Kill the Dead

THE DRIVER TAKES US south on the Hollywood Freeway, gets off at Silver Lake, and steers us up the hills to the old reservoir. There’s a concrete path all around and a steep descent down to the water. The driver stops on the street bordering the reservoir, gets out, and opens Lucifer’s door. Neither of them says anything as the driver closes his door, gets back in the front, and drives away. Lucifer says, “He’ll be back when we need him,” and leads us through a typical L.A. excuse for a park—parched grass and a line of half-dead trees—to a walkway sticking out over the water. At the end of the walkway is a burned-out three-story concrete utility building. Technically, it’s only two stories now. It looks like the top one collapsed and caved into the second during the fire. The city bolted wire shutters over all the ground-floor windows to keep kiddies from playing in the death trap. Naturally, most of them are torn down or bent back enough for someone skinny to squeeze inside. The double metal doors in front are shut with a padlock and chain heavy enough to hitch the Loch Ness monster to a parking meter. Why am I not surprised when Lucifer pulls a key from his pocket, pops the lock, and throws open the doors? A blast of cold, wet air hits us from inside. The place smells like Neptune’s outhouse. There’s a set of stone steps inside, winding down to the waterline. A few high school kids are hunkered on the stairs below the first turn, drinking forties and passing around a joint. They lurch to their feet, a little shaky in that panicked stoner kind of way where cops and pigeons are equally terrifying. I guess they don’t see a lot of tuxedos down here. Lucifer nods to them and one of the boys nods back. “You cops?” he asks As we pass the group, Lucifer turns to the boy. “Sometimes. But not tonight.” I don’t know if it’s the dark, the narrows walls, or just being in a strange place for the first time, but the stairs seem to go down a long damn way. Feels like well below the waterline. When we hit the bottom, there’s another door. Instead of rusted metal, this one is covered in red leather and has brass hinges. There’s a doorman next to it in a gold silk coat and short breeches dripping with enough gold filigree to make Little Lord Fauntleroy look like he shops from the discount bin at Walmart. He opens the door when he hears us. I guess standing in the dark doesn’t bother him. His eyes look black and blind and his lips are sewn shut. I start to say something, but Lucifer cuts me off with a dismissive wave. “Golem. Salvage from some Parisian potter’s field. French revenants are all the rage among the Sub Rosa gentry this year. I wouldn’t waste my money. Golems aren’t much more than windup toys. You could train a dog to open that door and it could still fetch and bark on cue. This dead thing will open the door from now until doomsday, but that’s all it’ll ever do. Ridiculous.” “At least you don’t have to tip him. Are they all sewn up like that?” “Of course. Golems are lobotomized so they don’t bite, but they’re not so easy to recall if something goes wrong.” Past the door is another golem, this one with stapled lips, but that’s not the hilarious part. There’s a gondola floating in an underwater canal lit by phosphorescent globes hovering near the walls. The golem is dressed in a gondolier’s striped shirt, black pants, and flat-brimmed hat like the ticket taker at a Disneyland ride, if the ride was hidden under an L.A. reservoir and full of animated corpses. It’s a small dead world, after all. Lucifer steps down into the gondola and I follow him. The golem poles us along the narrow canal until we hit a T-intersection where he steers us right into a wider channel. “The limo driver, he was cut and stitched up, too. Is he a golem?” “No, he’s alive. He’s just annoying.” “You cut his throat?” “Of course not. When he apologized for what he did, he cut his own throat to prove his sincerity.” “I guess it’s better than ending up in a box of fingernails.” “That’s what I said.” “Where the hell are we? How far are we under the reservoir?” “We’re not under the reservoir anymore. Our brain-dead friend has taken us out into an old tributary of the L.A. River.” “Huh. It never crossed my mind that the L.A. River was ever anything more than scummy concrete runoff.” “Everyone here thinks that way. It’s only the ones who remember when the river was wild who appreciate it.” “Muninn would remember.” “I’m sure he does. If I remember right, his cavern isn’t far from another of the underground channels.” “Will he be here tonight?” “I doubt it. He’s worse than you when it comes to socializing with the Sub Rosa.” “Where are we going? Who’s going to be there?” “The party is being thrown by the head of the studio, Simon Ritchie. I think I mentioned that he’s a civilian, so the party is being thrown in the home of one of the truly outstanding Sub Rosa families, Jan and Koralin Geistwald. Lovely people. They came here all the way from the northernmost part of Germany when this river roared along the surface.” “So, that makes them a couple of hundred