Smokey backs away, his arms pulled in close to his body. Something’s hurt him. Good. He starts to shake like someone stuck a vibrator in a bowl of cherry Jell-O. I step back and grab my gun, but before I can use it, Smokey melts like the Wicked Witch of the West, leaving a circle of scorched black earth on the green lawn.
Vidocq grabs my shoulder and pulls me back to the car. He bunny-hops on his good leg into the passenger side and I slide into the driver’s seat, jam the black blade I carried back from Hell into the ignition, and we peel out.
“What the hell kind of burglar alarm was that? Why can’t rich people have rottweilers like everyone else?”
“I don’t think that was an alarm. That was a demon.”
I glance at him. My arms are throbbing now, and between each throb they still feel like they’re burning. I smell something, but I don’t know if it’s the coat or me.
“I’ve never seen a demon like that before.”
“Neither have I, but the potion that hurt the creature was a rare type of poison. A toxin formulated to affect only demons.”
I drive at a moderate speed. I pause at stop signs and obey every light.
“Think it was after us?”
Vidocq shrugs.
“Possibly. But who knew we’d be here tonight? And why would someone attack you now? You’ve been a good boy for weeks.”
I roll down the windows to let out the smell. I’m stinking up the Lexus, but who cares? I hate these luxury golf carts. Gaudy status symbols with as much personality as an Elmer’s-Glue-on-white-bread sandwich.
I say, “Maybe someone was settling an old score. Hell, maybe it was after you.”
Vidocq laughs. “Who would send a demon for me?”
“I don’t know. The few thousand people you’ve robbed over the last two hundred years?”
“It’s more like a hundred and fifty. Don’t try to make me sound old.”
“ ’Course, sending a demon for something like that sounds like overkill. Especially something rare enough that neither of us recognizes it.”
“I’>
“Whiner. Your girlfriend is the best hoodoo doctor in town. She’ll give you an ice pack and conjure you some kangaroo legs. Then you can do your own second-story work.”
Vidocq pats me on the shoulder.
“There, there . . .” like he’s patting a five-year-old with a skinned knee. “I would have thought you’d be happy. You got to have a fight. Draw a little blood. Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting?”
I think it over.
“I suppose. And you killed it, not me, so my not-slaughtering-things record is still intact.”
“Unlike your arms.”
“A little Bactine and they’ll be fine by the morning.”
“Judging by the look of them, they’ll hurt in the meantime. Take this. It will help you sleep.”
He reaches into his coat and hands me a potion.
“No thanks. Dr. Jack Daniel’s is coming by tonight. He’s got all the medicine I need.”
He slips the vial into my pocket.
“Take it anyway. He might be late.”