Hollywood Dead Page 9

  As if they know I’m waiting, the magicians take their sweet goddamn time about setting up. First, a carpet goes down in the middle of the crypt. Then they unfold a portable altar and start laying out the goods from a wooden trunk. And holy shit, they pass every single fucking one around so that each magician can bless it before putting it on the table just so and moving on to the next item. I swear, these clowns must be getting paid by the hour. I don’t know how much crap they have in that trunk, but we could be here until the Rapture starts and Elvis makes his big comeback.

  Finally, one of the magicians closes the trunk. There are ten items laid out like the sephirot in a kabbalistic tree of life pattern. When they seem satisfied with the spread, they join hands and begin a low chant.

  Kill me now.

  The chant isn’t any better or worse than a hundred other chants I’ve heard, but the thing about chants is that they can go on for-fucking-ever. This one feels like it’s going for a record. Maybe it’s just me getting antsy, but even a few of the guards start looking restless. Thank you for validating my annoyance. Now hold still while I kill all of you.

  Eventually, the magician at the base of the tree frees his hands and picks up a nearby knife. He slices his left palm and dribbles blood between the items on the table, creating the paths that connect each sephira. When he’s done, he picks up something from the lowest position on the tree and holds it up before him. It’s a gold medallion or a large coin. Either way, I can’t resist. The moment he opens his mouth to utter some hoodoo, I use the rifle to put a bullet straight through the center of the coin and into his forehead. It takes a second for everyone’s brain to process what they just saw, and in that second I open up on the rest of the magicians. I get three of them with head shots, but the fourth I hit in the shoulder. By then, the guards have figured out my position and opened up on me. What seems like a hundred rounds pepper the vault where I’m hiding. Before I can slip through the shadow in the back of the vault, a couple of shots hit me in the chest. The armor stops them, but the force is like being hit by a reasonably large buffalo. It knocks me backward into the shadow.

  While the guards concentrate their fire on the vault where I’m definitely not, I use another shadow to come out on their side. I blow through my first clip quickly and take down three of them. The other seven figure out where I am, but before they can open fire on me, I slip out the back of that vault …

  … and come out in a vault on the opposite wall. I fire down on them while their backs are to me. I get three more of them before they zero in on my new location. Just as I’m changing clips and getting ready to bail out of there, a ricochet flashes right across the vault where I’m hiding, snapping off the rifle’s trigger, so fuck my luck again.

  I fall back into a shadow and come out behind them on the floor of the crypt, holding the rifle by the barrel and swinging it like a baseball bat. I knock two down on their faces and finish them with the Glock before disappearing again.

  The last two guards make a break for the door with the injured magician between them. To his credit, the magician pushes away from them and screams hoodoo into the crypt. This gives me plenty of time to get behind the guards, snap the na’at out into a sword, and take off both of their heads.

  The remaining magician, pale and leaking blood from his bullet wound, is smart. I recognize his hoodoo. It’s going to rain mystical flaming knives down on me—or so it seems until, at the last minute, he replaces a couple of words of the spell. Instead of knives raining down, he pulls down one of the walls on me.

  I barely get out of the way in time.

  The sound of the crash echoes off the rock walls of the crypt in a deafening slap. I bark Hellion hoodoo and a pillar of fire rises from the floor, shooting directly at him. He steps back and grabs an object off the tree of life, tossing it into the fire. As it hits he screams hoodoo and the fire sort of turns inside out, transforming from flames to water. He whirls to throw a curse at me, but I step into a shadow and come out behind him.

  Good thing too. He pulled down another section of wall where I was standing.

  When I’m right behind him I say, “Boo.”

  He freezes and I put the Glock to the back of his head.

  “I know you want to die by hoodoo like a real warrior magician. I get it. And that’s why it’s going to happen like this.”

  I shoot him and let him fall on the floor with the dead guards. Fuck him. Fuck magic. Fuck the faction. And double fuck whoever shot me in the chest.

  I open my coat—which has more than a few bullet holes in it, thanks, you fuckers—and pry the bullets out of the body armor. Toss them on the floor with the other dead dopes.

