Sleeping Late On Judgement Day (12 page)

W
HEN I
heard that ugly little creature say my name, I jumped back about three feet, then threw my jacket over the whole mess, the strainer and the upended glass and the nasty little blob itself. I could still hear its tiny, whiny voice under the jacket. My heart beat so hard it felt like it was going to break my rib cage. No, not just because an ugly little Hell-bug was sitting on my coffee table and knew my name. I was freaking right out because despite its high-pitched, ragged tones, an odd combination of helium and horseradish, the cadence and the phrasing were all too familiar. The voice belonged to Caz.

A moment later, and almost as shocking and sudden as that recognition, I suddenly wondered if this was somehow my Countess of Cold Hands herself, escaped from Hell after being punished by Eligor. I jerked the jacket away. The thing was still droning on. If it was Caz, she sounded like an answering machine message that was starting to wear out.

“. . . hope you've stopped shouting at this thing by now. It's not me,”
the little horror was saying.
“It's a nizzic, a minor demon—a message carrier. Don't worry how I got hold of it, or how it got out of Hell to reach you. Now, if you got yourself that drink I suggested, sit down and get comfortable. I need to tell you several things.”

I was too stunned to do anything but slump onto the couch and stare at the winged gob of phlegm as it parroted back the message my beloved had somehow taught it.

 • • • 

“
The first is that I lied to you. Don't feel bad, I lied to myself, too. It's only now that I know you're safely out of Hell that I can tell you that whatever you wish to call it—need, obsession, insane attraction, love—well, I also feel it, Bobby. I have since the first. But everything else I said is true. It doesn't matter what we feel, because everything else is against us. And I mean everything. I won't torment you with thoughts of what could be, because they can't. But I won't cheat you out of the most important part any more. Whatever it is you're feeling, Bobby, I feel it, too. I cannot imagine not seeing you again. But that's exactly how it has to be.

“Eligor is finally satisfied. His cruel trick worked. He got the feather back, he made you suffer, he made me suffer and even had the extra pleasure of making Marmora, the drowned girl, suffer as well. But knowing you, you're determined to get some kind of revenge.

“You must forget about it. As things stand, he'll probably leave you alone now. You can't hope to survive his full attention again. But I will survive, Bobby. I will go on. I am not some mortal woman, some comparative child, who cannot live with pain and difficulty. I will survive. I shared the best moments of my life and myself with you. That will keep me during the times ahead.

“I love you. There. I'm sorry I never said it to your face. Now, please, forget me
.”

 • • • 

When it finished reciting, the nizzic sat there slowly, blinking all its eyes but otherwise motionless as a lump of particularly dirty wax or a dead mouse that had been under the couch a long, long time. After a few moments it started over again from the beginning of the message in the same disturbing, not-quite-Caz voice. I listened to the bits I'd missed when I'd covered it with my jacket, none of them particularly important (except that they were more words from the woman I loved and who I sometimes thought I'd never hear or see again, and so each was as precious as a diamond). But as it got back onto the part I'd already heard, I decided I'd had enough. It was like listening to Caz down an old-fashioned long-distance line as she demonstrated the effect of multiple strokes on human speech. I threw my jacket over the little horror again.

But even though a part of me was grateful (no, ecstatic) to hear from Caz, and thrilled by the substance of the message—she did love me! She did!—I was also feeling a slow burn that was beginning to heat up. It was Eligor's name that started it, or rather it was the way Caz had suggested that now was a good time to slink off into the undergrowth so Eligor the Horseman would forget all about me.

He was in a good mood, she said. The monster who had tortured both Caz and me, not to mention brought untold horror to human lives for countless thousands of years, was in a good mood. Yeah, that cheered me right up. And if I was really, really lucky, he was bored with torturing and humiliating me. I mean, yeah, he was still holding prisoner the woman I loved, probably raping and tormenting her, but I wasn't supposed to dwell on that.

I'd thought for a long time that there would be nothing higher on my bucket list than squeezing the black, sticky blood out of the Grand Duke of Hell's black, sticky heart, and that was still true. If I had been given a choice at that moment between destroying him and destroying Anaita, even if it meant she'd get me for sure . . . well, there would have been no contest. Eligor was an obscenity. The entire universe would benefit from his sudden and hopefully violent retirement.

But Eligor didn't matter right now, because there was literally nothing I could do about him. I'd already made my way through Hell once, suffered hideously, and found that, just as I'd suspected, I couldn't stand up to him for even a second. And I'd paid for that stupid decision with more hours of horrifying pain than any being could suffer anywhere else in the universe and still be able to renew his magazine subscriptions. But what mattered was that the bastard still had Caz. Anaita had Eligor's horn, and I didn't have a chance of getting her without it. I'd failed with the feather, but I knew Eligor would swap my beautiful Countess for the horn without a moment's hesitation, because it would lift a big weight of concern for him. Without the horn, nobody in Heaven
or
Hell could ever prove that he'd made a deal with an angel. He might not give a shit about Bobby Dollar, but he was scared to hand any advantage to the other Hell-lords, fat slug Prince Sitri and Grand President Caym and the rest.

So despite the craziness, the joy, and the bitterness that were all burning through me after hearing Caz's voice, nothing had actually changed. My only hope for a happy life—shit, probably my only hope for life, period—was to get that horn somehow and then force Eligor to give her back to me.

I went and fixed myself that drink Caz had suggested. I could hear the winged snotbag muttering away underneath my jacket, and it occurred to me that I might be able to use the same creature to send a message back to her. I had no idea if it would actually work, but as someone once said,
Fortune favors the brave.
Sam usually added,
“And stomps on the stupid
,
”
but I don't think that's entirely true. I've done all right so far, and nobody's ever called me smart without tacking “-ass” onto the end.

