The Getaway God (29 page)

“You watched
The Exorcist
a lot when you were a kid, didn't you? You've got the whole spooky ‘hail, Satan' patter down cold.”

“Don't talk like a fool,” Merihim shouts, rattling his chains loud enough to get the hellhounds growling. “You sound like Samael, the spoiled son, when you do that. Listen to me, Stark. You don't have to play the brave soldier anymore. That time is over. You're more on my side than his. You always have been. I know you have the Mithras hidden away. You could have burned the universe on your own, and you came close a few times, didn't you? Admit it. You hate this place. This universe that calls you Abomination. But you're not the Abomination. It's God. All the pain there ever was he started by exiling the Angra. He invented our doom that day. And he compounded the torment for creatures like you and me and even Samael, the fool, by exiling us in Hell. You owe angels and mad Gods nothing. The Angra will embrace you as a brother.”

“And then they'll kill me.”

“Death is our only release.”

“I was just thinking about that. You know the one good thing about Mason Faim being back on Earth?”

“What?”

“There's a vacancy in Tartarus.”

I pull out the Colt and shoot Merihim right between his bloodshot eyes. The Spiritus Dei–coated bullet blows the back of his stupid Hellion head apart. The hellhounds howl and paw the floor with their metal claws, tearing up stone and mortar.

“Did that feel good?” says Samael.

“Yeah. It did. Why don't you come back to L.A. with me? There's lots more ­people to shoot and I could use the help.”

Samael smiles and crushes his cigarette with the toe of his perfect shoe.

“Before tonight I would have said yes. But with Nefesh's murder and Chaya's impending breakdown, I need to stay here and protect Father.”

“You mean Muninn, right? 'Cause I think we could get along without the other one.”

Samael lets out a long breath.

“That's the problem. They're both my father. And ­people say stupid things when they're scared. But I won't let Ruach or Angra scum win. Do you want my advice on dealing with Mason Faim?”

“Anything you've got.”

“When you see him, just be your usual charming self.”

I nod, thinking it over. I toss the rest of my Malediction in Merihim's black blood.

“Do you mind if I do something with the body?”

“It might make more of an impression if we do it together.”

Samael unlocks Merihim's chains and we drag his body through the kennel and out into the rain. The hellhounds follow us, fanning out in a protective ring. The legions guarding the palace watch us silently as we two ex-­Lucifers hoist Merihim's carcass into a gibbet and lock him in. Samael gives it a push and the cage swings back and forth like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. And I think about time again. But not for very long.

I have to shout to be heard over the downpour.

“Anyone who touches this body gets to be his roommate in Tartarus.”

Samael goes back into the palace with the hellhounds and I step through a shadow.

Right into Mason's cell, where's he's asleep. I bark some hoodoo that should blow out all the surveillance cameras in the Vigil compound. Grab a fistful of Mason's jailbird jumpsuit and toss him across the cell into the steel door. That wakes him up in time for me to grab him again and toss him into a wall. Not too hard, just hard enough to keep him interested in the situation. I pull the black blade and hold it to his scarred throat.

“Prove to me that you'll teach me about the 8 Ball.”

Mason looks up at me. What else is he going to do? I'm kneeling on his chest.

“What is it you want?” he wheezes, trying to get a breath.

I pull a quarter from my pocket.

“Call it in the air.”

I toss the coin.

“Tails,” he says.

I catch it and check. Show him the coin. It's heads.

I get up off his chest. He takes in a big lungful of air and I grab his hand. Bend his pinkie back, holding the blade tight against the top knuckle.

“Tell me something right now. Every time you lie I get to hurt you.”

Mason looks at me calmly.

“The Qomrama is alive. You want to give it orders. But that's not how it functions. You have to work together.”

“How does a summoning work?”

“You've practically done it yourself. A summoning and using it as a weapon are almost the same thing. You're not summoning the Gods or using the Qomrama as a shotgun. What you're summoning is power. It's how you direct the power that's the key.”

