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“Me neither.”
I pick a thread off my coat.
“I think you owe me cake, boss.”
“No,” he says. “Charles Anpu. Did you see him?”
“He tried to strangle a waiter, so yeah.”
“At council meetings, he’s been pushing us to contribute to Regis International. There’s a good chance they’re connected to Wormwood, which means that he might be connected too.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I can’t say.”
“I didn’t know the augur had confidential informants.”
“Then you don’t know much about politics.”
“No. I guess I don’t.”
He leans on the edge of the console.
“Then trust me. I know people who know people and they seldom steer me wrong.”
“Okay. Say you’re right. Why don’t you just have Willem and his boy band grab him?”
Abbot shakes his head.
“It doesn’t work like that. Even for the augur, making accusations against a family without solid proof would be dangerous. It could start a civil war.”
That sounds about right for the Sub Rosa clans. They’re like the Hatfields and McCoys, but with helipads on the roof.
I look up at Abbot.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Go. Follow them. Sneak into the Anpu estate and see what you can find out.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
Abbot holds up his hands, frustrated.
“I know you have powers. You can walk through walls and shadows.”
Willem does his snort laugh.
“Not anymore,” I tell him. “I lost that trick when I saved the world a few months back. Remember when I did that, Willem?”
He plays with his console, ignoring me.
“All right. But you can tail someone. I know that,” Abbot says.
“Your security can’t even handle that?”
“I can’t be seen to be directly involved.”
I take out a Malediction.
“This is my punishment for falling asleep at meetings, isn’t it?”
“You’re not allowed to smoke in here,” says Willem.
“Don’t worry. I’m leaving.”
I look at the monitors. Get up. The boat looks pretty deserted.
“They’ve got a head start. You have any idea where they’re headed?”
“Musso and Frank’s,” Abbot says. “Get there and stay on them. Follow them wherever they go. If you can’t get into their home, well, we’ll figure something else out.”
“What kind of car am I looking for?”
“A silver Rolls-Royce Phantom.”
“Lucky Charlie.”
I hold out my hand to Willem.
“It’s been a little bit of Heaven spending these hours with you. Tell Audsley hello from me.”
Willem shakes my hand and says, “I’ll give him your regards.”
“Now, Stark,” says Abbot. “Time to earn your money.”
We go upstairs together. The sea air is crisp when we get on deck. I take a deep breath.
“There are worse places to tail someone than Musso and Frank’s. I could use a martini.”
“Not a chance,” says Abbot. “Stay outside and watch from there. Inside, you’re a bit …”
“Noticeable.”
“Exactly.”
I head for the walkway leading to the pier.
I call over my shoulder, “You still owe me cake.”
“Go,” shouts Abbot. “Now.”
I wave and head to the parking lot. Slide into the Catalina and sit there for a minute. Charlie might have a head start on me, but if he’s going into Hollywood he’s going to get stuck in the same traffic I am. That’s going to cut his lead pretty thin. Assuming he took the freeway, if I take surface streets, I might just beat him to Musso’s.
I point the Catalina inland, away from Abbot, Willem, and all their upper-crust intrigue. They’ll be talking about me for a while. Abbot getting an employee report from his guard dog. I know what Willem’s going to say, but I wish I could hear Abbot. The guy hasn’t done me wrong yet, but sending me after the Anpu family alone, I can’t help wondering if I’m being set up for something.
THE MUSSO & FRANK Grill is legendary even by Hollywood standards. It opened in 1919 and has hosted more movie stars, literary types, producers, directors, and starry-eyed wannabes than all the movie studios that have ever existed. Back in the day, Charlie Chaplain and Rudolph Valentino raced horses down Hollywood Boulevard to the grill to see who had to pay. Rita Hayworth, Bogey, and Bacall drank there. Orson Welles wrote there in his favorite booth. Dashiell Hammett, William Faulkner, and Raymond Chandler might have scribbled something, but mostly came to get wrecked. Musso & Frank’s has always been big with star-struck Sub Rosas too. For the classier families and the hicks with money, it’s their Bamboo House of Dolls, but without the jukebox.
Parking on Hollywood Boulevard is ridiculous almost any night, but it’s deadly on the weekends. I dump the Catalina in a white zone across the street and pray the LAPD is too busy chasing jaywalkers to tow it.
Musso’s has a parking lot around the back, which is great if you’re eating there, but not so great if you want to look for a particular car. If this was any other place in town, I might be able to blend in with the crowd and wander into the back. But being called a con twice in just a couple of days is a reminder that I don’t look like most people and would stand out like a pink unicorn if I tried to get back there. Of course, I could always cause a distraction. Use hoodoo to blow something up. But this doesn’t seem like that kind of assignment. I light a Malediction and wander by the front of the restaurant a couple of times, hoping I’ll get lucky and catch Charlie waiting for a table. But I don’t usually get lucky.
Sure enough, I can’t see anything but tourists.
