The Getaway God

by Richard Kadrey

  “You mean Muninn, right? ’Cause I think we could get along without the other one.”

  Samael lets out a long breath.

  “That’s the problem. They’re both my father. And ­people say stupid things when they’re scared. But I won’t let Ruach or Angra scum win. Do you want my advice on dealing with Mason Faim?”

  “Anything you’ve got.”

  “When you see him, just be your usual charming self.”

  I nod, thinking it over. I toss the rest of my Malediction in Merihim’s black blood.

  “Do you mind if I do something with the body?”

  “It might make more of an impression if we do it together.”

  Samael unlocks Merihim’s chains and we drag his body through the kennel and out into the rain. The hellhounds follow us, fanning out in a protective ring. The legions guarding the palace watch us silently as we two ex-­Lucifers hoist Merihim’s carcass into a gibbet and lock him in. Samael gives it a push and the cage swings back and forth like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. And I think about time again. But not for very long.

  I have to shout to be heard over the downpour.

  “Anyone who touches this body gets to be his roommate in Tartarus.”

  Samael goes back into the palace with the hellhounds and I step through a shadow.

  Right into Mason’s cell, where’s he’s asleep. I bark some hoodoo that should blow out all the surveillance cameras in the Vigil compound. Grab a fistful of Mason’s jailbird jumpsuit and toss him across the cell into the steel door. That wakes him up in time for me to grab him again and toss him into a wall. Not too hard, just hard enough to keep him interested in the situation. I pull the black blade and hold it to his scarred throat.

  “Prove to me that you’ll teach me about the 8 Ball.”

  Mason looks up at me. What else is he going to do? I’m kneeling on his chest.

  “What is it you want?” he wheezes, trying to get a breath.

  I pull a quarter from my pocket.

  “Call it in the air.”

  I toss the coin.

  “Tails,” he says.

  I catch it and check. Show him the coin. It’s heads.

  I get up off his chest. He takes in a big lungful of air and I grab his hand. Bend his pinkie back, holding the blade tight against the top knuckle.

  “Tell me something right now. Every time you lie I get to hurt you.”

  Mason looks at me calmly.

  “The Qomrama is alive. You want to give it orders. But that’s not how it functions. You have to work together.”

  “How does a summoning work?”

  “You’ve practically done it yourself. A summoning and using it as a weapon are almost the same thing. You’re not summoning the Gods or using the Qomrama as a shotgun. What you’re summoning is power. It’s how you direct the power that’s the key.”

  I drag the blade across Mason’s fingers, drawing a bead of blood. He winces.

  “It can’t be that simple or either Deumos or Merihim would have done it already.”

  “You’re right. It isn’t. But you’ll have to play me and you’ll have to win to find out more.”

  “Why the hell are you doing this?”

  Mason pulls his hand away from me and I let him.

  “Spend some time in Tartarus and you’ll do all sorts of funny things. You’ll make deals with anyone to get out. You’ll kill anyone. And you’ll die before you’ll go back. Maybe along the way, you’ll get to prove to a smug Robin Hood who’s the better magician.”

  Electronic beeps come through the door. Someone is using the keypad to get into Mason’s cell. I bark some Hellion. It twists the door hinges just enough that it will take whoever is outside a minute to get the door open.

  I pick Mason up and set him on his bunk. He licks the finger where I cut him.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say.

  “I can’t wait, Sunshine.”

  Bloody Hellion rain drips off me and covers the floor of Mason’s cell. With my finger, I make up a scary-­looking nonsense hoodoo circle and shove Mason into it. He slips and falls in the center just as Wells and the guards burst into the room. I’m out through a shadow by then. They’ll find the circle and blame Mason for screwing the door and the cameras. One small consolation at the end of a shitty night.

  I CAN’T STAND the idea of going home and listening to Kasabian whimper downstairs, so I head to Bamboo House of Dolls. I stand outside for a minute, letting the L.A. monsoon wash the last of the bloody Hellion rain out of my clothes.

  Nothing but a skeleton crew in the bar. Carlos and a dozen or so hard-­core drinkers. All Lurkers and Sub Rosa. Except for one.

  “Jimmy,” she says. “I was wondering if I’d see you here.”

  Brigitte comes over and kisses me on the cheek. She feels warm after being out in the rain and smells good after being Downtown. For a second, it’s like something normal. Two friends running into each other at a favorite bar. But nothing is normal now and we both know it, though neither of us says anything.

  “Nice to see you too. Buy you another martini?”

  She empties her glass and sets it down on the bar.

  “You must. I am bereft of drink.”

  Carlos comes over and takes a ­couple of light-­beer bottles off the bar.

  “The evening rush,” he says, raising a hand to the nearly empty room. “I’m grateful for the few brave souls, but all anyone wants is beer and shots. If this kind lady hadn’t ordered an actual drink, I would have drowned myself in the maraschino cherries.”

  “You have cherries and I didn’t get one?” says Brigitte.

  “You don’t put cherries in a martini.”

  “I do.”

  He shrugs.

  “The customer is always right, even if what they want is wrong.”

  He looks at me.

  “The usual for you?”

