Jades dissolve your insides and drink you, kind of like a spider. I know it sounds bad, but she’s off the people juice these days. And it’s kind of sexy when she lets the monster out. I just have to be around to make sure it goes back in.
“What’s the difference between true love and a murder spree?” says Kasabian.
“I don’t know. What?”
He shrugs.
“I don’t know. I was hoping you lovebirds would have a clue.”
He smiles, pleased with his half-assed joke.
I say, “Go bite a mailman, Old Yeller.”
Mike lets go of Kasabian’s leg. He flexes it and it looks like it’s working all right. Mike goes to work on the other one.
“Well?” says Candy. She’s right beside me, her hands balled into fists. She’s not backing down on this.
“You’re right. I promised. But this is only if I actually go. I’m not making any special trips down so you can take snapshots with Stiv Bators.”
“Deal.”
She stands on her toes and kisses me on the cheek.
“I got it,” says Kasabian. “When it’s true love you know why you’re getting stabbed.”
“Kasabian, you romantic fool,” says Candy. “You just got ten percent cuter.”
He smiles at her.
“Kitten, I’ve got romance coming out my ass.”
“And now the cute is gone.”
Mike chuckles to himself. Kasabian shifts his leg, clipping him on the nose.
“Learn to stop while you’re ahead,” I say.
“I haven’t had much practice with women since you turned me into a carnival attraction.”
“I’ll have you tripping the light fantastic in no time,” says Mike.
As casually as he can, Kasabian says, “Stark, you still have Brigitte’s number?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not asking for a hookup, just an introduction.”
“I’ve put Brigitte through enough. I’m not letting you loose on her.”
“You won’t do me one favor, but you want me to look up your dead pal in Hell.”
“Look, Mike gets your legs working, you can come down to Bamboo House of Dolls and ask her yourself. Maybe she’ll say yes just for the novelty of doing a robot.”
“I think she might be seeing someone,” says Candy.
“Who?” says Kasabian.
“The King of Candy Land. Or was it Josie and the Pussycats?”
“Great. Now she gets discreet. Forget it. Chicks only want one monster in their life and Stark got to Brigitte first.”
Mike stops working and Kasabian tries to stand. This time he makes it. His legs support him and he takes a few steps like, well, a circus dog doing a trick for biscuits.
I say, “You know, no matter how well you make his arms and legs work, he still looks like a mutt.”
Mike sighs and nods.
“To rework his whole body so it’s more human shaped, I’d have to cut it up with a plasma torch, lengthen and straighten his back legs, redo the spine, and rebalance and recalibrate the whole thing,” he says. “The only way to do that is for Kasabian to get off it.”
I look at Kasabian, walking steady for the first time since I’ve been back.
“Maybe he’s right. Maybe you should go back to your skateboard for a while and let Mike do his thing.”
Kasabian looks panicked. He stumbles back against his desk, his hound legs giving way.
“No way anyone is chopping up this body. I looked like a fucking bug on that skateboard. Now at least I’m mammal shaped.”
“I’ve got all your limbs working right for the moment,” says Mike. “Maybe there’s some way I can do your legs without taking them off.”
Kasabian sits down and slaps his computer keyboard. The screen lights up.
“Yeah. You work on that. Right now let me get back to work building my site.”
As Mike packs up his tools he looks at me.
“I’m not getting my soul back, am I?”
“Not today, Mike. But keep up the good work. You’re closing in on daylight.”
I head into the big bedroom Candy and I share. Samael’s old clothes still hang in the closet. Custom shirts and suits so sharp they could cut you like a knife. I toss my jeans and T-shirt on the bed and change into a bloodred button-down shirt and black silk trousers.
Candy follows me in and sits on the bed.
I say, “Why don’t you stay here and see if Kasabian can pull up any information on Moseley when he was alive.”
Candy doesn’t move.
“I know you’re not dressing up for me, so who’s the lucky girl?” she says.
I comb my hair in the bedroom mirror. It doesn’t help much. The neater I get my hair, the worse it makes the scars on my face look. There are donut crumbs on the glove that covers my prosthetic left hand, so I toss the glove onto a pile of dirty clothes and put on a clean one.
“Brigitte was there when the Qomrama disappeared, but even if she wasn’t, I bet she’s not the one sending hit men after me.”
“Then who is?”
“I don’t know. But there were only two other people there when Aelita took the 8 Ball. Saragossa Blackburn and his wife. So, I’m off to see the wonderful Wizard of Oz.”
THE SUB ROSA is the underground magic community that keeps the old practices alive and secretly runs a few pieces of the world. Saragossa Blackburn is our Augur, the president and holy high chieftain of the entire Sub Rosa freak squad in California. There’s no one bigger. With his heavy money Illuminati of politicians, corporate honchos, bankers, entertainment-industry lackeys, and law enforcement creeps, he’s the power behind the power, and when we don’t have a Sub Rosa governor running the state, Blackburn makes sure that Mr. or Ms. Civilian knows who’s really calling the shots.
He’s a scryer, a seer who gets glimpses of the future. All Augurs are scryers and Blackburn is supposed to be a good one. On the other hand, he didn’t see me coming the last time I paid him a visit, but I was still Lucifer back then. Now that I’m just another asshole, chances are he has me right on his radar.
And here comes the proof. Men in shades and dark Brooks Brothers suits pile out of a line of blacked-out vans. The last time I dropped by, Blackburn was so sure of his untouchability that he didn’t bother with security guards. He had enough wards and hoodoo mantraps around the place to hold off King Kong but not the Devil.
I don’t like this. It feels too much like the bullshit I had to put up with when I worked for Larson Wells and his holy brown shirt army, the Golden Vigil.
A marine type with a blond crew cut and steroid shoulders the size of baby bulls puts his hand up.
“Excuse me, sir. Do you have an appointment?”
It’s not the “excuse me” part that gets under my skin. It’s the “sir.” Procedures. Protocol. They’re all civilized masks for contempt. I can deal with that, but I like my hate straight and up front. And these boys radiate hate like Tijuana blacktop in August. They know who I am