SS 04: Devil Said Bang: A Sandman Slim Novel

by Richard Kadrey

  I crane my head around, making sure no one is close enough to hear.

  “I’m the Devil. Not metaphorically. I killed the other candidate and Lucifer took off back to Heaven and stuck me with running Hell. I’m the new Lucifer.”

  She takes a step back, a hand covering her mouth. She’s laughing.

  “My o vlku, a vlk za dverˇmi.”

  “What?”

  “Of course you are. Who else would run off to find his old love and come back the king of wolves? You’re always an interesting boy, Jimmy.”

  “If only I was ten percent less dangerous, right? Isn’t that what you said? Being Lucifer doesn’t exactly put me on the safe list. Guess you were right to leave.”

  “I think so. Though some days I’m not so sure. Some days I miss the hunt. The dead lying at my feet. Fucking you in this bathroom afterward.”

  “Aside from sex and murder dreams, how are you doing? Are you working much?”

  She sighs at being dragged back to earth.

  “I finished a couple of films. One large and one very large and artful. I costarred with a famous American actor, though I won’t tell you who. I’ll let it be a surprise when you come to the premiere. Will you bring a friend? That’s my subtle way of asking if you’re in love.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say about me being Lucifer?”

  “As you used to say, that and five dollars will get you a cup of coffee. I’m more interested in you than I am the Devil.”

  I point to where Candy and Rinko are sitting.

  “The one with the short hair.”

  “She’s adorable. Who’s her friend?”

  The girls notice us looking at them.

  “That’s Rinko. She hates me.”

  “She loathes you. It’s obvious to anyone. Shall we make them jealous?”

  She takes my face in her hands and kisses me hard. It takes me back a few months when she led me out behind the bar and taught me how a pro slaughters zombies—by ripping out their spines. Then I killed them all in one night and left her without a job. Except for being a movie star. It’s nice to have something to fall back on.

  The kiss goes on. She might just be going through the motions, but it’s a hell of a kiss.

  She whispers into my ear so quietly I can barely hear her.

  “Now I will disappear. I have a car waiting to take me to a much more expensive bar full of expensive people with whom I’ll talk about movies we’ll never make together.”

  She glances at Candy and Rinko’s table.

  “Besides, there’s nothing that interests a woman more than a mysterious stranger taking advantage of her lover and then vanishing. But not forever I hope. Please don’t be a stranger, Pán d’ábel.”

  She winks, blows me a kiss from the door, and walks out. It’s an Oscar performance. Ten more seconds the room would have given her a standing ovation.

  When I turn back to the bar, Candy is standing next to me.

  “I take back what I said earlier. I know who I want you to punch.”

  “Down, girl. Like you said about Rinko, Brigitte is an old friend.”

  “What’s her story? She someone you rescued from a rabid lawn gnome?”

  “I told you about her. She almost ended up a zombie because of me.”

  Candy’s eyes go wide and she opens her mouth in exaggerated surprise.

  “Oh my God. That was your porn star? I thought I recognized her. I take it back. Don’t punch her. Get me one for Christmas.”

  “Forget it. The two of you together would be more dangerous than the Kissi.”

  Carlos comes over.

  “You ready for another drink, little lady?”

  “A shot of Jack, please.”

  “What about your friend?”

  “Just water for her.”

  I look at Rinko. She waves to the Ludere from the clinic sitting at a table of other blue-skinned blondes.

  “Is Rinko still into drinking people?”

  “That’s part of how we got together. Stopping her, I mean. I got her the same potion I take so she doesn’t have to. She’s trying to be good but it’s not easy.”

  “I think she’d like to drink me.”

  “She’d like to cut off your head and shit down your neck.”

  “I see why you like her.”

  She pushes the button and makes her robot sunglasses sing.

  “I’m a sucker for the dangerous ones,” she says.

  “Did you just feel that?”

  “What?”

  “Like a little earthquake.”

  “Maybe a tiny one-point-oh or something. So what?”

  “Nothing. I’ve been feeling them all night.”

  “Maybe you were Downtown so long you’re growing hooves.”

  “Where did she come from?”

  Candy looks around.

  “Who?”

  I point to a tiny figure walking across the room. A little girl in a blue party dress.

  “I know her. I saw her at the cemetery. Hey, kid. Hey, little girl.”

  I don’t see the knife until she’s already swinging it. It’s a big brutal thing. Something you’d see in a slaughterhouse gutting cattle. She giggles and runs at a balding middle-aged Sub Rosa businessman in a gray suit that’s seen better days. He’s drinking a light beer and texting someone. She runs at him from behind. He doesn’t stand a chance.

  The little girl doesn’t go for him all thumbs and awkward slashing like a civilian. She hits the guy like a tiny hurricane, driving the knife into his kidneys, then his spine, and finally his heart. Ten, fifteen times in a few seconds like she’s done it all before. It’s not even like she’s mad. She laughs the whole time. And she knows how to use the blade. Not straight into him like an amateur shithead so the tip gets stuck on bone. She thrusts up so the blade slips between the ribs. Every shot is a kill shot.

