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Candy goes over to her.
“He doesn’t mean you personally,” says Candy.
“She right. You’re the only angel that didn’t take a dump on my head the moment you saw me.”
She turns and stares into the dark.
“What a world we’ve made. Samael, the betrayer, is now Father’s staunchest ally, while my sister Hadraniel is my sworn enemy. And here I am with a damned mortal, an inhuman, and a jesting monster as my companions in battle. It’s all so confusing.”
“I felt the same way when they changed Darrin on Bewitched.”
She shakes her head like she’s trying to wake herself up. I actually feel sorry for an angel.
“Look, nothing ever makes sense. I’ve never met a happy angel. Even at the beginning of time when you could pretend it was just you and Mr. Muninn, you knew the Kissi were hiding in the dark. Monsters under your bed. But you pretended like they weren’t there. That kind of thing makes mortals crazy too. It’s called denial.”
Hesediel looks at me hard. I scratch my head.
“Mortals, angels, and Abominations, all we get are moments between shit storms. So, have a fucking drink or have a fucking laugh or go sit in the fucking dark and pout because the universe forgot your birthday.”
Hesediel stares at the blood on her wrist.
“No one has ever spoken to me like that before. Not even Hadraniel.”
“It’s a habit. How do you think I got all these scars?”
She does the universe’s tiniest laugh.
“Do you think Quay is home yet?” says Bill.
“Only one way to find out. Let’s go light a barbecue.”
“Thank the Lord. I thought you’d never shut up.”
WE LEAVE THE van on Franklin Street and head up into the park. Instead of taking the nice, smooth, probably-not-going-to-break-your-ankle-in-three-places road, we duck into the vegetation and climb through Hell’s little Eden.
Griffith Park back in the world is a lot of brittle scrub, annoying bushes, and thirsty trees covering what’s essentially a big rock hemorrhoid looming over Hollywood. Most people go there for the big observatory. Others for the zoo. Still others like the view, though they’re the strangest bunch of all. Hollywood in broad daylight is a miserable place. Maybe sixty years ago some vestiges of golden-age glamour still clung to the place, but even then it was less like romance and more like a particularly enchanting strain o
f tuberculosis.
Now the Boulevard is a parched dump full of tourist T-shirts and mournful bars, with a few expensive restaurants so out of place it’s like they crashed to Earth on a meteor. At one end of Hollywood Boulevard, you’ll get your pocket picked outside an all-night liquor store, and at the other end, you’ll be outright mugged by alcoholics who couldn’t get SAG cards, but could afford secondhand Spider-Man or Wonder Woman costumes. They’re clingier than lampreys and scarier than ticks, and the only cure is to give them twenty bucks for a shitty Polaroid.
But Hollywood at night is a different story. Hollywood has always been a night city. A place built for vampires and insomniacs. It’s all blinking lights, neon, the dully glowing stars on the Walk of Fame, and the outlines of not-so-healthy palm trees, but it’s okay because they’re as spectral as the rest of the place and more alive because of it. Hell, on the other hand, doesn’t have real nights. Just an endless, dirty twilight, perfect weather for a teen goth tea party. Because of this, when we go up the hill, we have to move far from the road; otherwise there might be just enough light to see us.
Of course, Hellion Griffith Park doesn’t have the same stupid trees and irritating bushes as regular Griffith Park. No, this park is more twisted, vicious, and thorny than Sleeping Beauty’s bastard castle.
There are bushes with poisonous berries that burst if you make the slightest contact. Black, twisted trees drop rotten fruit full of venomous centipedes the size of dachshunds. There are shallow pools of toxic algae and deep pools full of deadly puffer fish that look like balloons covered in tiny chain saws instead of spines. A miasma blows through the forest that corrodes your lungs and stings your eyes. Basically, everything in the fucking place is infectious, malignant, noxious, and lethal.
I fucking hate nature.
We have to go slow to minimize our contact with all the vicious vegetable bullshit. And by “we” I mean everyone but Hesediel. Yeah, the stroll makes her as filthy and foul-smelling as the rest of us, but angels are immune to these Downtown poisons. While the rest of us are hopping around roots and barbed vines like we’re in the finals of a St. Vitus dance contest, Hesediel tromps ahead like the world’s most annoying Sherpa, blazing the trail, but leaving us in her virulent dust.
I run a few steps to catch up to her, snagging my coat on mustard-gas seed pods and tromping on flowers that smell like an alligator’s ass.
“Slow down a little. Goddammit.”
She stops and looks back at the others.
“I’m sorry. I simply wanted to begin as soon as possible. You were right what you said at the tavern. We’re only afforded mere moments of pleasure. It will be my pleasure to deal with these conspirators and return to Heaven and the pleasures of a simpler battle.”
