Kill City Blues

He sets down the knife and Power Bar.



“I’d like this century and the Sub Rosa that rose up in it to disappear like dust on the wind.”



“We brought you here, didn’t we?”



“Aye. You did. And forgot us when things didn’t go just the way you wanted.”



“What happened? How did you end up in Kill City?”



He looks away, into the lens of the flashlight, like he’s staring into a campfire.



“We come from ancient magic. Powerful stuff back home, but it’s weak in this new godforsaken land. We could still fight and scare the other families, but we were only half the warriors our patrons counted on and they never let us forget it.”



“So they ditched you.”



“Ditched. Buried. Forgotten.”



“I’m not going to be able to help you turn back time or nuke L.A. Anything else you want?”



“Revenge on the house that brought us here and left us, disgraced and abandoned.”



“Which house is it?”



“The Blackburns. Have you heard of them?”



What a fucking surprise.



“Everyone’s heard of the Blackburns. They run the California Sub Rosa here these days.”



Arawn nods. Looks at my cigarette. I hand it to him. He takes a pull and nods. Starts to hand it back.



“Keep it. I have more.”



He smokes contently for a minute.



He says, “The family was strong-willed and the Sub Rosa so full of themselves. I’m not surprised that the kingdom is theirs.”



“It isn’t exactly a kingdom. And it’s in kind of a mess right now. But they have a lovely Victorian with indoor plumbing and everything.”



“You know, we weren’t going to come at first, but then Hattie said it was you who rescued poor Teyrnon.”



“He was the kid in gray? I don’t like three against one. It upsets my delicate sensibilities.”



“I took from that that you were a man of honor, but you refuse my simplest requests.”



“What I’m telling you is that you and me together, my friends, your mariachis, and Patton’s Seventh Army couldn’t take down the Blackburns. The entire hoodoo population of California would come after us.”



He throws down the cigarette.



“Powerful wizard. You’re all talk. Typical Sub Rosa. Damn the lot of you.”



“Why don’t you just go home?”



“Our kind can’t cross the open water. We’d perish.”



“How did you get here?”



“Magic, you dolt.”



I offer him another Malediction. He hesitates and then takes it. I light it for him.



“Okay. That’s something I can do. I can take you home without going over the ocean.”



“How would you go about that?”



“Ever heard of the Room of Thirteen Doors?”



“A child’s tale.”



“I have the key. We step into a shadow and I can take you anywhere you want. Where are you from?”



“Cambria.”



“Okay. I might have to look that one up on a map.”



His eyes narrow.



“If you truly have the key to the Room, why are you wandering down here?”



“I have to have some idea where I’m going before I know which door to open,” I say, and nod toward Delon. “And I don’t want that one to know that I can do it.”



Arawn turns and looks at Delon, who’s coming back inside. With luck, he’s been scouting for ways to the baths.



“There is something not right about him.”



“He’s not a man. A Tick-Tock Man made him. He’s something like a familiar, only mostly machine.”



Arawn looks at me.



“And you let such a thing lead you?”



“I don’t have a choice. He knows the way and we don’t.”



He picks up his knife.



“With a blade in your hand there’s always a choice.”



“What do you say? Do you want to go home?”



He shakes his head slowly.



“No. We won’t return as paupers and fools. We came here as magicians and warriors, and that’s how we’ll return.”



“I don’t know what else I can give you.”



He looks over his shoulder.



“The lass, the one with the short hair in the hide jacket who stays so close to you . . .”



“What about her?”



“Before she turned into a beast—and an impressive one she was—she used an equally impressive knife. Black and sharp as a crow’s gaze. She said you had one just like it.”



I take the black blade from my coat. The weight in my hand feels so natural and perfect. Like it’s an extension of my arm. I’ve had it since the arena. It’s one of my favorite weapons and the key to every car and bike in L.A.



“You sure you want this old thing? I bet Paul has a lot of other toys in his bag.”



“If that’s what I asked for, that’s what I want. Or can’t you honor that request either?”



I hand Arawn the knife.



“It’s yours. It’ll cut through anything made in this world.”



“Will it, now?”



“You can start cars with it too. Do you have your learner’s permit?”



Arawn walks to a pile of rubble and swings the blade. Cuts a section of concrete taller than he is cleanly in half. He goes to the wall and slices a piece out of an I-beam. He holds up the blade to check it and nods at what he sees.



He comes back over and sits next to me on the blanket.



“Yes. This will do nicely.”



“We’re square, then?”



“This little blade for your life? What do you think?”



“I see your point. The offer still stands. Once I find what I’m after, I can take you home.”



“When we’re ready we’ll find you.”



“If you’re looking to make your fortune, make it quick. The world might be ending soon.”



He stands and picks up his folding knife and the remains of the Power Bar.



“The world is always ending. A fiefdom rises. A fiefdom falls. It’s the way of things.”



“This time is different. If it happens, all the fiefdoms that ever were or will ever be are right down the toilet.”



He cocks his head.



“Well, that’s different.”



“A little bit.”



“Thanks for the warning. We’ll see about making our way in the world a wee bit faster.”



He starts away and I call after him, “Have you heard of a ghost people call the old Roman?”



Arawn stops.



“Remember when you asked if we dislike vampires?”



“Yes.”



“We like ghosts even less.”



His men get up and stand around him.



“Do you know how to get there?”



“Not a clue. Thanks again for the knife. Ta.”



He starts up the stairs and his men follow. The Grays don’t make a sound as they go. They march into the dark and in a few seconds it’s like they were never there.



“I think I found something,” says Delon.



