“She’s fine.”
“And your other friend?”
“Janet is fine too. They have a cold, but they’re generally fine.”
“I’m so glad to hear that your little menagerie is doing so well. And no complications?”
I finish my pie and put down my fork.
“If you’re thinking of giving me any love life advice, I don’t want to hear it. Everything is confusing enough.”
He finishes and wipes his mouth. As he folds his napkin he says, “As the poet once said, ‘Love has more faces than the moon.’”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I have no idea. But it’s very pretty, don’t you think?”
The waiter comes back to the table with two shopping bags full of amazing-smelling food.
“And here’s your goodie bag,” Samael says.
“Wait. That’s it? Zadkiel jimmied a lock and now you’re just going back to Heaven?”
He sets his napkin next to his plate.
“I had a lovely lunch and good company. I thought you might enjoy an update. What more is there to do?”
“What if I decide to do something about King Bullet and I need backup?”
He gives me a look.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, but what if I do?”
“I mean, we just discussed it.”
“I know. But what if I have to?”
He sighs heavily, like he’s in a silent movie, and hands me a small golden case he’s been hiding all along. The case is a pyx and it holds one consecrated Host.
“How theatrical.”
He nods in agreement.
“I thought you’d like it.”
“What do I do with it?”
“If you need me, just break it in half.”
I push the pyx to his side of the table.
“You know what? Never mind. I’m out of this fight.”
He pushes it back to my side.
“Keep it anyway. Who knows? Maybe you’ll want a snack later. Have it with a glass of red wine. It’s traditional.”
I reach into my pocket to give the waiter a tip and Samael glares at me.
“By everything holy and infernal, if you’re about to take money from your pocket I’ll destroy this sordid planet and everything on it.”
I put the cash back and take my bags of food and the pyx to a shadow.
“Thanks,” I say.
He smiles at me, relaxed again now that he’s won the fight.
“Scoot home. I think your young ward is awake.”
He’s right. I can feel a tickle at the back of my head. I step through the shadow and come out back in the apartment.
Fuck Hollywood finger waves at me, munching happily on a piece of pizza. There are three more pies on the table.
“So we won’t run out,” she says between bites.
I show her my bags.
“Those won’t all fit in the refrigerator with this food.”
“Can’t you magic the fridge bigger? Or make the pizzas smaller?”
“I don’t think so.”
She pushes a pizza my way.
“Then you better start eating.”
The rest of the day is pretty quiet. Samael gave me a lot to think about, but I decide not to decide anything important right now. My head isn’t clear enough.
Later, Janet is still sick, but also restless. I bring them to my place and put them to bed. I help Fuck Hollywood put medicine on her hands and change her bandages. Her left hand is still a mess—raw, red skin and Frankenstein stitches. Allegra said that the stitches will disappear on their own. But the sight of her injured hands has Fuck Hollywood crying again. I get the bandages and her glove back on fast and bring her pizza and gummy worms, which seems to help. So does a couple of beers. We don’t talk about any of it, but watch Kubrick’s Napoleon until the sound of explosions wakes Janet and they come out to join us.
The Battle of Waterloo is where the noise and carnage really goes wild. It’s Kubrick at his most epic and baroque. Perfectly choreographed shots and sequences of mass slaughter across the Belgian countryside. The sound is ferocious enough that it takes me a few minutes to realize that some of the noise isn’t coming from the movie.
A loud bang outside rattles the windows. I look outside and see impressive fires to the north. More explosions and what might be gunfire. Is this the National Guard? Is it the Shoggots just having fun? Or is this Abbot and the troops going in? Are they finally getting off their garden-party asses and going after King Bullet head-on?
I pause the movie and turn to a local news channel, but there’s nothing about the fires or the explosions. I check another. Nothing. I flip through all of the local channels, hoping for some confirmation that what I’m hearing is what I think it is.
