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“That’s her.”
He swings his chair around to face me.
“Then it’s her.”
“Where is she?”
“Guess.”
“The world’s ending. Remember? I don’t have time for this shit.”
“A donut shop.”
He leans back on his chair, lacing his fingers together over his stomach like the cat that ate the canary and a Buick for dessert.
“There’s a donut shop in Hell?”
“Just one. The donuts don’t look too good. I guess it’s like gas station food. If you need tuna salad at four A.M. on the I-10 on your way to El Paso, you’re only going to find it where you fill up.”
“Where’s the shop?”
“On the big boulevard about a block north of the palace. She was within a hundred yards of you the whole time you were Lucifer.”
I check my pockets for weapons. Colt. My black blade. Na’at.
“I didn’t get out much. Lucifer isn’t a mingler.”
“If you stop in on her, bring me back a Bavarian cream. I’ll auction it off on eBay. Authentic Hellion snack food—the Satanists will love it.”
“I don’t think you can sell food on eBay.”
“Then bring me back a baseball cap with a logo. Something.”
“Sure.”
I head for a shadow by the front door.
Kasabian says, “What’s the magic word?”
“What?”
“ ‘Thank you.’ That’s what we say when someone does us a favor.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“ ‘Thank you’ is the proper way to say it.”
“I’ve still got pieces of people’s guts on my boots. Thanks is as good as it gets.”
“You’re welcome.”
He swings back around to watch his movie. Ernest Borgnine is turning into a goat.
I pull up the hoodie I put on under my coat and step into the shadow.
I SPENT ELEVEN years trapped Downtown and have been back plenty of times since, but it gets harder each time. I was only Lucifer for three months, but it left me wary of Hell in ways that even being a slave there didn’t. I used to kill Hellions because I didn’t have a choice. When I was Lucifer I killed them to stay alive and sometimes just to make a point. Part of the job description for Lucifer is “ruthless bastard,” and even if I was a joke when it came to running Downtown, I was employee of the month when it came to saving my own skin. Sometimes in rotten ways. Like dragging a Hellion to death behind my motorcycle. I can’t see Mr. Muninn playing Lucifer the half-assed way I did. He’s smarter than me, and for good or bad, he’s nicer, even if he is part of the God that I swore I’d never trust again.
The inside of the Room of Thirteen Doors isn’t much to look at. Just a circular chamber with a series of closed doors. To one side are a few books I brought to Father Traven while he was hiding here. I busted him out of Hell and it took a couple of days to get him to Blue Heaven, where he could hide from prying eyes. Across from the books are the Mithras and the Singularity.
