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I kiss her leg and get up. I stink from sweat and burned skin and need a shower.
On my way to the bathroom I say, “I’m going Downtown to see Mr. Muninn. You can come with me or you can stay here and sulk.”
I stand under the hot water for a long time, washing off the grime and dead skin. The wound has already closed, though I can feel the bullet inside me.
I put on a robe and go back into the bedroom.
Candy has closed the laptop. She and Vidocq are quietly watching the movie. I sit down beside her on the bed. She balls up her fist and punches my real arm.
“Ow.”
“I wasn’t sulking. I was mad. And not entirely at you.”
“I know. Trust me. If I could, I’d be the most boring bastard in the world.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” says Vidocq.
“Okay. Tenth most boring bastard.”
Candy says, “Sometimes you get worked up. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Really? How does stopping to grab money in the middle of an explosion count as careful?”
The fake Qomrama and the cash are lying nearby on the bed. I pick up the money.
“Did you count it?”
“It’s just shy of four thousand dollars.”
“Chicken-and-waffles money.”
Along the edges, the bills are as crisp and singed as I am. I show them to Vidocq. He chuckles and leans in closer.
He says, “That’s a strange design on the clip. It almost reminds me of the Golden Vigil. Though not entirely.”
The Golden Vigil. God’s Pinkertons on earth. They were a Homeland Security offshoot that Vidocq and I used to work for. The Vigil worked with a special group of agents using angelic tech, supposedly monitoring and policing nefarious hoodoo-related activity. Zombies. Rogue vampires. Demon attacks. Hell, they even put Lucifer on a terrorist watch list. Mostly, though, they were just another set of bullheaded cops in better suits. U.S. Marshal Larson Wells and, more importantly, Aelita ran the show. That’s until she went on her god-killing crusade and the government shut the Vigil down. Not a tear was shed.
“Not quite? You’re sure?”
Vidocq nods.
“I’m positive. Not the Vigil.”
“But still similar.”
“Yes. Similar.”
I toss the money back on the bed.
“I wish I could have talked to Garrett. All this cash. Passports. A mechanical familiar. Who the hell was he waiting for?”
“And who was the bomb for? Monsieur Garrett or the party buying from him?” says Vidocq.
“He had a familiar?” says Candy.
“Yeah; a good one too. I should have grabbed the asshole’s wallet.”