years old?” “I’m sure they’re considerably older than that, but they came to America two-hundred-ish years ago.” “Why?” “They were ambitious and they had the guts to do something about it. Europe was lousy with ancient Sub Rosa families who’d consolidated power centuries before. If you wanted to advance, the only way to do it was create your own dynasty and the only way to do that was to go very far away and start from nothing.” “Like the Springheels.” “Exactly. They were the first. They came a very long way and gave up virtually everything to get here.” “I guess we won’t be seeing any of them tonight.” “Why not?” “Damn. I know something you don’t. Do I get a prize?” “Be happy with your box.” “The reason why you won’t see any Springheels is that the last of them, little Enoch, died a couple of days back.” “How?” “There was a severe chewing accident. The guy was playing around with eaters.” Lucifer shakes his head and tosses his Malediction into the water. “That family fell apart and just kept on falling. What a perfect way for the last of them to go.” “That’s where I was going when I left you at the hotel. I met Wells at the Springheel place to help suss out what happened there.” “Do you do a lot of magical forensics for the Vigil? Or was it a Homeland Security matter?” “I don’t know if there’s any difference to Wells. And it was the first time.” “And you’re sure it was eaters?” “All the signs were there.” “Good for you. Congratulations on your new job. I didn’t know you were such an expert on demons.” “I’m not, but once I started looking, it seemed pretty obvious.” “Did Wells agree?” “I think so. It’s hard to tell with him. And his crew were everywhere. It was goddamn Woodstock at five hundred decibels in there. I could hardly think.” “Sounds like a hard way to work.” “It was a pain in the ass.” “Interesting that he’d call you in just to have you working in such terrible circumstances.” “That’s Wells. It was probably a test. Like he was hazing me.” “Or distracting you.” “What?” “It’s what I’d do if I didn’t want someone to find something. I’d call in someone new and then make it impossible for them to do their job. They’d be flattered I’d asked them and too embarrassed to say anything when they didn’t perform well.” “Why would Wells do that?” “I have no idea. I didn’t say he did it. I said it’s what I’d do.” “You have a lot more to cover up than Wells or the Vigil.” “Fair enough.” We come around a bend and up ahead the cavern place opens up into a huge marble room lit with hundreds of torches and candles. A dozen other canals cut through the place and there’s a golem-powered gondola in each one, steering guests under arched stone bridges. There are two Venices I know about and one of them is a hotel in Vegas. The other is an L.A. beach where pretty girls walk their dogs while wearing as little as possible and mutant slabs of tanned, posthuman beef sip iced steroid lattes and pump iron until their pecs are the size of Volkswagens. This Venice is pretty damned far from those. This is the old fairy-tale Venice with Casanova, plague, and Saint Mark’s stolen bones, meaning it’s a high-quality hoodoo copy. Hopefully without the plague. It’s not as big as a real city and there’s a vaulted roof over our heads, so we’re probably still in part of the old L.A. River system. Every few yards, there’s a dock with a couple of steps leading up from the water. The golem stops at one and Lucifer and I get out. There must be a couple of hundred people down here. People and other things. Big-shot Lurkers and civilians laugh and chat with heavyweight Sub Rosas. They can talk shit about each other behind the others’ backs, but when it comes right down to it, money is the one true race and everyone down here is the color of greenbacks and as tall as mountains. Lucifer checks his tie and gives me a quick once-over like maybe I’d changed into clown shoes during the boat ride. He nods and says, “Let’s get a drink.” I’m a little surprised that the total fucking ruler, grand vizier, and night manager of Hell can just walk into the place without us getting mobbed like he was back at the hotel. But of course, people like this don’t do that kind of thing, do they? If Jesus, Jesse James, and a herd of pink robot unicorns strolled in walking on water, this bunch wouldn’t even look up. I wonder if Lucifer had his tailor make my jacket too tight to wear a gun on purpose because I’m genuinely inspired to start shooting things just to see if anyone jumps. A golem in a white waiter’s jacket comes by with a tray of champagne. Lucifer takes one glass and hands me one. “No guzzling tonight. You’re on duty, so you get to sip politely.” “Don’t worry. These golems all need a good moisturizer. I’m not drinking anything that might have dead-guy skin flakes in it.” “Don’t worry. They’re all certified as hypoallergenic.” “It’s coming back to me why I fucking hate the fucking Sub Rosa.” When the costumed corpse that brought our drinks turns away, he bumps my shoulder, and his tray and the rest of the drinks crash to the ground. A few dozen heads turn in our direction. So, that’s