It looks like I walked in on a synod, a solstice meeting where Sub Rosa heavyweights get together to figure out what nefarious party games they’re going to play in the New Year.
Blackburn is a scryer, a seer who gets glimpses of the future. The Sub Rosa Augur is always a scryer and Blackburn is supposed to be a good one. If he’s predicted me coming, I’m in trouble. With any luck he’s blind to Lucifer’s tricks. Of course, this could be a trap and he wants me in close quarters where I can’t run. Okay. I haven’t killed any humans in months.
It’s tradition at official meetings that the Sub Rosa sigil floats at the front of the room like the Super Bowl blimp. The sigil is a caduceus, snakes wrapped around each other in kind of a figure eight. A symbol of knowledge. In the first crossing, the top hole of the eight, is a circle surrounded by a square surrounded by a triangle. The squared circle. An alchemical symbol for the work. The work is magic and the secret things you can learn to expand your mind and perfect the world. The bottom crossing is a black circle with three lines radiating outside the snake like the sun. The alchemical symbol for gold. In the old days, gold stood for enlightenment. These days gold just stands for gold. I kick one of the doors out of the way, pull the Glock, and put a bullet through each end of the caduceus. The thing flares and drifts onto the carpet like ashes.
“Looks like a party. You busted in on mine, so I thought I’d return the favor.”
Blackburn storms over, not the tiniest bit afraid. He’s a good-looking guy with a primo Italian suit and a wide politician’s face that looks like it should be on a hundred-dollar bill. His graying temples make him look like he’s in his late forties but I know he’s well over a hundred.
“How did you get in here? You’ve invaded my home and interrupted classified Sub Rosa business. If you weren’t a wanted criminal before, you certainly are now, Stark.”
Blackburn gestures past me at someone I can’t see.
“Get some security . . .”
I swing the Glock behind me and fire without looking. Something hits the carpet. I put the still-hot muzzle under Blackburn’s chin.
“If that sentence is headed where I think it is, you better say it pretty because it’s going to be your last words.”
“Pretty please, Mr. Blackburn. Let me do it. I’ve wanted to put the boot to this rude boy for a long time.”
It’s King Cairo’s hoarse voice. Hoarse because screaming at the top of his lungs is as quiet as he ever fucking gets. He’s head of a family specializing in freelance hoodoo muscle, stuff both on and off the books. He’s a skinny Mohawked shirtless rat in a floor-length velvet coat trimmed with ostrich feathers. He thinks shrieking and jumping on furniture makes him a punk. Really it just makes him a Dixie Wishbone addict.
Wishbone is a kind of hoodoo meth. It makes you jittery and paranoid, but guys like Cairo get off on it because it doesn’t fry them like regular meth. It burns out the people around them. A heavy Dixie Wishbone addict will end up surrounded by a pack of jaundiced, black-toothed psychopaths. Rumors are that’s how Cairo’s family got started down Alabama way.
He’s standing on a heavy mahogany settee. Leaps off and tries to kick it at me. He almost makes it too, but it catches on the edge of Kyzer Navarro’s chair and knocks him in his face. Navarro is head of the big South American Sub Rosa syndicate. Not someone you want to hit with a dining room set. Cairo’s high-drama moment turns into Three Stooges dope-fiend high jinks. He goes over to apologize to Navarro and a woman’s voice quiets the room.
“Calm down, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Stark might be guilty of many things but look closer and you’ll see he’s not who you think he is.”
I recognize the voice. It belongs to one of two or three people I hate most on this planet. I pocket the Glock, grab my na’at and get ready for a hoodoo attack, but when I turn she’s just sitting off by herself at Blackburn’s desk looking at me like I’m the soggy banana at the bottom of her bag lunch.
“Shouldn’t you be off somewhere playing Ragnarok?” I say and turn back to the room. “You know when she’s not with you bastards Cruella de Vil here is hot to murder God. How’s that for a grudge? Makes me seem downright reasonable.”
Aelita is another goddamn angel. Not a fallen one like Lucifer but one of God’s more recent rogues. Because God let a nephilim bastard like me live, Aelita’s decided the old man has gone senile and needs to be put out of His misery. She used to run the Golden Vigil, God’s earthbound Pinkertons, with a U.S. marshal named Wells. The Vigil is dead and I haven’t heard anything new about Aelita until this minute.
Blackburn moves between Aelita and me.
“Stop this right now, Mr. Stark.”
“Kill him. Fucking kill him, Blackburn,” screams King Cairo.
I grab the cantaloupe-size crystal ball off Blackburn’s desk and throw it at the ceiling. Shattered glass and smashed plaster rains down on Cairo.
“Fuck!” he screams, but he doesn’t dare do anything without the Augur’s permission.
I recognize a few faces in the crowd.
Tuatha Fortune, Blackburn’s wife. She’s a brontomancer. A thunder worker. A decent bronto can ride the storm clouds to find lost people and objects. A pro one can use lightning as a weapon. There must have been some heavy storms lately because Tuatha looks as green and worn as a civilian on chemotherapy. Some kinds of hoodoo take more out of you than others.
