A moment later, and almost as shocking and sudden as that recognition, I suddenly wondered if this was somehow my Countess of Cold Hands herself, escaped from Hell after being punished by Eligor. I jerked the jacket away. The thing was still droning on. If it was Caz, she sounded like an answering machine message that was starting to wear out.
“. . . hope you’ve stopped shouting at this thing by now. It’s not me,” the little horror was saying. “It’s a nizzic, a minor demon—a message carrier. Don’t worry how I got hold of it, or how it got out of Hell to reach you. Now, if you got yourself that drink I suggested, sit down and get comfortable. I need to tell you several things.”
I was too stunned to do anything but slump onto the couch and stare at the winged gob of phlegm as it parroted back the message my beloved had somehow taught it.
• • •
“The first is that I lied to you. Don’t feel bad, I lied to myself, too. It’s only now that I know you’re safely out of Hell that I can tell you that whatever you wish to call it—need, obsession, insane attraction, love—well, I also feel it, Bobby. I have since the first. But everything else I said is true. It doesn’t matter what we feel, because everything else is against us. And I mean everything. I won’t torment you with thoughts of what could be, because they can’t. But I won’t cheat you out of the most important part any more. Whatever it is you’re feeling, Bobby, I feel it, too. I cannot imagine not seeing you again. But that’s exactly how it has to be.
“Eligor is finally satisfied. His cruel trick worked. He got the feather back, he made you suffer, he made me suffer and even had the extra pleasure of making Marmora, the drowned girl, suffer as well. But knowing you, you’re determined to get some kind of revenge.
“You must forget about it. As things stand, he’ll probably leave you alone now. You can’t hope to survive his full attention again. But I will survive, Bobby. I will go on. I am not some mortal woman, some comparative child, who cannot live with pain and difficulty. I will survive. I shared the best moments of my life and myself with you. That will keep me during the times ahead.
“I love you. There. I’m sorry I never said it to your face. Now, please, forget me.”
• • •
When it finished reciting, the nizzic sat there slowly, blinking all its eyes but otherwise motionless as a lump of particularly dirty wax or a dead mouse that had been under the couch a long, long time. After a few moments it started over again from the beginning of the message in the same disturbing, not-quite-Caz voice. I listened to the bits I’d missed when I’d covered it with my jacket, none of them particularly important (except that they were more words from the woman I loved and who I sometimes thought I’d never hear or see again, and so each was as precious as a diamond). But as it got back onto the part I’d already heard, I decided I’d had enough. It was like listening to Caz down an old-fashioned long-distance line as she demonstrated the effect of multiple strokes on human speech. I threw my jacket over the little horror again.
But even though a part of me was grateful (no, ecstatic) to hear from Caz, and thrilled by the substance of the message—she did love me! She did!—I was also feeling a slow burn that was beginning to heat up. It was Eligor’s name that started it, or rather it was the way Caz had suggested that now was a good time to slink off into the undergrowth so Eligor the Horseman would forget all about me.
He was in a good mood, she said. The monster who had tortured both Caz and me, not to mention brought untold horror to human lives for countless thousands of years, was in a good mood. Yeah, that cheered me right up. And if I was really, really lucky, he was bored with torturing and humiliating me. I mean, yeah, he was still holding prisoner the woman I loved, probably raping and tormenting her, but I wasn’t supposed to dwell on that.
I’d thought for a long time that there would be nothing higher on my bucket list than squeezing the black, sticky blood out of the Grand Duke of Hell’s black, sticky heart, and that was still true. If I had been given a choice at that moment between destroying him and destroying Anaita, even if it meant she’d get me for sure . . . well, there would have been no contest. Eligor was an obscenity. The entire universe would benefit from his sudden and hopefully violent retirement.
But Eligor didn’t matter right now, because there was literally nothing I could do about him. I’d already made my way through Hell once, suffered hideously, and found that, just as I’d suspected, I couldn’t stand up to him for even a second. And I’d paid for that stupid decision with more hours of horrifying pain than any being could suffer anywhere else in the universe and still be able to renew his magazine subscriptions. But what mattered was that the bastard still had Caz. Anaita had Eligor’s horn, and I didn’t have a chance of getting her without it. I’d failed with the feather, but I knew Eligor would swap my beautiful Countess for the horn without a moment’s hesitation, because it would lift a big weight of concern for him. Without the horn, nobody in Heaven or Hell could ever prove that he’d made a deal with an angel. He might not give a shit about Bobby Dollar, but he was scared to hand any advantage to the other Hell-lords, fat slug Prince Sitri and Grand President Caym and the rest.
So despite the craziness, the joy, and the bitterness that were all burning through me after hearing Caz’s voice, nothing had actually changed. My only hope for a happy life—shit, probably my only hope for life, period—was to get that horn somehow and then force Eligor to give her back to me.
I went and fixed myself that drink Caz had suggested. I could hear the winged snotbag muttering away underneath my jacket, and it occurred to me that I might be able to use the same creature to send a message back to her. I had no idea if it would actually work, but as someone once said, Fortune favors the brave. Sam usually added, “And stomps on the stupid,” but I don’t think that’s entirely true. I’ve done all right so far, and nobody’s ever called me smart without tacking “-ass” onto the end.