  “Some of the red stuff, yeah. I need to wash the taste of Hellion wine out of my mouth.”

  Carlos comes back in a minute with Brigitte’s junior high martini and pours me a shot of Aqua Regia.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, but this is my last bottle. Can you get any more?”

  First floods and now no booze. Another bad omen. I can’t go drinkless at the apocalypse, but why bother raiding some Hellion’s liquor cabinet if we only have a ­couple of days to live?

  I say, “I’ll look into it.”

  Carlos mixes himself a manhattan and we all drink together.

  Brigitte stares at her drink for a minute.

  “You’ve been to Hell again, I take it?”

  “Just got back.”

  Carlos says, “The way you talk about it. Like taking the bus to Westwood.”

  “I’d rather go to Hell than ride the bus.”

  “I don’t suppose you saw him?” Brigitte says.

  She means Father Traven, ex-­priest, part-­time sin eater, and a surprisingly brave guy. He and Brigitte had a brief thing together. Brief because Traven died killing Medea Bava and basically saving a lot of ­people’s lives, including mine and Brigitte’s.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Traven was handed a first-­class ticket Downtown when the Church excommunicated him for translating a forbidden book about the Angra. As far as most ­people know, Hell is where he went and Hell is where he stayed. I never wanted to tell Brigitte anything different because even though I stole Traven’s soul out of Hell, he’s still dead and I thought it was best for her to let him go. But with everything hanging by a thread, I’m not so sure anymore.

  “I didn’t see Traven because he’s not in Hell.”

  Brigitte gives me a look. It’s not quite surprise. More like confusion with just a little bit of hope.

  “What does that mean? Where is he?”

&nbs
p; “He was in Hell and it wasn’t fair, so I did something about it.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t tell you everything, but I can tell you this much. He isn’t stuck in Hell.”

  Her hand closes on my arm.

  “Where is he?”

  I don’t want to tell her about taking him to Blue Heaven, a strange place outside of normal time. She might want to go there. I’m not willing to take her to a dead man she can’t be with anymore.

  “Listen. I dealt with it. He’s in a better place. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Getting Traven out of Hell cost me. I don’t think Muninn has ever quite forgiven me for stealing a damned soul from right under his nose. Now I owe him a favor. Anything he wants. I don’t want to think about what a piece of God might ask for.

  “You’re telling me the truth, yes?” she says.

  She’s upset. Her accent is coming back and it would be hard to understand her if I didn’t already know what she was going to ask.

  “Yeah. It’s the truth.” As much of it as she needs to know.

  “Dìkuji,” she says. “Thank you so much.”

  She puts her arms around me.

  “Glad to. Next time you can get the drinks.”

  She lets go, wiping a few tears from her eyes. It’s strange to see a stone killer like Brigitte cry. I wonder what I would do if something happened to Candy. I drink my Aqua Regia and put that thought out of my head real quick.

  “You’ve both known me for a while. You’ve seen me fucked up and not entirely fucked up.”

  “Emphasis on the first,” says Carlos. “You’ve been various degrees of fucked up ever since you walked into my bar last Christmas. That’s why it’s always nice to see you in those brief moments when you’ve got your head on straight.”

  “That’s what I’m getting at.”

  I already feel stupid for starting the conversation, but I can’t really stop it now.

  “I’m a bastard. I know that. But am I a bastard bastard?”

  “Does that sentence come in English?” says Carlos.

  “I’m not sure I understand either,” Brigitte says.

  Is there anything worse in the world than having to explain yourself? Serves me right for starting this.

  “Am I an unforgivable asshole? Unfair? Do I use ­people? Did I ever use either of you?”

  “Used for what?” says Carlos. “If this is about the drinks and food, don’t sweat it. You’ll always eat and drink free as long as I run the place.”

  Brigitte says, “I don’t think he’s talking about that. I think he’s talking about love.”

  That fucking word.

  “Never mind,” I say.

  “Oh, Jimmy, I was only teasing.”

  “I know, and it’s not about that. It’s that whether I’m fucked up or not is beside the point. What’s important is that the other person thinks I’m maybe too fucked up.”

  Brigitte shakes her head.

  “That’s not it at all. If someone unfairly accuses you of bad behavior or neglect, you are entitled to be upset, even angry about it.”

  I hate this. I can’t deal with this angst bullshit. This is when I dream of Hell. Of the arena, where everything was simple and the closest thing to a next day was a knife in the belly or a club in the eye. Give me blood all the livelong day. What I can’t take is all this being-­human-­and-­being-­responsible craziness. I want to tear my own head off. I want to go and snap Mason’s neck. Chaya was right. I hate this place. Let the world burn and me with it.

  “Never mind. Stupid question. Let’s drop it.”

  Carlos picks up our glasses.

  “For what it’s worth, you’re all right by me. I’ll get us all another round.”

  He moves off to get our drinks, but I think what he’s really doing is leaving me alone with Brigitte.

  “I understand that these things are hard for you, but we’re both alike. Killing is easier than being with someone. But it’s not impossible. And you can always talk to me about it.”

  I look past her at the band posters on the wall. I feel ridiculous. Helpless under the weight of all this emotional garbage.

