“Don’t sweat Hell, Father. There are Hellions down there and damned souls that owe me favors. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
The window is down a little on his side of the car. He pushes his hair back with a hand as lined and creased as his face. He does a little grunting laugh.
“I’ve read the most powerful and harrowing demonic texts you can imagine, and this conversation is still the strangest thing I’ve heard. You really think you can make deals with fallen angels?”
“There are Hellions down there with more honor than half the humans I meet.”
“That’s not terribly comforting, but I suppose it will have to do.”
“That pretty much sums up Hell.”
The road smooths out as we near the top. I can just see Avila’s blackened roof through the trees.
I say, “Too bad guys like us can’t apply for unemployment. You think they have special forms for being fired by a deity?”
“I heard you worked for Lucifer. Lucifer isn’t God.”
“You don’t spend enough time in Hollyginime in wood.”
Traven looks up through the trees. He’s spotted Avila, too. Candy is kicking the back of my seat again, bored with the talk and the drive. She wants to get her teeth into a demon. My kind of girl.
Traven says, “You’ve told me some of what you know about the universe; now let me tell you something. If you want to know why the world and all of Creation is so broken and afflicted, look up the word ‘demiurge.’ ”
Traven turns to look at Vidocq.
“If I’m killed today, I want you to take my library. I trust you to take care of my books.”
“I would be honored,” Vidocq says. “But there will be no dying today.”
“Demiurge?” I say. “That sounds like it has something to do with God, and not in a good way. Hell, I’ve burned so many bridges with the celestial types, I’d probably be better off cozying up to your Angra Om Ya pals than to any of the local celestial types.”
“Then I think all you’ll have to do is wait.”
“I was joking. The Angra Om Ya are dead.”
“What does death mean to a god?”
“You think the old gods are coming back?”
“I don’t think they ever left.”
I SWING THE car into the big circular driveway out front and park. We get out and Traven takes the duffel bag from Vidocq.
Avila has seen better days. Most of the roof has fallen in, leaving charred wood overhead, a puzzle palace of broken beams. The place has been thoroughly looted, trashed, and tagged by waves of squatters and skate punks. Moldy leather armchairs and silk-covered love seats surround the remains of a fire pit someone has chopped out of the driveway with who knows what improvised tools. A broken roulette wheel is almost lost in the grass that grows wild on all sides of the building. The ground glitters like a disco ball from all the broken glass. Even the walls are ripped open and the copper pipes inside are long gone.
“So this is what the gates of hell looks like,” says Father Traven.
“No,” says Vidocq. “Le palais de merde.”
Even with everything that’s been thrown at it since New Year’s, the front door is still standing, like Avila’s last dying gesture was giving the finger to the world. Maybe when we’re done, I’ll let Josef and his bunch loose on the place.
I gesture for the others to stay back, and push open the door. I’ve never walked into Avila through the front before, only out, and that was just the one time. I mostly went into the place through shadows, and then only to kill people. The good old days when things were simpler.
I have the na’at and knife in my coat and the .460 cocked and locked up and ready to kill any spooky sounds or scary shadows.
Even though much of the roof is gone, it’s dim inside, so I let my eyes adjust and then sweep the room. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound. It’s as quiet as a pulled-pork-rib joint next to a synagogue.
I wave the others inside.
“It’s safe to go in?” asks Traven.
“It’s clear. I don’t know about safe. I don’t hear rats or even roaches in the walls. That’s not a good sign.”
“What does that mean?” asks Traven.
Vidocq says, “When even vermin abandon a building, it means that sensible people will stay out, too.”
“Right now we’re officially dumber than rats and roaches,” says Candy.
“Welcome to our world, Father.”
Traven starts to cross himself, catches himself halfway through, and drops his hand. Old habits die hard.
“Let’s go. I’m pretty sure I know where the kid is, so I’m up front. Vidocq and the father in the middle. You okay watching our asses, Candy?”
“What do you think?”
“Here we go.”
I lead them around the circular front room. We stay close to the walls. The place used to be full of antique furniture and Persian rugs. Now I can see down to the rock and grass of the hill where the floor has partially collapsed.
