What did it matter now?
Today was just another notch on his long, long, long list of failures.
Only he’d never been responsible for the death of a city before. How did one atone for that?
At least the sulfur odor wasn’t so bad now. Strangely, the inside of the van smelled like wet iron and cinnamon rolls.
He glanced at the rear view mirror. The black curtain he used as a privacy screen was drawn across width of the van. The curtain trembled and shook. The van’s suspension creaked in a rhythmic tempo. One that seemed to be quickening.
Queezleyan sat on the floor in front of the curtain. The rat-demon’s six tails wagged. The creature turned its head. Caught Hilario’s eye in the rear view mirror. Gave him a thumbs up with his clawed and scaly hand.
Hilario ground his teeth together.
Larry Sparrow turned his ghostly form in the passenger seat. Gave the curtain a longing look.
At least he’d stopped wailing. Once Hilario told him Rachel was probably as deceased as he was, Larry had let out as unholy a keening as Hilario had ever heard. It was like red hot railroad spikes being driven in his ears, followed by a refreshing vinegar rinse.
“What’s gonna happen now?” Larry asked.
Hilario shrugged. What was the point in talking about it?
He drummed his fingers on the wheel. In front of them, Detective Marco paced the silver barge’s deck. Arguing with his gun it looked like. He had the pistol out, wagging his finger at it and talking animatedly.
The detective and his weapon had as much of a love/hate relationship as Odom the Paladin and the Sapphire Witch did.
He glanced at the rearview again. And the shaking curtain reflected in it.
How long before they moved back to the hate phase?
Larry gave the curtain another glance too.
“I can’t leave,” he said.
Leaving unsaid the question of why Hilario wasn’t outside, keeping Marco and his gun company.
“It’s my van,” he said.
And no one had asked him permission before getting in and doing things in his van. There was no respect for personal space. Something he was grudgingly used to in the unseen world. But in the normal world he treasured and protected his personal space. Other than cheeseburgers and pizza and Butter Brickle ice cream, personal space was one of the best things about the normal world.
Going home would be nice. Wash the hot greasepaint off his face. Get into his civilian clothes (ginormous black sweatpants and t-shirt). Put his feet up in front of the TV, a quart of Butter Brickle ice cream in one hand, a spoon in the other.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen any more, was it?
The lords of the dark realms were going to take his personal space and poop all over it.
His face went hot. Again.
There he went thinking only of himself again. He should be ashamed of himself. What about all the people in the city? They were going to lose more than their personal space. They were going to slurped up by the nasty things the dark lords let loose in the city.
And how would the rest of the normal world react to this sudden intrusion of magic and evil into their world?
Someone would probably drop a nuke on the place and hope for the best.
He squeezed his eyes shut. His thick, sausage fingers gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles popped. Acid churned in his empty stomach.
He couldn’t let this happen. There had to be a way to stop them.
He had to do someth–
Marco stopped pacing. He stood at the front of the barge.
He raised the gun to his head.
“NO!”
Hilario unlocked a sliver of power. Mentally grabbed the detective’s arm and jerked it up.
The gun went off with a thundering blast.
Hilario tumbled out of the van. Sulfurous heat blasted him. He desperately kept his mental hold on Marco’s arm. He didn’t have enough concentration to lighten his weight. His knees screamed for mercy as he ran to Marco. His blubberous belly bounced painfully with every agonizing step.
Maybe he really should try to use some weight.
Ha, ha. Right.
“Marco! Stop!” he shouted.
“Let me go you fucking clown!” Marco shouted.
His face was livid. He yanked and yanked at his arm.
Tears streamed down his face.
Hilario mentally wrenched the gun from Marco’s hand. Sent it spinning down the barge’s deck.
“Let me go!” Marco shouted.
Hilario automatically sent tendrils of consciousness out to calm Marco’s mind. And couldn’t stop himself in time.
Marco’s metal shield attacked. Spiked his psychic tendrils with a jolt of energy.
Hilario staggered back. Pain and shock whited out his vision. He lost his mental grip on Marco’s arm.
A freight train (or something like it) slammed into him. Knocked him off his feet. He slammed to the deck on his back. Footsteps pounded past him.
“Marco!” he shouted.
Why hadn’t he thrown the gun into the river?
Because the stupid thing talked, that’s why.
Plus, throwing things into the Phlegethon didn’t always destroy them. Sometimes it changed them in not good ways.
Over here, dog, the gun said, You know you want me.
Poop sticks.
Hilario blinked. Rolled over to his knees. The psychic pain receded. His vision cleared.
Marco kneeled in front of the van.
That’s it, dog. Come get me.
Hilario tried to move the gun away. But his head still buzzed with shock. He couldn’t concentrate enough.
He got to his feet. Started to run.
“Marco! Stop!” he shouted.
Which Marco ignored. He reached under the van. Came up with the gun in hand. He whirled around. Pointed it at Hilario.
Good thinking, the gun said, Pop a cap in his punk clown ass before you go.
“Don’t come any closer!” Marco shouted. His cheeks were wet with tears.
Damnit, just shoot, the gun said.
Hilario
