The Getaway God (16 page)

“Do you know where your missing brother is?”

Muninn fiddles with a spoon on the table.

“Chaya. He's right here. Asleep not fifty feet from us. Ruach was keeping him in Heaven hoping to draw the rest of us into a confrontation. Samael helped Chaya to escape and brought him here.”

“Great. That's three of you. Can you do some kind of Voltron thing, put yourselves back together and kick Ruach's ass?”

“We tried to reunite and failed. If our brother Neshamah wasn't dead, maybe the four of us could combine our strength and fight Ruach, but with just the three of us, it's doubtful. I don't know if the others want to try again.”

I've never seen Mr. Muninn so down. And I'm the bastard who guilted him into becoming Lucifer.

“I'm guessing you're not working on repairing the city anymore.”

“No one is left to do the work. Every sensible Hellion is at home hiding.”

“Same thing in L.A. Some are running for the hills.”

“I'm afraid there isn't anywhere for us to run.”

“There won't be anywhere to run on Earth if the Angra keep making new little baby Angras.”

He frowns every time I say their name.

I say, “You don't like talking about them, do you?”

“There is nothing but bad memories there. We—­that is, I, when I was a single entity—­flung the Angra from here and claimed this universe for myself. Not a noble gesture. But I was young and the young do all sorts of foolish and cruel things.”

“And you were left with a universe you didn't quite know how to run.”

“I did my best.”

“That's what I told Mrs. McCarthy in fifth-­grade Spanish. She still flunked me.”

He sips his coffee and smiles.

“Yes. This is exactly like elementary school Spanish.”

“I guess the idea I tossed out there the last time you were in L.A. isn't going to work. Shutting down Hell and letting everyone leave?”

He leans back, setting down his coffee.

“And let my angels go where? To a war in Heaven? To Earth, where the Angra are strongest and they'd have to hide from both them and mortals? Where should I send them? And then there are all the damned souls. What's to be done with them?”

“Send them to L.A. We could use the company.”

“I'm sure.”

We both drink our coffee, stuck in an uncomfortable silence. I was hoping for some kind of answers here. I can do gloomy all on my own back at Bamboo House of Dolls, where the drinks are better.

“Samael's kind of a hero these days, it sounds like.”

“Yes,” says Muninn. “I didn't expect it of the boy. He resented having two fathers around and now he has three. It can't be very fun for him.”

Samael was the first Lucifer, but he quit and took back his original angelic name. He went back to Heaven before things went to shit. When they did, he hightailed it back to Hell with Mr. Muninn. Samael is the prick who stuck me with the job of playing Lucifer. But we kissed and made up. We have similar tastes in Dario Argento and Takashi Miike flicks.

“Our Angra sects are cutting up humans and making chop-­shop ­people out of them. What do you think of that?”

“It sounds horrible. Do you know why they're doing it?”

“The theory going around is they're going to be vacation homes for Qliphoth. Sounds like fun, huh? What's going on with your Angra cheerleaders?”

He sighs.

“I wish I knew. I'm like Ruach when it comes to them—­mostly blind and half deaf. Deumos and Merihim have disappeared. I'm sure they're hiding somewhere in Pandemonium. They won't want to be far from the seat of power. But they have powerful allies and remain invisible to me.”

“I got a phone call from Deumos.”

“Did you? What did she say?”

“Nothing surprising. She wanted the 8 Ball. The Qomrama.”

“No, not surprising at all. You're not giving it to her, I assume.”

“She can have it right after she kisses my ass.”

“Always the poet,” says Muninn.

I wonder if he'd let me smoke a Malediction in here. I pat my pockets, then remember I'm not wearing my regular clothes. My cigarettes are back by the elevator, and probably soaked through.

“Let me have the Qomrama,” says Muninn. “Bring it back to Hell, where it belongs.”

“So Deumos and Merihim can grab it? I don't think so? They might have minions on Earth, but they don't have shit power yet. No. It's staying where it is.”

