Road to the gates of Heaven. Bring a bottle of Aqua Regia and toast Samael for the tricky, scheming motherfucker he is. I wonder if he’d drive me home or make me drive myself. Who’s the designated driver when you have two Devils in the room?
I head up the ramp to where they keep my bike. Get on and kick it to life. The growling engine vibrates my body from my feet to my head, shaking the stench of Mason’s chop shop out of my lungs. I whisper some hoodoo, and when I pull the hoodie up over my head, my face isn’t my face anymore. The glamour makes me look like any other ugly Hellion.
I put the bike in gear and head up the ramp to one of the repair bays in back of the hotel. When I get the gate open and I’m sure the way is clear, I pop the clutch. The rear wheel screams and smokes and I blast off into the dark.
It takes my eyes a while to adjust to the night light. I hit the throttle and the bike tears over the city’s broken streets, bouncing and flying high over sudden drops, fishtailing in the curves. By the time I can see right, Pandemonium is a superhighway of light, streaks of color bounded by the blood reek of sinkholes and the bruised Hellion sky. I cut in and out of traffic. Around troop transports and pedestrians. I’m up on the sidewalk, and in the few places that have working traffic lights, I run every red I can find. I’m a menace. I’m a monster. I’m a stooge and I don’t care who knows it. I’m moving and for the first time in a long time everything is perfect. Hell can kiss my ass.
I hide the Hellion hog under the collapsed roof of an abandoned garage. On the way out I smooth over the dust to disguise my footprints and toss some cinder blocks inside to give the place an extra about-to-completely-collapse look.
I find Wild Bill smoking outside the Bamboo House of Dolls. When I walk over he shakes his head at me.
“Hop on by, froggy. You see this mark on my shirt?”
He shows me his sleeve. Lucifer’s bloodred sigil. He blows out blue cigar smoke.
“I’m bought and paid for by Mr. Scratch himself and he doesn’t appreciate simpletons manhandling his merchandise. It lowers the resale value.”
“Is that what you tell people? That I own you? I suppose it’s technically true, the way things work down here. I just never thought of it that way.”
Bill leans forward and squints. Shakes his head and spits.
“I swear to God, boy. Warn a feller when you’re going to come ’round looking like a goddamn hobgoblin. I was five seconds from tattooing your head with a shovel I leave out here for just that purpose.”
He’s telling the truth. There’s a solid old shovel in a half-dug hole by the side of the building. I’ll bet cash money that hole never gets any deeper or any more full.
“Next time I’ll wear a rose in my lapel so you know it’s me. I can’t stand another night locked in Gormenghast and thought I’d come by for a drink. Maybe let someone start a fight. It’s one of those nights when I want to break things, bones especially. You know the feeling?”
Bill eyes me and tosses the stub of his cigar.
“I’m acquainted with it but you’re not going to start any fights in my establishment. I don’t want it to become known as somewhere bastards can pay for drinks with the heels of their
