Devil Said Bang (2 page)

“Thanks for coming.”

I head back to the bar, where Wild Bill is already
pouring me a drink. I need a smoke. I take out a pack of Maledictions and light
one up. It might be Hell but at least you can smoke in the bars.

Bill pours a second drink in a different glass and
walks away.

Marchosias is behind me. She does this after
meetings sometimes. She says she wants to practice her English. I don’t mind;
after three months of speaking nothing but Hellion, my throat feels like I’ve
been gargling roofing nails.

She says, “What you said to Buer, that was either
very rude or very smart.”

“The Devil gets to be both at once. It’s in the
handbook. Look it up.”

“You caught everyone off guard. I’ve never heard
you ever mention the Kissi before. Everyone admires how you handled them, you
know. Getting others to do your killing is the most elegant way and you did it
masterfully.”

In another time and place I’d think she was being
sarcastic, but I know she’s not. She gets off on what I did. Why not? I brought
the Kissi down here like we were allies, trapped them between Heaven’s armies
and Hell’s legions, and wiped out most of them in one big royal rumble. That
kind of treachery covers pretty much all of the Seven Noble Virtues. Her making
goo-goo eyes at me for it makes me want to punch Marchosias very hard and
often.

I say, “I’m usually more of a hands-on guy when it
comes to killing.”

“Of course you are. Sandman Slim has an ocean of
blood on his hands. ‘The monster who kills monsters,’ isn’t that what they
called you in the arena? Now here you are, Lucifer, the greatest monster of them
all. Maybe God really does have a sense of humor.”

Her eyes shine when she says it. She loves being
this close to the grand marshal of the Underworld parade. She’d like to have
Lucifer’s power but the thought of it scares her stupid, which makes it that
much more exciting. This is why she stays behind. An intimate tête-à-tête with
Satan. It’s not getting her any brownie points with me and she knows it, but it
makes the rest of the Council nervous and that makes it fun for her.

I take a long drag on the Malediction like maybe
it’ll start a tornado and carry me back home like Dorothy.

“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.