Devil Said Bang ss-4 Page 5

  When he left he said he’d come back if I ever really needed him. I haven’t heard a goddamn word since. I’ve tried to get a message through to Mr. Muninn. He’s the one guy on Earth I know could come down here if he wanted. I guess he doesn’t. I know why and we’re going to have to have a long talk about it when I get home.

  Saint James would have a plan but I’m just prowling relentless, hypnotic halls, floor by floor looking for clues. The windowless corridors could be anywhere. In space on a rocket circling the edge of the universe. Or Donald Trump’s diamond-encrusted submarine at the bottom of the Marianas Trench.

  Hellhounds glance up when they see me. I scratch the underside of their glassed-in brains and they growl contentedly. They’re like temple dogs guarding a royal tomb, only here the altars are unused Jacuzzis and Hellion minibars. I don’t even want to think about what’s in those.

  Fun as it was busting up the meeting, something real kicked in for me. Something I sort of already knew but couldn’t put into words.

  They’ve gone insane down here. Every fucking Hellion has gone mad.

  They can’t lay a finger on Heaven and they can’t leave. They’ve been stuck in this hole for what? Thousands of years? A million? Time doesn’t move for angels like it moves for us. They’ve turned inward and created a rat-maze culture. All bureaucracy, schizo rituals, and murderous deadfalls.

  Do you think God had a business plan when He created the universe? Did He worry about the invention of light or gravity running over budget?

  Meetings and infighting. Made-up ceremonies and new religions and Noble Virtues. This is how you fill up eternity when all you have to look forward to is the clock running down and the universe collapsing in on itself and starting over.

  There’s something up ahead. I can’t see it but I can feel it. There’s a set of double doors leading to a meeting room. The opposite wall is blank but there’s something funny about it. It isn’t solid. To these Lucifer eyes, the plaster and paint are cheap sideshow effects. Change the light and you can see right through them. At least the wily bastard left me something useful.

  Sooner or later even the nonstop rituals aren’t going to hold and these assholes are going to turn on each other. The biggest baddest civil war ever, until none of them are left. What would Heaven think of that? Probably get a real chuckle out of it. A Hell without Hellions. A real-estate developer’s wet dream. They can sell time-shares, “This two-and-a-half-bath beauty is close to schools, shopping, and on a clear day you can see the dismembered devil corpses floating in the lake of shit.”

  The ghost room reminds me of Vidocq’s apartment in L.A. He put hoodoo on the place so no one can see it or remember it, so he hasn’t paid rent in years. But whoever conjured up this blind isn’t ducking bill collectors. This is a lot heavier magic than that.

  “I’ve been looking for you, lord.”

  Fuck me harder, God. Seriously.

  “I’m kind of busy now, Brimborion.”

  “I can see. Another busy day of wandering the halls. I hear there are some brick partitions on the third floor where if you stare just right you can see animals and fluffy clouds. Maybe you’d like to wander down there?”

  “What do you want? Wait. How did you find me?”

  “I stopped by your summer home in the library and had a peep at your peepers.”

  I make it to him in half a second, get my fingers around his throat, hoist him off his feet, and hold him against the wall.

  “You went into the library without my permission?”

  “It was unlocked,” he croaks.

  He starts turning blue. And he isn’t lying. I can’t remember setting a sealing spell on the place when I left. Besides, he probably could have walked in anyway with the opening talisman of his. I drop him to the floor and head back down the hall.

  “What’s so important you had to dog me down here?”

  He gasps for air and waves a crumpled piece of vellum at me. He wants me to come down there and take it but that isn’t going to happen. I wait until he can breathe again.

  “It’s the banquet tonight, my lord.”

  “What banquet?”

  “To celebrate the laying of the City Hall cornerstone.”

  “Tell them I can’t make it. I have the flu or the clap. Whatever it is you cloven-hoof types get.”

  “But, my lord. You have to bless the banquet.”

  More rituals.

  “Get Merihim to do it.”

  “It’s not his place, my lord.”

  “Okay. Then cancel it.”

  He scrambles to his feet. The vellum isn’t crumpled anymore. He’s holding on to it like a life preserver.

  “You can’t.”

  “Then don’t cancel it. I’m putting you in charge. If Merihim can’t do it, find someone who can. I’m busy.”

  I walk back in the direction of the fake wall.

  I hear him come after me.

  “You’ve been obstinate in the past, my lord. But refusing the banquet is beyond acceptable. And I heard that you dismissed the planning committee today.”

  He’s right about one thing. I was having so much fun I forgot about politics. Lies and promises. It was goddamn stupid to let that slip.

  I turn and he comes up short.

  “And you know who Marchosias and a few others think put me up to it?”

  “Who?”

  “You.”

  He takes a step forward.

  “Me?”

  “Everyone knows you’re paying off half the staff to spy for you. Let you know who’s gaining power and losing power. I’m your power. You control my schedule and who gets to talk to me and see me. You must make a fortune selling my time. Of course, you can’t go too far. If I’m too hard to get hold of people start thinking you’re making a power play. A dangerous move for someone in your position.”