  I run at her but Mr. Businessman is already down, leaking like a waterbed in a razor factory. The girl turns on me, still smiling. Still laughing. I reach out to grab her and she swings the blade so fast I barely get my hand out of the way. That’s all I need. Another prosthetic.

  When I go in again, she grabs my human hand. Her grip is unbelievable. I haven’t felt anything like it since the arena. She swings the knife and I grab her with my Kissi claw. She screams and pulls away. Not in fear. More like disgust. She isn’t laughing anymore and the fierceness has gone out of her eyes. She’s still holding up the knife but it’s not threatening. It’s like she can’t let it go. Like the knife is an extension of her arm. She touches my Kissi hand again and shakes her head.

  “You’re not one of his,” she says, and giggles like I just gave her a pony for her birthday.

  I feel another little earthquake.

  The door bangs open. Bodies go down hard. Four assholes cluster by the jukebox in masks and body armor. They’re supposed to be scary but they look like high-tech ninja scuba divers. They sweep the room with their rifles, looking for someone. I have a bad feeling who.

  “You’re just in time for the bake sale, boys. Who brought the cupcakes?”

  All four of them have weapons, sleek rifles that conform to the shape of their arms and bodies. The business ends crackle with blue electric arcs. I’ve only ever seen those weapons one other place. In the Golden Vigil raid on Club Avila last New Year’s Eve. Human weapons enhanced with angelic tech.

  Laughing, t
he little girl runs behind them and out the door.

  They raise their rifles and move in on me but don’t get two steps before the first one goes down. Candy has gone full Jade. Red slit eyes. A mouth full of bone-white shark teeth and nails curled back into claws. A second later Rinko does the same and charges at the hit man Candy has pinned to the floor. Another hit man screams as a glass vial breaks against the side of his head, and then another. The first potion Vidocq threw didn’t do anything. It’s the second potion mixing with the first that has the hit man screaming as his mask and skin melt down the side of his face, burning into his neck.

  One of the hit men gets a bead on me but the Incredible Melting Man falls on him, screaming for help. I grab the na’at from inside my coat and snap it out like a whip, hitting him in the eye. With a twist, spines open at the na’at’s tip, digging into his skull. Twist the other way and his neck snaps. Unfortunately in all the fun I missed hit man four. He’s off to my side. I know because his rifle crackles and the air feels like a thousand needles as the lightning comes at me.

  There’s another small earthquake. Something snaps and the next thing I know I’m flat on my back looking up at the ceiling from a hole in the floor. I get up covered in dirt and broken tiles and climb out.

  Three of the four hit men are gone. The only one left is the dead loser Candy and Rinko worked over. The bar patrons are piling out the doors. I run over to Candy. She’s wiping the blood off her face with her T-shirt and rubbing her nails on her pants leg to get out pieces of the hit man’s bones. Rinko is licking blood from her fingers like a kid with an ice-cream cone.

  It’s not fun to look at but I’m grateful for the backup.

  “Thanks for the help.”

  Rinko won’t look at me.

  “I didn’t do it for you,” she says.

  Vidocq, Allegra, and Traven are behind the bar. Carlos is down. His shoulder and one arm are badly burned. He has a .44 Magnum in his other hand. He must have been trying to pop off a shot when he got hit. I pick up the gun.

  “Who the fuck told you to turn Wyatt Earp?”

  He smiles then winces as Allegra pulls scorched bits of his shirt from around the wound.

  “It got boring watching you fight all the time. I thought I’d get in on it. I hope you don’t mind if I never do it again. This shit hurts.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive, you fucking idiot. Those fuckers were pros.”

  “At least now I know you’re you and not your cabrón brother.”

  “I told you, he’s not my brother.”

  Allegra says, “This is too severe to treat here. We need to get him to the clinic.”

  “Can you and Vidocq take him? I need to check out the dead man.”

  “Which one?” says Vidocq.

  “Not the one the little girl got.”

  “Do you know who she was?” asks Traven.

  “I don’t care right now. I want to know who sent the boys in black.”

  “What should we do about the other dead man?”

  “Leave him. Someone’s probably already called 911. It’s better to give the cops a body than have them asking why there isn’t one.”

  “They’ll be able to find his next of kin too,” says Traven.

  “Right. That too. You can’t help being a good guy, can you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Good. Someone needs to be.”

  While the three of them get Carlos into Traven’s car, I go to the dead hit man. Rinko’s carnivore tendencies have worked in our favor. She’s gobbled up enough of the guy’s blood that there’s hardly any left on the floor. That means the cops won’t be looking for two bodies and Carlos won’t have to explain why he had a bunch of James Bond villains in his bar.

  I carry the dead man into the bathroom and drop him on the dirty tile. He doesn’t have any pockets, so I get out the black blade and slice off his shirt. No dog tags, gang burns, or tattoos. I pull off his gloves and find something even more interesting. He has no fingerprints. His fingertips are smooth as the Venus de Milo’s ass. Only hoodoo could take them off that cleanly. I check behind his ears and the inside of his arms and there it is. Barely visible. I probably would have missed it without the Lucifer eyes. It’s a faint laser brand, and like his fingerprints, it’s been removed using magic.