But, of course, Abbot has deals with all of the local power players, and that includes the media. If he doesn’t want something on TV, it won’t be there. The absence of any coverage of our mini-Waterloo has to mean that Sub Rosa heavies have gone in hard. Tomorrow, Sub Rosa hoodoo tech types will have their hands full trying to wipe the memories of as many Angelenos as possible to cover up the fight.
“What’s happening out there?” says Janet.
“Things might be over with tonight. King Bullet. The Shoggots. All of it.”
Janet puts an arm around me and Fuck Hollywood whispers, “Awesome.” We turn off the lights and watch the flames and occasional starbursts as things explode in the sky like it’s the Fourth of July, because maybe it is. A holiday. A liberation. A victory.
Like all good fireworks shows, it winds down after a while and I put Janet back to bed. When the movie ends, Fuck Hollywood curls up under a blanket on the sofa while I wolf down a cold lamb chop in the kitchen, savoring every bite.
It isn’t until I’m getting ready for bed that I notice that I have a new voicemail. It’s from Abbot. I go into the bathroom to listen so I won’t wake anyone. It’s not the good news I was hoping for.
“Are you there, Stark? I’m a little woozy from the painkillers. I’m injured. We all are. And we failed. Miserably. King Bullet and his people were simply too much for us. We tried not to kill anyone at first. But even after I approved lethal action, there were simply too many Shoggots. And King Bullet himself. He marched through the madness like he was on his way to a church picnic. We couldn’t lay a finger on him. He’s strong. I’m sorry to say, maybe stronger than you. The black light he can summon—we had nothing to fight that. It was a rout. Pure and simple. But I have good news too.
“I was foolish not to tell you about this before and to ask you to help us use it, but I’m telling you now. Do you remember the Golden Vigil?”
I worked with the Vigil for a while, and not because I enjoyed it. They were a bunch of hyper-religious government spooks. God’s Pinkertons on Earth, except Mr. Muninn had no idea who they were. They muscled and bullied, kept track of all hoodoo activity, and controlled as much of it as they could get away with. But their old leader, Marshal Wells, blew the job and almost killed the world. After that, Wells got put away and the Vigil was disbanded.
Abbot says, “They have a weapon that we think might be able to stop King Bullet. It was arrogant of me to think that we could go after someone like him with conventional methods. But I won’t make that mistake again. The weapon has been in a government warehouse under lock and key since the Vigil was dissolved. Unfortunately, it will take some time to acquire the weapon. There are politics involved. Fools protecting their little fiefdoms while the world around them burns. But if we can get the weapon—when we get it—will you help us use it? We’re not going to stop King Bullet on our own. I know that you’re furious with the Council, and you have every right to be. But we need you now. We can’t do this without you. Please call me.”
Paperwork. Abbot gets his ass handed to him in a punch bowl and the first thing he brings up is paperwork. How many people got killed tonight? If I’d been there, would I b
e in one of the mass graves in the Angeles National Forest right now? If Abbot is bringing up the weapon now, it means that he knew about it before. And he was holding out on me. Was Samael right? Would Abbot or any of the others have put out a hand to me if my back was against the wall? And why does he need me to use the weapon? It can’t be anything ordinary. It means he needs someone hard to kill to use it. That means if I’m lucky enough to get a shot at the King with it, I might end up dead too. Or am I just being paranoid? This whole situation is getting to me. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on with the Council than they’re letting on.
I’m tempted to hit the Call Back button and tell Abbot to go to hell. Instead I put the phone away. Let Abbot and the Council wonder and worry overnight. Let them beat each other up over this.
Paperwork?
What the fuck is wrong with those people?
In the morning, I tell Janet and Fuck Hollywood I’m going out to pick up some bourbon, but the truth is that I just want some time to myself to think.