  I look at him. He wants to say, I’m not to blame. You’re the one who doesn’t want to do anything or see anyone.

  I say, “Don’t take it so hard. Marchosias has been yammering about you ever since I got here. She keeps bringing up people on her staff she says could replace you. Some of them have pretty good credentials. You didn’t know any of that? Maybe you ought to run another background check on your staff.”

  He squints at me the same way the committee did when I came in late.

  “With all due respect, my lord, I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “One, quit with the ‘my lord’ stuff. And two, I don’t care.”

  He turns like he’s going to walk away but he just stands there.

  “You still here?”

  “I was wondering what you’re doing down at this end of the palace. Is it for something you’ve lost or something you’ve found?”

  I go over to him, tear open his shirt, and rip the talisman off his neck. The chain leaves a nice red mark on his throat.

  I get in close and whisper, “I cut off my own face once because it seemed like a good idea at the time. What do you think I’ll cut off you?”

  He gives me a tiny nod and steps back, rubbing the red mark where the chain broke.

  “It’s nice to see you with your energy back. I’ve been worried.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He waves his hand up and down me.

  “Just an observation. Since you replaced our other Lucifer, you’ve seemed so wan and . . . what? Weak? It would be awful if people thought your armor was the only thing keeping you alive.”

  How does this little shit know these things? I should snap his neck right now.

  “I tell you what. Maybe you should keep this after all.”


  I hold out the talisman.

  He hesitates.

  I hold it by two fingers and waggle it at him.

  When he reaches for it, I let it drop. His gaze follows it down. I slam my shoulder into him, pinning his right hand against the wall. Grab the blade from behind my back. One quick slash and I cut off his little finger. He howls and falls to his knees, cradling his mutilated hand against his chest. Black blood oozes down his shirt. I pull off the glove that covers my Kissi arm, pick the talisman up off the floor, and drop it in my pocket. I grab him by the hair so he gets a good look at my prosthetic.

  “The next time you threaten me, I’ll take your whole arm.”

  First rule of threats. Always threaten big. Second rule. Always mean it, even if you don’t particularly want to do it.

  He looks up at me.

  “You pig. You human filth.”

  “What do you expect from the Devil? A note in your personnel file?”

  He’s wearing a collarless gray jacket. He manages to slip one arm out and wrap it around his bleeding hand. Leaning his good hand on the wall, he slowly gets to his feet, grimacing and cursing, and starts away down the hall.

  I lean against the wall and light a Malediction.

  I’ve got to remember not to drink anything I don’t get myself, preferably from outside the palace. It might not be poisoned but it will definitely be pissed in.

  I guess now there’s another thing Candy doesn’t get to know about. I should start keeping a list.

  I stay put until I finish my cigarette and everything is quiet but the air-conditioning. Closing my eyes, I try to reach out. Feel if there’s anything or anyone hiding nearby. I don’t get anything.

  I take a long look at the false wall. Sometimes objects can pick up residual magic when someone throws powerful hoodoo nearby. When that happens, a lamp, a chair, or that massager mom keeps in her bedside table that you’re not supposed to know about can give off the same vibes as a genuinely enchanted object. That can happen to, say, a wall if someone was doing heavy spell work around here. There’s no absolute way of knowing without going forensic and that was Vidocq’s area, not mine. I wish he was here.

  I step back and take a good look.

  You’re not really there, are you?

  I charge at what I hope is a door and not a crossbeam. It’s harder to menace people when you’re gimping around with a broken nose.

  I pass through the wall like it’s air. And hit something hard. It cracks open. Wood splinters. Something heavy falls behind me. I think I found the door.

  I’m in the middle of a dark, cluttered room. Behind me is the hoodoo wall, rippling like water on this side. The door is on the floor, in pieces. Someone isn’t getting their deposit back.

  Wherever the hell I am, it’s dark. All I can see in the feeble pool of light through the wall is something that looks like a cluttered garage. Somewhere Dad keeps his tools for the weekend projects that help get him out of having to talk to the family.

  Crates are piled all over the place. Scraps of cut and hammered metal on the floor. Tables with vises and C-clamps. Someone forgot their lunch. It stinks in here.

  I feel along the wall. Find a light switch and flick it on.

  Turns out it wasn’t lunch after all.

  Five body bags are stacked in the corner. A sixth body wrapped in plastic is strapped to what looks like an old wooden electric chair. There’s a tear in the side of the shrink-wrapped shroud, leaking Hellion juice and exposing a black, bloated hand. It gets worse when I uncover the body. It’s the kind of stink that would turn a buzzard vegan.

  It’s a woman. She’s in a legion uniform but I can’t read her name or tell what regiment she’s from. The top of her skull is missing. It looks like someone was dissecting her brain. Clamps and sutures still cling to the rotten meat.

  This is new. I never heard of Hellions vivisecting their own. They do it to some of the more heinous dead souls in the House of Knives, but not to each other.

  Whatever this is, it doesn’t look like torture. This was an experiment and this soldier was the lab rat. I bet if I checked the body bags I’d find more head-bone excavations. What kind of Dr. Moreau shit was going on in here? And who was doing it? Only one name comes to mind.

