing more.”

“Not if you don’t want it to be. You can make it real.”

“This is foolishness.”

“You can do it and let the angels have some free will. Don’t drag any of them back to Heaven. Leave Hell’s gates open and let the ones that want to go back with you go and let the angels who want to stay in Hell stay. And find something better to do with all those damned souls. How many of them are like Father Traven, there on technicalities?”

“This is all very romantic and heartfelt, Stark, but I’d like to point out a flaw in your argument,” says Samael. “You’ll notice that I’m not in Heaven anymore. Neither are a lot of angels. Hell is becoming a very crowded place and not just with rebels and lost souls.”

“Angels are fleeing Heaven in droves,” says Mr. Muninn. “Ruach grows less rational by the hour.”

“So you see, while your throw-the-gates-open argument might have some merit, it’s impossible to implement until Ruach is made sane or removed as Heaven’s guardian. And in the end, all of these arguments might be moot.”

“The Angra,” I say.

Samael nods.

“The Angra.”

“The Angra,” says Mr. Muninn.

“You broke some rules when you took the universe from them. You can break one little rule for Father Traven.”

“No,” says Mr. Muninn.

“I guess it’s a Mexican standoff. Unless you’re going to toss me into a lake of fire or something.”

Mr. Muninn makes a face.

“You’d love that. It would fit right into your martyr complex.”

“Then where are we?”

“I have a counteroffer. A compromise.”

“Okay.”

“Eleusis. The place of virtuous pagans. It’s the most civilized place in Hell. Full of intellectuals and philosophers. The best of the old world. I think your Father Traven would fit right in.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I always hated Eleusis too. It seems to me like another bullshit technicality. Why is it their fault that they hadn’t heard about your religion when it was something like nine people believed in back then?”

“The Word was there on earth. All they had to do was follow it.”

“Let’s not start a whole other argument,” Samael says.

“Thank you.”

“My answer to Eleusis is thanks but no. Traven isn’t staying anywhere in Hell.”

“You don’t respect rules at all, do you?”

“Sure I do. When they make sense. But some don’t and some are out-of-date. You keep saying you can’t change the rules. Shit, man. You wrote the rules. You can break them or rewrite them any way you want.”

“It’s a matter of both strength and inclination, and I’m not sure I possess either at the moment. And nobody but that one,” he says, looking at Samael, “has ever pressed me or spoken to me like this before.”

“I’m not trying to bust your balls, Mr. Muninn. You know I like you. You’re a nice guy and you took care of the dead under L.A. for all those years. But you’re wrong on this and you know it. None of us here ever wanted to be Lucifer. You can make sure there are no more Lucifers ever again.”

“This isn’t the time for that discussion,” he says.

“I might have an idea,” Samael says. “A compromise for you both.”

Mr. Muninn says, “I’m listening.”

“Stark, as we’ve both pointed out, Heaven isn’t the place to send anyone anymore, so your rescue of Father Traven, while brave, was ill-timed. And Father won’t permit him going to paradise. So, what do you do with a soul one party won’t let into Hell and the other won’t permit into Heaven?”

“What?” I say.

“Blue Heaven.”

“Limbo, you mean?”

“The pleasantest limbo you’ve ever seen,” says Samael.

Blue Heaven is a place out of time, literally. Its real name translates as “the Dayward.” It’s a part of the universe that broke away from normal time and space in 1582 when Pope Gregory switched from the old Julian calendar to the Christian. Fifteen days were suddenly wiped out of existence. But they never really went away. They exist on their own as the Dayward. Blue Heaven.

“Have you ever been there?” says Samael.

“You know I haven’t. The angel part of me has, but the rest of me can’t remember what it was like. I guess I have a general sense that it was a decent enough place. I don’t even know how to get there.”

“Through the Room, you idiot,” says Samael. “The Door of Drunken Eternity, I believe.”

“How do you know that?”

“When your angel broke loose of you, he talked in his sleep.”

“What, and you used to crouch over him and listen? You pervert.”

“You can take the boy out of the Devil but not the Devil out of the boy,” he says.

We both look at Mr. Muninn. He seems lost in thought.

He says, “If I was to agree to let Father Traven leave, would you give me the Qomrama Om Ya?”

That stumps me. I don’t know what to say at first. I don’t think Nefesh wanted to get near the thing.

“No,” I say. “But I promise I’ll use it against the Angra and fight them until the end.”

“Then the answer is no.”

“Let me throw you another compromise,” I say.

“All right.”

“Let Father Traven go and I’ll come back to Hell and stay. I’ll be Lucifer again.”

“Ha!” says Samael. Mr. Muninn opens his eyes a bit wider. I wish I could read angels the way I can read humans. I never know what these fuckers are thinking. That goes double for God.

“You’d really do that?”

“If I can bring Candy with me, yes.”

Mr. Muninn shakes his head.

“You’re the definition of a troublesome child.”

“What about me?” says Samael.

“You both exasperate me.”

I say, “It’s a gift. Well?”

“What can I say? You weren’t the worst imaginable Lucifer, but you were very close. No, you won’t come back as Hell’s caretaker. But I’m impressed by your offer, though I’m not rewarding you for it. I’m protecting Hell from your whims. Keep Father Traven. Put him in Blue Heaven. And this time, you’ll owe me a favor.”

“Cool.”

I put out my hand. Mr. Muninn shakes it. It’s not a happy shake. It’s not even angry. It’s weary. Being Lucifer will do that to you. He gives me a wicked smile worthy of Samael.