Someone knocks on the bedroom doorframe.
“We’re out of beer,” says Kasabian. Then, when he sees us, “Oh Christ. Is this turning into a domestic bliss situation? I can’t stand that It’s a Wonderful Life crap. Take me back and let me die at Max Overdrive.”
“Be nice, Kas, and I’ll loan you my hentai discs,” says Candy.
Kasabian frowns.
“Schoolgirls and tentacles? No thanks. I prefer my porn mammal-only.”
“Hot cow-on-cow action. I like it,” Candy says.
Kasabian puts his hands up in an “I’ve had enough” gesture.
“I’ll leave you degenerates to work out whatever it is you’re working out. Just remember that I claim the bedroom at the far end of the place. It has the second biggest TV.”
I look at Candy.
“As much as I’d like to give you a proper naked welcome, I have to go and see a man about a ghost. You know where the food is. Please make Kasabian watch whatever you think will annoy him most.”
“Where are you going? Can I come along?”
“You got knifed a few hours ago, so no.”
“She just got skin. She didn’t even hit muscle.”
I put on my boots and check my ammo.
“No.”
She sits up.
“Seriously, we talked about this. When you run off somewhere you might not come back from, I go with you. No more stoic monosyllabic bullshit.”
I set aside the Glock and put the .45, the knife, and na’at in my coat. I hate that Candy is right. We made a deal and I don’t want to be an overprotective liar right off the bat. There’s plenty of time for that later.
“Okay. But you stay behind me if the things heat up. No going Jade and eating people. It’s my circus and I’m the ringmaster. Got it?”
“What does that make me?”
“You’re the head clown. You get out of the little car first while the others are still crushed inside.”
“And when they’re out, you know what we’re doing?”
“What?”
“Clown-car sex.”
I hope Traven gets here soon.
Traven calls twenty minutes later. Candy and I go down and meet him out front.
She brings the folding pistol with her. She’s already covered the case with InuYasha and Samurai Champloo stickers. I’m not sure if that’s technically low profile but the case looks more like an eighth grader’s lunch box than a gun tote, so I guess it works.
Traven is in the car when we get there. He’s uncomfortable in the presence of the last few beautiful people fleeing the hotel. Their opulence and generic decadence must be like seeing Martians to a cloistered brainiac like him.
“Thanks for the ride, Father.”
“I’m glad to help. You picked a good day to go to the ocean. Most sensible people—”