“Your God really fucked things up when he came up with Hell.”
“My God? You don’t believe in him?”
“I’m Buddhist, stupid. I believe in the God in each man and woman. I respect that you believe in your God, but he isn’t my concern.”
“Yeah, but he exists. You just admitted that when you said he fucked things up.”
“Oh, he exists. I just don’t care,” he says. “But don’t tell Wells I said that. His metaphysics are as simple as your brain.”
The Shonin takes one of the potion vials from the box, pops the cork, and drinks, shuddering as it goes down. The shuddering sounds like someone shaking shrubbery in a paper bag. When he’s done he scribbles more notes on the pad. I start to say something, but he holds up a finger for silence. When he’s finished writing he looks up.
“You’re still here? Go out and do something useful. Get attacked again so you can bring me more useless junk.”
“Funny you should use the word ‘useless.’ I’m starting to think of it when I think of you. You talk big about magic and studying the 8 Ball, but what have you got to show for it? Can you use the thing yet?”
“You think I’d be standing here talking to you if I could?” he says.
The Shonin stumbles and sits on a wooden stool next to the table with his books.
“It’s not so simple, understanding the Qomrama. Remember, it’s two things.”
“It’s a weapon. The Godeater.”
“Yes, but it’s also a summoning object. The Angra can pound on the door to our universe. They can stick a finger or toe in, but they can’t enter without being summoned with it.”
“I guess that helps us a little. But even a little piece of an Angra is trouble. Have you ever fought a demon? They’re just tiny brainless fragments of the Angra. The dandruff of the old Gods that fell off when they were kicked out of here. But they can kill you as dead as a bullet.”
“Seen a few. Never fought one,” says the Shonin. “Of course, you have. You’d fight your own shadow if you got the chance.”
“So, what does knowing it’s a killer and a dinner bell get us?”
The Shonin shrugs.
“I don’t know yet. That’s why I have my books. And this new one your friend Blackburn gave us.”
I go over to his desk.
“He told me he sent something over. Which book is it?”
The Shonin puts his hand on the box of glass vials.
“This one. Great stuff. Fascinating old magic. One of the rarest grimoires in the world.”
“It looks like a medieval juice bar. How is that a book?”
The Shonin smiles. It cracks his dry cheeks.
“Magic, dummy. You don’t read it. You drink it. Each potion is a page of powerful old knowledge. The right bastard could kill the world with what’s in here. Good thing it’s a trap.”
“What does that mean?”
The Shonin puts his hand back on the wooden box.
“Each potion is a page. And each page is a different poison. See the trap? You gain vast power and knowledge from a book like this, but when you have all of it, it kills you. It’s genius, don’t you think? It keeps deep, world-altering magic out of the hands of people like you.”
That’s what the Shonin has been scribbling. Poison wisdom from a killer book.
“I get it. That’s why Wells wanted you on this case. He knew about the book or knew about something like it. Something that would kill a regular magician. So he hired himself a dead one so it wouldn’t work on him.”
The Shonin sits down again.
“But it is working. I told you, this is old magic. Stuff from when the world was young. Not like the flashy stuff you magicians do today. This is the magic of continents dividing and life moving from the sea onto land. Powerful enough to kill even a dead man.”
“Then why is Wells letting you read it? Drink it? Whatever the hell you’re doing with it.”
“Because it’s necessary. Why do you think I worry, working with such a fathead? I won’t be here for the end. But you will be, and all these poor fools will rely on someone who’d rather be eating pork chops.”
“And all you do is make fat jokes when you should be teaching me about these things. Like, if the Angra can’t get through to us, what about Lamia? I talked to her. She appeared as a demented little kid, but she still managed to murder a lot of people.”
The Shonin nods impatiently.
“Her real name is Aswangana. What you saw was like a demon version of the goddess. Not all of her broke through to this dimension, but enough so she was smarter and more powerful than ordinary Qliphoth. What you defeated was a fragment of her essence. Do you believe you could do that to a full Angra?”
“I’m not stupid enough to think that.”
“Good. You know something after all.”
“The Angra sound a little like Hellions. They can’t break out of Hell into this world, but they can influence the world through their worshipers and using the possession key. But they’re no closer to bringing the Angra back than anyone on Earth.”
“I’m trying to learn how to destroy the Qomrama. If it can be destroyed,” says the Shonin. “I don’t have much more faith in the Vigil than I have in you. If things go badly, destroying it might be the only way to save the universe.”
“Have you found anything?”
He gets up and goes to the magnetic chamber holding the 8 Ball.
“No. I don’t think it can be destroyed. Gods made it. Only a God can unmake it.”
“What about Mr. Muninn? He’s a piece of God. Maybe I should take it to him.”
The Shonin laughs his rattling laugh.
“Your God is so broken up he can barely wipe his own ass. You think he can destroy this?”
He’s probably right. If Muninn or any of the other God brothers could kill the 8 Ball or the Angra, they would have done it by now. Especially Ruach, the only part of God left in Heaven. Blind and half deaf, he has it in for all the other brothers.