what it takes to get their attention. Wasted booze. A tall, heavyset guy pushes through the crowd. He’s big, but not fat. Like maybe he was a cop or a boxer in some former life. He sticks out one hand to shake and the other goes to Lucifer’s shoulder. “Mr. Macheath, it’s good to see you. Please forgive me for the mess. It’s so hard to get really good subnaturals now that they’re so popular.” Lucifer shakes the guy’s hand warmly. “It’s no problem, Simon. You should see the kind of help I have to put up with at home.” The big man laughs. Not a big L.A. suck-up laugh, but a small relaxed one. His heartbeat isn’t even going up that much. He’s got some juice, being this relaxed around Lucifer. “Simon, I’d like you to meet an associate of mine.” Lucifer half turns to me while keeping an eye on Simple Simon. “This is James. You probably know him as—” “Sandman Slim,” says Simon. He puts out his hand to me. I shake it, but don’t say anything. I’m not exactly sure what kind of performance Lucifer wants from me tonight, but I’m guessing it isn’t bright and cheery. Lucifer smiles. “Be nice and say hello, James.” “Hello.” “I’m really happy you could make it tonight. I’ve heard so much about you, James. Or do you prefer Sandman Slim?” “Stark. Just Stark.” Lucifer says, “James, this is Simon Ritchie, the head of the studio doing my little movie.” “Have you cast him yet?” “Cast who?” asks Ritchie. I nod at Lucifer. “Him. Your star. Do you have a Lucifer yet?” “Not yet. You can probably imagine he’s a hard part to cast.” “No shit.” I look at Lucifer. “You must have a lot of actors Downtown, Mr. Macheath. How about Fatty Arbuckle? Maybe you can put him on work release for a few weeks.” “What an interesting idea. I’m going to give it no thought whatsoever.” Ritchie laughs and shoots me a glance, measuring me up, probably wondering if I’m really the monster he’s heard about. Ten to one he was LAPD before burrowing his way into the movie biz. He has those eyes that see everyone as guilty until proven otherwise. He wants to know if I’m for real or more Hollywood window dressing. Great. That ups the chances of something stupid happening while Lucifer is in town. “Would you like something to eat? I can assure you that unlike the waiters, our chefs are very much alive and the best in town.” “We’re fine, thanks,” says Lucifer. “I think we’re just going to stroll around and say hello to a few people. Care to join us?” “I need to put out a small fire first. Our new imported starlet has gone rogue. You can’t let Czechs wander around without a minder. They’ll organize the workers and start a revolution.” “Do you know where Jan and Koralin are?” “In the big ballroom straight through there,” says Ritchie, pointing a couple of bridges away. “Why don’t you go in and I’ll catch up?” “Excellent,” says Lucifer. “We’ll see you there.” Ritchie puts his hand out to me. “Nice meeting you, too. I’d love to pick your brain sometime about your experiences in the underworld. There might be a story in it.” “Uh. Okay.” After he’s gone I say, “If he calls, I don’t really have to talk to him, do I?” Lucifer shrugs and starts walking. “You might as well. If you don’t, someone else will and they’ll get it all wrong. Trust me. I know about these things.” “Think they’d make me into a toy? I’d like to be a toy.” “Only if it talks a lot and doesn’t have an off switch.” As we go over one of the stone bridges, I see something funny. “Damn, I’d forgotten about that.” “What?” “Elvis and Marilyn Monroe are talking to some drunk blonde over there. I hate that stuff.” “Don’t be so judgmental just because it’s not your kind of fun.” “People shouldn’t rent ghosts for their parties. Ghosts shouldn’t have better agents than live people.” “I never pegged you for a Puritan, Jimmy.” Errol Flynn is standing on the bridge railing, pissing into the canal. It’s just ghost piss, so it doesn’t make a sound, but he still gets a round of applause when he’s done. “Man, these rich assholes really love dead people.” “Do the math. Most celebrities are more valuable dead than they ever were when they were alive. Why shouldn’t they get a cut? Almost everyone important has a wild-blue-yonder contract these days. They get to keep working and it puts off the damnation that most know is waiting for them.” I want a smoke, but I’m tired of bumming Maledictions off Lucifer. I check my pocket and find the electronic cigarette. I take a tentative puff. It isn’t nearly as horrible as I thought it would be. “That’s the first time I ever heard you crack a joke about Hell.” “Hell is hilarious if you’re the one in charge.” The ballroom is like Rat Pack Las Vegas in a Hellraiser theme park. The Sub Rosas, civilians, and Lurkers are all sporting tuxes and evening gowns, but even here there are a few holdouts. Cabal Ash looks like he slept under a leaking Dumpster and he smells worse. Being repulsive is an Ash family tradition. A sign of their big-league status. And they’re not the worst clan. At least they wear clothes. There’s a band onstage, but no one’s dancing. Dead people are okay, but I guess metal bands are