The Getaway God (Sandman Slim 6)

I go full speed I’m going too fast to grab the paper. The trick is to slow down. Feel the bug’s rhythm and move in at just the right moment.

Which is exactly what I don’t do. The fucker stings me on my first try. I always heard that scorpion stings feel like bee stings. Whoever said that never met this particular scorpion because this thing stings like a hornet with a blowtorch.

I pull back my hand and try to shake some of the pain out of my fingers.

“Will Candy recover?”

“Jades are sturdy beasts,” says Mason. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

I go for another try. And get stung again. I slow my breathing. I’m rushing things. Mason didn’t say anything about a time limit on the game. I’m going to follow the scorpion and wait for just the right moment.

“Still, attempted murder,” he says. “That’s the kind of thing that sticks to a person. Even if the Vigil ever releases her, which they won’t, there won’t be many places she’ll be able to show her face in L.A.”

I get stung again.

“Maybe you two can get a little cabin in the woods. Take up a trade. Pig farming. She can cook biscuits and you can learn to whittle.”

Okay. I admit it. My concentration really is shot. I’m worried about Candy and so fucking mad at having to be here I want to get my knife and take out Mason’s tongue and feed it to him.

I get stung three more times before I get the goddamned paper off the goddamn bug and corral the thing back under its cup. Welts are coming up all over my fingers. Mason didn’t say it, but I have a feeling that healing hoodoo is against the rules, and I’m not about to ask and admit that his little pincered fucker hurt me.

I think when I cut off Mason’s head I’ll put it in a bowling bag and drop him back in Tartarus. Maybe collapse the joint on top of him so no one will ever find him. Let him talk to ghosts all he wants down there.

“So, who poisoned her?”

“Now it’s my turn,” Mason says.

With his cuffed hands, he knocks over his cup and lets his scorpion loose. Like mine, it looks confused and after a few seconds starts running randomly across the table.

He waits, tracking the scorpion’s moves, trying to figure out the best moment to strike. He takes his sweet fucking time about it.

“Before Christmas, please.”

When he moves, it’s fast. He pins the scorpion’s tail with the cuffs, and before it can rear back and get him with its pincers, he grabs the paper. Then slams the cup down on top of it.

“What the fuck, man? You cheated.”

He sets the paper down between us.

“What was it you said when I complained about you putting a bullet in my head? My game. My rules.”

“We’re even now, asshole.”

“Not even close.”

He reaches for his paper, but I put my hand over it.

“Before we count up the points, tell me this. Whose skull is that in the cavern?”

“Mine, of course.”

“I burned your body after I chucked your soul into Tartarus, so unless there’s a rewind button on your bones, that skull isn’t yours.”

I lift up my hand and he slides the paper back to his side of the table.

“It’s metaphorically mine. Putting it there was just a bit of fun. Give you a clue as to who Saint Nick might be.”

“It’s fucking hysterical. Who did you shoot in the head to make your joke?”