I drag the blade across Mason's fingers, drawing a bead of blood. He winces.

“It can't be that simple or either Deumos or Merihim would have done it already.”

“You're right. It isn't. But you'll have to play me and you'll have to win to find out more.”

“Why the hell are you doing this?”

Mason pulls his hand away from me and I let him.

“Spend some time in Tartarus and you'll do all sorts of funny things. You'll make deals with anyone to get out. You'll kill anyone. And you'll die before you'll go back. Maybe along the way, you'll get to prove to a smug Robin Hood who's the better magician.”

Electronic beeps come through the door. Someone is using the keypad to get into Mason's cell. I bark some Hellion. It twists the door hinges just enough that it will take whoever is outside a minute to get the door open.

I pick Mason up and set him on his bunk. He licks the finger where I cut him.

“See you tomorrow,” I say.

“I can't wait, Sunshine.”

Bloody Hellion rain drips off me and covers the floor of Mason's cell. With my finger, I make up a scary-­looking nonsense hoodoo circle and shove Mason into it. He slips and falls in the center just as Wells and the guards burst into the room. I'm out through a shadow by then. They'll find the circle and blame Mason for screwing the door and the cameras. One small consolation at the end of a shitty night.

I
CAN'T STAND
the idea of going home and listening to Kasabian whimper downstairs, so I head to Bamboo House of Dolls. I stand outside for a minute, letting the L.A. monsoon wash the last of the bloody Hellion rain out of my clothes.

Nothing but a skeleton crew in the bar. Carlos and a dozen or so hard-­core drinkers. All Lurkers and Sub Rosa. Except for one.

“Jimmy,” she says. “I was wondering if I'd see you here.”

Brigitte comes over and kisses me on the cheek. She feels warm after being out in the rain and smells good after being Downtown. For a second, it's like something normal. Two friends running into each other at a favorite bar. But nothing is normal now and we both know it, though neither of us says anything.

“Nice to see you too. Buy you another martini?”

She empties her glass and sets it down on the bar.

“You must. I am bereft of drink.”

Carlos comes over and takes a ­couple of light-­beer bottles off the bar.

“The evening rush,” he says, raising a hand to the nearly empty room. “I'm grateful for the few brave souls, but all anyone wants is beer and shots. If this kind lady hadn't ordered an actual drink, I would have drowned myself in the maraschino cherries.”

“You have cherries and I didn't get one?” says Brigitte.

“You don't put cherries in a martini.”

“I do.”

He shrugs.

“The customer is always right, even if what they want is wrong.”

He looks at me.

“The usual for you?”

“Some of the red stuff, yeah. I need to wash the taste of Hellion wine out of my mouth.”

Carlos comes back in a minute with Brigitte's junior high martini and pours me a shot of Aqua Regia.

“I'm sorry to tell you, but this is my last bottle. Can you get any more?”

First floods and now no booze. Another bad omen. I can't go drinkless at the apocalypse, but why bother raiding some Hellion's liquor cabinet if we only have a ­couple of days to live?

I say, “I'll look into it.”

Carlos mixes himself a manhattan and we all drink together.

Brigitte stares at her drink for a minute.

“You've been to Hell again, I take it?”

“Just got back.”

Carlos says, “The way you talk about it. Like taking the bus to Westwood.”

“I'd rather go to Hell than ride the bus.”

“I don't suppose you saw him?” Brigitte says.

She means Father Traven, ex-­priest, part-­time sin eater, and a surprisingly brave guy. He and Brigitte had a brief thing together. Brief because Traven died killing Medea Bava and basically saving a lot of ­people's lives, including mine and Brigitte's.

“No, I didn't.”

Traven was handed a first-­class ticket Downtown when the Church excommunicated him for translating a forbidden book about the Angra. As far as most ­people know, Hell is where he went and Hell is where he stayed. I never wanted to tell Brigitte anything different because even though I stole Traven's soul out of Hell, he's still dead and I thought it was best for her to let him go. But with everything hanging by a thread, I'm not so sure anymore.

