LITMIR.BIZ

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I dive for the floor. When he fires the Devil Daisy, I’m behind the bed collapsing the na’at to its spear configuration. I dig one end into the floor and, staying low, angle the shaft over me.

      The first wave of dragon fire hits, tries to tear the na’at out of my hand. The intricate Hellion web of edges, angles, and teeth along the weapon’s body spreads the fire out and over me. Then the second thing happens. The one I’ve been worried about.

      The Daisy explodes. The room turns into Dresden, burning under the Allied planes. It’s Rome while Nero fiddled and pissed on the panicked mobs. It’s Hamburg and Chicago and the Hindenburg all going off at once in my room. It’s all I can do to hold the na’at in place and channel the supernova on the other side of the bed anywhere but on top of me.

      And it’s over. No fire. No smoke. No nothing. The Daisy has swallowed the remains of the fire. The room is a wreck. Lath is blown off the walls. Part of the ceiling is down. The junk on the bootleg table is scattered around the room like a hurricane blew through. All the windows are gone.

      I pick up the charred bed and push it out of the way. Kasabian is lying under it. Considering how he looked before the explosion, he’s not looking that bad right now. His right arm is gone. The Daisy took that off when it blew. And his head has fallen off. I get down on my knees and push random junk out of the way. I spot it a minute later under the bed.

      Poor stupid, idiotic, goddamn Kasabian. If he was still alive, I’d strangle him. Right now I kind of don’t mind him coming after me with the bat. I was pretty hard on him. He really did get me down on my knees and speaking in tongues for a minute, so he got at least a little of his own back before he made the big mistake of trusting Mason. Kasabian was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid. He must have known that Mason hated him at best. Considered him an insect at worst. Did Kasabian really not know what was going to happen when he pulled that trigger? Or did he want to go out in a sexy murder-suicide that would make it onto the local news? Idiot reporters would get it all wrong. They’d think it was an insurance scam gone wrong. Or that we were clumsy terrorists. More likely, they’d go with the sexiest choice, a lovers’ quarrel gone nuclear. It’s more than an even bet that he wanted to kill us both. At least then, one person would know that he’d done something right. I’d know that he’d gotten me, that I was truly dead, and that there was nothing I could do about it.

      I stand very quietly for a minute, listening for sirens. If I had time and a clear head, I could probably come up with a spell to keep everyone away or send them off in the wrong direction. But that’s not going to happen. I wait.

      The sirens don’t come. The fire was here and gone so fast that while the Daisy wrecked the place, it’s sparing me from having to explain the headless body, all the guns, the video bootlegging gear and me. Who am I? Also technically dead, thanks. Just ask Homeland Security.

      Someone’s cell phone goes off. It’s not my ring. I pat down Kasabian’s body. Pull his phone from a coat pocket. It’s one of the cheap prepaid models. I flip it open and wait.

      “Well,” someone says. “What the hell, man? Is it done?”

      “Who is this?”

      There’s a pause. Then a low laugh.

      “Stark? Is that you? Oh my God. What an asshole. I give Kasabian a flamethrower and a bomb and he still can’t kill you. Where is he?”

      “All over the place. He’s in pieces.”

      “One thing went right tonight, at least. You must be feeling pretty good right now, huh? Pretty proud of yourself. You kicked a headless guy’s ass. Thank you, masked man. You saved our city.”

      I listen for signs of strain or stress in his voice. I wish I could see his eyes. Or catch a whiff of his sweat. But on the crap phone, Parker sounds thin, distant, and far away. Like he’s calling from the Marianas Trench.

      “You’re the one who sent a half-dead guy to kill me. What did you think was going to happen?”

      “I expected you to die, Mr. Bond,” he says in a bad German accent. “Actually, Mason and I had a bet. He thought Kasabian might be able to do one thing right one time. He told the fat man to his face how much faith he had in him. I guess I won that bet.”

      “What happens now? You going to send more cripples after me? Blind guys with blowguns? Grandmas in wheelchairs with chain saws? What’s your next brilliant move? All I’ve seen you do so far is get your pitiful excuse for an assassin blown up and yourself shot in the back. How did that feel, by the way? Were you awake when you fell? I’m glad Mason saved you. It means I get to kill you all over again.”

      “Calm down, sweetheart. You’re getting all worked up. Trust me. You’ll get your chance. We’re going to see each other again. Not here. Not now. But it’ll be soon. Cross my heart.”

      “I can’t wait.”

      “You don’t have to. Mason is sending you a late Christmas present. Don’t worry. No more explosions or ninja attacks tonight. Just a token of his and my esteem for staying alive this long. How did you stay alive down there, by the way? Did you suck demon cock all day every day, or did you get weekends and holidays off?”

      “Pucker up, tough guy. You’ll know all about it soon enough.”

      The line goes dead. I toss the phone into the corner of the room. At least I know one thing now. Parker took Kasabian to wherever Mason is hiding. He was with both of them. He’s seen their hideout and might have even heard them talking about what they’re planning next. Mason thought Kasabian was an idiot and knew that one way or another, he was going to be dead tonight. Why not talk in front of him? Make him feel like he’s part of the plan. If Mason convinced Kasabian that he’d been promoted and was going to get to play with the big boys, Kas wouldn’t have asked any questions, but would have run along like a dog to please him.

      I need to talk to Kasabian. But I can’t get to him when he’s in Hell. No way I’m setting foot Downtown. I need to get to him before he hops the ferry.

      I only know one way to do it and it’s really going to suck.

      The Daisy has saved me the trouble of having to move the bootlegging table. I just push it up against the wall so it’s out of the way. I kick broken, powdery lath, boxes of DVDs, dirty clothes, cigarette butts, and Jack Daniel’s bottles out of the way until I clear an area about six by six on the floor. Aside from the furniture, most of the junk is pretty light. It’s easy to sift through until I find something that’s heavy. The lead Kinski gave me.

      Start by drawing thirteen circles, six on the outside, and six on the inside, and one in the center. Take the lead and, at the outer top circle, draw a line across to the farthest. Then draw lines to the other circles on the outer rim so that they’re all connected. Now do the same thing with the other five outer circles. Wash, rinse, repeat on the inner circles until you have seventy-eight lines that connect all thirteen circles. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Metatron’s Cube. One of the holiest of holy glyphs. The soul of the angel Metatron, the voice of God. Good for keeping away imps, flesh-eating zombies, and ants at a picnic. It slices. It dices. It has a thousand and one uses. A thousand and two if you draw it on a brick and throw it through the windshield of your ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend’s car.

      Kasabian’s head is still under the bed. I pull it out and set it on his chest, then grab his body by the ankles and drag him into the Cube. I straighten the arms and legs, set Kas’s head back on its shoulders, and generally try to make him look more like a respectable human being and less like a big pile of loser jerky.

      Under one of the windows are the remains of the warning bundle Medea, the Inquisitor, left for me at Vidocq’s place. I leave the wolf teeth. All I need are the crow feathers. Pretty much any part of a crow is useful. Especially when you’re dealing with the dead. Crows are psychopomps. They guide the dead from this world to the next. There are quicker, more direct ways to get through to dead souls, but crow’s feathers are the smart way to go if you don’t want some clever boots to come along and pluck your soul out of your body while you’re distracted, waiting

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