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He says, “Chaya is right. There are things we have to take care of. When do you think you’ll want to do this?”
“Soon. Tonight.”
Muninn looks at the bottle on the table. He goes over and pours himself a stiff one.
“All right. I’ll be ready.”
I get up and go over to Samael.
“Take a walk with me?”
“Of course.”
He turns to his fathers and for a second I see how strange this whole thing must be for him. The only father I knew was a bastard who tried to shoot me. Samael has to balance two versions of the same father simultaneously. Muninn, all compassion, but who’s spent most of his existence pretending not to be a deity. And Chaya, dog shit in a tight suit, but one who’ll never give up. He’ll fight forever to stay alive.
Samael and I get in the elevator and go down to the basement and the kennels.
“Do me a favor and make sure the hounds are hungry and ready to go. I have a feeling we’ll need them before the night is over.”
He looks around at the beasts pawing at their cages.
“I’ll make sure. And I’ll join you in Los Angeles when Father settles on how he wants to handle things.”
“We should talk about that.”
“How so?”
“Later. When you come to town. For now work on the dog
s. I need to make a stop before going home.”
“I’d give you one of the cars, but you don’t want to be seen in the streets. Neither do I. Not after what we did to Merihim.”
“You sorry about that?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Good. See you Uptown.”
“Don’t destroy the world without me.”
I step into a shadow and come out by the deserted market across from Wild Bill’s bar.
PANDEMONIUM IS AS waterlogged as L.A. and just as deserted. Are all the little Hellions huddled in their grimy Hobbit holes or, like L.A.’s scaredy cats, on the run, hoping to find a haven less obviously doomed?
I walk through the bloody downpour and push open the door to the bar.
In all the time I’ve been coming here I remember very few moments without noise from the jukebox, from arguments, from laughter, and from deals and schemes being hatched. But tonight it’s quieter than a Texas graveyard on Super Bowl Sunday. Bill and Cindil are seated at a table on the far side of the room. Each has a glass in front of them, but neither is drinking.
“Is business so grim you don’t even go behind the bar anymore?”
Bill’s eyes flicker to something over my shoulder. I reach for the Colt but get a whiff of the room and listen for the scraping of boots. I don’t bother with the gun then because I know I’m surrounded. One of them moves around in front of me. I look left and right. Four more Hellion legionnaires. Lucky me. It’s not a whole platoon, just some hotshots looking for a bounty. I put my hands up.
The solder in front of me gets his Glock right up in my face and reaches under my coat, feeling around for my gun. When he locates something solid, the idiot tries to snatch it, but ends up screaming. What he got hold of was my knife and now his fingers are bloody bratwurst cut down to the bone. I punch him in the throat and, while he’s gagging, pull the Colt, shoving the pistol under his chin.
Unfortunately, I miscounted the number of creeps in the room. One must have been crouched nearby under the tables. Before I can turn, he coldcocks me. I stumble, trip over a chair, and land on a table still holding on to Mr. Sausage Fingers. The clumsy landing knocks the Colt out of my hand and it slides across the room, too far for me to dive for.
I shove the maimed Hellion away and slump over a chair, looking a lot more hurt than I really am. I wish I could reach my gun, but I can’t, so I pull the na’at. I feign a fall, and as the coldcocker moves in to hit me again, I swing the na’at, extending it into a barbed spear. It goes deep into the soldier’s gut, and when I pull it back, a fair amount of insides comes with it. The sight freezes his buddies long enough for me to get out the black blade and toss it through the eye of a soldier by the jukebox.
