Deumos is the head priestess of Hell’s other church. From what I’ve heard around the palace, it’s some kind of hard-ass goddess worship. Seems like Merihim and his boys got the giant tabernacle in the center of town and the girls got a piece-of-shit garage down by the railroad tracks. Everything is politics.
On the rare occasions her name comes up, the secret police and Merihim’s Tabernacle representatives have a good laugh. Talking about Deumos and her bunch like an old Haight-Ashbury peace-and-love cult. A handful of harmless babes with love beads and delusions of hippie grandeur.
I’m not so sure they should write them off. The crowd seems to take them pretty seriously, including the men, so whatever Deumos is selling it isn’t just to the women.
The chant turns quiet. Not quite a prayer. More like if you get close enough they’ll tell you a secret. I can make out a few words here and there.
“The being and the becoming . . .”
“. . . hand that sweeps clean the way . . .”
“. . . cold that burns like black flame . . .”
I’m so caught up watching them that it takes me a minute to remember I’m in the middle of a fight. Then someone reminds me.
A gun goes off and it feels like a pickup truck just planted its front bumper in my right kidney. I fall to my knees, holding my side. Then it dawns on me that I’m not hurt. The only pain is where my knees hit the pavement. The bullet didn’t even dent the armor.
The procession takes off at the sound of gunfire, with half the market right behind. The idiots sticking around probably have bets on the fight.
I get to my feet and turn to find Dirty Boots holding his Glock on me. He’s surprised I’m standing and now he’s waiting for me to fall over. Shooting a second time would spoil his gangster-movie moment. So will killing him in front of his friends but he doesn’t know that yet.
When I reach into my pocket for my na’at, it finally dawns on him that I’m not going down. He raises the Glock to fire again. Too late. I whip the na’at out at his arm.
Only it isn’t the na’at that hits him. And it doesn’t hit his arm.
The Magic 8 Ball from the ghost room. It slams into Dirty Boots and disappears inside him, leaving a gaping black hole in his chest. He leans forward a little but doesn’t fall over. He shudders. And five metal spider legs burst from his back, skewering his friends.
The legs go through the men like a harpoon through Velveeta. The legs curl back and spear them again. And again. Curling and spearing over and over. When the barbed legs retract, his friends are ripped apart in a spray of bone and gristle like they were hit by chain saws fired from cannons.
The spider legs burst from the hole in Dirty Boots’ chest and bend back on themselves, latching onto the edges of the hole. With a sudden jerk, the legs rip Dirty Boots’ chest open like cracking a lobster. The legs don’t stop pulling until they’ve bent back to touch themselves, practically turning him inside out.
Dirty Boots collapses in a wet heap and the spider legs disappear inside his body. A second later the 8 Ball rolls out and launches itself back into my hand.
The only Hellions that aren’t already running are the ones who fell and are crawling under market stalls. I turn and walk the other way.
My hands are covered in Hellion blood. I wipe the 8 Ball and my hands on my coat. The 8 Ball I shove into the pocket of my hoodie. I throw the coat into an oil drum full of burning trash. I snatch a heavy peacoat off the hanger in a hawker’s stall and get it on fast, moving the 8 Ball from the hoodie into the coat. I want a little more material between it and me.
There’s no fast way back to the bike without going through the market, so I get lost in the crowd trailing the procession.
Exactly what the fuck just happened?
I swear I left the 8 Ball back at the palace. But I can’t remember where. I’m sure I put the na’at in my pocket, but obviously I didn’t. Did the 8 Ball trick me into taking it?
Exactly what the fuck just happened?
I’m glad I didn’t let Merihim take the 8 Ball to the Tabernacle. I don’t want anyone getting their hands on it. Even me. When I get back, it gets locked up. The damned Glock too.
My head is spinning with Aqua Regia and exploding bodies. I’m not going to figure out anything now. Best just to keep my head down and look for a chance to disappear.
