He comes around the table, takes my arm, and walks with me to the living room. He feels cold. God shouldn’t feel cold, should he?
“These are the worst times we’ve faced, James. I had no right to do what I did to the Angra, but if they’re allowed to come back now, they’ll destroy everything.”
“I know.”
“It’s going to take something drastic to stop them. I don’t know what yet, but I have a feeling I’ll be calling in that favor you owe me before this is over. Are you prepared to repay it?”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“I think you hesitated.”
“No. It’s fine.”
“Good. I just needed to know how loyal you’d be when the time comes.”
When I get to the elevator, my wet clothes have left a red puddle on the floor.
“I’m there with you,” I say. “Whatever you need.”
He nods, looking tired.
“That’s all I wanted to hear. I’ll let you see yourself out. Good night, James.”
“Good night, Mr. Muninn.”
He turns around and goes out, a tired old man with the weight of three worlds on his shoulders.
I change out of my good clothes and put on my bloody ones. Roll and stuff the good ones in the special weapons pockets inside my coat. I don’t know when I’ll ever wear them, but Candy will like them. Too bad we missed Halloween. I could go as a grown--up.
There’s a decent shadow around the edge of the elevator. I pull up my damp hoodie and step through, coming out in the blood rain on the boulevard near the palace. The street has been repaired, but there’s no one on it. I walk north for a few blocks and there it is. Lit up and lonely, all Nighthawks at the Diner.
Donut Inferno.
There’s only one person inside. She doesn’t have funny bobbling antennae on like she did at Donut Universe. She’s wearing plastic devil horns. But it’s still her. I walk across the street and go inside. She’s wiping down the counter and doesn’t look up when I come in.
“Cindil,” I say.
She stops wiping and stares at me. I push back the hoodie, wiping angel blood off my forehead.
“Remember me?”
She nods. Stands still, more or less stunned. Can’t say I blame her.
I look around the place. The donuts are dry and sunken. Dusty. The coffee looks like fried sludge. The linoleum counter is cracked and half the stools are missing their seats. Donut Inferno looks like a wino crash pad fifty years past its prime.
I say, “You like it here?”
She shakes her head.
“No.”
“You want to get out?”
“With you?”
“Yes. Right now.”
She twists the dirty dishrag in her hands. Her face and arms are bruised, but her hair is still the same shade of green it was when she was alive.
She whispers, “I’ll get in trouble.”
“You’re in Hell. How much worse can it get?”
“Lots. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”
I walk over and take the rag from her hand. Set it on the counter.
“I’ve seen what you’ve seen and lived what you’ve lived and I got away. I’m here to help you do the same.”
“The last time I saw you I died.”
“And I feel bad about that and I’m here to fix it.”
“Why? You don’t even know me.”
“So what? I should have been able to help you before, but I didn’t. Now I can. Come with me.”
“Where?”
“To a friend’s place. He’s a hard old son of a bitch, but he’ll take care of you.”
Her eyes dart around the shop. She’s confused. In panic mode.
I say, “Here’s the deal. The whole universe might be ending soon. Do you want to spend the last few minutes of your existence here or do you want to take a chance on something better?”
“You came all the way to Hell to help me?”
“No. I was window--shopping for the holidays.”
“Asshole,” she says.
“Come with me and you can call me all the names you want.”
It takes her a minute, but she unties her apron and tosses it on the counter. She starts around to my side, but I stop her.
“Before we leave, can I have one of those hats over the display case?”
She hands me one and comes around to my side. She looks out at the rain.
“I don’t have a coat.”
I take off mine and drape it around her shoulders. I’m already half soaked, why not finish the job?
“You ready?”
She’s scared, but the first faint hint of a smile plays around her lips.
“Sure. Why not?”
It’s too bright in Donut Inferno. I lead her out into the rain and find a shadow around the corner.
“Take my hand.”
She does.
“Here we go.”
WE COME OUT by Wild Bill’s bar near the street market in Pandemonium’s western hinterlands. Only the street market isn’t there anymore. Just half--collapsed tents, overturned tables, and oil drums full of charred garbage. The sad red rain slicks over everything, turning the rows between the deserted stalls to mud.
Cindil drops my hand and takes a step back.
“What just happened?”
“We took a shortcut across town. It’s just a trick I can do.”
She looks at me, her hair matting down around her face.
“You’re a weird guy, you know?”
“That’s going to be my epitaph. You want to get out of this rain?”
I point to the bar. She heads over and we go inside.
I want to say that the place is usually crowded at this time of day, but I don’t know what time it is in Hell or Earth. Still, there’s usually some kind of crowd. Not tonight, today, whatever. A lone soldier from one of Hell’s legions sits by himself nursing the Hellion equivalent of beer. He barely glances up as we come in.
Hank Williams is on the jukebox singing “The Devil’s Train.” The man smoking a cigar behind the counter is tall and lean, with shoulder--length hair and a serious mustache. His name is James Butler Hickok. Wild Bill Hickok to his friends and enemies. We’re blood, separated by around seven generations. He looks up when he sees us. Puts out his hand when we get close to him. He and I shake. Bill isn’t a hugging kind of guy. He takes a look at Cindil and gets a bottle from beneath a bar, sets down three glasses, and pours us all a drink of the good stuff. As good as it gets in Hell.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about your grandpappy.”
“Not with that mustache,” I say.
He runs a knuckle under it, straightening it with pride.
We down our shots. Cindil has a hand around hers but hasn’t picked it up.
“Who’s your quiet friend?” says Wild Bill.
“I wanted to introduce you two.”
I turn to her.
“Cindil Ashley, this is Wild Bill Hickok. Wild Bill, this is Cindil Ashley.”
He puts a hand out to her. She takes it and they shake.
“Nice to make your acquaintance, young lady,” he says.
She just looks at him.
“Wild Bill Hickok. Like in the movies?”
“One and the same,” he says, not shy about his fame. “Born in Illinois. Sheriff, scout for the Union Army, shootist, gambler, and murdered dead as corn bread in Deadwood, South Dakota.”
Cindil smiles a little.
“I make donuts,” she says. “I used to paint and play bass, but not so much anymore.”
“You play bass?” I say. “I wish you could meet my friend Candy. She needs a bass player.”
“Is she down here too?”
“No. She’s back on Earth. Still, with the crazy--ass way things are going, you might meet anyway. And I don’t mean down here.”
Wild Bill pours us more drinks. Cindil sips hers. I don’t think she’s tasted alcohol recently. I haven’t tasted this Hellion swill in a while. I left a bottle of Aqua Regia with Bill once. Since he hasn’t pulled it out, my guess is he’s finished it off.
“What are you talking about, son?” he says.
I look back at the legionnaire. We could be playing badminton with a baked ham for all he cares. I keep my voice low anyway.
“This is just between the three of us. I’m hoping that Lucifer can square things away Hell--wise, but it’s not looking good. If he can’t, I’m taking you both out of here. Be ready to leave in a hot second if I give you the word.”
“I’m ready right now,” says Bill.
I shake my head.