too harsh for this crowd. It takes me a minute to recognize them over the noise. “That’s Skull Valley Sheep Kill.” Lucifer sets his empty glass on a wandering golem’s tray. “Is it?” “Not the kind of band I’d expect at a party like this.” “That’s because they were my daughter’s favorite music, not mine.” It’s a woman’s voice, deep, melodious, and with an aristocratic German accent. Her skin is as white as a full moon and the irises of her eyes are gold. Lucifer says, “Koralin, so lovely to see you.” He takes her hand and she kisses both of his cheeks. “It’s been too long, my dear,” she says. “You’re one of the things that make coming to this silly world worthwhile.” She laughs and means it. “How interesting that your daughter chose tonight’s band. I think James here knew her.” “Is this true? You knew Eleanor?” “I don’t believe that she was using the family name at the time. What was she calling herself? Eleanor Vance?” “Yes. It was some foolish thing from an old book.” She looks at me. “Did you know Eleanor?” “No, ma’am. Mr. Macheath made a mistake. I didn’t.” It’s true enough. I didn’t know her at all. I just put her down. Sorry, Eleanor. I’m ignoring your last request. No way I’m telling your mommy you stole whatever it was ’cause you wanted to make her mad. Not this woman. Not here. “Is Jan around?” “He’s helping Simon find his Prague whore.” “They make some awfully good ones,” Lucifer says. “Better than the French make their damned golems, I hope.” Koralin accepts the cigarette Lucifer hands her. “You must be the little monster I’ve heard so much about. The one who tried to burn Beverly Hills to the ground.” “Just Rodeo Drive. And it wasn’t my fault. The other guy shot first. Sorry if I messed up any of your friends’ thousand-dollar jeans.” “Fuck those hausfraus and their witless rent boys. I’m sorry I missed the fun. The next time you’re feeling genocidal, you must call me before acting on it.” “It’s a date.” I look at her gold eyes, but I can’t read them. Can’t hear her heart or get a feel for her thoughts either. Some Sub Rosa keep a kind of antihoodoo cloak over their homes. It keeps hexes and general magic mishaps to a minimum. I bet the Geistwalds have it cranked to eleven tonight. The most excitement we can hope for is Cabal getting drunk enough to pick a fight with Bruce Lee’s ghost. “Here come the boys,” says Koralin. “And they found the little slut. I wonder how many dicks she’s sucked tonight?” I look at Lucifer, but he’s ignoring me and the remark. Jan Geistwald is as dark as Koralin is light. He has a dark olive complexion and a deeply lined face like someone who’s spent too much time in the desert squinting at the sun. Ritchie has his arm around a woman’s shoulder and he’s smiling like he just won the lottery. The woman is brunette and her dark pupils, within the bright whites of her eyes, look like bullet holes in the snow. She has the perfect bird-bone cheeks you see on French girls, but her non-plastic-surgery nose and full lips look more Italian or Greek. Hollywood beauty can make your IQ drop, but there’s that other kind that’s like the end of the world. Armageddon gorgeosity. She walks in the room like the Angel of Death in a miniskirt and all you can think is, If I got shot in the head right now, I’d die smiling. The brunette gives me a crooked smile. I was staring and she caught me. Outdrawn already. “You found your way home,” says Koralin. “She gave us a good chase, but we tracked her down,” says Jan. “Poor Simon was almost in tears.” “That was sweat, not tears. I usually make other people hunt-and-gather for me these days,” says Simon. The brunette holds out her hand to me. “Hello. I’m Brigitte.” “Stark. Nice to meet you.” “And you.” Ritchie wakes up. “Sorry, darling.” He takes her shoulders and points her at Lucifer like she’s artillery. “This is Brigitte Bardo. Brigitte, this is Mr. Macheath. Light Bringer, his film, is the one you’re going to be in.” “Nice to meet you, Mack the Knife. Did you bring your dagger?” Lucifer nods toward me. “I brought him. He carries the knife.” “Only because I couldn’t fit a gun under this damned jacket.” Brigitte and Koralin smile. “I’m glad you’re here taking care of our special guest,” says Ritchie. He claps his arm around Lucifer’s shoulders. “Did you hear? Spencer Church is gone,” says Jan. “Missing?” asks Ritchie. “No one knows.” “Spencer Church is a drug addict, a gambler, and a pusher,” says Koralin. “He’s either sleeping in a ditch or buried in the desert. But this isn’t the time or place to be talking about these things. This is a party.” Jan says, “Why don’t we make a circle around the room? I know there are a lot of people who’d like to pay their respects.” Lucifer nods. “I always enjoy a little genuflecting. Shall we walk?” Lucifer, Jan, Koralin, and Ritchie stroll on ahead looking impressive and important. Brigitte and I follow a few steps behind. Close enough to keep an eye on things, but far enough back that we look like a couple of sixteen-year-olds pretending we’re not with our parents. “So, you’re the famous Sandman Slim. I supposed we both have to