“All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.”
She looks at me and then glances at Wild Bill, not getting the joke. Bill ignores her and wipes down another glass.
“While I have you here, you’ve never told me why you chose me for your council. Or why you decided to create it. Lucifer—”
“The former Lucifer, you mean,” I cut her off. “I’m Lucifer now. That other guy goes by Samael these days and he’s home crashing with Daddy.”
“Pardon me. Samael would never have considered working with anyone but his most trusted generals.”
“Maybe if he’d asked more questions, this place wouldn’t look like a second-rate Hiroshima. I don’t have a problem with getting advice from smart people. And to answer your question, Samael recommended you.”
“I’m honored.”
She glances over her shoulder. The others are all outside. She’s enjoying making them wait.
I say, “Your English is getting better.”
“So is your Hellion. You’ve lost most of your accent.”
“Someone told me I sounded like a hick.”
“Not that bad. But you’ve become more dignified, in every way.”
“I’ll have to watch that. Dignity gives me gas.”
Over by the door of the bar someone says, “Are you ready to go, Lucifer?”
It’s a military cop named Vetis. He runs my security squad. He’s a mother-hen pain in my ass but he’s an experienced vet with his shit wired tight. He looks like Eliot Ness if Eliot Ness had a horse skull for a head.
“I’m staying but the lady will be right out.”
Vetis goes outside. I nod toward the door.
“Your caravan is waiting.”
Marchosias straightens to leave but doesn’t move.
“You never come back with us. Why not ride in my limousine with me? It’s very comfortable and roomy.”
All the councilors travel in individual limos and vans between a dozen guard vehicles. It’s like the president, the pope, and Madonna cruising town with a company of demon Wyatt Earps riding shotgun.
“Thanks, but I have my own way back.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“Would you?”
She picks up her bag.
“Probably not.”
“Anyway, I like to clear my head after a meeting.”
“Of course. I’ll see you in three days.”
“It’s a date.”
She slides a leather satchel over her shoulder. Rumor is that the leather is the tanned skin of an old political opponent.
I call after her.
“One more thing. I know one of you is gunning for me. When I find out who it is, I’m going to stuff their skull with skyrockets and set them off like the Fourth of July. Feel free to tell the others. Or keep it to yourself. You’re smart. You’ll know which is best.”
She raises her eyebrows slightly. This time in amusement. She gives me a brief smile and walks out.
Of course she’s not going to tell the others. Just like none of them said a word to her when I told them.
“That got her attention,” says Bill.
“I already had her attention. She won’t tell the others, but I want to see if she tells anyone else.”
Bill shakes his head.
“She’s not going to tell a soul. She’s got a knife tucked up that right sleeve, you know.”
“Everyone knows. That’s what it’s there for.”
When Bill starts to pour me another drink, I put my hand over the glass.
“How do you know she’s not the one making a play for you?”
“I don’t. I don’t know about any of them. I’m just stirring the pot and waiting for something interesting to happen.”
“That sounds like putting your boot up the ass of fate, and that’s a mite dangerous.”
I shrug and puff on the Malediction.
“I’m locked in a loony bin with God’s worst brats. I have to do something. It’s screw with them or get a dog, and I’m not a dog person.”
Bill nods. His eyes go soft like they do when he remembers his life before he took a bullet in the back.
“I’m not much for dogs either. I saw an elephant in a tent show once and thought it might be a fine thing to have one of them. Ride up on some Abilene rowdies atop that walking gray mountain and take bets on which of them shits himself first. Yes sir, I’d prefer an elephant to a dog any day.”
I push away from the bar and get up.
“Look for a big box and a ton of peanuts on your birthday, Bill.”
He hands me the leather jacket and helmet I keep behind the bar during meetings. Let the rest of the Council ride through town like Caesar’s army. I’ll take my bike down and do a flat-out burn all the way to the palace. Yes, I have a palace. I’m a rich, pampered prince and politician. I’m everything I ever hated.