I polished off the vodka-tonic pretty quick, then lifted the jacket. The nasty little thing was trying to fly again but of course not succeeding much, just bumbling around against the metal cage of the strainer while repeating its message like a broken toy. I lifted the strainer and reached in, and was surprised by how hot the thing was, like Silly Putty sauteed in butter. I dropped it, almost sucked my fingers until I realized what I’d be putting in my mouth, then grabbed a kitchen towel and tried again.
“. . . Don’t worry how . . .” it was saying as I lifted it up, but it was squirming a bit, too.
“Shut up,” I explained, and gave it a nasty squeeze, but not so roughly that it would pop or anything.
“. . . Got out of Hell . . .” it said quietly. I squeezed it again, harder.
“Shut up, you flying turd!”
After a few rounds of this merry game, the little blotch finally got the hint and stopped muttering Caz’s message. It sat in the towel, three red eyes staring at me, looking like something that a dog had eaten and then put back into play. I leaned in close to feel the heat coming off it. “I’m going to get you out,” I said as slowly and clearly as I could. “Pack a suitcase. I don’t know how long it will take, but I am going to get you out. I swear by the Highest.”
The nizzic stared at me, but I had clearly convinced it not to make any noise at all. I gave it the message again, this time with another squeeze, then again and again. After about the fifth time it goggled its eyes, opened its mouth, but instead of repeating what I said, it let out a belch like the tiniest corpse-fart you can imagine. It was still enough to make me lean back, eyes watering.
“All right, you little fuckstick,” I said. “You want to play with the big boys? You want to step to me?” I wrapped it in the towel like putting Frances Farmer in a straitjacket, then carried it into the kitchen. “Last chance. Repeat after me. I’m going to get you out . . .” But the nizzic only looked at me without a glimmer of understanding, like the world’s smallest c
omplaints department employee, so I opened my refrigerator and shoved it into the freezer, towel and all, and went back to pour myself a second drink.
Five minutes later I opened the freezer door. The thing was lying on its back, gasping like a landed fish, and something steaming hot was running out of its mouth and earholes and nostril slits. I held it while it shivered and crawled around in circles on my hand—it was much easier to hold now—and then gave it the message again.
It didn’t do anything useful, so I put it back in the freezer.
This process went on for about an hour. I put the sports news on the television and tried to make myself relax, but it didn’t work. Too many crazy things had been happening lately—armed Amazons, weird warnings, Dear John snotgoblin messages from the woman I loved, not to mention Nazi thugs and demonic arm-spiders, all shoving to get onto my calendar. I was tired, confused, and mad as hell. I was pissed off.
After I took it out for maybe the fourth time, the nizzic seemed to be getting the picture. It lay panting in my hand, sucking back in the hot liquids it had sweated out in an attempt to keep itself from freezing, and when I tried my message again it actually opened its mouth and croaked, “I’m going . . . I’m going . . . I’m going . . .” I thought it was just being melodramatic until I realized those were the first two words of my message.
That was all it would give me, though, so I shot it a stern look. “Any man don’t keep order gets a night in the box,” I warned, then I shoved it back in the freezer, but I didn’t leave it in too long this time.
I had downed maybe four vodkas by the time the turdball finally managed to repeat the whole message to me. I’m sure Caz had some better way to program the ugly bastard, but we all make do with what we have, and I was determined to let her know not only that I had heard the message, but that it didn’t change anything important. I was a little wobbly on my feet—I haven’t been drinking that much lately, as I think I said—but feeling more than a bit triumphant when someone knocked on the door.
I wrapped the towel around the flying hobgoblin so I could peek out and see who it was, then opened the door. Sam walked in. He looked me up and down and said, “You look weird. What’s that in your hand?”
I looked down at the squirming kitchen towel. “Hang on,” I said. “I’m almost finished here.” I opened the towel and the nizzic sat up, still shivering, its wings like crumpled cellophane. “What do you say, you ugly little fartsparrow? What do you say?”
“I think you need professional help more than you need a new pet, but I’m glad you’re trying to give your life meaning,” said Sam.
“Shut up,” I told him. “Any man talking loud gets a night in the box.”
“Oh, lord, it’s the Cool Hand Luke thing.” Sam shook his head and stared at the nizzic. “What is that?”
“Hold on. Like I said, I’m almost done.” I made the tiny monstrosity repeat the entire message through without mistakes, then took it to the window and stuck my hand out. It sat there on my palm for a moment, then spread its wings and buzzed off in awkward circles like a dangerously overloaded helicopter.
“So this is how you spend your evenings now?” Sam asked. “Professing your undying love to random snotbugs?”
“’S not a snotbug,” I said grumpily, then laughed. “’S not. Snot. No, ’sa snotgoblin. Incredibly huge difference.”
“Shit, B, how many drinks have you had?”
“Hardly any. Four. Maybe seven or eight if you count beers. Doesn’t matter. That was from Caz. She sent me a message.”
“And spared no expense, clearly. Whatta gal!”