There’s Nasrudin Hodja. He’s a Cold Case. A soul merchant. From an old world Sub Rosa family. Like ante-fucking-diluvian old. His family might be oil and media barons these days, but buried in their vaults are ancient Sub Rosa relics traded along the Silk Road a thousand years ago.
L.A.’s Sub Rosa mayor lounges on a purple silk love seat surrounded by bodyguards. Richard William “Big Bill” Wheaton the Third. He dropped “the Third” for the last election but you always knew it was there, like he’s the king of merry old England and everyone needs to know how many of him there are.
Near Big Bill a guy sits with his hands folded neatly in his lap. He’s in a suit sharp enough to cut diamonds and has a manicure that would make the pope jealous. He’s not Sub Rosa and he’s on edge enough that I don’t think he’s ever seen so many in one place before. Or maybe he’s spooked because a crazy guy just broke in firing a gun.
At the rear of the place is a girl with a shaved head and a lot of tattoos. I’d swear I know her from somewhere but I’ve known more than a couple of tattooed girls over the years. She has thick scars on her neck and the side of her face is like one of those women you hear about who get hit with acid by a psycho ex-lover. That means I don’t know her. I’d remember those scars. You have to admire Sub Rosa who keeps their wounds. When you can go to a hoodoo clinic like Allegra’s and have them healed in an hour, you know this girl loves her scars more than she loves being beautiful. Good for her.
I look at Blackburn and flick open the na’at.
“Why did you send goons after me tonight? They busted into a public place and started shooting. Civilians got hurt.”
King Cairo laughs like I told a great knock-knock joke.
“Of course, Cairo. They’re your assholes. Aren’t they? I should have known by the Wishbone shakes. No wonder they couldn’t hit anything they aimed at.”
Aelita says, “They attacked you because they thought you were the other Stark. He didn’t carry guns or use profanity. He was a refreshing change until he murdered the mayor’s son.”
“That
ring-tailed choirboy? I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. We have witnesses.”
She folds her hands on the desk and gives me a cold smile.
“Maybe he got bored acting like a sane man and was trying to be more like you.”
“Or maybe you just made the whole thing up to kill me piece by piece like you’re doing with God.”
“Your doppelgänger made a lot of enemies.”
I take out a Malediction and light it. If you went by the gasp from the crowd you’d think I was skinning a deer on the Persian rug.
“I should have let Mason kill you.”
She sips her tea and puts it down.
“What a strange thing to say. You saved us angels to keep the gates of Hell closed and now here you are. Hell itself. You saved this world from horror only to return as the embodiment of horror.”
“Guess the God-killing business doesn’t pay well if you have to wet-nurse these ankle biters.”
“I go where I’m needed.”
Cairo has inched his way closer behind me. I flick the na’at at his feet. He dances back a step. He looks like a prancing idiot but he’s a dangerous son of a bitch.
“If the hit squad in the bar were legit Sub Rosa security, why did they take off their brands?”
Cairo clears his throat.
“New security policy. Some of the boys got God. Thou shalt not mark thy body or some such. Anyway, praying calms them, so I encourage it.”
I shove Blackburn into a chair, say “Stay,” and walk over to Aelita.
“Is that the idea? You resurrect the Golden Vigil with a bunch of inbred junkie berserkers? Kill ’em all and let God sort them out.”
I turn to the room.
“Is that what the Sub Rosa is about these days?”
“Like God, the ways of the Sub Rosa are mysterious,” says Aelita. “But in the end, they’re for the good of all humanity, Sub Rosa and civilian alike.”
Someone makes a break for the door. A woman wearing a blue fur coat. She looks like a plush toy. I snap out the na’at like a whip, grab one of her ankles, and lift her off the floor. Drop her down on a bunch of blue bloods still holding their teacups.
“Next person that runs, I take their head.”
I retract the na’at and lean on the desk. Aelita rolls away from me a few inches.
“What about the freaky little girl with the knife? Is she part of your good works or are you running a thrill-kill day-care program?”
“Is the great Sandman Slim afraid of a ghost child?”
She makes a tsk-tsk sound.
“Don’t concern yourself with the girl. We’re dealing with her.”
“Deal faster. She killed someone tonight. A Sub Rosa who stopped in for a drink. Not bothering anyone. Playing with his damn phone.”
“If you’re so frightened, why not come in under the synod’s protection? Our psychics tell us that things aren’t going well in Hell. We can protect you from your enemies in this world and the celestial realms.”
“A two-for-one sale. How much?”
“Nothing you need. Burdens really. Give me the singularity and the Qomrama Om Ya and you’ll officially be under the Sub Rosa’s protection.”
So that’s what the Magic 8 Ball is called. It sounds like a Hellion sneezing.
“I survived Hell. I think I can survive Hollywood.”
“Then just the Qomrama.”
“Why don’t you try possessing me again? Then I’d just hand it over.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.”
“I’ll get it from him.”
