Sandman Slim (Sandman Slim 1)

I steal a clean cloth from the medical kit of the crew working on Aelita. Go over to Candy. She looks completely human now, except for all the blood and dirt. I put the shotgun in her hands, push her head back, and gently wipe her face. She laughs.

"You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Mr. Stark."

"I try to keep things interesting for my friends."

"So far, so good."

If I was a regular person and Candy was a regular girl and this was a regular moment, I'd be kissing her, but we're not and this isn't. She looks at me like she knows what I'm thinking.

"I should probably give doc a call and let him know everything's all right."

"Yeah. He's probably worried."

"You look like you're going somewhere."

"I know where Parker has Vidocq and Allegra. I'm headed down there now."

"I'll go with you."

"No," I say. "I could be wrong. If I am, I want someone here I can trust to look out for them."

"Okay," she says, sounding a little hurt.

"I should get going."

She looks at the medics working on Aelita. The angel is sitting up now.

"I'm going to call doc in a minute and then I'm going home to him because that's where I belong. I'm going to tell him most of what happened tonight, but not everything. But I want you to know that I'm not sorry for what we did."

"Me neither," I say. "The one good thing about an awkward moment like this is that, with the way we look, the longer we stand here torturing each other, the more likely we are get to get some of these Vigil nervous nellies to pee themselves."

Candy smiles.

"Go," she says. "I'll keep an eye on things here."

"Thanks."

I take the sawed-off from her hands, nod at Wells, and step through a shadow behind the dead magicians. Still the best first date ever.

THE PHONE BOOTH outside the Orange Grove Bungalows hasn't changed much since I was here eleven years ago, except that now there's a guy living in it.

The Orange Grove is a collection of about two dozen small cabins that were twenty years past their prime before I went Downtown. Now they look like a condo complex in Hiroshima the day after the bomb. The bulletproof glass in front of the check-in counter has had a good workout. In eleven years, no one's painted anything or cleaned the pool. There are things wiggling down in the stagnant backwash that I don't even remember seeing in Hell. This is where David Lynch groupies go to lose their virginity on prom night.

There's one specific cabin where we used to party, but I can't remember the number. I walk up and down the concrete walkway that snakes between the cabins. It's New Year's Eve, so the place is crawling with skinny hookers with black meth teeth and equally skinny Johns who can't walk straight. A lot of smells in the air. Pot. Stale cigarettes. There's a lot more piss and the weird burning plastic stink of bad crack. Those are the least offensive.

I spot the badness near the back of the third row. It looks just like the others, but to my eyes, it pulses with chaotic energy. The energy fields around the window and front door are brighter and the colors are more intense than the rest of the cabin. When I put my hand out, the brighter energy morphs into teeth, like a giant cartoon version of the bear trap, and snaps at me. When the civilian hookers and their Johns wander by, nothing happens. A tired looking hooker, in a miniskirt way too short for her veiny legs, wanders by alone.

I say, "Hey, darlin', want to make some quick money?"

"I'm done for tonight, honey."

"No hanky-panky. I'm pranking a friend. I just need you to go over there and bang on that door real loud."

"How much?"

I pull out a wad of Muninn's money. What the Hell. It's New Year's.

"Five hundred dollars."