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“So, what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know anything about the place or where we’re going. We have a guide but I don’t trust him. I’m not sure what to do about it.”
Sally puffs the Malediction, pulling the smoke as deep into her lungs as any Hellion.
“Here’s the thing: Kill City isn’t really my kind of road. I’m an open-road gal. Kill City is more of a labyrinth. You know any labyrinth spirits?”
“No.”
“I know a few but they won’t be any help. They’re all as dizzy as clowns in a clothes dryer.”
“Do you have any words of wisdom before I go in?”
She nods her head from side to side, thinking.
“You could get one of those little Saint Christopher statues for your dashboard.”
“You’re the only traveling saint I believe in.”
She smiles. A few other cars pass us as we talk. You’d think us standing here in the middle of the night would attract rubberneckers. But no one slows down or even looks at us. It’s like we’re invisible.
“What I can tell you is what I tell anyone in your position. When you get lost, and you will get lost, keep going and don’t stop till you hit the end of the road. There will be something there, even if it’s not what you were looking for. And something is always better than nothing, isn’t it?”
“That depends on how pointy something’s teeth are.”
She blows out some smoke and drops the Malediction on the ground, grinding it out with her shoe.
“Sorry I can’t be more help,” she says.
“You’re always fine by me, Sally.”
“I mean really sorry. I’m a spirit of the earth. Something bad is coming, and if it gets here, it will eat me like a ripe peach. And I don’t want that. I love my roads and the funny people I meet along the way. I saved you once. Now you’re going to return the favor, right?”
“I’m going to do my best.”
“That’s all a lady can ask. I’ll see you around, Mr. Stark.”
She turns and heads back to her car.
“I’ll see you, Sally. Drive safe.”
That makes her laugh. She guns the Mustang’s engine and peels rubber back onto the road.
Some days are harder than others in the kill-or-be-killed game. Some days are stranger. This day might have set some new records.
I WAKE UP around noon and start calling people, telling them to come to the penthouse around three. Candy and I spend an hour rearranging furniture so the sofa, which now covers the remains of Declan’s sizable bloodstain, doesn’t look too out of place. Kasabian’s gimp leg makes him useless for this kind of work, so he hangs out at his desk kibitzing the whole time, like a half-crocked Martha Stewart.
Candy takes me into the bedroom and gets a box down from the top shelf of the closet. It’s flat and square, sealed with packing tape.
“I didn’t wrap it yet because it’s only Thanksgiving.”
“Remind me which one that is.”
“You don’t know what Thanksgiving is?”
“I’m aware of its existence but I don’t remember the details. We had different holidays in Hell.”
“It’s the one with turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie and everyone eats and drinks too much and people fall asleep watching football or making fun of people watching football.”