have funny names to do our jobs. Do you get that my name is a little joke?” “You mean how there’s Brigitte Bardot, a jet-propelled French succubus from the sixties? Got famous in And God Created Woman. Got respected in Contempt. Kind of a nut job, but she liked dogs. Then there’s Bardo, like the Buddhist states of being. Life, death, enlightenment, and a side of fries. Yeah, I think I got it.” “Very nice. Most Americans don’t understand.” “Don’t be too impressed. Everyone in California is a Buddhist for fifteen minutes. Then they realize they’re not allowed to eat chili dogs and enlightenment starts sounding like a real drag.” “You know, I thought you would be uglier.” “Huh. Thanks?” “I heard that you were covered in scars. You don’t look so bad, really.” “You sound disappointed.” “You were looking at me before. Have you seen my work?” “Ritchie said you were an actress in France. You coming to work in Hollywood?” “Simon is going to help me do different sorts of movies than what I was doing back home.” “Were you stuck in those rotten American action-movie rip-offs they do over there?” “No, pornography. I’m very famous for it in Europe. In Japan, too.” Hey, at least she didn’t tell me she’s dead. “I’ve met a couple of local porn girls in clubs over the years. I’m never sure what’s worse for them—not recognizing them or recognizing them too quickly.” She smiles. “It’s fine either way. All that matters is that the person isn’t too mean or too happy to meet you.” “Good way to put it. I’ve been trying to work through something like that myself.” “I know. You may not know me, but I recognized you and your funny nom de plume.” “Don’t blame me. Hellions gave me that behind my back. I didn’t even know about it until a cop told me.” “It’s better than ‘whore.’ That’s usually what’s said behind my back.” “Most people are idiots. There’s nothing worse than idiots who tell you their opinions.” I puff my fake cigarette. It really doesn’t taste that bad, but the plastic texture is hard, like sucking nicotine through a spackle gun. “So you’re in Light Bringer. You an angel or what?” “Don’t be silly. I’m Eve, the destroyer of men and, so, the whole world.” “And here I am without a drink to toast you with.” “See? I’m much worse than you could ever be, Sandman Slim.” “People call you names behind your back, but trust me, they’d call me worse if they weren’t afraid I’d skin them and wear them like oven mitts.” “Being friends with Lucifer must help.” “I’m not stupid enough to think we’re friends, but we’re not enemies. We have some common interests.” “Then you are what people say you are?” “What’s this week’s theory?” “That you’re a bit of a vampire, but without the blood. You’re strong like a vampire. You’re fast. You heal and you can see inside people. Some believe that you were a vampire, but that Lucifer cured you and now you are his property.” Out of habit, I tap my finger on the cigarette to knock off the ashes. Moron. There’s no ash on a piece of plastic. “I’m no one’s property. I get paid for my services,” I say. “I also freelance for the Golden Vigil. They’re not exactly on Mr. Macheath’s side.” Up ahead, Lucifer is getting glad-handed by Cabal Ash. I think the guy took out his spinal fluid and replaced it with tequila. He’s epically, gorgeously drunk. If his drunkenness had legs, it would be Alexander the Great and conquer the known world. Then it would puke for a week into a solid gold toilet it stole from Zeus’s guest room. Right now, Cabal is stinking up the party with the death grip he’s got on Lucifer’s hand. He’s pumping it like he thinks he’ll strike oil. A woman dressed in the same kind of dirty rags as Cabal is trying to coax him away with more booze. Maybe I’m supposed to step in and pull the guy off, but it’s not my party and it’s too damned fun standing right where I am. Cabal’s ragged lady friend finally gets his meat hooks off Lucifer and quickly steers the drunk into the crowd and out of sight. “It’s nice to hear that no one owns you. Men, especially Americans, have quite a desire to buy and sell each other. For me, they’re attracted to me because I model and do sexy things in magazines and in movies, then when they have me—or think they have me—they want me to transform overnight into a mousy little housewife.” “I can see how what you do could intimidate a guy.” “But it doesn’t feel as if you are judging.” “I’m pretty out of judgment for this lifetime.” “What is that you’re smoking?” “I’m not sure. I think it’s low-tar crack for underage robots.” “May I try?” She puffs away and gets a nice red glow going on the LED at what’s supposed to be the lit end of the thing. Opens her mouth in an O and blows a series of perfect smoke rings. She gives the cigarette back to me, smiling. “Is this what you smoke in Los Angeles these days? I’m not sure I approve. Vices shouldn’t be safe. They’re what remind us we’re alive and mortal.” I toss the thing, sending it skipping across the floor into one of the canal tributaries that run along one wall. “There. Thanks for saving me from a too-long life.” “So, you don’t like to be called Sandman