“Yeah. Thanks.”
Samael comes in wearing a silk bathrobe, like Cary Grant looking for Katharine Hepburn.
“I heard noise. Did I miss anything fun?”
I give him the finger. He looks at me slumped on the couch and Chaya’s red face.
“I did. Damn.”
“Shut your mouth, child,” says Chaya to Samael. “You never did know your place.”
“My place? I’m quite comfortable in Hell, Father. You’re the one who looks like a peacock in the Sahara.”
“Enough, you two,” says Muninn.
He takes the empty glass from my hand and sits down across from me.
“Why are you here, James?”
I cough a couple of times, trying to get my voice back.
“The Angra are on their way. Mason did the summoning ritual. I stopped it before he was done, but something still got through.”
Muninn turns and looks out the window.
“It had to happen. It was just a matter of time. Still, if we had a little longer maybe there’s something else . . . I don’t know. We’d be so much stronger if we could reunite with Ruach.”
“He’d rather die and see us dead first,” says Chaya.
I set down my glass.
“I might have a way to beat them, but it’s going to cost someone big.”
“What’s your idea?” Muninn says.
“The Angra want you dead and they want the Room. I can give them the second thing. Herd them in and seal it forever. The trick is getting them inside.”
“How will you do that?”
“Not me. One of you two. The Angra hate you. They’ll follow you anywhere. One of you leads them into the Room and I seal it so no one gets out.”
That quiets everybody down. Samael looks at me. He isn’t happy. I just told him that one of his dads has to die and he knows I’m right. I think the only other time I shut him up was that time I stabbed him. That was fun.
“You’re asking us to commit suicide,” says Muninn.
“Technically, just one of you.”
“See?” Chaya says. “It’s exactly what I told you. He wants us dead.”
“It’s not what I want. If one of you big brains can figure out a better way to guarantee the Angra get in the Room, please tell me.”
“There might be an alternative,” says Samael.
“What’s that?” says Muninn.
“Reunite. You fell apart because you couldn’t bear the weight of all creation. Reunite now to save it.”
Muninn looks at Chaya and Chaya looks at Muninn. They can’t stand each other.
“We would be stronger reunited, Chaya,” Muninn says. “Perhaps strong enough to convince Ruach to join us. Even force him if we have to.”
“We’ll still be incomplete. Nefesh and Neshamah are dead.”
“The alternative is for one of us to die and we’d be weaker still.”
“I don’t trust the Abomination. He is made of lies.”
“We should try.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Yes. You will.”
Muninn lunges at his brother. Grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him into the wall hard enough that they leave a dent. Chaya grabs Muninn’s arms and spins him around. Now he’s against the wall and Chaya tries to push him away, but only succeeds in driving him farther into the drywall. Muninn hugs his brother, pulling Chaya’s body onto his. Their bodies blur, like a camera going out of focus, then sharpening again. They’re drained of color. Just a couple of round gray men settling a family squabble that’s been festering for aeons. Muninn lays his hands on Chaya’s face, and when he pulls them back, Chaya’s skin comes with him, stretching like warm taffy. Chaya pushes away, but Muninn leans in like he wants to head-butt his brother. Everywhere Muninn touches Chaya, they sink into each other. Chaya fights back, pulling away from Muninn so their half-melted flesh rips and snaps. But each time he does, Muninn moves in again, and they sink into each other. They fall on the floor, a writhing gray mass of furious protoplasm.
Then it stops. The mass breaks apart. The two brothers lie sprawled on the carpet, each regaining his color. Muninn sits up first. He tries to talk, but he’s out of breath.
“It won’t work. Chaya is too resistant and I’m too weak.”
Samael says, “Forget Stark’s idea. There has to be a better way.”
Muninn shakes his head.
“No. We tried it your way and it didn’t work. And Chaya is right. Even if we two came together, we wouldn’t have the strength to hold off the Angra for long. They would destroy Heaven, Hell, and Earth. And who knows how much of the rest of the universe?”
Chaya stands up and goes across the room, trying to put some distance between himself and his brother.
“You’re a fool to volunteer.”
He looks at Samael.
“And you’re a fool to let him.”
He looks at me.
“You. Get out. Now.”
Samael helps Muninn up off the floor.
He says, “Chaya is right. There are things we have to take care of. When do you think you’ll want to do this?”
“Soon. Tonight.”
Muninn looks at the bottle on the table. He goes over and pours himself a stiff one.
“All right. I’ll be ready.”
I get up and go over to Samael.
“Take a walk with me?”
“Of course.”
He turns to his fathers and for a second I see how strange this whole thing must be for him. The only father I knew was a bastard who tried to shoot me. Samael has to balance two versions of the same father simultaneously. Muninn, all compassion, but who’s spent most of his existence pretending not to be a deity. And Chaya, dog shit in a tight suit, but one who’ll never give up. He’ll fight forever to stay alive.
Samael and I get in the elevator and go down to the basement and the kennels.
“Do me a favor and make sure the hounds are hungry and ready to go. I have a feeling we’ll need them before the night is over.”
He looks around at the beasts pawing at their cages.
“I’ll make sure. And I’ll join you in Los Angeles when Father settles on how he wants to handle things.”
“We should talk about that.”
“How so?”
“Later. When you come to town. For now work on the dogs. I need to make a stop before going home.”
“I’d give you one of the cars, but you don’t want to be seen in the streets. Neither do I. Not after what we did to Merihim.”
“You sorry about that?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Good. See you Uptown.”
“Don’t destroy the world without me.”
I step into a shadow and come out by the deserted market across from Wild Bill’s bar.
PANDEMONIUM IS AS waterlogged as L.A. and just as deserted. Are all the little Hellions huddled in their grimy Hobbit holes or, like L.A.’s scaredy cats, on the run, hoping to find a haven less obviously doomed?
I walk through the bloody downpour and push open the door to the bar.
In all the time I’ve been coming here I remember very few moments without noise from the jukebox, from arguments, from laughter, and from deals and schemes being hatched. But tonight it’s quieter than a Texas graveyard on Super Bowl Sunday. Bill and Cindil are seated at a table on the far side of the room. Each has a glass in front of them, but neither is drinking.
“Is business so grim you don’t even go behind the bar anymore?”
Bill’s eyes flicker to something over my shoulder. I reach for the Colt but get a whiff of the room and listen for the scraping of boots. I don’t bother with the gun then because I know I’m surrounded. One of them moves around in front of me. I look left and right. Four more Hellion legionnaires. Lucky me. It’s not a whole platoon, just some hotshots looking for a bounty. I put my hands up.
The solder in front of me gets his Glock right up in my face and reaches under my coat, feeling around for my gun. When he locates something solid, the idiot tries to snatch it, but ends up screaming. What he got hold of was my knife and now his fingers are bloody bratwurst cut down to the bone. I punch him in the throat and, while he’s gagging, pull the Colt, shoving the pistol under his chin.