“I didn't see Traven because he's not in Hell.”

Brigitte gives me a look. It's not quite surprise. More like confusion with just a little bit of hope.

“What does that mean? Where is he?”

“He was in Hell and it wasn't fair, so I did something about it.”

“What?”

“I can't tell you everything, but I can tell you this much. He isn't stuck in Hell.”

Her hand closes on my arm.

“Where is he?”

I don't want to tell her about taking him to Blue Heaven, a strange place outside of normal time. She might want to go there. I'm not willing to take her to a dead man she can't be with anymore.

“Listen. I dealt with it. He's in a better place. That's all I can tell you.”

Getting Traven out of Hell cost me. I don't think Muninn has ever quite forgiven me for stealing a damned soul from right under his nose. Now I owe him a favor. Anything he wants. I don't want to think about what a piece of God might ask for.

“You're telling me the truth, yes?” she says.

She's upset. Her accent is coming back and it would be hard to understand her if I didn't already know what she was going to ask.

“Yeah. It's the truth.” As much of it as she needs to know.

“Dìkuji,”
she says. “Thank you so much.”

She puts her arms around me.

“Glad to. Next time you can get the drinks.”

She lets go, wiping a few tears from her eyes. It's strange to see a stone killer like Brigitte cry. I wonder what I would do if something happened to Candy. I drink my Aqua Regia and put that thought out of my head real quick.

“You've both known me for a while. You've seen me fucked up and not entirely fucked up.”

“Emphasis on the first,” says Carlos. “You've been various degrees of fucked up ever since you walked into my bar last Christmas. That's why it's always nice to see you in those brief moments when you've got your head on straight.”

“That's what I'm getting at.”

I already feel stupid for starting the conversation, but I can't really stop it now.

“I'm a bastard. I know that. But am I a bastard bastard?”

“Does that sentence come in English?” says Carlos.

“I'm not sure I understand either,” Brigitte says.

Is there anything worse in the world than having to explain yourself? Serves me right for starting this.

“Am I an unforgivable asshole? Unfair? Do I use ­people? Did I ever use either of you?”

“Used for what?” says Carlos. “If this is about the drinks and food, don't sweat it. You'll always eat and drink free as long as I run the place.”

Brigitte says, “I don't think he's talking about that. I think he's talking about love.”

That fucking word.

“Never mind,” I say.

“Oh, Jimmy, I was only teasing.”

“I know, and it's not about that. It's that whether I'm fucked up or not is beside the point. What's important is that the other person thinks I'm maybe too fucked up.”

Brigitte shakes her head.

“That's not it at all. If someone unfairly accuses you of bad behavior or neglect, you are entitled to be upset, even angry about it.”

I hate this. I can't deal with this angst bullshit. This is when I dream of Hell. Of the arena, where everything was simple and the closest thing to a next day was a knife in the belly or a club in the eye. Give me blood all the livelong day. What I can't take is all this being-­human-­and-­being-­responsible craziness. I want to tear my own head off. I want to go and snap Mason's neck. Chaya was right. I hate this place. Let the world burn and me with it.

“Never mind. Stupid question. Let's drop it.”

Carlos picks up our glasses.

“For what it's worth, you're all right by me. I'll get us all another round.”

He moves off to get our drinks, but I think what he's really doing is leaving me alone with Brigitte.

“I understand that these things are hard for you, but we're both alike. Killing is easier than being with someone. But it's not impossible. And you can always talk to me about it.”

I look past her at the band posters on the wall. I feel ridiculous. Helpless under the weight of all this emotional garbage.

“Thanks. It's never going to happen, but thanks anyway.”

She laughs a little like she knew what I was going to say. And she looks away. She's thinking about Traven. She wants to ask me more about him, but she knows I won't tell her so she lets it go.

She says, “In this world of blame and accusations, I do have one piece of news that might make you feel better.”