Slim. Your Wikipedia page says that sometimes you are called Wild Bill.” “I’m on goddamn Wikipedia?” “It’s a tiny entry full of notes saying that no one knows if any of what’s there is real. It’s very funny. You’d like it.” “Read it to me sometime. I have a feeling it’ll sound better in Czech.” “But none of this answers my question. What should I call you?” Up ahead, Lucifer turns away from his admirers with his phone to his ear. From the look on his face, someone is going to get a Cadillac-size pitchfork up the ass. “Call me James. Not Jimmy or Jim. Just James. What do I call you?” “Brigitte is fine.” “Ah. I thought we were confessing true names.” “No. I just asked what to call you.” Now that he’s not getting the royal treatment for a couple of seconds, Ritchie’s realized that Brigitte isn’t next to him. He looks around like a Titanic survivor hunting for a life vest. “I think you’re about to be called back to the stage.” Brigitte gives a little sigh. “You’re lucky. Your patron doesn’t spend all his waking hours worrying that you might fuck someone else.” “Not that he’s mentioned.” She smiles and waves to get Ritchie’s attention. “I have to go. It’s been lovely talking with you, Sandman. Pardon. James.” “You too, Ms. Bardo.” As she goes, she runs a finger lightly over the back of my hand. I don’t usually think of porn girls as actresses, but Brigitte might be an exception. When she goes to Ritchie, she gives him a Pretty Woman smile like she thinks he’s the center of the world. It looks like the center of Lucifer’s world has gone sour. He crooks his finger at me and we start out of the ballroom. No good-byes. No handshakes. Nothing. It must be nice to just start walking and know that everybody else will follow. Which is exactly what happens. Jan, Koralin, and Ritchie practically sprint after him. Ritchie is pulling Brigitte like a puppy on a leash. She laughs as they go. I push through the crowd, cut around a hairy Nahual beast man and a couple of Jades eating raw meat off a golem’s tray. Wolf Boy has hold of the golem’s arm so it can’t wander away. I catch up with them just as everyone is saying good night. Lucifer shakes a last few hands, blows some air kisses, and we’re moving again. “What’s going on?” He looks at his phone one more time and stuffs it into his pocket. “We’re going back to the hotel. Apparently Amanda and her coven never left and they’re not playing nice with the hotel staff who are too afraid to throw her out.” “Whose followers are dumber, yours or God’s?” “Mine are simpletons and his are self-righteous prigs. Take your pick.” “I should have known that little shit would be here.” Lucifer looks at me. I nod at a pretty young guy drinking and scowling at the edge of a group of other pretty young things. It’s Ziggy Stardust, the bad-mannered kid from Bamboo House of Dolls who thought I was a dolphin who’d do a trick for a fish. “That’s Jan and Koralin’s son. Rainier I think is his name. An angry little bore and a ne’er-do-well.” “Sounds like a typical Sub Rosa to me.” Lucifer heads for the first gondola he sees, cutting off an angry Sub Rosa woman who was stepping into it. She starts to say something, sees me, and shakes her head. It’s Medea Bava, head of the Sub Rosa Inquisition. I step down into the boat and she says, “Judge a man by the company he keeps.” “Admit it. You live alone with thirty cats, all named Mr. Whiskers.” She stands there scowling at me as the golem gondolier poles us away. “Friend of yours?” Lucifer asks. “She either wants to burn me at the stake or shut off my cable. I forget which.” “Why don’t you kill her?” I look at him. I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. “’Cause she hasn’t done anything yet.” “Don’t be an idiot. If you always wait for your enemies to move first, you’ll be dead before breakfast.” “But it’s your fans, not your enemies, that ruined your night. You just can’t win.” “We might have put your no-killing policy on hold. Amanda and her people can be unruly, but they have to be dealt with one way or another.” “You want me to slaughter thirteen people in the hotel lobby?” He shrugs. “Do it in the parking lot if you’re worried about the rugs.” “These aren’t sulfur-sucking Hellions. I’m not promising to kill anyone.” He lights a cigarette and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t offer me one this time. “If you need to play at being the humanitarian, deal with Amanda first. Put her down and the others will most likely slink away home. I’ll deal with them later.” “While we’re dealing with annoying situations, fuck you very much for that Eleanor thing back there with the old lady.” “Don’t be so serious. You hate the Sub Rosa because you don’t know how to have fun with them.” “Light Bringer sounds fun. Great title, by the way. It makes you sound like Luke Skywalker’s harelip cousin. Maybe they can get Ewoks to play the other fallen angels.” When the golem docks us by the reservoir stairs, Lucifer dials the chauffeur and tells him to wait back where he dropped us. When we get back to the street, he isn’t there. Does this moron want his throat