The marchers bunch up a few blocks farther on. It’s the women’s church, if you can call it that. It’s two stories tall. Not much more than one of the Holy Roller places you see scattered all over the poorer neighborhoods in L.A. Tiny congregations of true believers worshipping in what used to be nail salons or the Elks lodge.
Four banners hang in front of the church. The first three I recognize. Merihim’s church gospels and the ceiling of Lucifer’s library. The Thought. The Act. And the New World. But I don’t recognize the fourth banner. There’s a shape on it, but it’s vague like a face lost in TV static. In between the banners is a wicker figure. I can’t tell if it’s a man, a woman, or André the Giant. The wicker whatever is as tall as the church.
I didn’t know that Obyzuth was in Hell’s rebel church or that she was such a big wheel in it. That makes it extra interesting that Lucifer recommended her for the Council.
She and the other higher-up churchwomen are holding burning torches. Women move through the crowd, handing out lit candles. Deumos is whipping up the crowd with a pretty good Elmer Gantry impression.
“The old must burn to make way for the new. Not because it is old, but because the ancient wounds it worshipped and that it believes define it have become diseased and the disease threatens to spread everywhere and to everyone and lay them low.”
A murmur of agreement rolls through the crowd.
“You have to burn beliefs when they become convenient lies solely for the purpose of gaining and holding power. Isn’t it interesting that when the entire city shook to its foundations and bled, the Tabernacle was barely scratched?”
More murmurs. She has a point.
“The city burned and they want to turn back the clock to the way it was. We will not permit that.”
This time she gets cheers.
Deumos picks up a torch from the ground. Obyzuth brings over hers and lets Deumos light hers from it. She tosses the torch into the wicker figure as Obyzuth tosses hers. The other big-time churchwomen toss in theirs. The crowd tosses the candles and lurches forward. I go with it.
From this distance I can tell it’s a man they’re burning. God the Father blew it, so let’s give Him a hotfoot and hope Mom will come down and set things right. I hope you ladies brought lunch because you’ve got a long wait ahead of you. Dad’s broken into more pieces than Humpty Dumpty and Mom doesn’t exist.
A young Hellion woman hands me a candle and automatically lights it.
“Are you part of the movement, brother?”
I look around at the crowd.
“I don’t really know what it is. I just wanted to see.”
She nods.
“That’s all right. We all started from where you are. Throw a candle and take the next step.”
I expect her to move on but she doesn’t. She has candles in one hand and a cup in the other. There’s a small pile of coins at the bottom.
“If you can help at all, brother.”
She’s a Hellion monster. But I’m a monster too. She was tossed over Heaven’s walls like trash thousands of years ago but she looks and acts like a kid with her first summer job. Goddammit, for a second she reminds me of the Donut Universe girl and I’m digging in my pocket looking for something to give her. And come up with one big coin. The Veritas. I look at her one more time. No. She’s never had green hair or dished up day-old apple fritters.
I drop the Veritas in her cup. You need advice more than I do right now, kid. Momentum and the power of Bible bullshit will carry me safely home to shore. Or not. Anyway, maybe you can trade the Veritas for some decent black-market food.
She doesn’t see what I
drop in her cup but nods her head in thanks.
“Don’t forget your candle.”
I follow the line of true believers up front. It seems the polite thing to do. Besides, I just paid for the candle. It might look funny if I dropped it and headed the other way.
People are laughing and singing like a high school pep rally up front by the flames. I should have a camera. Hellions laughing at a tower of fire. Now, this is the Hell I’ve been looking for. Flames. Mad cheers. And the tingling feeling of things right on the edge of getting out of control.
The fire is up over the wicker man’s waist. I have to admit, he’s staying upright better than I am. I toss the candle and watch as it tumbles into the flames.
Turning away, I duck deep into the crowd. And I can’t help but laugh. This has got to be the strangest day of my whole damn strange life.
It’s me in the barbecue pit. They’re burning Lucifer.