“Maybe I should take it to him. Just to see.”
“No,” says the Shonin. “It doesn’t leave here. There’s something to be done with it and I’ll find it out.”
I stand next to him at the magnetic chamber.
“What about the Tears of Gihon? That’s a potion that’s supposed to cure all poisons.”
“I know what it is,” says the Shonin quietly. “It won’t work. I’ll drink a hundred different poisons by the end. I’ll be too weak for any cure, from this world or Heaven.”
“Seems like a waste of four hundred years to just die.”
“You’re telling me.”
“How did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“The only interesting thing about you. Self-mummification. How does it work?”
“Everybody asks that sooner or later,” he says, and walks away. “It’s boring. Monk stuff. You’re a monster in love with another monster. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe I will and that won’t make you so special anymore.”
The Shonin stands and pulls his robes around him in mock outrage.
“Ooo, psychology,” he says. “You took me down a peg, didn’t you, you sly dog? Here’s the truth. I didn’t want to talk about it because I think all you want to do is compare it to your time in Hell and see who suffered the most. Think about it. What if I suffered more? Then you’re the one who won’t be so special anymore.”
“I’m willing to take that chance.”
The Shonin looks at me with his empty eye sockets. The bone around the edges is the color of dirty tea. He opens and closes his mouth. Thin lips stretched across rotten teeth.
“It begins with a thousand days,” he says. “Fat rots the body, so you have to get rid of it. Even rice can make you fat. I ate on
ly nuts and seeds, with a little tea, but mostly just water. I worked hard. Manual labor. It burns the body down to its essence. Want to hear more?”
“Right now it doesn’t sound much worse than what an Olympic runner goes through.”
The Shonin shakes his head.
“In the next thousand days there’s nothing but bark and pine roots to eat. You’ll find this part funny. To prepare my body I had to drink a kind of poison mixed with tea. Not strong, but it will ruin you if you drink enough. You puke your guts out. Maggots hate it. I drank plenty. I loved it more than you love tacos.
“When there is so little of us left in this world we’re barely ghosts, monks like me, we enter our tombs. There’s a tiny breathing hole and a bell. We sit and meditate. Clear our minds and let eternity enter us. Once a day I rang the bell to let other monks know I’m alive. Soon I can’t even do that. I’m not sure if I’m dead or dreaming I’m alive. I’ve stopped ringing the bell, so the other monks seal my tomb. I stay there for another thousand days before the tomb is opened. They took my body, placed me in robes, and put me in a place of reverence. There are not so many like me who made the journey intact.”
“So, you’re dead. What happened next? I mean what was the point of the whole thing?”
“I preserved myself to come back with wisdom to help the world when I’m needed.”
“Why you?”
“Why not?”
“Who woke you up?”
“No one woke me up. I woke myself when I sensed it was time. A young attendant came in one day to brush the dust off and I said ‘Boo.’ Not only was I awake, but the boy attained enlightenment the moment I spoke to him.”
“One soul saved. Only six billion to go. That’s a lot of ‘Boos.’ ”
The Shonin gets up and puts a kettle on for tea.
“What do you say, fatty? You heard my story. I already know yours from Wells. Tell me. Who suffered more?”
I feel in my pocket for a Malediction, then remember I can’t smoke in here, like maybe I’m going to give a dead man lung cancer.
“You suffered plenty. I’ll give you that,” I say. “But if we’re going to get along you’ve got to give me something. The difference between us isn’t who suffered more. It’s who chose it. You chose to suffer. Me, I was just standing there and Hell opened up and swallowed me. Eleven years of torture, rape, slavery, and fighting monsters, that’s not the nothing you want to make it out to be.”
“I never said it was nothing. I’m saying you don’t carry your suffering with grace.”
“And you get to decide what grace is?”
“I’ve been dead, remember?”
“So have I. Think about this. Maybe what you’re claiming is grace is you just wanting me to be more like you. You never knew me before and you don’t know me now. Maybe I’m what grace looks like when God forgot you and you crawled out of Hell on your own.”
“See? You’re still complaining.”
“And you’re still bragging. You had four hundred years to sit around and think about how you were going to save the human race, and you fucking loved it. Every minute of suffering. You’re no better than Lucifer at his worst. You’re up to your eyeballs in the sin of pride.”
“You’re going to talk to me about sin, Abomination?”
“I’m talking to you about ego. You poisoned yourself once and now you’re doing it again, you show-off. In L.A., you’re what we call a one-hit wonder.”
“And you have the grace of a three-legged elephant.”
“That’s the best you can come up with? My mom used to call me that.”
The Shonin’s kettle boils.
“Your mother sounds smart.”
“She had her moments.”
He nods and stirs his tea.
“Are you ladies done?”
We both turn to the door. Wells is standing there.
“I don’t know whether I should send you to your corners for the next round or take away your toys and put you in a time-out.”
“No harm done,” says the Shonin. “We were just discussing ontology.”
I look at him.
“We were?”
“I was,” he says.
“You were slapping each other like a couple of biddies at the old folks’ home fighting over the last dish of banana pudding. You’re done. Kiddie time is over. Grown-up time starts now. Understood?”