I slip on the jacket and put on my gloves. Bill watches me out of the corner of his eye, pretending to wipe down the bar. My prosthetic hand and arm are a beautiful horror. A weird combination of organic and inorganic. Like something someone pried off a robot insect. The Terminator meets the Fly. I look at Bill. He nods at my hand.
“Seeing that thing disappear always puts me in a pleasant mood. No offense, but I keep waiting for it to creep over here and strangle me with my own damn bar rag.”
“You have my permission to shoot it if it does.”
“Good, ’cause I wasn’t going to take the time to ask.”
I grab a handful of the drytt-egg crackers, pop a few in my mouth, and put the rest in my jacket pocket.
“Keep your ears open for me.”
“I always do,” says Wild Bill.
I go out through the rear exit. The motorcycle is parked out back, covered with the dirtiest, shittiest tarp in Hell. No one is ever going to look under it.
They don’t exactly have a lot of stock motorcycles Downtown, so I had some of the local engineers build me a 1965 Electra Glide. I’ll give the local boys and girls credit. They did their best, but it’s a lot more Hellion than Harley. It’s built like a mechanical bull covered in plate armor. The handlebars taper to points like they’d be happier on a longhorn’s head. The exhaust belches dragon fire and the panhead engine is so hypercharged I can get it glowing cherry red on a long straightaway. There’s no speedometer, so I don’t know how fast that is, but I’m pretty sure I’m leaving a few land-speed records in the dust.
I swing my leg over the bike and kick it to life. I always put on my helmet last. It’s the story of my life that I had to come to Hell to start wearing a helmet. Back in L.A., Saint James, my angel half, hated that I rode bareheaded. All I had to worry about back home was cops. Here it’s the paparazzi. I like my solo rides and don’t want the rabble to know about them. They give me a chance to blow off steam. Plus, I get to see Pandemonium at street level without flunkies or political suck-ups telling me what they think I want to hear.
I gun the bike and swing into the street. I don’t worry about traffic. The streets are still a bombed-out wreck in this part of town, so most of the traffic is trucks hauling soldiers and supplies. Almost everyone else is on foot. I rev the engine, turn, and blast down a side street, taking the long way back to the palace.
Block after block, streets are buckled and houses are knocked off their foundations. But now there’s food in the markets and the burning buildings aren’t the only lights in the streets. I steer around a panel truck where Hellion soldiers are dragging cuffed and shackled looters. The troops aren’t gentle about it. The looters are a bloody limping mess. Fuck ’em.
It wasn’
t always like this Downtown. I spent eleven years trapped down here, so I got to know the place pretty well. But a mortal named Mason Faim and Lucifer’s generals (Semyazah was the lone holdout) tried to start a war with Heaven. Bad idea. The city burned. The sky turned black. Earthquakes opened sinkholes that swallowed whole neighborhoods.
When I look at Hell, I see L.A. It’s a funny kind of magic. A Convergence. An image of each place dropped over the other. It’s weird but it makes it easier for me to get around. Hellions still see old Hell. They don’t need a Fatburger at 2 A.M. If they did maybe they wouldn’t be such 24/7 dicks.
I’m going slow putting the place back together, but I can’t stall forever. I want to keep these devils, plotters, and knife-in-the-back bastards busy. But sooner or later they’re going to finish rebuilding. Until then all I want is to not get assassinated and to figure a way back to the real L.A. and back to Candy, a girl I left behind.
There’s a bottleneck up ahead where two collapsed buildings cover most of the street, their roofs almost touching. There’s a slight incline between the buildings and smooth road beyond. If I hit it just right, I can get the bike airborne a few yards on the other side. I twist the throttle and I’m doing around fifty when I hit the incline.
They’re waiting for me at the top. Two of them.
The one on the right catches me across the chest with a piece of rebar, and instead of a nice smooth flight on the back of the bike, I’m airborne all by myself, doing a backflip onto the asphalt.
