Devil Said Bang (Sandman Slim 4)

Merihim smiles, leaning over the peepers. Projected images from around the palace flicker on the screen like a silent movie.

“What’s up with you?” I ask.

“Nothing. It’s always amusing watching you pretend you’re not who you really are.”

“I’m only interning in Hell for college credit. When I find the right replacement, I’m gone, Daddy, gone.”

“Of course you are. Why would you want any influence over the creation of a new Hell? Or care about the welfare of the millions of mortal souls you’ll be leaving behind? I wonder if Mr. Hickok will be allowed to keep his tavern or will he be thrown back into Butcher Valley? But what do you care? ‘All are equal in the grave.’ Isn’t that what you living mortals say?”

“Keep talking, smart guy. I’ll fake a heart attack and make you Lucifer. Let’s see how you like whitewashing this outhouse with a target painted on the back of your bald head.”

Ipos glances at the priest.

“It would probably look better than all the scribbling.”

Merihim gives him a sharp look, flips through the pages of an ancient Hellion medical book, and sets it down.

“Someone has found out about your habit of riding alone and what routes you take. You can’t ever ride like that again.”

“I know. There’s something else.”

I take out the Glock and set it on the desk.

“Where did these pricks get guns? Only officers get to carry weapons these days.”

Merihim frowns and crosses his arms.

“We need to find out—very discreetly—if there are any officers who can’t account for their weapons.”

“There are merchants who sell stolen weapons in the street markets. I can get people on the road repair crews. They might see or hear something,” Ipos says.

Merihim nods.

“Good.”

“Wait. It gets even better. I checked the attacker who lived. He’d been hexed. He might not have even known what he was doing.”

“An enthrallment?” says Merihim. That gets his attention. He comes back to the desk. “That’s not a power many in Pandemonium would possess. I doubt that any of the officers could do it.”

“Maybe the bastard bribed one of the palace witches,” says Ipos.

“I think whoever set up the attack tried to hex me too. After I dumped the bike, I couldn’t think or fight or defend myself. I’ve been in plenty of wrecks and it didn’t feel like a concussion. It felt like someone was trying to get inside my head.”

Merihim starts wandering again.

“It makes sense. One, Mason Faim created a key that allows him to possess bodies. Two, the key is missing. Three, according to you, it works on mortals. Four, there’s no reason to think it wouldn’t work on Hellions too. That means whoever arranged your attack either has the key or is in league with whoever does.”

Ipos says, “I suppose if any of us would be hard to possess, it would be Lucifer. They probably won’t try it on you again.”>When I’m done I pull on black suit pants, a silk T-shirt, and a hotel robe thick enough to stop bullets. The black blade goes in one pocket and Ukobach’s gun in the other. Then over to the dresser for a quick check of the bottom drawer. There’s the singularity, Mr. Muninn’s secret weapon to restart the universe if Mason or I broke it. There’s my na’at, my favorite weapon when I was fighting in the arena. And there’s the little snub-nose .38 I brought with me from L.A. One bullet is missing from the cylinder. The one I tricked Mason Faim into blowing through his head three months ago. That’s when Saint James, my angel half, took the key I need to leave Hell and left me stranded here. To tell the truth, I’m glad the goody-goody prick is out of my head. But I’d take him back in a second if it would get me the key.

The bedroom doors swing open and Brimborion walks in with a fistful of envelopes and messages. He’s something else I never wanted in my life. A personal assistant, which is to say a professional asshole who knows more about me than I do.

“What did I tell you about barging in here without knocking?”

“If I didn’t barge in, I’d never find you.”

“That’s the idea.”

Brimborion looks fairly human except he’s as skinny as a grasshopper, with limbs and fingers long enough to pluck a quarter from the bottom of a fifth of Jack. He dresses in dark high-collar suits like he fell out of a Dickens story right onto the stick up his ass. He also wears round wire-rim glasses. I think it’s those glasses that really make me hate him. What a weird choice for an affectation. I mean, whoever heard of a nearsighted angel?