He’s squatting, leaning against the wall and drinking water from a bottle that’s three quarters empty. How long have we been in Kill City? It seems like a couple of days, but it can’t be more than a few hours.



“We turn right at the end of the hall, past a collapsed ceiling, and there’s a door that leads down.”



Vidocq stands and hefts his pack onto his shoulder.



“One of the Gray men told me about a door nearby. That must be it,” he says.



“Saddle up, everyone. The sooner we get downstairs, the sooner we’re out of Tombstone,” I say. Big talker. I try to stand up and it feels like my head is spinning around like Linda Blair’s. Candy comes over and helps me to my feet.



Everyone gathers up their gear and heads out. Traven takes a minute to change the batteries in his flashlight, then starts up the stairs with the rest of us. Good-bye, Shoggot country. Good riddance. If Hattie doesn’t poison your water supply, I’ll be very surprised.



The floor at the end of the hall is buckled like someone squeezed it from both ends like an accordion. Delon is back in the lead. Vidocq follows with Brigitte and Candy right behind. I’m at the back with Traven, stumbling along like a toddler just learning to walk.



“Are you in much pain?” he says.



“Just enough, thanks. Sorry I dragged you into this mess, Father.”



“I’m sorry I haven’t been more use along the way. Maybe I should have learned to use a gun.”



I have to lean my arm against the wall to get over the places where the folds in the floor rise above my knees.



“You might have noticed that we have a lot of shooters and it hasn’t kept us out of trouble. You’ll get to show your stuff when we find the Qomrama. You know anything more about it? Where it came from? Who made it?”



Staying back with me, Father Traven has fallen behind the others. I don’t like being the gimp in the group.



“Who made it is an interesting question. Most texts say it was the Angra, as a way to destroy our God. But there was speculation among a group of Byzantine scholars that God himself made it. That it’s not a weapon against the Angra but against himself.”



“God was going to take a bullet for the team?”



“Even that’s disputed. Maybe God intended to sacrifice himself in hopes that it would appease the Angra.”



“That doesn’t make sense. If our God made it, and Ruach let Aelita have it, she’d know how to use it, only she doesn’t. She got lucky killing Neshamah, but she can’t count on getting all the brothers on luck.”



“There’s one more theory. A minority theory, but an interesting one. It says that a high priestess is the only one that can bring the Qomrama into this universe from where the Angra are exiled.”



“How?”



“No one knows, but the theory continues that the reason the Qomrama is hard to control is that it’s not just an inanimate weapon. That it’s a kind of Qliphoth.”



“A demon? Then it’s a piece of one of the old gods. That means it’s alive.”



Traven shrugs. I can breathe again, so we start walking.



“As I said, it’s a minority opinion, but with the Qomrama, I wouldn’t put anything out of the realm of possibility.”



“Neither would I. Ever notice that we live in a very strange universe?”



Traven brushes dust out of his eyes and off his deeply lined face.



“What’s left to believe in? The God in Heaven isn’t to be trusted, and a piece of that very same God is also Lucifer in Hell? How are we supposed to go on knowing these things?”



“Cheer up, Father. It could have been ten.”



He gives me a look.



I say, “It’s a Hellion joke. When God threw the rebel angels out of Heaven, they fell for nine days.”



Traven nods and says, “I get it. Things could always be worse. I suppose that’s true.”



“I won’t tell you any other Hellion jokes. Most sound like the Three Stooges riffing on farts and vivisection.”



“I appreciate that.”



This part of the corridor is all raw drywall with Spackle smeared along the edges where the panels join. I feel woozy. I stop to lean against a section. And I’m falling. Not onto the floor but right through the wall.



I land flat on my back, knocking the wind out of me. It takes me a minute to get my senses back. My stitches hurt from the impact. Faintly, like he’s talking through water, I can hear Traven calling my name. But I’m in no shape to answer.



I came down on a pile of mall trash and building materials. Broken drywall panels, a layer of old cups and napkins, moldy clothes, and broken beanbag chairs. A million gnat-size Styrofoam pellets float to the floor, like I’m lying in a blizzard in a garbage dump. Thin, airy laughs come from the edges of the room. They sound like the wind from the other side of a hill.



“Who’s there?”



The laughter tapers off but no one answers. Looking up, I can see the hole where I fell through. It’s not that far. Shadows move across it. Someone is looking for me.



I shout, “Traven. Down here. Hey!”



“He can’t hear you.”



Another voice says, “None of them can.”



“Who is that?”



More laughs. A bunch of people down here think I’m fucking hilarious.



It’s warm and damp, with the same tropical feel as the mall’s atrium. My eyes slowly adjust to the room. Furred fungus on the walls glows faintly. Eidolon Whiskers. We had something like it Downtown. I look back at the opening in the wall where I fell through. It’s not real. It’s a phantom. A ghost wall like the one hiding the room in Hell where I first found the 8 Ball.



In a few minutes I can almost see my hand in front of my face. Then shapes in the room. I’m in the middle of a maze of improvised graves and tombs built from debris that landed here during the collapse. Someone has cobbled together a cemetery for whoever was trapped here. If this is a boneyard, I have a bad feeling about who’s been laughing at me this whole time.



“Hey, dead guys. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”



Gray wisps circle me. Faces resolve themselves for a second or two, then break apart into smoke.



“There you are. Why did you grab me? What did I ever do to you?”



“It was fun.”



“We were bored.”



“You were clumsy.”



“You’re alive. That’s offense enough.”



I shake my head.



“Is this one of those ‘we’re-dead-and-that-makes-the-living-our-enemy’ situations, ’cause seriously . . . ? That’s the best you could come up with?”