I slam down on my gut and look up just as the second attacker gets to work. He runs up a big pile of rubble and launches himself off at me, an armored gorilla in SWAT-team coveralls and hobnail boots. I roll onto my back and try to get up.
Too slow.
He lands feetfirst on me like he thinks if he stomps hard enough he’ll get wine. Hobnails isn’t finished yet. He kicks me in the side. Long, careful, well-aimed kicks. This guy’s had practice. A second later the guy with the rebar joins him in clog-dancing on my ribs. This isn’t the quiet ride home I’d hoped for.
If I was a normal mortal, I’d be dead by now or at least a four-way gimp after Hobnails landed on me and snapped my spine. But I’m not a normal mortal and this isn’t a normal situation. I’m hard to kill any day of the week and I’m even harder now that I have on Lucifer’s armor under my shirt.
One of the goons has gotten bored with kicking and is looking around for something to drop on me. These assholes are having more fun than if they were at Chuck E. Cheese.
I push myself up onto my knees. Going to throw some crazy monkey-style Bruce Lee moves on these guys. Any second now. Soon.
But I just kneel there, letting the two idiots kick me. My mind goes blank. I have the sick, dizzy feeling that I forgot something. There’s something I’m supposed to be doing or somewhere else I’m supposed to be. It feels like there’s something crawling around behind my eyes. Maybe I’m just supposed to wait until these guys kick the living shit out of me.
Then the feeling is gone. It must have lasted all of ten seconds, but it was long enough for Hobnail and his friend to knock me back on my face. I reach into my pocket, get a handful of the drytt crackers, and throw them. The kicking stops. I push myself back onto my knees.
You know how young vampires without any training can be so twitchy and compulsive they have to organize anything you throw in front of them? The same goes for brain-dead Hellions, and these two don’t look like they could run the fryer at McDonald’s. When I tossed the crackers, they went for them like zombies after a one-legged blind man.
After all the body shots, I have to crawl a few feet before I can get up. I take off my helmet and set it on the pavement, getting out the black bone blade I always keep hidden in the waistband of my pants.
The Glimmer Twins are crouched on the street, pushing the eggs into neat piles. I wrap my arm around Hobnail’s head, pull it back, and drag the blade across his throat. Black Hellion blood oozes down over my arm like leaking engine oil. His friend is concentrating so hard on stacking eggs that he doesn’t see the blade until the last minute. I swing and his head pops off and rolls away, coming to rest against my helmet.
I go over and look at it like maybe I’m going to have the head stuffed and mounted like a big-mouth bass. I’m waiting for a sound. And there it is. The tiniest tick as a boot comes down on a pebble behind me. I spin and toss the head like a scaly bowling ball. Hellion assassination teams usually work in threes. Seeing as how the first two had the combined IQ of waffle batter, whoever is left has to be the squad leader.
He’s taller than the other two, with the same not-bright lizard look you see in a lot of the legion’s grunts. His SWAT body armor is heavier than the others’, so the head just knocks him off balance for a second. He has a Glock strapped to his hip, but he’s making flashy fighting moves in the air with a couple of nasty-looking serrated long swords. He could go for the gun, but he wants to make himself a name by slicing up Lucifer old school. Fucking devils and their fucking rituals.
I take a step back like I’m dazzled by his video-game moves. I fought in the arena down here for years. Swords hurt, but after you get cut a few hundred times, they’re about as scary as road rash. Meaning they’re something to avoid if you can but they’re nothing to lose sleep over. Still, they hurt and I’m already hurt. And I lost my snack.
He takes the bait and charges. I step forward and catch his wrist with my forearm, deflecting the blade as it comes down on my head. Now that I’m in striking range, the textbook step two of an attack like this is simple: while your opponent is busy blocking your downward attack, you step in with a forward thrust of your second blade, skewering him like a cocktail wiener. The only problem with it is that every sentient being in the universe knows it and is ready for it. Instead of attacking, I let him plant a powerful shot in my solar plexus. His blade kicks sparks when it hits the armor and snaps in two. It startles him long enough for me to move a couple of steps and plant a foot behind my helmet on the ground.