A couple of turns down a hall and the ceiling is intact. All of a sudden I’m missing the holes in the roof and their spooky shadows. With no lights back here, the place is pitch-black. As much as I hate it, I let the angel take the lead. Its vision is built for darkness.
The moment I ease back and let it run the show, Avila lights up like Vegas. I grab Vidocq’s sleeve and tell Traven and Candy to hold on to each other. Then I walk them slowly around the circular corridors toward the sacrifice chamber.
It doesn’t take long to find it. All roads lead here, the black nasty heart of the place. This is where I should have killed Mason. It’s the room where I rescued Aelita. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven m000r forgie for saving her. Maybe her thank-you note got lost in the mail.
The chamber’s double doors are still open, still full of bullet holes and shotgun slugs from the New Year’s Eve raid. Around here is where Candy and I had that first kiss on New Year’s, shot up and covered in other people’s blood. Good times.
A pale light comes from the room. I leave the others and step inside, sweeping the Smith & Wesson back and forth over debris from the partially collapsed roof. Going slow, I let my senses expand and fill the place, feeling for anything with lungs or a heartbeat. I feel something. I step lightly around bowling-ball-size chunks of marble that have fallen from the walls. A shaft of sunlight cuts down from a hole in the ceiling onto the stone sacrifice platform, and there’s Hunter, stretched out like a boiled lobster, ready for the butter and claw crackers.
I wave Traven and the others in. They spread out around the platform. Traven goes right for the kid. We hang back, letting the father do his thing. Hunter is lying on his back. He’s very still. His chest hardly moves. He looks like he’s been beaten, left under a heat lamp, and dragged behind a truck. Patches of blackened skin are peeling away from his arms and face. The skin that isn’t black or raw red is the greenish blue of tainted meat. Hunter’s clothes would make any self-respecting wino jealous. Worn and splitting at the seams, they’re covered in dried blood, shit, and vomit. He looks like he’s been wearing the rags for weeks instead of a couple of days.
Traven leans in right over Hunter’s mouth, listening for something. I’m waiting for the demon to take the bait and gnaw his ear off. But Hunter doesn’t move.
Traven goes back to his duffel, unzips it, and lays out a bag of sea salt and bread on the floor next to him. Next he takes out a battered wooden box. Inside is a bottle of black sacred oil and a yellowed bone pen shaped kind of like a short, thick hockey stick. He dips the pen in the oil and scrawls symbols along all four sides of the sacrifice platform. He’s creating a binding hex to keep the demon locked on the platform and away from us. I recognize most of the symbols. There’s Hebrew and Greek. Some angelic script and even some Hellion cuneiform script. It’s the last set of symbols that are the most interesting. Chicken scratches from some obscure heretical cookbook. I’ll lay you odds they’re from that Angra Om Ya book. Fine by me. Whatever hoodoo will keep Hunter and his demon on that side of the room and us over here in the cheap seats is fine by me. Now that I think about it, we should all be wearing body armor. Damn. Next exorcism for sure.
Traven’s bread is a disappointment. It looks like an ordinary round loaf of French or sourdough. I was hoping for something belching fire and spinning like lowrider rims.
Traven rips the bread apart, setting a piece down every few inches from Hunter’s throat to his crotch. He scoops up a handful of salt from the bag and drops a little mound of salt between each piece of bread. He sets the salt bag back in his duffel and moves it to the side of the room. He does it all in slow, practiced moves. A kind of moving meditation gearing up for the next step.
Traven points to Hunter’s head, where he wants me to stand. He stations Candy by the feet. Vidocq is in the middle across from the father.
Traven says, “I understand that you carry potions with you.”
Vidocq opens his coat like a flasher, showing Traven the dozens of pockets sewn into the lining.
Traven does his little smile.
“Do you have Spiritus Dei?”
“I didn’t know the Church knew about or approved of such alchemical tricks.”