I polished off the vodka-tonic pretty quick, then lifted the jacket. The nasty little thing was trying to fly again but of course not succeeding much, just bumbling around against the metal cage of the strainer while repeating its message like a broken toy. I lifted the strainer and reached in, and was surprised by how hot the thing was, like Silly Putty sauteed in butter. I dropped it, almost sucked my fingers until I realized what I'd be putting in my mouth, then grabbed a kitchen towel and tried again.

“. . .
Don't worry how . . .”
it was saying as I lifted it up, but it was squirming a bit, too.

“Shut up,” I explained, and gave it a nasty squeeze, but not so roughly that it would pop or anything.

“. . .
Got out of Hell . . .”
it said quietly. I squeezed it again, harder.

“Shut
up,
you flying turd!”

After a few rounds of this merry game, the little blotch finally got the hint and stopped muttering Caz's message. It sat in the towel, three red eyes staring at me, looking like something that a dog had eaten and then put back into play. I leaned in close to feel the heat coming off it.
“I'm going to get you out,”
I said as slowly and clearly as I could.
“Pack a suitcase. I don't know how long it will take, but I am going to get you out. I swear by the Highest.”

The nizzic stared at me, but I had clearly convinced it not to make any noise at all. I gave it the message again, this time with another squeeze, then again and again. After about the fifth time it goggled its eyes, opened its mouth, but instead of repeating what I said, it let out a belch like the tiniest corpse-fart you can imagine. It was still enough to make me lean back, eyes watering.

“All right, you little fuckstick,” I said. “You want to play with the big boys? You want to step to me?” I wrapped it in the towel like putting Frances Farmer in a straitjacket, then carried it into the kitchen. “Last chance. Repeat after me.
I'm going to get you out . . .”
But the nizzic only looked at me without a glimmer of understanding, like the world's smallest complaints department employee, so I opened my refrigerator and shoved it into the freezer, towel and all, and went back to pour myself a second drink.

Five minutes later I opened the freezer door. The thing was lying on its back, gasping like a landed fish, and something steaming hot was running out of its mouth and earholes and nostril slits. I held it while it shivered and crawled around in circles on my hand—it was much easier to hold now—and then gave it the message again.

It didn't do anything useful, so I put it back in the freezer.

This process went on for about an hour. I put the sports news on the television and tried to make myself relax, but it didn't work. Too many crazy things had been happening lately—armed Amazons, weird warnings, Dear John snotgoblin messages from the woman I loved, not to mention Nazi thugs and demonic arm-spiders, all shoving to get onto my calendar. I was tired, confused, and mad as hell. I was
pissed off
.

After I took it out for maybe the fourth time, the nizzic seemed to be getting the picture. It lay panting in my hand, sucking back in the hot liquids it had sweated out in an attempt to keep itself from freezing, and when I tried my message again it actually opened its mouth and croaked,
“I'm going . . . I'm going . . . I'm going . . .”
I thought it was just being melodramatic until I realized those were the first two words of my message.

That was all it would give me, though, so I shot it a stern look. “Any man don't keep order gets a night in the box,” I warned, then I shoved it back in the freezer, but I didn't leave it in too long this time.

I had downed maybe four vodkas by the time the turdball finally managed to repeat the whole message to me. I'm sure Caz had some better way to program the ugly bastard, but we all make do with what we have, and I was determined to let her know not only that I had heard the message, but that it didn't change anything important. I was a little wobbly on my feet—I haven't been drinking that much lately, as I think I said—but feeling more than a bit triumphant when someone knocked on the door.

I wrapped the towel around the flying hobgoblin so I could peek out and see who it was, then opened the door. Sam walked in. He looked me up and down and said, “You look weird. What's that in your hand?”

I looked down at the squirming kitchen towel. “Hang on,” I said. “I'm almost finished here.” I opened the towel and the nizzic sat up, still shivering, its wings like crumpled cellophane. “What do you say, you ugly little fartsparrow? What do you say?”

“I think you need professional help more than you need a new pet, but I'm glad you're trying to give your life meaning,” said Sam.

“Shut up,” I told him. “Any man talking loud gets a night in the box.”

“Oh, lord, it's the
Cool Hand Luke
thing.” Sam shook his head and stared at the nizzic. “What
is
that?”

“Hold on. Like I said, I'm almost done.” I made the tiny monstrosity repeat the entire message through without mistakes, then took it to the window and stuck my hand out. It sat there on my palm for a moment, then spread its wings and buzzed off in awkward circles like a dangerously overloaded helicopter.

“So this is how you spend your evenings now?” Sam asked. “Professing your undying love to random snotbugs?”

“'S not a snotbug,” I said grumpily, then laughed. “'S not. Snot. No, 'sa snot
goblin
. Incredibly huge difference.”

“Shit, B, how many drinks have you had?”

“Hardly any. Four. Maybe seven or eight if you count beers. Doesn't matter. That was from Caz. She sent me a message.”

“And spared no expense, clearly. Whatta gal!”

“You . . . are an asshole.” I knew there was something I wanted to talk to Sam about, but damned if I could remember. Actually, I realized, I was pretty much damned no matter what. I laughed again.

“Coffee,” he said. “You'll still be an idiot, but you'll be an alert idiot.” He helped me up and kept a firm grasp on my elbow as we went down the stairs to his car, one of his usual selection of ultra-boring rides. Sam always drives cars that look like the government gave them to him. Not the CIA-sniper-rifle, high-tech government, either. I mean he drives shit that makes him look like he works for the post office or the Bureau of Prisons.