I walk from North Sycamore east toward Vine along the Hollywood Walk of Fame. A mile and a half of pure showbiz cheese. Celebrities’ names on stars embedded in the street for tourists to gawk at and dogs to piss on. The pinnacle of L.A. success. Usually, it’s good for a laugh and a way to clear my head, but today it feels like I’m walking on tombstones toward a cliff edge and a long fall down, down, down. I used to worry about landing in Hell, but now? I don’t know. I imagine some kind of silent oblivion as a ghost watching my friends in trouble and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
A National Guard truck loaded with troops rumbles by. Dozens of beady eyes on me, as suspicious of me as I am of them. It never occurred to me before that this stupid surgical mask might be the only thing that keeps me from getting arrested or shot. With all the scars on my face, any one of these G.I. Joes might mistake me for a Shoggot and open fire on principle. I pull the mask up a little higher and turn away from the truck. I don’t need that kind of trouble right now.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do about Abbot. I have to call him back, but what am I supposed to say? Were you going to hang me out to dry last night? Was I going to be bait to bring King Bullet into the open? Do you want me to be bait now that you’re fessing up about a super weapon in your Fortress of Solitude?
Even if the Council isn’t planning my unfortunate demise, the situation feels like they want to drag me into a fight while caring fuck all what happens to me. What do I owe the Council? Nothing. Abbot pays my salary, but I can walk away. I’ve been broke before. I can do it again. If it comes to it, I’ll loot some of these tourist shops and drag the goods Downtown and open my own store selling souvenirs to Hellions. Maybe get Wild Bill to run the place with me like we used to run his bar.
But none of that deals with King Bullet, and he has to be dealt with. A guy like that isn’t going to just give up and go away. And why should he? He’s winning. He has zero incentive.
More Guardsmen roll by in APCs. Cop cars and BearCats. Sheriff’s department vans. I halfway expect the Boy Scouts and a gaggle of movie cowboys to ride along behind. John Wayne, Tom Mix, and the Lone Ranger. A whole dream team cavalry to the rescue in a fight they don’t know they can’t win.
And on top of it all is Zadkiel and her goddamn curse.
“I’ve done something awful.”
No shit, sister. But if you didn’t hit us with the virus, then what did you do?
According to Samael she ripped a hole in the universe. Was she looking for a way out or inviting something in? King Bullet? What the fuck for? To beat up cops and spray graffiti around town? That’s not quite the apocalypse I was prepared for. Before you know it, Shoggots will be stealing candy apples and dunking girls’ pigtails into inkwells. Oh my.
It doesn’t add up. King Bullet and the virus are linked, but that’s all I’m sure of. Abbot doesn’t think it’s a biological weapon, but I’m not so sure. The virus shows up and weakens the city. Then the King rolls into town. And he has his black light trick. That’s a nice weapon. Is he some freak from the same lab that made the Vigil’s toys? A psycho scientist or tech gone rogue, looking for kicks before he dies or tries to blackmail the world like some third-rate Blofeld?
In my pocket, I can feel the pyx Samael gave me. It’s tempting to break the Host now, but it doesn’t feel like the right time. And begging Mr. Muninn for favors won’t do any good if he’s laid up with war wounds. No, for the moment I’m on my own. I can’t fight or shoot my way out of this—at least not yet. I’m going to sit back and watch L.A.’s best and brightest go up against the King and his minions. Let them take the hits and maybe I can learn from it.
I stop at a liquor store called Unhealthy Spirits. The sign over the door has a picture of an old cartoon moonshine jug with a ghost coming out and chasing away a preacher and a revenuer. All I have are hundreds in my pocket, so I get a bottle of Angel’s Envy and leave the change for the clerk. Down the block, I step into the alcove of a shuttered bookstore and open the bottle for a morning pick-me-up. At least there’s one good thing about the streets being mostly deserted.
I take a couple of big gulps before putting the cork back in the bottle, and I’m feeling better than I have all morning. Then I make the mistake of looking up. There’s the damn painted skull again. A bullet hole in the forehead and a crown hovering overhead. I just can’t get away from this guy. Slipping the bottle in my coat pocket, I start back home. I get a block before my phone rings. It’s Candy. I check the time and answer it.
