The Getaway God (Sandman Slim 6)

“It is because like all demons, the Sub Rosa are simply another form of Qliphoth. The most sophisticated form, which means that when the time comes they will recognize us as their progenitors and return home to us.”

Holy shit. The Sub Rosa are just skin flakes from the Angra’s backside. Brainy, complicated Qliphoth, but in the big scheme of things no better than a Digger or an Eater. Wait until the gals around the watercooler hear about this.

“If I told you yes, you’d know I was lying, so I’m not going to bother. The answer was no before and it’s no now.”

He raises his hand, claw, tentacle.

“I could kill you right here, on this spot.”

I take a step back.

“I have the Qomrama, so I’m not sure I believe you. I’m not great at using it, but it’s killed for me before. Want to see if it will kill again?”

“If you can kill me why don’t you?”

“I don’t want to kill you. I just want you to fuck off and leave us alone.”

Shaky takes a step, closing the distance between us.

“You can’t kill me. The Qomrama won’t let you.”

“I told you. I don’t want to kill you.”

I pull the black blade and slash his throat, cutting through the vertebrae and muscle at the back so his head pops off and slops onto the wet ground. Shaky kneels down and picks it up.

“Let’s see if you can put yourself together before I figure out the 8 Ball.”

Shaky sets his head onto his shoulders and walks away into the dark.

Rain begins to fall again.

So, to sum up. Tonight I had my throat crushed. I was tossed around like a beanbag. I was beaten with a gun butt. I was shot. And now another God hates me. I want a smoke, but when I cough I taste blood. Maybe some bullet fragments in a lung. I put the Maledictions back in my pocket.

It’s nights like this that make me want to give up the glamorous work of world saving and take up woodworking or needlepoint. Something soothing and without quite so much ass kicking aimed in my direction.

I wipe the blood off my mouth and head inside.

THE PLACE IS still a mess. Marshals clear away wreckage and try to salvage equipment. They’re dispatching patrols to make sure the rest of the city didn’t fall down. Rain pours in through the roof, making the floor slick and dangerous. No one pays the slightest attention to me.

The Shonin’s lab is still a wreck, but a pathway has been cleared from the door to his worktable. He’s picking through the wreckage, looking for books and manuscripts he might be able to save. When he hears me he drops into his chair, cradling his broken arm in his good one.

“So, did you mess everything up, fatso?”

“They’re going to do it. Mr. Muninn is. Oh, and I met Zeus on the way in here.”

He sits up a little straighter.

“One of the Angra?”

“The Angra. The head cheese. Seems like a sweet guy, but a little pissed off.”

“You’re going to need the Qomrama.”

“You’re not going to rat me out, are you?”

“At the monastery, the only ­people punished more than rule breakers were tattletales.”

I help him up and we slowly pick our way over downed beams, crushed furniture, and ceiling tiles. He’s so full of poison he can barely lift his feet. It takes minutes getting across the room and I can feel every second ticking away.