I circle around the market and back to where I left the Hellion hog. I tweak the glamour one more time, giving myself a new Hellion face. I don’t toss off the glamour until I’m back in the palace heading up the secret stairs to the library.
I’m not in the mood to deal with assassins, Brimborion, or arsonist Joan of Arcs, so I use Vidocq’s friend’s trick of stacking furniture against the bedroom door.
In the morning I kick the bloody clothes I left at the end of the bed into the pile I want cleaned instead of burned.
I seriously don’t like the idea of Brimborion being able to walk in here anytime he likes. Just because I took his passkey doesn’t mean he doesn’t already have a spare squirreled away somewhere.
My whole life is ruled by magic keys and the assholes who do or don’t have them. I found a key in Mason’s room, but unless I want to start prying open Hellion skulls, it’s not going to do me any good.
Hell’s carved enough meat off me that there’s no way I’m touching the Magic 8 Ball with my real hand. I use my Kissi hand to move the ball from the pocket of the peacoat to the bottom dresser drawer with the revolver. Until someone can tell me what the thing is, I don’t want it near me. Which means no one down here. Not after what I saw it do in the market.
My head pounds from all the Aqua Regia last night. I let the pulsing pain behind my eyes take over, an old arena trick. Dropping down into the center of the pain means I don’t have to think, and not thinking means I don’t have to find answers, and not needing answers means I might be able to get through the day without homicide.
I don’t feel one bit bad about killing those leggers last night. But I don’t know how it happened or how that thing got in my pocket. Down here in the pain, I don’t have to know. I just note the question and move on. Answers are rare and come in their own time but hangovers are reliable and never in short supply.
After a while the pulse of the pain syncs with my heartbeat. Some old Greek philosopher said there’s nothing but atoms and empty space. My head is one very big empty space right now. I take the bottle of Aqua Regia from the nightstand and swallow a short gulp. Hair of the dog. Got to balance the humors. Hippocrates said so. Blame him.
I open my eyes and look out the window. It’s around four o’clock. Clouds tumbleweed across a bruised sky. A few fires have flared up again south of the city. The backlight looks like a slow-motion nuclear blast. My Golgotha L.A. has never looked more beautiful.
I don’t hear from Brimborion all day. I wonder if he got someone to sew the finger back on. I don’t even know if they do that kind of thing down here. Probably they think if you’re dumb enough to lose a finger, you deserve for it to stay lost.
Vetis comes by to check on me later.
“You were burned in effigy in the market last night, lord.”
“I heard. And don’t call me ‘lord.’ ”
“I’ve doubled your personal security and stationed more legion troops downstairs.”
Ms. 45 pokes her head around the door. Vetis takes a step back. She waits a couple of beats and moves down the hall.
“Thanks. I’m feeling pretty well protected these days.”
It’s the middle of the night when the bedroom phone rings. It’s never done that before. I’ve never used it. I pick up the receiver on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Still alive and kicking, I see.”
“Who is this?”
“Puddin’ ’n’ Tain. Ask me again and I’ll tell you the same.”
“Fuck you. I’m hanging up.”
As I put down the receiver the voice comes again.
“You’re always so serious. So linear. You’ve got to get into the spirit of things.”
I almost recognize the voice but not quite.
“What spirit is that?”
“That you’re nothing. You’ve been flailing at the universe your whole life, and where has it gotten you? You’re not really the Devil. You’re not Sandman Slim. You’re not a man and you’re not an angel. Some people live in gray areas but, friend, you are a gray area.”
“Am I supposed to understand any of that?”
“You could always kill yourself now and save us the trouble.”
“What would that solve? I’d just end up right back here. Did Brimborion put you up to this?”
“What do you think?”
“I think he’s hiding somewhere nursing his hand with whiskey and a Valium chaser.”
“There you are.”
“Am I supposed to be spooked by this? You sound like someone’s dad hard selling Girl Scout cookies.”
“You’re not the only one with peepers, you know. Don’t think because you watch the world, the world doesn’t watch you back.”
“I’m going to find you, you know.”
