“The truth is that many of us have been having increasing doubts about this mortals’ war. What wilighar. Whal it profit either of us if both Heaven and Hell are laid to waste?”
Semyazah steps forward and gestures for the other officers to come closer.
“The destruction of both worlds has always been Mason Faim’s plan. Let me tell you what I know and you’ll understand why he banished me.”
While they talk, I slip back out the same shadow we used to come in.
I COME OUT in Lucifer’s old office. Mason has taken it over completely. All the Hellion art and tapestries showing the fall from grace are gone. Maybe they weren’t ever here. This version of Lucifer’s office looks like a top-floor office at the New York Stock Exchange. Nice paneling. Cushy chairs. A lot of expensive-looking paintings on the walls. I prefer Lucifer’s slaughter art. At least that didn’t look rented.
Mason’s office is part office and part lab. A lot of the equipment is the same kind of alchemical gear that Vidocq uses. There’s an area with machining tools and a home-brew blast furnace that’s scorched one wall black. It’s surrounded by stacks of raw iron slugs. The floor and tables are covered with dozens of failed copies of the key to the Room of Thirteen Doors. I wonder how many of those keys I can shove up Mason’s ass before they come out his eyes.
Papers, blueprints, scrolls, and spell books are scattered all over Mason’s desk and the floor. Someone has dumped the contents of the drawers on the floor. I sit in Mason’s desk chair, close my eyes, and step aside so the angel can take over for a while and read the room. It feels around for any signs of him, not just in the room, but also in the aether, where hoodoo leaves trails and powerful magic leaves the magician’s fingerprints. There’s nothing there. Not an easy trick. He really wants to keep his backup plan to himself.
There’s something familiar in a wooden box doubling as a trash can. I upend it and the leather satchel Jack stole from me falls out. I open it and take out the carefully folded cloth. My face is still there. At this point I’m so far past numb that I’m not even happy to find it. More like relieved that there’s one less thing to run around after.
I push everything off Mason’s desk with my robo-bug arm and lay out my skin. I chant, letting the rhythm and the hougans’ words drift back into my head. I rub my temples until the flesh goes soft. When it feels loose I pinch the edges and pull. Mammon’s face peels away like the bandage off a wound. I concentrate, keeping the rhythm going while I press my face into place. The skin burns slightly as it settles and reattaches itself. I stop the chant and take my hand away, go to Mason’s worktable, and paw through the junk for anything reflective. I find a polished metal toolbox and hold it up.
I recognize this guy. He smokes all my cigarettes and gets me in trouble. And when I find Alice this face won’t scare her as much as the other. Of course, she hasn’t seen all my scars. She might not think this is an improvement.
If the bag is here, it means Jack must have made it back. But if Mason tossed it, that means he wasn’t much interested in Jack’s swag. I’m a little hurt. I thought he’d at least have my face stuffed and mounted like those mariachi frogs you get in Tijuana.
“Is that you, Stark? Or are you another bad dream?”
The gurgling voice drifts in from an open window. Something is moving out there, casting a wavering shadow on the floor. I get out the na’at and push aside the curtains.
There’s a heavy chain and something wet and red dangles from it, swaying gently with the breeze. It’s too small to be a side of beef and too big for pork.
The meat smiles at me.
“Are you real?” it asks.
“Hello, Jack. You’re not looking so good.”
“I’m not, am I?”
He gurgles the words. There’s a lot of blood in his throat, just one of the many downsides to being skinned alive (or as alive as Jack can be). He giggles high and crazy as the breeze moves him in gentle circles. Suddenly being tossed into the Tartarus furnace doesn’t seem so bad. At least it’s quick.
“As you can see, I received somewhat less of a reward than I’d hoped for,” Jack says. He grimaces, grinding his teeth as the pain cuts through whatever mad place his mind has gone to.
“What happened?”
Jack kicks his fleshless legs in frustration.
“He didn’t even want it. He was disgusted by it and by me for bringing it. He said he already knew where you were.”
“Did he say how?”
Jack giggles again.
“It wasn’t much of a conversation. My contribution consisted mainly of screams.”
This time the laughing doesn’t stop. It goes on until it’s kind of a mantra. It stops when he coughs up a bucket of blood.
Why do I feel sorry for this murdering thieving psychopath? He’s getting exactly what he did to all those women.
“I’ve got to go, Jack.”
“Toodle-oo,” he says. “Toodle-oo. Toodle-oo. Toodle-oo . . .” He sings it like a kid’s song.