Spiritus Dei is one of the best things in the universe. Like one of those all-in-one cleaners for your kitchen or hoodoo duct tape. It’ll fix anything. It’s a repellent for Hellions, demons, and pretty much any other nasty things with teeth. It’ll Scotch Guard your panties from hexes and even cure some poisons. It’s better than chicken-fried steak, but not by much.
“The church isn’t here. I am. I’d like you to have some Spiritus Dei ready to throw if Hunter should get through the wards I’ve placed around the platform.”
Vidocq nods.
“I’ll be ready.”
Traven looks at Candy and me.
“If he gets out, grab him and hold him, but try not to break him.”
“I don’t make rash promises. But he won’t get away,” I say.
Traven turns to the boy, holding his hands over him, palms down. His head is forward and eyes are closed. He’s praying. To whom? I wonder.
Traven opens his eyes, raises his hands, and starts a chant. Another prayer, blessing the bread and salt. But I’ve never heard anything like what’s coming out of his mouth, and I’ve heard drunk Hellions. Whatever language he’s speaking is full of blurps, hisses, and deep Tibetan-monk throat drones and glottal stops. It sounds like a man drowning.
Hunter’s eyes snap open. They’re yellow and bloodshot, but alert. His heart is beating a million miles an hour, but his breathing is ragged. I don’t know how both of those things can be going on inside him without him having a heart attack. His mouth slowly falls open. A vapor, as thin as fog but as bright as fire, drifts out. Guess Hunter’s mother was telling the truth when she said he spit fire when he burned the symbol into the ceiling.
It doesn’t surprise or impress Traven even a little. With one hand he pushes Hunter’s head down. With the other hand, he picks up salt and throws it into Hunter’s mouth. Then he shoves in a piece of bread to seal in whatever’s trying to get out. divto get Hunter goes completely batshit, thrashing and convulsing like he’s being electrocuted. He flails his arms at his face, trying to knock out the bread, but Traven’s magic has taken away a lot of his motor control. Traven keeps a hand over the kid’s mouth, holding the bread in place. I grab Hunter’s shoulders and Candy holds his feet to keep him from kicking.
Traven chants, and with one hand over Hunter’s mouth he sprinkles salt over the lumps of bread and wolfs them down. Each time he downs bread and salt, Hunter goes wilder and wilder. I’m holding him tight. Candy is leaning over him, resting her whole weight on Hunter’s legs.
All at once he stops moving. Goes completely limp. No one moves, in case he’s playing possum. But Hunter doesn’t twitch. Finally Traven nods to me and Candy and I let go. He takes some of the remaining salt and uses his finger to draw an elaborate sign on Hunter’s forehead. He still isn’t moving. I look at Candy and Vidocq and then back to the kid. I’m getting worried that the bread Traven shoved into Hunter’s mouth has choked him. Traven takes the bread out of Hunter’s mouth, cupping his hands around it. He holds it out with both hands.
Traven says, “The demon is in here. Use the Spiritus Dei.”
Vidocq pops the top off the small vial with his thumb and upends the Spiritus on the bread. Traven squeezes the bread like a wet sponge so that some of the liquid dribbles into Hunter’s mouth. Then Traven shoves the bread into his own mouth, chews, and swallows it quick. When it’s down, he gets a funny look on his face.
I say, “What?”
“It doesn’t taste right.”
“What does that mean?”
“I should taste the remains of the demon. It’s something, but it’s not—” That’s the last thing he gets out before Hunter’s hand snaps up and grabs him by the throat.
The kid gets a good grip and lifts Traven from the floor. Traven flails at Hunter’s arms, but he might as well be hitting tree trunks with a powder puff. I punch Hunter on the side of the head, digging a knuckle into his temple hard, but not hard enough to crack bone. He doesn’t even react, just keeps squeezing Traven. Candy leaps from the end of the platform onto Hunter’s chest. As she pushes him down, I give him one more shot in the head. I can’t hit him any harder without scrambling his brains, so I aim low, hitting his floating ribs hard enough that I can feel a couple crack. That gets the message through. Hunter gasps and drops Traven, suddenly not able to breathe. Candy gives him a decent shot to the jaw before I pull her off. That knocks Hunter back onto his back. But not for long.