“You . . . are an asshole.” I knew there was something I wanted to talk to Sam about, but damned if I could remember. Actually, I realized, I was pretty much damned no matter what. I laughed again.
“Coffee,” he said. “You’ll still be an idiot, but you’ll be an alert idiot.” He helped me up and kept a firm grasp on my elbow as we went down the stairs to his car, one of his usual selection of ultra-boring rides. Sam always drives cars that look like the government gave them to him. Not the CIA-sniper-rifle, high-tech government, either. I mean he drives shit that makes him look like he works for the post office or the Bureau of Prisons.
We wound up in a twenty-four hour joint down on the Camino Real at the edge of Spanishtown. After I’d had a couple of cups of coffee I began to feel like maybe life wasn’t so bad after all, so I told Sam everything that had happened—Caz’s nizzic, the Black Sun Faction and their swastikids, the Amazons, and even about my warning from Temuel. Then the alcohol started to wear off and all I had was the caffeine. I was seriously wondering which of the other customers I should strangle to burn off some of my irritation with the world when Sam came back from a trip to the restroom.
“They say man proposes, God disposes,” he told me, squeezing in behind the table. “But seems to me like I have to do most of the disposing. Man, I think I just pissed out several gallons in there. I’m serious. Like a racehorse.”
“Not really interested,” I told him.
“Actually, I’ve got something I need to tell you about.” Sam checked his coffee, which had gone cold, and waved for our ancient waitress to freshen it up.
“What’s that?” Maybe some food would help me, I decided. I was really jittery now. Maybe some pie.
“You asked me if you could come to Kainos.”
“Kainos?”
“That’s what we call the place. You know, the Third Way. You said you wanted to check it out.”
“Hey, don’t make it sound like I saw the light or something. This isn’t a conversion, man, I just need to make a fact-finding trip.”
“Well, that’s the problem, B. You’re not going to be making that trip. Things have changed.”
“What does that mean?”
“That the operation has been shut down, more or less. Kephas just told us that we’re not bringing in any more souls and that from now on there won’t be anyone going in or out except for me and the others who’ve been helping—the rest of the Magians.”
Magians was the name Sam’s group of angels had taken in their quest to find suitable human subjects willing to risk their souls to join the Third Way after death. “So you’re saying I can’t get in?”
“I have no idea what kind of controls or whatever Kephas has, but I’m pretty sure you’d be noticed if you even tried, which would put me square in the crosshairs. Remember, Bobby, unlike you I don’t have anywhere else to go if the shit hits the fan.”
I felt weird, exhausted, and wired at the same time, and even if it wasn’t making me feel cheerful anymore, I’m pretty sure the alcohol was still fucking with my judgement. I probably shouldn’t have broached the subject, not then, not there, but I was beginning to feel I needed to know where everybody really stood—who was truly on my side.
“Sam, I gotta tell you something. I know who Kephas is. And you know what? It’s your Kephas who’s out to get me.”
He just stared at me for a long time, then picked up his spoon and stirred his black coffee for another lengthy interval. “Talk,” he said at last.
And I did. You have to remember, I’d been holding this in a long time, ever since the dead murderer Smyler told me that Kephas was his boss, too, and Walter Sanders passed along something that made me realize that Kephas was probably Anaita. I had to explain the whole thing to Sam, of course. I’d held back a lot from him, how I’d met Walter in Hell and the whole works, and it took a long time to bring him up to date. Meanwhile, Sam just sat and sipped a little coffee and said nothing at all, but I have to say the vibe he was putting out was not a harmonious one.
I was praying that when I finished he’d do something good, slap my shoulder and tell me he was with me to the end, or come up with some better explanation that made sense out of everything, but instead when I stopped talking he just kept looking at me for a few seconds, then
said, “You done?”
I said I was.
“Good. Because I have to say that’s the biggest bunch of horseshit I’ve ever heard, and I’ve been shoveling the stables of untruth for many, many years.” He leaned back. “Look at you, Dollar. You’re a fucking wreck. You’re in love with a woman who was burned at the stake and admits herself she deserved it. You went to Hell for her, for Heaven’s sake! You’ve pissed off one of the heaviest hitters on the Opposition, you got the Compasses torn to pieces because of it, and now you’re trying to tell me that the thing I’ve worked on with all my heart for years is just some scam. In fact, you probably think it’s just another plot to get you. Do you think I’m in on it too, Bobby? That because I kept some secrets, I’m your enemy? That I’m working with Kephas to get you?”
“No, Sam, don’t be stupid . . . !”
“Stupid? Shit, don’t just look at yourself, listen to yourself. You move every few weeks, you’ve got bullet holes in your apartment wall, you don’t sleep, and you’ve got all your bosses pissed off at you, not to mention the hordes of Hell. But instead of just making a clean break and coming with me to Kainos, you’ve been determined all along to do it your own way. Well, old chum, I hate to tell you this, but your way sucks.”
While I was still sitting there with my mouth hanging open like a gaffed fish, he stood up and threw a five on the table for his coffee, then tossed a twenty in front of me. “Get yourself a cab, man. I don’t want to spend any more time with you right now. If you weren’t covered in bruises I’d be tempted to take you outside and pop you one in the nose.”