“I’m counting on it.”
There’s a click and the line goes dead.
Crank calls? Is this how things work from here? This isn’t Hell. It’s junior high.
I wake up hurting. The hangover is gone and now I can feel every bit of the beating I took last night. My jaw aches and my ribs are bruised. Every time I move, the armor presses on them and makes me wince.
Something shatters down the hall. Glass and metal. Something heavy hits the floor, like a car falling through the ceiling. I grab my knife and run toward the sound.
Ms. 45 is lying on her side by one of the big picture windows in the front room. The glass dome holding her brain is smashed. Pink meat and spinal fluid leak onto the tile floor. I stand by the body listening. Ready for whoever got to her to come for me.
I don’t hear a thing. It doesn’t make sense that someone could get in here but they did. The peeper by the hall is gone, so I can’t play back whatever happened.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to ditch the Glock.
Making a pass through the rest of the penthouse, I don’t see anything out of place. I need to get someone to clean up the hound before it stinks in here like Mason’s lab. There’s a phone in the bedroom. I get the Glock from the library and head there.
A shadow flickers across the bedroom.
Looks like Brimborion has a second passkey after all. Good. First I find out what he’s looking for in my room and then I get to kill him.
But the moment the thought forms, I know it’s wrong. Brimborion isn’t the creeping-around-smashing-hellhounds type. Especially not when he just lost a finger. Whoever’s in the bedroom has much bigger balls and a lot fewer brain cells than him. But he’ll know who’s after me and he’s going to give me a name if I have to repaper the hallway with his skin.
With the Glock in a two-hand TV-cop grip, I shoulder open the bedroom door. No one in sight. I go inside, sweeping the room with the gun. The closet door is open, the space empty. If Mr. Soon to Be Dead is in toddler freak-out mode, he might be under the bed. More than likely he’s in the bathroom trying to squeeze himself down the shower drain.
I start across the room but only make it to the end of the bed.
Behind me, the door creaks open the rest of the way.
“Here are your fucking messages.”
No question about the voice. It’s Brimborion.
I turn around. He sees the Glock in my hand and in an inspiring display of self-preservation lurches back, cracks his head on the door, and falls onto his knees. I grab his shoulder and pull him to his feet.
“How did you get in here?”
He looks at me like I’ve gone insane and stupid all at the same time.
“The door was open.”
“Not the goddamn bedroom. My apartment.”
His eyes go to the gun and then back to me.
“I have another key. Are you going to kill me for doing my job?”
Glass breaks in the bathroom. Something hits the wall. Over and over. Someone is going nuts in there.
I shove Brimborion over to the corner of the room. He’s not going anywhere until I know if contestant number two is someone he sent. If he’s looking for some payback because of his finger, he’s going to be disappointed.
The bathroom door swings open slowly and a Hellion walks out. You could mistake the guy for human if his arms and legs weren’t half again as long as they should be. And if his skin wasn’t the color of a dead fish on the ocean floor. He’s wet too. I hear running water. Sounds like he ripped the sink out of the wall.
“Lahash?” says Brimborion. “What are you doing here?”
Lahash takes a couple of uncertain steps out of the bathroom. He looks up but barely registers us. I’m liking Lahash less and less. The guy is on some major drugs or some heavy hoodoo. The bedroom is huge by normal non–Lord of the Underworld standards, but if it was the size of a zeppelin hangar, I still wouldn’t want to be in it with this guy.
“Lahash. I’m talking to you,” says Brimborion. “How did you get in here?”
I shove Brimborion back against the wall.
“Shut up. There’s something wrong with him.”
Lahash stiffens. Turns his milky-white eyes in my direction. He recognizes my voice. No point in playing church mouse now.
“Who sent you here, Lahash? Are you looking for me or something in here?”
He swings his head to the other side of the room like he’s trying to remember where he is. There’s a brain working somewhere in his skull but it looks like the wiring is a little frayed.
Devil Said Bang (Sandman Slim) Page 8