Aloha from Hell (Sandman Slim 3)

“Uh, no.”

“Want to?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t let go of my hand.”

I step into the ripe black darkness in the recess by a loading-bay door, pulling Candy with me into the Room of Thirteen Doors.

I take her out again near the address the kid gignss the ave me. It’s on Fairfax a little north of Beverly Boulevard.

As we step from the shadow, Candy says, “Holy fucking goddamn fuck, that’s cool. What was that room we went through?”

“It’s called the Room of Thirteen Doors. I can go anywhere in the universe through those doors, even to Heaven and Hell.”

“Why did we drive to the club? If I had something that cool, I’d be running in and out of it all day and night just to mess with people.”

I believe her. I’m glad I have the key and she doesn’t.

“It feels weird using it in the city when I’m going somewhere the first time. Like the club tonight. I didn’t know where it was or what was going to be there when we arrived. I like to drive because I like to get a look at a place the first time I go there.”

“Why don’t you just get your own car?”

“Are you kidding? People steal them.”

UP THE STREET is a white two-story office building plastered together to look vaguely colonial. It’s as bland and forgetful as any real-estate office.

The first floor is dark, but there are lights behind the windows on the second. It’s almost three and there’s barely any traffic in either direction. Candy and I walk across the street to the glass-and-aluminum front doors. BIO-SPECIALTIES GROUP is painted on the door in a reassuringly scientific-looking serif font.

In theory, I could step into a shadow here and come out on the second floor near the lights, but I don’t want to do that. Drug cookers tend to be on the jumpy side and I’ve already been shot at once tonight. I take Candy around the side of the building and we use a shadow to get into the lobby. No alarms go off, so they don’t have motion detectors down here. So far so good.

There’s a locked wooden door at the top of the stairs with the company’s name on it. I stand there for a minute.

“What are we doing?” asks Candy.

“Shh.”

Light leaks from beneath the door where it doesn’t quite touch the floor. I watch for moving shadows to see if people are moving around and how many there might be. Nothing moves past the door. I let the angel’s senses expand.

There are voices off to my right. Seven, maybe eight. The clinks and taps of metal and glass. The whir of machines and whisper of small gas flames. That will be the lab. Off to my left, closer to the street, I get nothing. Probably offices, unoccupied at this hour. Everyone seems to be beeneems tounched up in the lab.

I say, “Keep your head down when we get inside.” Then I take her hand and we slip inside through a shadow on the wall.

Behind the door is a reception area with a desk, computer, and phone. Wrought-iron letters spell out BIO-SPECIALTIES GROUP on the wall above the receptionist’s desk. Either the company deals with a lot of amnesiacs or they really, really like the sound of their own name.>Finally, he blasts my shield dome into a million pieces of formless aether. A guy like this with lots of showy magic tends to forget the basics of fighting. The physical part. I rush him and get a hand around his throat before he can throw any more hexes.

Cale’s boys just stand there like pricy mannequins. It’s the girls who finally do something and make to throw some hoodoo my way. Candy is on them before either of them can get more than a syllable out. She puts the boot to them, but has enough control of herself not to go Jade on them.

I let go of Cale long enough for him to take a swing at me. Then I speak a single Hellion word.

He collapses. Not like he fell. More like a giant invisible foot from the sky is trying to squash him like a bug. He fights it, writhing and twisting. Almost pushing himself up on two arms and then collapsing again. His face is a few inches from the street when he starts vomiting blood. Some of it splashes onto his face and his bleached white hair. Cale’s crew freezes. They don’t run, but they don’t try to help him either. Blood does that to people. I let him keep vomiting. In fact, I make him vomit more blood than any ten human bodies could possibly hold. Gallons and gallons of it. It spreads in a widening puddle in the street, covering him and threatening to touch his crew’s expensive shoes. They want to stop the mayhem, but they’re torn between their loyalty to their leader and their look.

One of the girls, Cale’s squeeze I guess by her haughty high-toned look, rushes to his aid, but slips and ends up on her ass in the gooey red slip-and-slide pouring from her boyfriend’s mouth.

I can hear the electronic beeps and boops of people dialing cell phones. Good citizens calling 911. I shout a bit of mind-control abracadabra. It’s something you use on people and hell beasts, but it does weird things to electronics. I once blew out all the traffic lights on Hollywood Boulevard with it when I drove Allegra to Doc Kinski’s clinic. This time it just fries some smartphones.

I let up on Cale. He can’t breathe while puking and I don’t want him to die of oxygen deprivation. The moment the blood stops, he sucks in big mouthfuls of air.

“Hurting your boss here is fun, but only one of you pricks is goeatpricks ing home alive, and it’s the one who names your Akira supplier. The one who makes it. Just shout out a name and address and you get to walk away.”