slit all the way around back, too, so it matches the front? I say, “Go back inside. I’ll wait.” “Calm down. Here he is.” The limo pulls up to the curb and Lucifer heads straight for it. I grab his arm and hold him until the driver gets out. When he does, I do something I’m pretty sure no one but God has ever done before. I knock Lucifer down. The guy getting out of the limo doesn’t have the heartbeat or the nervous breathing of someone who’s just kept the lord of the flies waiting. He sounds more like me when I’m hunting. Five more men follow him out of the car. They’re dressed in black jumpsuits, boots, and balaclavas, typical tactical drag, but they don’t have insignias on their suits. For all I know, they could be LAPD, Dr. No, or the SPCA. Next time, no matter how tight the damn jacket is, I’m bringing a gun. The six men split into two groups. The four with what look like nonlethals go for Lucifer. Two with guns come at me. The taller one has an AA-12 auto shotgun. Looks like his pal has a G3 assault rifle. This is only interesting because it means that they work for people who can afford the best toys on the shelf, which means they’re probably pros. Damn. I was hoping to buy them off with free movie rentals. Microwave popcorn included. Shotgun Guy starts blasting the moment he hits the curb, pushing me back toward the reservoir, trying to cut me off so I can’t help Lucifer. It’s a good plan. I’m not running in front of the double-ought shot and I’m not charging him while he has that hand cannon. I do exactly what he wants me to do. I fall down. In gunspeak, it’s called a fall-away shot. You fall over backward while raising your gun and firing. If you’re good at it, a fall-away is a great way to shoot at an armed assailant without getting shot. Unfortunately, I’m not great at it. Fortunately, hitting something in the dark with a na’at is a lot easier than with a bullet. I snap the na’at up and out, tagging him on the side of the throat. Judging by the red fountain that erupts there, I must have nicked his carotid. Lucky shot. Double lucky because his buddy with the G3 turns to check him out and gets hit in the face with some of the blood spray. Blinded, he snaps up his rifle, but he’s too afraid he’ll hit Lucifer or one of his own men to shoot. He tries to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. It takes him all of about ten seconds to get one eye clear. Long enough for me to collapse the na’at’s shaft and spin it like a whip so that it slams him in the center of his chest. His body armor stops the spear point from going all the way in, but the way he’s gritting his teeth tells me I’ve made contact. I sprint forward and pull my knife. Still half blind and hurt, he starts popping off panic shots. It’s more dignified than just standing there. My jacket is open and the material snaps back when a couple of his shots get way too close to me. He finally clears both eyes, but I’m right on him, so it’s not going to help. I drive my shoulder into his chest right where the na’at hit him and he thuds down onto his back. Before he can react or smack me with the gun butt, I drive the black blade straight down into his throat until I feel it snap through his spinal column. I look over at Lucifer. The other four guys have him surrounded. Two of the tactical team have Tasers as big as RPG launchers. The other two are carrying what look like industrial-strength tangle web guns. Those two are in a ready position waiting for the electric boys to drive Lucifer into their loving arms. That means they’re standing there like a couple of macho ducks that got high and had targets tattooed on the sides of their heads right before hunting season. But I can’t be sure their weapons don’t have rifle fail-safes built in in case the nonlethals don’t work. I grab the G3 and put two rounds through the closest duck’s head to see if anyone shoots back. Everyone looks at me, but no one fires. I give the second duck two in the chest and one in the head to make sure he stays down. The other two aren’t so lucky. There are lots of theories about fighting and warfare, from Sun Tzu’s Art of War to Der Führer’s Total War to when you’re a Jet you’re a Jet all the way. The one thing all these theories have in common is this: Know your enemy. His tactics, strengths, and weaknesses. When you do, ninety-nine percent of the time you’re going to make him squeak like a church mouse and run away like the Road Runner. Of course, if you get it wrong, you’re going to be a ten-foot banana and the guy you’re fighting will be King Kong with the munchies. That sort of describes the glimmer twins with the oversize Tasers. Seeing the rest of their team dead, they do the only thing they can. They fire at Lucifer and keep pumping the juice into him, hoping to knock him down by themselves. This whole time, all I’ve seen Lucifer do is watch what’s happening like he’s at the zoo and wondering what funny thing the monkeys are going to do next. When the Taser darts hit and the electricity starts to flow, though, he flinches. Then he stands stock-still and for a second I think