Ballistic Kiss (Sandman Slim 11)

“What did you say?”

“Really. I’m sorry I cut it off.”

“Is . . . is that supposed to make up for anything?”

“No.”

“Good, because it doesn’t.”

“To be fair, you did shoot me.”

“You scared me. Kind of like you’re doing now.”

“Okay. But don’t shoot this time.”

“Fine. But maybe don’t be lurking over there when I come back out.”

“Fair enough.”

“Goodbye, Stark.”

“See you around.”

“See, every time you say that it sounds like a threat.”

“It’s not.”

“And yet.”

He goes inside and slams the door.

I get out my phone and call Janet. When they—good for me, I got it right this time—don’t answer I leave a message, then step through a shadow and come out across town by Vidocq’s apartment. I knock on the door a few times and when he sees me, he ushers me in like the fancy Frenchman he was two hundred years ago. It’s always good to see him at moments like this. Vidocq is the closest thing to a real father I’ve ever had.

The apartment is a carefully arranged mass of chaos. Vidocq is an old-school alchemist and every flat surface is covered with books or strange lab equipment. Bunsen burners. Alembics. Long swirly glass tubes full of a green, viscous something. I swear that when I get close, the bubbles are little eyes that blink at me.

When I go to the kitchen he’s poured two cups of coffee. He looks at me and holds up a pint bottle of whiskey.

“Isn’t it a little early?” I say.

“Quite.”

“Good point. Fill ’er up.”

We sit in the living room and drink our spiked brew for a while.

Vidocq says, “Is this just a social call or is there something special on your mind?”

“Both, I guess. I’ve had so many questions since I’ve been back. Like, the first time I almost died, my angel half and human half split. I was two people for a while. This time, though, I was just fucking dead and no sign of any angels. What do you think it means?”

Vidocq gets up and brings back an ancient book that smells like wood smoke, old blood, and mildew. He opens it to a dog-eared page and points to a hand-drawn image of an anvil. It’s surrounded on both sides with alchemical symbols and a long set of instructions written in Latin.

“Very pretty. What am I looking at?”

“The formula for Samvari steel. It’s an obscure substance even among those who practice the craft. It’s said that the formula comes from another plane of existence and was payment for some great, dark favor. What it was, I don’t know. What I do know is this. The steel, once made into a weapon, had the power to kill both your human and angelic halves.”

“But I’m back now. Shouldn’t there be an angel me too?”

Vidocq runs his finger along a line of Latin and reads it out loud. It’s all gibberish to me.