don’t know if Samael put them there, or the hotel, but the bedroom closet is full of suits and expensive shirts and shoes. I toss my ripped shirt on the bed and pick out a purple one so dark it’s almost black. Samael wore shirts like this because the color hid the blood seeping from an old wound. The Greeks and Romans considered it the color of royalty and that wouldn’t appeal to Samael’s vanity. No. Not one bit.
Someone is knocking on the grandfather clock. Traven sets his plate down on the table. He looks like he’s waiting for the seven plagues to stroll out of the clock.
Three people come in. A trinity. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our boredom.
There’s Amanda Fischer, a high-society babe with a young woman’s face and a crone’s hands. Plastic surgery or hoodoo? Your guess is as good as mine.
With her is a man about her age carrying a briefcase. He’s balding and seems to be compensating for it by growing bushy muttonchops. He looks like her husband. Maybe muscle or an over- the-hill skinhead. The third one is a dark-haired young guy with a bland pretty-boy face and dressed so perfectly in Hugo Boss he can probably recite back issues of
The disappointment on their faces is spectacular. Samael is Rudolph Valentino handsome. When they see my scarred mug, they wonder if they’re in the right room. Maybe they stepped through the wrong magic clock.
“Hello,” says Amanda. “We’re here to see our master, Lucifer.”
“You’re looking at him, Brenda Starr.”
“I’ve seen you before. You’re his bodyguard.”
I take a bite of a rib and suck the barbecue sauce off my fingers.
“Do you think Lucifer has access to only one body? Look into my eyes. Can’t you sense my power and glory and all the other shit that makes your crowd moist?”
“Do you know who you’re talking to? Watch your mouth,” says Muttonchops. He has a high-toned British accent. The kind that says, “I’ve never opened a door for myself my whole life.”
“Why do I care who she is if she doesn’t know who I am? Doesn’t the fact I’m in here with many tasty snacks tell you something?”
“Yes,” Muttonchops says. “That you’re a clever enough impostor to fool the hotel. But you can’t fool us.”
“What’s he doing here?” squawks the pretty boy.
He points at Traven.
“He has the stink of God all over him.”
“He’s a colleague. If that’s a problem, you can all ride down the elevator shaft headfirst.”
Muttonchops says “There’s the proof, eh, Amanda?”
She nods.
“A crude threat not worthy of our lord. We’re leaving.”
They’re headed for the door when Traven says, “Which one of them carries the least sin?”
All three stop and look back like questioning their dedication to sin is an insult.
I look them over.
“The kid.”