that they’re zapping him with so much current that his brain has short-circuited. A moment later he holds his arms out in a way that brings back bad memories. Bodyguard or not, I’m not getting anywhere near him. Lucifer, once upon a time the greatest angel of them all, conjures up not one, but two flaming gladius swords. He sweeps them down in a smooth, simultaneous overhand attack that slices both Tasers in two. The swords are between the shooters and down low. He brings his arms up at an angle and hits the gunmen just above their waists, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps going until he’s drawn the swords all the way through them. Their bodies are nothing but towers of burned meat and they fly apart like suicide bombers at a backyard barbecue. Lucifer stands with his head bowed, staring at the ground, studying the smoldering mess. I wonder how long it’s been since he’s used those swords. They probably bring back funny memories for him, too. Finally, he looks up and heads toward me. On instinct, I snap the rifle up to my shoulder, sighting in on his left eye. He freezes. Looks at me hard, wondering what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. Finally, he lowers his arms and the swords flicker out. I drop the rifle to my side. He comes over like he’s going to say something, but two unmarked vans are roaring down the street toward us. Backup for the first team. I toss the empty rifle away and sprint to the limo, start it up, throw it in reverse, and floor it. The vans are doing about forty and I’m doing the same when we hit. Van number one smashes through my back bumper and up onto the trunk. Then van number two crawls right up number one’s ass, knocking it and the limo another ten feet down the road. Good thing I wasn’t doing anything important with my vertebrae or my neck would probably hurt. Both vans are smoking and silent, but the men inside won’t be for long and I’m not waiting around for Lee Marvin and the Dirty Dozen to come out shooting. Half a block from us, two limos are at the curb to take other guests home from the party. I gesture for Lucifer to head for the lead car and I take off after him. I can feel it now. The heat in my muscles and bones whispering to me like an old forgotten friend. I’m not Lucifer’s anymore. I’m not the Vigil’s night janitor, sweeping up bloodsuckers and demon fuckers. I’m back in the arena where the air tastes like blood and dust. Something is screaming at my feet because I’m making it scream. Then I make it stop. I throw its head into the grandstands to remind the crowd what a real monster looks like and it’s just like coming home. I get to the limo first and put my fist through the driver’s-side window to pull out the chauffeur. A jelly-bean-size chunk of my frontal lobe is firing just enough to remind me that the driver is probably just a terrified slob doing a shitty job. I pull him through the window and shove him hard enough that he lands on the opposite curb, out of harm’s way. Lucifer is already in the limo when I slide behind the wheel. As we take off I can hear gunfire popping behind us. The crowd from the party is screaming and running back toward the water. Overhead, there’s the whup-whup of helicopter blades and a floodlight hits us from above. At the far end of the reservoir, two vans are parked side by side, blocking the road. I turn off the headlights and look at Lucifer. “I hope that’s not your favorite suit.” “Why?” I floor it and crank the wheel right, fishtailing the limo up over the curb and across the grass. While we’re still under the trees, I push open my door, grab Lucifer, and roll left. We hit the ground hard, but not as hard as the limo when it hits the water. The hood snaps back and smashes through the windshield. It only takes a few seconds for the car to disappear into an oily froth of bubbles. The helicopter hovers over the crash, its bright belly light turning the scene into a Vegas floor show. By then, Lucifer and I are hunkered down behind the cars on the opposite side of the street. While the vans and chopper concentrate on the spot where the car went into the resevoir, we head down a side street into a residential area. I must have pulled a muscle or something when we rolled out of the car. My side is cramped and burning. Down a block or so, I spot an old Jeep Wrangler in a weekend warrior’s driveway. I get it open with the knife, but don’t start the engine. Just pop it into neutral and Lucifer and I push it into the street. Then we hop in and coast. It’s slow going with no engine and no headlights. I don’t see any better in the dark than you do, and my Batman night-vision scope must have gotten lost in the mail, so we pretty much crawl down the hill. When we hit Fountain, I start the engine and steer us onto Sunset Boulevard, where we’re immediately lost in the city’s bumper-to-bumper nightlife wonderland. I’ve never been so happy to get stuck in traffic among a million other assholes in my life. I glance at Lucifer to see how he’s doing. He’s frowning and fingering a spot on his jacket cuff where he lost a button.