Muninn says, “You owe me a favor, if you recall.”

I knew sooner or later he was going to try and fuck me up with fairness and logic. Good thing I'm pretty much immune to those things.

“Do you know how to use it?”

He shakes his head.

“No.”

“Then leave it with me. Believe it or not, I'm working with the Golden Vigil again. They've got this old Buddhist monk working on it. He seems pretty smart.”

Muninn looks at me.

“A month ago you talked about Gnostics and called me the demiurge. Now you're spending your time with Buddhists. Your cosmological interests are broader than I thought, James.”

“Strange times, strange company.”

“Indeed.”

Damn. Looking at this ragged old man I used to know and drink with, I feel an ugly wave of sincerity coming on.

“I'm sorry I stuck you with this job,” I say. “I didn't think about what was coming. I just wanted not to be Lucifer anymore.”

“Thank you,” says Muninn. “I appreciate that. But as you've pointed out, you weren't very good at the job. I don't know that I've done much better, but I've held Pandemonium and the provinces together so far. It's better off this way.”

“Let me know if there's anything I can do to help.”

“Thank you. I will. In fact . . .” He gets up from the table and leaves the room. He comes back a minute later with a yellowish potion in a stoppered bottle.

“Take this with you,” he says. “Just pour it across the ground at the entrance to my sanctuary and no mortal person or device will be able to detect it.”

“I'm not sure the monk is exactly mortal. He's self-­mummified. Died four hundred years ago and came back to leap tall buildings in a single bound, you know.”

“Whatever powers he might possess won't be enough to see through this. It will be fine.”

“Great.”

“You still have the Singularity and the Mithras?”

“Safe and sound in the Room.”

“Good. Don't remove them under any circumstances. If worst comes to worst, they might be our only hope.”

It must be getting to him down here. I've never heard that kind of kamikaze talk coming from him before.

“I've got them. Don't sweat it.”

He nods.

“Would you like to say hello to Samael while you're here? I could wake him up.”

“Don't bother. I should get going. I didn't see Wild Bill last time I was here and I'm feeling kind of guilty about it.”

“It's good to be close to family in times like these. Well, I'll see you out now. Keep those clothes, if you like. It's good to see you in something that doesn't make you look like a motorcycle delinquent.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

He comes around the table, takes my arm, and walks with me to the living room. He feels cold. God shouldn't feel cold, should he?

“These are the worst times we've faced, James. I had no right to do what I did to the Angra, but if they're allowed to come back now, they'll destroy everything.”

“I know.”

“It's going to take something drastic to stop them. I don't know what yet, but I have a feeling I'll be calling in that favor you owe me before this is over. Are you prepared to repay it?”

“Sure. Yeah.”

“I think you hesitated.”

“No. It's fine.”

“Good. I just needed to know how loyal you'd be when the time comes.”

When I get to the elevator, my wet clothes have left a red puddle on the floor.

“I'm there with you,” I say. “Whatever you need.”

He nods, looking tired.

“That's all I wanted to hear. I'll let you see yourself out. Good night, James.”

“Good night, Mr. Muninn.”

He turns around and goes out, a tired old man with the weight of three worlds on his shoulders.

I change out of my good clothes and put on my bloody ones. Roll and stuff the good ones in the special weapons pockets inside my coat. I don't know when I'll ever wear them, but Candy will like them. Too bad we missed Halloween. I could go as a grown-­up.

There's a decent shadow around the edge of the elevator. I pull up my damp hoodie and step through, coming out in the blood rain on the boulevard near the palace. The street has been repaired, but there's no one on it. I walk north for a few blocks and there it is. Lit up and lonely, all
Nighthawks at the Diner
.

Donut Inferno.

There's only one person inside. She doesn't have funny bobbling antennae on like she did at Donut Universe. She's wearing plastic devil horns. But it's still her. I walk across the street and go inside. She's wiping down the counter and doesn't look up when I come in.