  The trunk is empty, so it’s not very heavy when I pull it over to the altar. Sandoval and Sinclair aren’t going to be happy when they see what I’m bringing them. Most of what the magicians were using in the ritual has been shot to shit. It’s all twisted metal vessels, splintered wooden idols, and shattered vials. The only thing intact is a vellum scroll. I shove everything else into the trunk but set the scroll aside. Whatever it is, it’s probably worth something and I’m going to want leverage over Wormwood until I’m 100 percent alive.

  When I open it, the scroll is just a jumble of geometric shapes and runes laid out in a grid pattern. I can’t read a word of it, and I don’t get a chance to decipher it with hoodoo because there’s an ominous crack above me that runs down the walls and rumbles the floor.

  With two walls missing, the room is collapsing. As I grab the trunk, the halogen lights start going out. I find a shadow in the dying light of the very last one and dive in.

  I come out of a shadow across the street. Car alarms are going off for blocks. Lights are coming on in the nearby houses. The street shakes as the chapel groans and snaps, crashing down onto itself until it’s one big holy crater in the ground. I’m covered in dust from the vaults, asbestos, and who the hell knows what else that’s raining down from the dead chapel. I stay there just long enough to make sure I’ll leave a good trail of toxic shit on the rugs when I’m back at Sandoval’s mansion. But as people gather to gawk at the wreckage, I drag the trunk into a shadow. Back to Beverly Hills and my brand-new, shiny, perfect life.

  I’M NOT SUBTLE when I return to Sandoval’s. I come in right through a wall in her office, dragging the trunk behind me.

  She and Sinclair jump when they see me.

  “Goddammit, Stark. That was amusing the first time or two, but not anymore. Come in through a door like a human being.”

  I drop the trunk and it kicks up a little cloud of dust.

  Sinclair frowns.

  “What are you—and it—covered with?”

  “The Chapel of St. Alexis. We’re pretty much all that’s left of it.”

  “You were supposed to kill a few men. Not make a scene,” says Sandoval.

  “I wasn’t the one that cratered the place. It was one of the faction’s magicians.”

  “You destroyed it? The whole chapel?”

  “You’re not listening. I didn’t do it. I was just going to collapse the crypt. A faction magician collapsed the building.”

  “And you let him,” she says.

  “I didn’t know he was doing it—there wasn’t exactly time for a zoning commission meeting. I barely got out of there with your Easter basket.”

  Sinclair says, “What’s wrong, Eva?”

  “The faction lost a valued piece of consecrated ground tonight. They won’t take that lightly.”

  I shake some dust off my jacket and onto the floor.

  “Hey, I just saved L.A. And you. Why don’t you be happy about that for two minutes before you go off again?”

  She looks at me.

  “Yes. I suppose you did.”

  She looks at the trunk.

  “Are those the artifacts?”

  “That’s them. But they got a little banged around in shipping.”

  “Let me see.”

  I use my boot to push the trunk in her directi
on.

  “Have fun.”

  She shakes her head.

  “No. You open it.”

  “You think I put a bomb in there? Maybe snakes? Maybe a snake bomb?”

  “I think I know how your brain works now and I believe that it’s deeply damaged by your time in Hell. Therefore, you open it.”

  I look at Sinclair.

  “Why don’t you do it?”

  He just takes a pill from one of his collection of bottles.

  “I have to agree with Eva. It would be better for everyone if you did it.”

  I look around for the roaches.

  “How are Roger and Sandra doing?”

  “Sandra is fine,” says Sandoval. “Roger is in the hospital.”

  “Poor guy. You know, I got tagged tonight, too. Shot twice in the chest. It really hurts.”

  “I’ll weep for you later. Now, the trunk.”

  I say, “Tough room,” and kick the trunk open.

  They approach it with caution.

  Sandoval says, “Put everything on my desk.”

  “I’m not your fucking butler.”

  “Just do it.”

  I drag the trunk to her desk, sweep everything off it, and dump the remains of the ritual objects. They clatter out in a heap.