Cairo finally means business. He reaches into his velvet coat and pulls out two gold knives. Long curved saw-tooth blades, the kind that hurt going in but hurt worse coming out.
“Hey, Chuck Norris, have you been listening to your boss? Tell him who I am these days.”
She raises her eyebrows and speaks to Cairo.
“He’s the Devil in the flesh. The vile thing that stands before you is the new Lucifer.”
“Ha!” yells Cairo in that hoarse voice. It’s hard to tell if he’s really laughing or not. Everything out of his mouth sounds sarcastic.
“If he’s Satan then I’m Spider-Man.”
He charges. He’s fast with the knives but I’m faster. I pull the na’at. I want him hand to hand. He slashes at my stomach. It’s an easy parry. With the other hand he goes for my leg, trying to slice the femoral artery. I twist out of the way and rabbit-punch him. He goes down on one knee, and when I think he’s going to fall, he slashes straight up with one hand. The blade scrapes sparks off my armor. I look down at my ruined shirt. Cairo is up and grinning. He looks puzzled when he sees the armor and I kick him in the chest. He goes ass over elbows across Blackburn’s desk. Aelita is fast too. She rolls the office chair back out of the way and Cairo lands on the floor.
I go around the desk and get Cairo in a choke hold from behind, not because I need to but because I really want to choke this guy.
“First off, I’m not moron enough to carry the 8 Ball or the singularity with me. Second, I just bought this shirt. You owe me twelve dollars.”
Cairo hangs onto my arm like a life raft in a storm, so it takes him a minute to grasp the situation. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out some bills. They’re all high denominations. I take the lowest.
“This is a twenty. I don’t have any change. Is it okay if I go ahead and keep it?”
Cairo gurgles.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I throw him on the floor. He goes for a knife. I put the steel toe of my boot into his balls and he curls up like a kitten.
Heavy footsteps down the stars toward the parlor. Ten of Cairo’s security punks fan out across the doorway. They’re holding the same rifles as the bunch at Bamboo House. The parlor crowd doesn’t like being between a kill squad and an armed loon. A few grumbles. A couple of cries. But no one is dumb enough to run.
I lower my arm and let Cairo go wild and free like a ferret returned to the wild. With him out of the way, everyone in the room can see Lucifer’s armor. A few in the know recognize it and mutter personal protection hoodoo. Good timing.
I let the darkness flow out of me, across the floor, up the walls, and across the ceiling, making sure the hit men at the door are the first to be swaddled all comfortable in the nothingness. In a moment, thorn vines and tentacles wriggle up from the void. Wrap around people’s legs. When the screaming gets good and loud, I raise my arm to manifest the Gladius and become the only bright thing in a universe of darkness. The Light Bringer.
“I didn’t ask to be Lucifer but I am and that’s the end of it. If any of you still doubts it and has the sand, you can come after me, but remember one thing. I run this particular horror show, and if anyone lays a hand on me, my friends, my bar, or my store, I’ll drag you Downtown and make you into my own personal amusement park. It starts like this.”
The dark snakes up and around Cairo’s men. A couple actually have time to scream before black tentacles shoot down their throats, cutting off their breath. The room shrieks as all ten men are dragged down into the void.
That’s my cue to exit stage right. I’m not going to get anything more out of this useless bunch. When I make it to the front door, I turn off the dark. No need to kill everyone. They know not to let their Chihuahuas piss on my lawn.
“Wait a minute. Hey.”
I’m almost at the first of the house’s protection spells when the woman’s voice catches me by surprise. I turn and there’s the scarred girl coming outside. She has her hands up in front of her.
“Don’t hurt me. I’m just here to tell you something.”
“Who are you? Why would you want to talk to me?”
“I’m Lula Hawks. I don’t like Cairo or his thugs. I don’t trust that Aelita woman either. And I don’t like where the Sub Rosa are headed. I might be able to help you find your double. Maybe the crazy little girl too. Can you do something about her? She’s hurt an awful lot of people.”
“If the kid doesn’t work for Aelita, then she’s not my problem. If you know something about Saint James, tell me. If it pans out I’ll owe you one.”
She comes a couple of steps closer like she doesn’t want anyone inside to hear her.
“Do you know a Tick Tock Man called Manimal Mike?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He knows a lot of things. He might be able to help you.”
“Why would he?”
“You own his soul.”
Good reason. She writes something on a piece of paper. Hands it to me and I look it over. It’s an address in Chatsworth.
“Don’t tell him I sent you. Or that you know me at all. Good luck,” she says, and goes back inside the abandoned hotel.
I put the paper in my pocket. Walk through the wards and into the street where the Augur’s mansion is just another anonymous shit shack in a neighborhood full of them.
A block away a gray-haired homeless guy, not much more than a pile of rags with a face, puts out his hands for spare change. He smells like Four Roses and death. I’m the Devil. I don’t save people or souls, my own included. I reach into my pocket, pull out Cairo’s crumpled twenty, and drop it into his hands.
SS 04: Devil Said Bang: A Sandman Slim Novel Page 20