“Hi. You’re up early. What’s going on?” I say.
“Stark,” she says, and I can already hear how out of breath she is. “He’s shot. Kas got shot. And it’s all my fault. The guy was trying to shoot me.”
She sounds on the verge of tears, of breaking down completely.
“Hold it,” I say. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“One of the alarms went off this morning. I went downstairs and there was this guy there. His face was a mess. Burned or something. He said my name like he knew me and pulled a gun. Then fucking Kas comes out of nowhere and tackles the guy. I’m still halfway across the shop, so by the time I get to them, Kas is shot and the guy’s run away.”
“Is he still there? I can get him to the hospital fast.”
“No. Alessa called 911 and an ambulance took him away.”
My gut tightens.
“Did you get a look at the ambulance crew?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, did they seem legit? Were they weird or twitchy in any way?”
“No. They just seemed like regular EMTs. It’s all my fault. Kas got shot trying to save me.”
“First off, it’s not your fault. Second, I’m going to make sure Kas is all right. Where did they say they were taking him?”
“L.A. County hospital.”
“I’m heading over now.”
“You think they might not have been legit guys? Oh shit. Did I give Kas to some freaks?”
“We’ll know soon.”
“Tell Kas I’m sorry!”
I step into a shadow and come out across town in Boyle Heights.
The L.A. County hospital is huge and it takes me a few minutes to find the emergency room. Inside, it reminds me of the bad old days and the chaos of souls entering Hell for the first time—a deafening mix of animal screams, fury, and cries for help. I put on my mask and go inside.
The ER is packed with patients, nervous families, and staff. It’s the usual mix of gunshots and knife wounds, but the craziness level goes way beyond that. Whole families have to hold down bloody patients with mangled faces—Shoggots in the making. Mixed in with them are patients with their hands and arms wrapped in crude bandages. Some are still gnawing on their wounds. More autophagia cases. Many of them have already gnawed off their own lips. Still, they snap at their limbs and any of the interns who try to put surgical masks over their faces. I don’t know what else to do, so I get in line
with all the civilians trying to talk to someone at the counter.
The line doesn’t fucking move. I wait for five minutes. Then ten. After that I start running hoodoo tricks through my head. Murdering everyone is out of the question—Janet and Candy wouldn’t approve. Can I make this crowd disappear? Yes, probably. Can I bring them all back? I have no idea, so maybe that’s not a good option. Can I turn invisible? Again, maybe. But I still have no idea if I could make myself visible again. Phones are ringing all over the place, but none of them are getting answered, so I can’t even call like a regular asshole.
I keep my eyes open for interns or staff who might be one of King Bullet’s crazies, but I doubt I’ll find any here. There are too many people and most of them are already scared. Where’s the fun in terrifying people whose fear meter is already pegged as far as it will go?
After a couple more pointless minutes I get out of line and look for the youngest, most pissed-off, most exhausted intern I can find.
I spot her wrestling with a big guy who’s already eaten one of his hands and probably his tongue, from the look of the blood coming out of his mouth. I run over to them and hold him down until a couple of linebacker-size orderlies come by and take over.
The intern brushes some blond hair from her face with the back of her hand. Her scrubs are soaked with sweat and her eyes are red with exhaustion. She’s been working all night and will probably be stuck there all day too. I feel bad for her, but I feel worse for Kasabian.
Once she catches her breath she nods at me.
“Thank you. I couldn’t have held him much longer.”
I look at her name tag. “Maggie.” Use it. Personalize things. It always helps.
“I’m glad I could help, Maggie. Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for someone.”
“You’ll have to speak to someone at the desk for that information.”
“But you have access to a computer, right?”
“Yeah, but I can’t just tell you where someone is.”
“It’s my brother, Maggie. He was shot.”
“I’m really sorry, but—”
And then I do my best magic trick: I get between her and the rest of the room. Pull a wad of hundreds from my pocket. Shove the bills into her hand.
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