  “It’s garbage,” says Sandoval.

  I look at her.

  “I told you there was some breakage.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “Remember when I said I got shot? That should have been a clue that they didn’t give this stuff up peacefully. There was a firefight, both bullets and hoodoo.”

  She and Sinclair go to the desk and look things over.

  “These are useless,” Sandoval says.

  I pick up part of a broken wooden idol.

  “No they’re not. Given a little time, any reasonably bright magician could put them back together. You must have a hundred of them on your payroll. If you’re going to complain, complain to them.”

  Sinclair picks up the remains of a golden pitcher.

  “He’s right, you know. Even in such poor shape, I recognize a few of the artifacts. Our people could put them back together.”

  Sandoval screws up her lips in a sour expression like she just licked the bottom of a bus station chair.

  “Fine,” she says. “They’ll have to do.”

  I go over to her.

  “That’s it then. I’ve completed my part of the bargain. It’s time for you to pay up.”

  “I know.”

  “When can we get started?”

  She picks up pieces of the artifacts, glances at them, and drops them again.

  “Howard is still setting up. He wants you to rest up for the evening. We’ll call you when he’s ready.”

  Hell.

  “Fine. Do you have any painkillers lying around? And I don’t mean aspirin. Vicodin or something like that? My chest is killing me.”

  Sandoval glances at me and goes back to sifting through the artifacts.

  “In fact, we did have some Vicodin, but we had to give it to Roger before the ambulance came. Poor boy.”

  She looks at me.

  “Poor you.”

  I look at her eyes.

  “It’s not polite to lie, Eva.”

  “Take the bourbon on the sideboard and go to your room. We’ll call you when Howard is ready.”

  I’m tired and I don’t feel like starting a fight when I’m this close to home. I take the bottle and a glass and get out of there.

  I SHOWER OFF chapel dust and the smell of old bones. There’s a full-length mirror in the bathroom, so when I’m done I check myself out. It’s a pitiful sight. Like my early days in the arena, before I got my scars. I’m basically one big bruise, from my shoulders down to my ankles. The bullet wound in my stomach doesn’t hurt anymore, but it’s still a little pink when it should have faded to a regular scar by now. At least when I’m fully me again, the wounds will heal quickly. I should be presentable to the world in less than a day. Maybe I’ll take the time to see Vidocq and ask about crashing with him for a while. When that’s settled and I don’t look like I went ten rounds with a stegosaurus, maybe I’ll go to Max Overdrive and Candy …

  But is that the right way to handle things? Just walk in and say, Hi, honey. I’m back from the dead. Who wants tacos? I’m just not sure what else to do. Should I send a note? Do it in skywriting? I sure as hell don’t want Kasabian telling her for me. What’s the polite way to come back to the world of the living? The last time I came back from Hell I wanted to kill everyone, which made things a lot simpler. Now I have to deal with people’s feelings and worry about what’s good for the relationship. It was a lot easier being a monster. Just kill kill kill all day.

  I miss it sometimes. But I miss Candy more.

  I get the scroll out of my coat and look it over. It’s nothing but angular scribbles. I wish Father Traven was here. He was great with languages. He’d have this thing translated by the time I finished my first cigarette. I’ll show it to Vidocq when I go over there tomorrow. Maybe there will be something in one of his books.

  Really, I should go downstairs and check on Marcella, but after what I did to Roger, I’m reasonably sure she’s all right. Besides, she has my knife. I’ll get it back from her later. Right now, I’m very tired. Fuck this body. It runs down so fast. But that will be over with soon. Everything is going to be fine.

  Before I know it, I’m asleep. In my dreams, I’m back in Hell. Actually, in the Tenebrae, the wasteland just outside of Hell. I’m with the Magistrate. He ran a mad horde of marauders across Hell looking for a secret weapon he was going to use to storm Heaven. Things didn’t work out, but he was the smartest son of a bitch I ever met. When I met him, there were at least a hundred people and dozens of vehicles in his horde. Now it’s just the two of us. I’m his chauffeur. He sits in the backseat of his Charger babbling about the war in Heaven. Switching from language to language before I can recognize any of them.