“Cindil,” I say.

She stops wiping and stares at me. I push back the hoodie, wiping angel blood off my forehead.

“Remember me?”

She nods. Stands still, more or less stunned. Can't say I blame her.

I look around the place. The donuts are dry and sunken. Dusty. The coffee looks like fried sludge. The linoleum counter is cracked and half the stools are missing their seats. Donut Inferno looks like a wino crash pad fifty years past its prime.

I say, “You like it here?”

She shakes her head.

“No.”

“You want to get out?”

“With you?”

“Yes. Right now.”

She twists the dirty dishrag in her hands. Her face and arms are bruised, but her hair is still the same shade of green it was when she was alive.

She whispers, “I'll get in trouble.”

“You're in Hell. How much worse can it get?”

“Lots. You haven't seen what I've seen.”

I walk over and take the rag from her hand. Set it on the counter.

“I've seen what you've seen and lived what you've lived and I got away. I'm here to help you do the same.”

“The last time I saw you I died.”

“And I feel bad about that and I'm here to fix it.”

“Why? You don't even know me.”

“So what? I should have been able to help you before, but I didn't. Now I can. Come with me.”

“Where?”

“To a friend's place. He's a hard old son of a bitch, but he'll take care of you.”

Her eyes dart around the shop. She's confused. In panic mode.

I say, “Here's the deal. The whole universe might be ending soon. Do you want to spend the last few minutes of your existence here or do you want to take a chance on something better?”

“You came all the way to Hell to help me?”

“No. I was window-­shopping for the holidays.”

“Asshole,” she says.

“Come with me and you can call me all the names you want.”

It takes her a minute, but she unties her apron and tosses it on the counter. She starts around to my side, but I stop her.

“Before we leave, can I have one of those hats over the display case?”

She hands me one and comes around to my side. She looks out at the rain.

“I don't have a coat.”

I take off mine and drape it around her shoulders. I'm already half soaked, why not finish the job?

“You ready?”

She's scared, but the first faint hint of a smile plays around her lips.

“Sure. Why not?”

It's too bright in Donut Inferno. I lead her out into the rain and find a shadow around the corner.

“Take my hand.”

She does.

“Here we go.”

W
E COME O
UT
by Wild Bill's bar near the street market in Pandemonium's western hinterlands. Only the street market isn't there anymore. Just half-­collapsed tents, overturned tables, and oil drums full of charred garbage. The sad red rain slicks over everything, turning the rows between the deserted stalls to mud.

Cindil drops my hand and takes a step back.

“What just happened?”

“We took a shortcut across town. It's just a trick I can do.”

She looks at me, her hair matting down around her face.

“You're a weird guy, you know?”

“That's going to be my epitaph. You want to get out of this rain?”

I point to the bar. She heads over and we go inside.

I want to say that the place is usually crowded at this time of day, but I don't know what time it is in Hell or Earth. Still, there's usually some kind of crowd. Not tonight, today, whatever. A lone soldier from one of Hell's legions sits by himself nursing the Hellion equivalent of beer. He barely glances up as we come in.

Hank Williams is on the jukebox singing “The Devil's Train.” The man smoking a cigar behind the counter is tall and lean, with shoulder-­length hair and a serious mustache. His name is James Butler Hickok. Wild Bill Hickok to his friends and enemies. We're blood, separated by around seven generations. He looks up when he sees us. Puts out his hand when we get close to him. He and I shake. Bill isn't a hugging kind of guy. He takes a look at Cindil and gets a bottle from beneath a bar, sets down three glasses, and pours us all a drink of the good stuff. As good as it gets in Hell.

“I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about your grandpappy.”

“Not with that mustache,” I say.

He runs a knuckle under it, straightening it with pride.

We down our shots. Cindil has a hand around hers but hasn't picked it up.

“Who's your quiet friend?” says Wild Bill.