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“I miss your crank calls. Did you lose interest in harassing me?”
“Not at all. There’s just a lot of work to do down here. Busy, busy, busy. What have you been up to?”
“Killing Aelita and Medea Bava.”
“That’s not what I heard. I heard it was the priest who killed Bava.”
“Ah. So you are keeping tabs on things.”
“It’s getting easier. Using the key. Possessing humans. You might have noticed.”
“Yes. That was you possessing Father Traven.”
“Of course.”
“That’s where it all came together for me. You take over Traven. He gives the 8 Ball to Medea. Medea kills Aelita to get her out of the way. That means she can come back to Hell and give the 8 Ball to Deumos. She’s the key to all this. The goddess worshipper who brought the Qomrama to this universe from wherever the Angra are stuck. She wants it to do the final summoning.”
“Look at you, thinking like you haven’t completely pickled your brain yet.”
“And this whole thing comes back to you Hellions’ obsession with suicide. You think if the Angra come back, they’ll destroy all of Creation and put you out of your misery once and for all.”
“Why not? Father won’t do it. Or can’t. Who else are we to turn to?”
“I tried to save you tonight. I almost had him talked into opening Hell and letting you bastards flutter home to Heaven.”
“What’s the phrase? Almost only counts in hoof slippers?”
“Horseshoes. It only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. You’re right. But if you assholes hold on a little longer . . . Let Mr. Muninn—I mean Lucifer—deal with Ruach, he can reopen Heaven and you won’t have to destroy the entire fucking universe.”
“Promises. Promises. We lost faith in you when you were Lucifer. Why should we listen to you now?”
“I don’t know. It’s something to break up the tedium.”
“I tell you what, Mr. Sandman Slim. You proceed with your plan and we’ll proceed with ours, and we’ll see who gets there first.”
“I have the Qomrama, you know. I’ll use it against the Angra. And you.”
“A peashooter against an army. Good luck. Is this all you called about? I’m disappointed.”
“Stay in touch, asshole. I miss these fireside chats.”
“We’ll see. It’s not as fun when you want me to call.”
“Okay. Fuck you. If you wake up dead some night, don’t say I didn’t try to make nice first.”
“Good-bye.”
“Adios.”
I go downstairs and find Candy sitting with Kasabian on his bed, at least a dozen take-out menus spread about between them.
“Where’s Samael?”
“He kindly volunteered to go to the corner for beer. In the rain,” says Candy.
“Damn. He really doesn’t want to go home. Have you decided on dinner yet?”
“We’re down to Indian or Thai.”