“Sure,” says the Shonin.
“Whatever.”
Wells comes over and glances at the Shonin’s notes. They’re in Japanese. He frowns.
I say, “What did the Dreamers want?”
“What do any of us want?” says Wells. “Order. The little one, Brown, says it’s getting harder to hold reality together. Poor kid. She barely eats. Her sleep is abysmal. Her parents want to pull her out of the Dreamer program.”
“That would be a disaster right now,” the Shonin says.
“That’s what I told them. Mom listened. I don’t know about dad.”
Stark goes to the whiteboard. Stops when he sees a check mark next to Akkadu’s name. He looks at me. I don’t like it.
“What happens if they take her out?”
Wells shakes his head and walks around the room.
“Brown said they’re barely holding reality together as it is. Without her . . .”
He shrugs.
“We’ve had reality rips here before, but it sounds like the next one could be like a dam bursting.”
“Why L.A.?” I say. “I mean, why is the shit coming down here?”
“We’re sitting on a major power spot,” says the Shonin. “A great part of the imagination of the world is attached to this city. Also, the Qomrama Om Ya is here. And you.”
“Me?”
“You do seem to attract these things,” says Wells.
I’ve wondered about that myself a few times. Do I have the bad luck to show up at the right time and place for Armageddons or am I a shit magnet that brings the monsters down on anyone in my general vicinity?
“And you love it,” I say. “You secretly want it all to end ’cause you think you’re going to get Raptured and that idea gives you a salvation hard-on.”
“Language,” Wells says.
But he doesn’t deny it.
“I have something for both of you to do besides standing around catfighting and playing Marian the Librarian. There’s been another Saint Nick killing. At least it looks like Saint Nick. You two are coming with me to check it out.”
“Shouldn’t we stay here and study the Qomrama?” says the Shonin.
“That would be nice, if you have time between rounds. But this isn’t an ordinary killing. From the first reports, the scene sounds something like what Stark found in the meat locker. I want Stark there to see how well it matches and I want you there,” he says, looking at the Shonin, “to keep an eye on him.”
“You won’t be coming?” I say.
“Of course I’ll be coming. But I’ll be busy doing actual forensic work. I’ll leave the pixie stuff to you two. But I’ll want a basic assessment on the scene. Is this another Angra-related killing?”
This time I take out the Maledictions. Smoking is a good way to get away from these two for a minute.
“Another thirteen dead? That sounds like the Angra right there.”
Wells shake his head. Gives me a grim smile.
“Not thirteen this time. Last number I heard was eighty plus. It’s hard to tell, what with all the body parts mixed together.”
I’m glad Candy didn’t come with me today.
“When are we leaving?”
“Go out and have your cigarette. We’ll be done packing by the time you finish it.”
Wells starts out of the room, then turns back to us.
“The killing took p
lace at Greendale House, an upscale funny farm. Where the rich tuck away their embarrassing relations. We’re going to be meeting the head of the facility. Is there any chance of you wearing a suit?”
“Not much.”
“Silly of me to ask.”
“Kind of.”
WE HEAD OUT in a caravan of three Vigil SUVs modified to cut through the flooded streets like icebreakers. Candy didn’t answer when I called to tell her I might not be home for a while. I probably didn’t even need to call, but I can’t tell time anymore. With the constantly dark skies it feels like midnight all the time, even though I know it’s the middle of the afternoon. I’ve heard that it’s becoming a problem for some people, the ones susceptible to light. Seasonal affective disorder. Without sunlight, some people go into hibernation mode. Depression is up. The Vigil has its own stockpiles of drugs because L.A. is running out of every upper, mood stabilizer, and antidepressant known to man. Smack chic is a thing of the past. Who need drugs to stare at your shoe all day? Living half asleep all the time, it’s easy. Meth is the new drug of choice, or coke for those with money to burn. And prices are going up, up, up. I should have invested that money the Dark Eternal gave me in coca-leaf futures and the plastic surgeons who are going to have to repair all the septums movie stars are burning out trying to stay awake.
We head north on the 110 toward Pasadena. Pull off on a side road and head onto a winding private road not far from Huntington Hospital. It’s one of those funny places you find in even the poshest towns. Sort of a secret street backstage behind the world. Not quite an industrial district, but where deliveries and the help arrive for all the shiny places you see on the street.
We pull into a parking lot beside what looks like a two-story office building. Poured concrete exterior. Big mirrored windows. There’s no name on the front. Not even an address. It looks like just the kind of discreet place you’d want to store crazy Aunt Sadie when the attic got full.
Our three vans pull up in a line. Wells gets out first in a clear plastic raincoat.
“You too,” he says to me. “But keep your mouth shut. You’re here to observe.”
We splash through the rain to the hospital’s front door under a concrete overhang. The guy waiting for us doesn’t look like the head of a hospital. More like an accountant who found out that his boss has been embezzling money and investing it in porn and nuclear weapons. His coat and shoes are expensive, but it doesn’t look like he’s combed his hair since Halloween.
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