  Candy comes in.

  “What are you looking at?” she asks.

  “A mark that’s rare and even rarer on dead men.”

  “What is it?”

  “Those shit sacks were Sub Rosa. A Sub Rosa SWAT team. I’m in town a day and my own people try to kill me.”

  “Lucky for you you went through the floor.”

  “That was lucky, wasn’t it? I’m not usually that lucky.”

  I go to the hole and look inside. It’s a pit maybe ten feet deep. The dirt around the edge is soft and fresh. It hasn’t been here long. Almost like someone dug it right under my feet.

  “What are you going to do now?” asks Candy.

  “Me? I’m going to see a soon-to-be-dead man and tell him he missed.”

  “Cool. I’ll drop Rinko off and we can go.”

  “No. Take her home. Give her the potion and keep an eye on her. The last thing I want is her hurt or strung out because of me.”

  “You bastard. You don’t want me to go with you.”

  “Hell yes I don’t want you to go. If I fuck this up, I’m counting on you and Vidocq to bust me out of whatever dungeon he throws me in.”

  “Who?”

  “The Augur.”

  “Oh hell.”

  The Sub Rosa love anonymity more than candy and puppies. If they’re going to hit someone, they’ll do it with poison so it looks like a heart attack or hoodoo so it looks like the luckless slob slips on a plutonium banana peel. There’s only one person who can drop the cloak-and-dagger policy for a blanket shoot-on-sight order and that’s Saragossa Blackburn. The Augur. The high exalted godfather of the California Sub Rosa.

  In grand Sub Rosa tradition, Blackburn’s mansion looks like a pathetic wreck. In this case, an abandoned residency hotel on South Main Street. The first floor is boarded up. The second and third have been gutted by fire and you can see the sky through the top-floor ceiling. Gang tags and spray-painted naked ladies are like outdoor cave paintings. Aeons of stapled ads and glued band flyers form a pale crust on the lower floors. Cut deep enough into those things and you’ll find flyers for Babylonian death-metal shows printed in cuneiform on papyrus.

  The mansion is protected by more hoodoo than King Tut’s tomb. It can hold off the armies of Hell, a Bigfoot horde, and a Martian invasion all at the same time. In fact, Blackburn’s place is so loaded with wards and mantrap spells that he doesn’t have a single security guard. Not even a dog. The Augur is so high-and-mighty he thinks muscle is déclassé, which for him is sort of true but it’s not polite to rub the world’s nose in it. Someone should TP the place just to remind him he’s human. I’d like it to be me but right now I don’t know how to get close enough to even hit the place with a grenade launcher.

  These Lucifer eyes can see the shimmering spells surrounding the hotel. A series of crystal spheres set inside each other like Russian nesting dolls. As far as I know, with the armor on, I’m as hard to kill as ever, but that means I can still snuff it or get hurt and I don’t want to be known as the Gimp Lucifer. I need to not fuck this up.

  Most of my hoodoo is geared toward hurting people
and making things go boom. I’m pretty good at making up spells on the spot but how many different ones will I have to wing if I try to hex my way through Blackburn’s defenses? Only one thing makes sense if I want to get inside before Santa takes a toy dump down everyone’s chimney. It’s really stupid but stupid is sort of my specialty.

  I take a few deep breaths and summon all the heinous bastard Luciferness I can and wrap myself in Lord of the Flies drag. When it feels right, I go to the first layer of hoodoo and lay my hand on it.

  When I first got back to Earth, Samael strolled into my bedroom above Max Overdrive. At the time I was so shocked seeing the Devil at my door I didn’t think about what it meant. By then I’d laid out wards around the store and my own improvised protection spells. Lucifer walked right through them. Is that one of the secrets the celestial types keep from us? That most human protections don’t work on angels? My angel half is off somewhere sipping Shirley Temples and reading Parade magazine but I’m still Lucifer and wearing angelic armor. Maybe that’s angel enough to keep me from going up like a refinery explosion.

  I put my hand on the first layer of magic and press. Blue flame engulfs me but it doesn’t burn. Beyond the fire, the layer feels thick and liquid. I’m not dead yet, so I keep pressing. Slowly and steadily, like stepping out of a warm glycerin bath, I pass through the first layer. I do the same thing on the next layer. This one is full of wind and grit. A sandstorm of razor blades. I press slow and steady, holding a “do not even begin to fuck with me” mantra in my mind. The layer cracks and splits just enough for me to pass through. Four more layers and I walk up to Blackburn’s front door like the Avon lady. I reach out to test the door. The prick doesn’t even bother locking it.

  Inside, Blackburn’s mansion is an old Victorian manor house with stained glass, potted palms, and a curiosity cabinet in every room. The kind of place where you wouldn’t be surprised to see Sherlock Holmes shooting coke in the guest room.

  On one side of a sweeping staircase is Blackburn’s office. On the other side is what looks like a parlor. The sliding doors are open a crack. Inside are maybe twenty people listening to him ramble on about cost-benefit projections and which state political offices to keep and which corporate investments to kick loose. First someone tries to assassinate me and now another budget meeting. Where do I have to go to get away from this shit?