  Finally, he says, “What is the shortest distance between two points?”

  I look at him in the rearview mirror.

  “Swordfish.”

  “Come again?”

  “It’s a joke from an old movie. What’s the secret password? Swordfish.”

  “I see. Well, it is not swordfish this time. Would you like to know the answer?”

  “Sure.”

  I hit the accelerator. Feel the RPMs rumble from my feet and up into my chest as the Charger tears up the cracked desert road, leaving a gray cloud behind us.

  The Magistrate takes my Colt and puts one bullet in the chamber. Spins it and slams it shut. Puts the gun to his head and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens.

  He says, “The answer is death. In nothingness, distance has no meaning.”

  “But death isn’t nothingness. I’m dead and I’m here now.”

  He puts the Colt to my head.

  “Perhaps you are not dead enough.”

  “I still think ‘swordfish’ is a better answer.”

  “But you are not the one asking the question.”

  He pulls the trigger.

  I wake up to the sound of gunfire—

  —and roll out of bed, hit the floor, and run toward the sound. I’m wearing pants and nothing else and for a second I’m tempted to go back for the body armor, but the gunfire just gets louder so I keep going.

  As I come out of my room, I can already see that the enormous foyer in Sandoval’s mansion is a fucking war zone. Windows blown out. Holes punched in the walls. Shots gouging chunks out of the marble floor. Ripping through the paintings. Vases explode, sending showers of roses and lilies into the air.

  Sandoval is pinned down by the open front door. Sinclair is a few yards back. To Sandoval’s credit, she’s firing back at whoever’s outside with a little pocket pistol.

  I crawl to the edge of the room and get a look out one of the smashed windows. To my complete nonsurprise, there’s an unmarked van flanked by men in balaclavas
. They’re even using the same kind of SIG rifles friends of theirs used when they snatched me and killed Philip.

  A few seconds later, Sandoval runs out of ammo. I shout to her, hoping she can hear me over the sound of gunfire.

  “Eva, get the fuck away from the door.”

  If she can hear me, she ignores the order. Can’t say I blame her. With bullets pitting the floor around her, there isn’t anywhere she can get to. It won’t take long for one of the gunmen to zero right in on her head. Part of me wants her to die, but she’s the boss around here and who knows what her lackeys will do or if Howard will fix me when she’s gone? I need Sandoval alive.

  Shouting some Hellion hoodoo, I run for her. The curse sends a pressure wave out the front door. It won’t last long—a few seconds at most—but the wave deflects the bullets just long enough for me to grab Sandoval and get her away from the door. Good thing I didn’t expect any thank-yous.

  “Do something,” she shouts right in my face.

  “Fuck that. I’m not your bodyguard. I did my job already.”

  She looks at me hard.

  “If those men get in the house, they could kill Howard.”

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  I crawl to a window and get a quick look outside. A dozen shooters, all with rifles. I don’t have my body armor or a gun, and anyway, I’m not ready to face down another murder-happy army tonight. I crawl to a heavy oak chair nearby and throw it out of the closest window. It knocks the remaining glass and curtains out of the way.

  “Destroying my house is not helping!”

  I ignore her as the gunmen open up on the window, knocking fistfuls of plaster down on me. I grab another chair and throw it at a window across the room. When that window shatters, the gunfire moves from me and over in that direction. It gives me just enough time to get to my window and shout hoodoo from back in my arena days.

  A bright, swirling cloud forms over the gunmen’s van. A second later it explodes in a blinding flash of heat and light. When I look outside again, half the gunmen are on the ground. A few of them are on fire. The top of the van and at least one of the wheels is also burning. The gunmen roll their pals on the ground until the flames go out, then drag them toward the van. I shout the curse the magician pretended to use against me in the crypt. A second later, a swarm of glittering knives appears in the air, flying down at the attackers. The blades thunk into the side of the armored van and the losers outside. By the time it’s moving, pretty much everyone is a bloody pincushion. With flames still on the roof and a couple of tires engulfed, the van speeds away.