  Mason.

  What the fuck was he looking for?

  You’d think with all the Hellions I’ve hacked up over the years, manhandling a dead one wouldn’t be so disgusting. But I just killed them. I didn’t stick around to watch them rot. Mason must have encased this room in heavy magic armor. Before I destroyed Tartarus, dead Hellions blipped out of existence like soap bubbles and ended up in the Hell below Hell. But Mason managed to keep these corpses intact even after they were dead. You have to admire the pure psycho will it took to pull off something like that. Admire it and then kill it. That last is the important part.

  So what was he looking for?

  I loosen the corpse’s straps and let it fall forward onto its knees. The corpse leaves scraps of hair, rotten uniform, and skin on the back of the chair.

  There’s a long shallow divot cut into the wood where the soldier’s head was held back. Whatever was in the shallow hole is gone now.

  I undo the straps holding her arms. They’re kind of glued to the chair with bodily fluids. I have to yank off each one, making sure to keep them wrapped in plastic so I don’t have to touch them.

  There are divots on each of the armrests where the dead woman’s bare hands would rest on them. I pull her bare feet off the footrests. Divots there too.

  I’ve wandered deep into the realm of What the Fuck.

  Turn and scan the room for clues. Body bags. Rolling metal tables with drills, saws, and surgical instruments. A blackboard covered with what looks like machine schematics. A pile of empty bags. Rows of potions. Bet most are dope so the guinea pigs wouldn’t squirm while Mason worked on them with a chisel. I keep scanning the room but stop when I see myself pinned to the wall.

  The last twelve years of my life are spread across fake wood paneling.

  Photos of the dozens of Hellions I murdered. There are notes about how and when they died. There are shots of dead people on Earth too. I didn’t kill all of them. Everyone in the Magic Circle. Parker dead in a motel room with half his face missing. Doc Kinski. A shot of Josef the Kissi wearing his human übermensch face. A young vampire named Eleanor, her bitch of a mother, and her suicide father. Cabal Ash and his sister. Simon Ritchie, the movie producer. Snapshots of anonymous, well-groomed blue bloods, rich assholes that died during the New Year’s Eve raid on Avila. Mug shots of bald young teenyboppers and worn-out middle-aged White Power morons who probably died when I torched a skinhead clubhouse a few months back. Like the Hellions, they have date and death notes.

  There’s a photo of Alice, the girl I left behind when I was dragged Downtown eleven years ago, off to the side by itself. I take it down and put it in my pocket. I’m not leaving her here in this madhouse.

  There’s a shot of another young girl. I’m ashamed that it takes me a minute to recognize her. Green hair and pretty eyes. She isn’t wearing her uniform or ridiculous wire antennae in the shot. I like to think that’s why I missed her, but the fucked-up thing is that she’d slipped my mind. She was a counter girl at Donut Universe. Two Kissi murdered her right in front of me. She hadn’t done anything and wasn’t a threat to anyone. She’s dead for no other reason than that she happened to sell me coffee. And I forgot about her.

  I take her photo and put it in my pocket with Alice’s.

  Near the photos of the dead are shots of people w
ho so far have managed to stay out of pine boxes. Candy. Vidocq. Allegra. Mr. Muninn. Carlos. Even Kasabian and Wells.

  What the hell is this? How do a stalker photo album and a bunch of mutilated soldiers go together? Was Mason stone-cold crazy by the end, staring at my life while slicing up the only victims who’d willingly come into Norman Bates’s rec room?

  I go over to the blackboard schematic. On a nearby table are wire cutters, soldering irons, a voltmeter, and other electronic hobby gear. Something like a computer or an elaborate radio lies gutted on the table, circuit boards and bits of fiber-optic cable scattered around it. It looks like someone was scavenging for parts. The device is vaguely familiar but I can’t place it. I push one of the circuit boards out of the way and find something I was hoping I’d never see again.

  A Golden Vigil logo. It fell off the device when it was pried open. Now I remember what it is. It’s angelic tech—a psychic amplifier. I saw a few around the Vigil’s L.A. warehouse. Their Shut Eye psychics used them to supercharge their powers for interrogations and remote viewing experiments. As much as I want to be surprised, I’m not. Mason was working with Aelita, the old head of the Vigil. Maybe she dropped this off with a basket of blueberry muffins as a housewarming present.

  I pick up a curled metal shaving from the table. Turn it over in my hands. It’s a dull silver and dense. Not like something that would go into a machine as delicate as the amplifier. There are more shavings and half-melted ingots on the floor. I kick through them and there, lying by the toe of my god-awful, shiny dress shoe, is what I’ve been looking for.

  I pick up the metal and go back to the chair with the dead soldier. The metal fits perfectly into the divot behind her head. The same thing for the holes in the hand- and footrests.

  I weigh the key in my hand. It’s heavy and solid and comforting. I never realized until now that I miss the weight of the key in my chest. This isn’t like my key. It won’t get anyone out of here but this possession key has its own charms, and with the psychic amplifier, I bet it’s how Mason got the thing to work and let him ride people back on Earth like a voodoo Loa.