There’s a click and the front of the safe swings open.
Vidocq moves his hands in a graceful TV-spokesmodel arc in front of the safe.
“Et voilà.”
“You are the man, Van Damme.”
He squints at me.
“Jean-Claude Van Damme is Belgian, not French.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Fuck you.”
I like how Vidocq pronounces “fuck”: “fock.”
He whispers, “C’est quoi, ça?”
“Anything wrong?”
“No. It’s very interesting. The owner of this safe is a very paranoid man. The inside is etched with spells and runes.”
“Can you still get the swag?”
He flashes a small LED light around the inside of the safe.
“I don’t see anything in here that should stop us. They mostly seem to be containment spells. He must have been afraid of this shiny scarab walking away.”
He reaches into the safe and pulls out a polished ebony box the size of a cigar box and pushes up the lid. A beautiful gold scarab lies on bloodred silk. He hands me the box and begins packing his tools. I slip it into my coat pocket.
I say, “I have to admit, it doesn’t feel bad, but it feels a little weird not raising a hand in anger this long. I can pretty much just talk humans and Lurkers out of doing stupid shit to each other these days.”
“See?” he says from the floor. “By embracing your angelic half, the mere force of your personality is enough to keep the peace.”
“I think killing all zombies in the world in one night helps.”
“Yes, that could be a factor.”
“And Lucifer and the Vigil aren’t around paying me to be a hit man rent-boy bitch.”
Vidocq scrolls his gear into a leather tool roll and stands up.
I ask him, “Are we cool?”
He smiles and says, “As the North Star on Christmas Eve. But we aren’t quite done.”
He takes two potion bottles from inside his coat and pours their contents onto the floor where we were standing and on the safe door, trying to shampoo away any magic or forensic dandruff that might lead back to us. When he tosses the contents of a third bottle into the safe, I hear the scratching.
“You heard?” he asks.
“Get out of the way, Eugène.”
He doesn’t. Vidocq has a scientific mind. Instead of getting out of the way, he looks inside the safe.
It wouldn’t be my fault if the back of his stupid French skull blew out like a five-dollar retread, but I pull Vidocq out of the way just before the demon cannonballs out of the safe and hits the far wall.
The demon’s carapace gleams like blue-black gun steel. The big bug doesn’t have eyes, just two sets of jaws at an angle to each other and two huge hooked front claws. The moment it hits the wall, it starts tunneling through it. That’s what this particular type of demon does. It’s a digger. A greed demon. It’ll protect anything it thinks it owns. Like the contents of a safe. It’s why the safe had containment spells on the interior. To keep the demon inside. Smart. Your basic bad guys—us, for instance—will maybe test for eaters, but who’s going to worry about a brainless digger until it’s excavating the Panama Canal through your intestines?