When he comes back at me, I kick, sending the helmet into his face like a cannonball. I hear bones crunch and he spins around before landing on his face. I stand over him, kick the sword out of his hand, and shove his pistol in my pocket. I grab him by the lapels, spin and slam him headfirst into a pile of rubble. While he’s busy trying to breathe through a crushed face, I rifle his dead friends’ pockets. Empty. They don’t even have dog tags, so I can’t tell what part of the legion they’re from.
Their boots and body armor are the heavy kind issued to frontline infantry who are basically cannon fodder. But since the war with Heaven is over, clowns like this aren’t supposed to have time on their hands. Avoiding this kind of fucking mess is why I’m going slow with the rebuilding. Why aren’t these pricks with the rest of the grunts, clearing rubble or rebuilding roads? Did they think if they killed me, one of them would be the new Lucifer? Maybe they were going to share the title—Moe, Larry, and Curly, the Three Infernal Stooges. But not one of this bunch had the imagination or balls to try something like that on their own. Someone put them up to it. The one I clocked with the helmet is coming around, so I go back to him.
I pick up the unbroken long sword and press it against his throat.
“You awake, sunshine?”
He grunts. Shakes his head, trying to clear it.
“Who sent you?”
“No one. I don’t need permission to slaughter mortals.”
I lean forward, using my weight to press the tip of the sword into him until he bleeds.
“This mortal signs your payc
hecks, ugly. Guess who’s not getting a Christmas bonus?”
He grimaces and spits.
“A mortal will never be the true Lucifer. Mortals are spirits, good for nothing but torture and chores you could teach an animal. I curse you and the mortal Mason Faim. At least he promised us Heaven. What have you given us?”
“I haven’t cut off your arms and legs and made you into a throw pillow. How’s that?”
He tenses. Even with the sword at his throat he wants to lunge at me. This guy is the real deal. A true believer. His type built Auschwitz and had lynching parties back home. Who knows what games he and his friends are playing with souls down here?
I take the sword away from his throat and smack his mangled face with the broad side. He groans and doubles over. Lucky bastard. I’d like to be lying down groaning too. My bruised ribs hurt. I toss both of his swords into the nearby sinkhole.
“You still haven’t answered my question. Who sent you here?”
He catches his breath and says, “We came on our own to kill the false Lord of Perdition.”
I grab his head and press it back into the rubble. I’ve always been good at telling when people are lying, but Lucifer can see things I can’t and the armor gives me bits and pieces of his powers. It’s mostly sideshow-level tricks so far but I can tell if someone is wearing a glamour to conceal themselves or if they’ve been hexed. I look all the way to the back of the assassin’s eyes. There’s a fluttering inside, like a microscopic strobe light. That’s it. He’s hexed. Someone sent him and his friends out hunting for me and erased their memories so the fuckwits would think it was their idea. I let go of him and sit above him on the rubble.
“What’s your name?”
He looks at me hard. He really hates being questioned by a mortal.
“Ukobach.”
I could take Ukobach back to the palace, hand him over to the witches, and let them take his mind apart. They might be able to find something useful inside, but I’m not sure about this guy. Whoever picked these three chose them because they didn’t have an overabundance of brain cells. With an intelligent Hellion or human, even after a memory wipe there’s usually some residual impressions left. Sometimes you can find it if you dig deep enough and aren’t worried about killing them or leaving them a vegetable. But with the power of the hex I saw in Ukobach’s eyes, there isn’t going to be anything useful inside him. I can’t throw him in the asylum or jail. I’m Lucifer, after all. Whoever sent him needs a statement.
Devil Said Bang ss-4 Page 2