  “Thanks. It’s never going to happen, but thanks anyway.”

  She laughs a little like she knew what I was going to say. And she looks away. She’s thinking about Traven. She wants to ask me more about him, but she knows I won’t tell her so she lets it go.

  She says, “In this world of blame and accusations, I do have one piece of news that might make you feel better.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I saw Tuatha yesterday, to give her my condolences on Saragossa’s passing. She knows that Audsley Ishii has accused you of being involved in his death.”

  “Is she getting a necktie party ready for me? Should I catch the first stage out of Dodge?”

  Please say yes. I could use a fight right now.

  “No. She wants you to know that she doesn’t believe a word of it. And she’s ordered Audsley to leave you alone.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Do you think he’ll disobey her?”

  “He needs someone to blame and we’ve never gotten along. I’m John Dillinger to him and no one is going to talk him out of it.”

  “You don’t sound sorry.”

  “In my current placid frame of mind, I’d love someone to come at me.”

  “Don’t look for trouble.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty on my plate. Till then, Ishii can piss his sorrows in a teapot and brew himself a hot cup of fuck off.”

  Carlos comes back with our drinks.

  “What should we drink to?”

  “To love,” says Brigitte.

  “To the few loyal customers I have left,” says Carlos.

  I have to think for a minute.

  “To the dead. Let’s think of them always, but not join them too soon.”

  Everyone in the bar drinks to that.

  JULIE CALLS EARLY the next morning.

  “Wells and the other bigwigs are at a meeting downtown. If you get over here right now, I can get you in to see Candy.”

  Lucky for me, I fell asleep in my clothes last night. I run a comb through my hair so I don’t look like I escaped from Greendale House and go out through a shadow.

  Julie is waiting for me when I come in and pulls me into an empty office.

  She says, “As far as anyone knows, you’re here to talk to her about Saint Nick. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. Now give me all your weapons.”

  “You too?”

  She puts out her hand impatiently.

  “It’s procedure. And if any of the higher-­ups come back early, it has to look like everything is by the book.”

  I hand her the Colt, the black blade, and my na’at. She puts them in an attaché case sitting on the desk.

  “Can we go now?”

  She looks at me hard.

  “You’re going to behave, right? I’m sticking my neck out for you.”

  “I know. Yeah, I’ll be a good boy.”

  She picks up the attaché case.

  “By the way, before you come back you might consider a shave and a shower. You smell like a brewery and look—­”

  “Like Steve McQueen in Wanted: Dead or Alive?”

  “Like a vagrant. Let’s go.”

  I follow her through the Vigil’s country club. They’ve knocked down walls and raised ceilings so they could bring in bigger equipment. Helicopters and armored vehicles like they’re going to invade Santa Monica by way of Kabul because that’s how you fight transdimensional gods. Like they’re pot farmers in the Central Valley. I’m glad to see that, as usual, Homeland Security is thinking outside the box.

  A guard
opens the door to the lockup. I go to Candy’s cell. She’s curled up asleep on her bunk. She hears me come in and turns over. Stands when she recognizes me. Her face is still swollen where someone rifle-­butted her. She’s pale, with dark circles under her eyes. When she comes over, she slumps against the bars, looking a head shorter than usual.

  “I was wondering when you were going to come and see me. Where have you been?”

  “I saw you right after they brought you in.”

  “Really? That’s nice, but I don’t remember.”

  “It’s okay. You look a lot better today.”

  “I feel like something floated up out of the sewer. They say I tried to kill someone.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Is it true?”

  She nervously twines her fingers in the netting threaded around the cell bars.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see the guy or anything, but Julie Sola told me about it and I trust her.”

  Candy looks at the cellblock door.

  “They’re never going to let me out of here, are they?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I hear the guards talking. They’re not big fans of Jades. Or any Lurkers.”

  “Point them out and I’ll have a word with them.”

  She shakes her head. Her shaggy hair is a mess, tangled and pressed down on one side.

  “Don’t do that. I don’t want any more trouble. I just want to know what happened.”

  “You were poisoned. Someone spiked your Jade potion. You had a relapse and it affected your mind.”

  She looks at her twining fingers.

  “Relapse. That’s a funny word.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Relapse for me means going back to my true nature. Like you think who I am is a disease.”

  “Yeah. You said something like that when they brought you in, only louder.”

  “Did I? It’s all such a blur.”

  She lets go of the net and takes a small step backward. Looks up at me.

  “Is that what you think?” she says quietly. “That I’m just some kind of disease?”

  I take a breath. This is why I drank too much last night. To blot out all of this. Shit like this moment.

  “I shouldn’t have said ‘relapse.’ That was stupid. I just mean ­people like us, we’re always fighting some part of our own nature. You don’t think I want to kill every one of the fuckers who roughed you up? Or that lots of days I wouldn’t mind seeing the whole world go up in flames? When I got back from Hell, all I could think about was hurting as many ­people and destroying as much of this place as I could. I still have to fight that feeling sometimes. I always will. We’re not like the ­people running this place. We’re monsters to them. That’s all we’ll ever be and I’m okay with that.”