“Hell yeah.”
“I need to set up meetings with the Vigil and Lucifer.”
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I pick it up and listen. It’s a short call.
“Cool. See you there.”
“Who was that?”
“Speak of the devil. He’s out at the studio. Wants me to swing by and squint menacingly at the help.”
“Next he’ll have you doing his taxes.”
“I’ve never been to a movie studio. How many guns do you think they’ll let me take inside?”
“You? All you want.”
The .460 pistol is too big to carry in my waistband, so I wear it on my hip in a tool belt I colored black with a Sharpie and modified into a speed rig. I can have it out and cocked before an angel can say “amen.”
The knife and na’at hang snug inside the coat lining.
“Does the Codex say anything about Lucifer having a family?”
Kasabian gives me a curious little smile.
“Like is there a Mrs. Lucifer?”
“Yeah. Or kids.”
“Not that I’ve ever seen, but the Codex isn’t exactly easy to use. It’s all stories and allusions, not a PowerPoint presentation. But I can look if you want. Of course, Lucifer has been fucking around on earth since the Fall, so he probably has a load of sprogs earning their keep as warlords and priests. You looking for a cage match with the Antichrist?”
I shake my head and go into the bathroom. I check myself in the mirror to make sure I look presentable and that the weapons don’t show.
“No. It’s just more trivia. I’m going to go and find a ride.”
I’m closing the door when Kasabian says, “Can you imagine him for a father?”
“Uh. No.”
“He’s such a jerk, it would be torture ninety-nine percent of the time, but, come on, parent-teacher night would be fun. ‘Little Bobby took half the class’s lunch money.’ ‘Only half?’”
I nod at him.
“I’ll pick up some cigarettes while I’m out.”
THERE’S A VINTAGE car lot on North La Brea. Big glass showroom up front. A lot full of classics and a service bay right around the corner. Cars come out of the lot, make a quick right, and are double-parked by the garage until another car pulls out. A situation like this is all about shopping and timing. I don’t love T-birds or Corvettes. However, when a mechanic double-parks a red ’67 GTO, I start across the street.
I mumble a little Hellion spell. There are boxes stacked around the side of the garage waiting for garbage pickup. The oil- and gas-stained cardboard goes up fast. It takes about thirty seconds for the crew to clear the garage, some to gawk and others to hit the flames with fire extinguishers.
The moment they’re out, I’m behind the GTO’s wheel, knife jammed in the ignition and the V-8 engine growling like a Tyrannosaurus rex. I aim the beast out into traffic and take the corner as white smoke from the dying fire drifts into the street.
I pull onto the Hollywood Freeway, heading north toward Burbank. The time on my phone is 3 P.M. Should I give Brigitte a call? There’s a better-than-even chance that she’ll be at the studio with Ritchie, so I wait.
It’s not a long drive. I’m kind of sorry when I see the exit for the studio. For a second I think about not turning. Just hitting on the accelerator and heading north until there’s nowhere left to go. What would stop me first, a moose, an oil pipeline, or a glacier? I’d sit on the shore of the Arctic Ocean and let the snow pile up around me in my GTO igloo. Curl up in the backseat with a radio, turn on a news station, and listen to the world ending.
There’s a guard station at the studio gate. A tired-looking guy in a blue rent-a-cop uniform leans out of the guardhouse as I drive up.
“Sweet ride. We don’t get many V-8s on the lot anymore. It’s all rice-rocket hybrids.”