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“Brown said they’re barely holding reality together as it is. Without her . . .”
He shrugs.
“We’ve had reality rips here before, but it sounds like the next one could be like a dam bursting.”
“Why L.A.?” I say. “I mean, why is the shit coming down here?”
“We’re sitting on a major power spot,” says the Shonin. “A great part of the imagination of the world is attached to this city. Also, the Qomrama Om Ya is here. And you.”
“Me?”
“You do seem to attract these things,” says Wells.
I’ve wondered about that myself a few times. Do I have the bad luck to show up at the right time and place for Armageddons or am I a shit magnet that brings the monsters down on anyone in my general vicinity?
“And you love it,” I say. “You secretly want it all to end ’cause you think you’re going to get Raptured and that idea gives you a salvation hard-on.”
“Language,” Wells says.
But he doesn’t deny it.
“I have something for both of you to do besides standing around catfighting and playing Marian the Librarian. There’s been another Saint Nick killing. At least it looks like Saint Nick. You two are coming with me to check it out.”
“Shouldn’t we stay here and study the Qomrama?” says the Shonin.
“That would be nice, if you have time between rounds. But this isn’t an ordinary killing. From the first reports, the scene sounds something like what Stark found in the meat locker. I want Stark there to see how well it matches and I want you there,” he says, looking at the Shonin, “to keep an eye on him.”
“You won’t be coming?” I say.
“Of course I’ll be coming. But I’ll be busy doing actual forensic work. I’ll leave the pixie stuff to you two. But I’ll want a basic assessment on the scene. Is this another Angra-related killing?”
This time I take out the Maledictions. Smoking is a good way to get away from these two for a minute.
“Another thirteen dead? That sounds like the Angra right there.”
Wells shake his head. Gives me a grim smile.
“Not thirteen this time. Last number I heard was eighty plus. It’s hard to tell, what with all the body parts mixed together.”
I’m glad Candy didn’t come with me today.
“When are we leaving?”
“Go out and have your cigarette. We’ll be done packing by the time you finish it.”
Wells starts out of the room, then turns back to us.
“The killing took p
lace at Greendale House, an upscale funny farm. Where the rich tuck away their embarrassing relations. We’re going to be meeting the head of the facility. Is there any chance of you wearing a suit?”
“Not much.”
“Silly of me to ask.”
“Kind of.”
WE HEAD OUT in a caravan of three Vigil SUVs modified to cut through the flooded streets like icebreakers. Candy didn’t answer when I called to tell her I might not be home for a while. I probably didn’t even need to call, but I can’t tell time anymore. With the constantly dark skies it feels like midnight all the time, even though I know it’s the middle of the afternoon. I’ve heard that it’s becoming a problem for some people, the ones susceptible to light. Seasonal affective disorder. Without sunlight, some people go into hibernation mode. Depression is up. The Vigil has its own stockpiles of drugs because L.A. is running out of every upper, mood stabilizer, and antidepressant known to man. Smack chic is a thing of the past. Who need drugs to stare at your shoe all day? Living half asleep all the time, it’s easy. Meth is the new drug of choice, or coke for those with money to burn. And prices are going up, up, up. I should have invested that money the Dark Eternal gave me in coca-leaf futures and the plastic surgeons who are going to have to repair all the septums movie stars are burning out trying to stay awake.
