There’s nowhere to run. I close my eyes and try to come up with some clever hoodoo but all that’s in my head is Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.
Suddenly the roar is gone and the smells with it and the sudden gusts of wind as things whiz by. When I open my eyes, all that’s left of L.A. is a faint afterimage of Mustang Sally’s Cheshire-cat smile. I’m back in the library.
My brain is whirling like it’s going to splatter itself all over the inside of my skull like carnival spin art. I was home and it wasn’t any harder than walking from one room to another. Only I think I need to maybe get more specific about what room.
My legs are shaking too much to walk. I sit crossed-legged on the cool marble floor. Stare at it, making sure it’s real.
My burned hand throbs and my chest itches and I couldn’t give less of a goddamn. Suddenly every shitty, painful moment of the last three months has been worth it. I was home and I can do it again.
Every part of me wants to go back to L.A. right now and stay there and pretend none of this ever happened. But I know if I run off, there are things that will bite large chunks out of my ass later. Take care of business and get out clean. I’m halfway home. More than halfway. Getting away clean means making nice with people I never want to lay eyes on again. I’ve got to get Brimborion in gear and start making calls.
But that can wait a minute. Until I get off the floor, which will be any minute now. After my legs stop shaking and I catch my breath. Until then I’m just going to sit here in the cool quiet with my magic yellow book and think of how many ways this freak factory can kiss my ass on its way out the door.
I spend the next day tying up loose ends. I’m expecting a lot of ritual square dancing but it turns out blowing town might be easier than I thought. I decided to blow off the planning committee and their budgets. That leaves my inner council.
Merihim isn’t returning my calls. A sore loser in a battle he hasn’t even lost yet. But for the first time he and his church have to justify their existence and it’s making him cranky. Boo-hoo. Take two altar boys and call me in the morning.
The other members of the Council are tied up. Buer is at the City Hall building site. There’s no reason to get him off it since it’s one of the few projects that’s actually accomplishing something. Obyzuth is with Deumos, so she knows the score. There’s Marchosias but she’s not sending me any good-bye roses. She’s busy wheeling and dealing with other Hellion politicos, giving them the good word that Lucifer is alive and well despite another ambush. The king is the land, the land is the king, and as long as Lucifer lives, the ground won’t open and gobble the place down like a California roll.
The bedroom is still a broken little FUBAR island. What’s-his-name the herbalist, just a pile of gristle and bones on the stained bed. Snowdrifts of Kentucky fried insects. Bullet holes in the wall. Burn marks around the electric outlet. Shards of porcelain from the broken bathroom sink. In all, a fitting monument to my stellar turn as Lucifer. Leave it just like this. Let the next Lucifer clean it up.
I toss my coat on the bed and give myself the once-over in the mirror. New scars on my face and hand. A left arm that looks like a tin-plated grasshopper. A livid burn on my chest above the armor. My eyes are stuck in a thousand-yard-arena death stare. I might even see some gray hairs. I look like old roadkill in new boots.
I can’t go home looking like this. I take long, slow breaths and try to relax. I practice a smile but that just makes things worse. I’m not sure how wide to make it. How many teeth should I show? You’re not supposed to think about smiling. You just do it. I curl up the ends of my lips and open my eyes. Not bad: if I want to look like a paint-huffing shark.
I call Brimborion and tell him to come up in an hour. Then dial the witches downstairs. Let them know I’ll be paying them a visit. A couple of other short calls and then I head down to the kennels to feed the hellhounds.
Brimborion is a pain in the ass but he’s a prompt pain in the ass. He knocks on the bedroom door in exactly one hour. I’m shoving clothes, Aqua Regia, and cigarettes into a duffel bag I found. With some silk stockings and chocolate, I could be one of Harry Lime’s pals in The Third Man.
“The door’s open.”
Brimborion comes over to the bed where I’m packing.
“I’m taking off. We got Vetis but we don’t know if we got his whole crew. You working with me makes you a target, so you should have this.”
I toss him the Glock.
“You know how to use it?”
I’m stuffing a couple of last cartons of Maledictions into the duffel when Brimborion racks in a shell and presses the gun into the back of my head.
“That’s not a Happy Meal, pal. No matter how hard you push, there aren’t any prizes inside.”
“Give me the weapon,” he says.
“The 8 Ball? No. I need some souvenirs and the gift shop is closed.”
“Lucifer’s armor might give you power but I think five or six shots in the head from this range would kill even the Light Bringer.”
“Before you carry out this brilliant plan, tell me this: Did Marchosias come to you or did you go to her?”
He hesitates.
“Why do you think she’s involved? I’m the one with the gun to your head.”
“First, she’s the only one who might want the job. Second, you’re the one with the gun to my head, meaning you’re stupid and she’s not. She’d never touch anything that might be traced back to her.”
“Who cares? Vetis is going to be killed escaping. His confederates will commit suicide when they hear about it. You’ll be dead and someone will have to step in to fill the vacuum.”