With nothing better to do, I go across the street and wait between an army-surplus store and a tattoo parlor, hoping to catch Charlie going into the restaurant or heading home. I check the time and settle in for a tedious wait. No matter how long Charlie sits in his backroom booth swilling martinis, I’d rather be out with the hustlers and tourists on Hollywood Boulevard than stuck watching Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous in Willem’s man cave.
I smoke a Malediction, then another. Down some Aqua Regia from my flask and start on my third cigarette when who comes staggering out of Musso’s but the birthday boy himself. Which is a little surprising. No one goes in there to have just one drink. Unless Charlie teleported here, he can’t have been inside very long. Why the hell go to all the trouble of navigating Hollywood on a weekend night just to pop into Musso’s if he wasn’t going to stay?
Charlie misses a step and staggers against a blonde young enough to be his daughter, but expensive-looking enough to probably be his mistress. When he stumbles, he drops something. Jean Harlow leans him against the restaurant’s front wall and goes to retrieve whatever he lost.
That’s when I start running. And it’s when I stop because of the bus that almost turns me into a human speed bump. But the pause actually works in my favor. When I get onto the sidewalk, Harlow is leading Charlie toward the parking lot and I get a good look at what she’s holding. It’s a box.
It’s just like the one Karael gave me.
Charlie fucking Anpu didn’t stop by for a martini. He came here to pick up some black milk. For what? Is he going to do the bacon trick for Jean?
While they head around the side of the restaurant for the parking lot, I run back to the Catalina. White zones are supposed to be for passenger loading and unloading, mostly during certain hours. Me, I chose one that’s the twenty-four-hour variety. It doesn’t matter. There’s a ticket on the windshield when I reach the car. I snatch it off and cram it in my pocket, gun the car, and pull the most idiotic, dangerous, and unsubtle U-turn since Junior Johnson was still a stone-cold rumrunner.
What the hell is a creep like Charlie doing with angel poison? And where did he get it? Are rich Sub Rosas keeping celestial beings in the backyard as pets these days? There’s no way I am letting these assholes out of my sight.
I double-park a couple of doors down from Musso’s, waiting for the Rolls to emerge from the lot. Stopping does not endear me to the other drivers on Hollywood Boulevard. People shout at me in a fascinating variety of languages. They give me the finger. Threaten to call the cops. I want to shout at the morons that I’m trying to save their souls, but all they want is for me to move my ass.
Without the Room, this is what I’m reduced to: sucking up abuse and dodging thrown coffee cups.
Soon the Rolls-Royce appears from the side of the restaurant, easing its way into traffic. I don’t want to close in on Charlie and Jean too fast. I want them to feel safe and anonymous, so I gently lift my foot off the brake and let the car roll forward.
I get about twenty feet when the Catalina slams to a stop. It feels like I hit a brick wall.
I should be so lucky.
Because it’s much worse. There’s an angel in front of me with one armored boot on my front bumper, and she looks pissed. No point hesitating. I floor the accelerator, hoping to knock her out of the way, but she leans into the car and I just end up burning rubber. I let up on the pedal, throw the car into park, but leave it running. By the time I get out, a crowd is gathering around us. Even on Hollywood Boulevard, a six-foot-plus woman wearing armored boots stopping a muscle car is something people will notice.
She slams her fists onto the Catalina’s hood and screams, “Give me the box.”
I stab a finger at her.
“Hey, sister. You dent my car, you’re paying for it.”
She punches the hood again. I look past her. The Rolls is out of sight, disappeared into the general flow of traffic.
“Return it to me,” she shouts.
“You want the box?”
I point past her.
“It’s going that way in a silver Rolls. Why don’t you puff out your wings and flutter after it? You’ll love Charlie.”
She comes around the side of the car.
“Not that one. The one you stole.”
“Guess again. It was a gift from one of your kind. Ain’t that a kick in the teeth?”
I shouldn’t have said that last part. It gives her ideas. She lunges for me, but even though I’m only half angel, I’m as fast as her. I dodge her and slide across the hood of a Camry aiming for the curb. With one hand, the angel shoves the Camry out of the way, smashing it into an SUV full of kids in soccer uniforms. What sounds like all the banshees in Hell letting loose at once fills the street as the kids in the van completely fucking melt down. The boulevard crowd, who’d been digging the show up until then—probably thinking we were a publicity stunt for a shitty action movie—starts running at the sound of breaking glass and the kids wailing.
I can’t outrun an angel, but I’m about as strong as she is, so I can sure as hell hurt one.
It takes a couple of kicks to knock over the parking meter. When she comes for me, I swing it at her head like a baseball bat. She doesn’t even try to get out of the way. Takes the full force on the side of her head. The blow knocks her down, but I can tell I haven’t really hurt her. When she gets up, her hands and shoulders are shaking, but not from fear or pain. Her eyes are rimmed in dark circles. Her lips and fingernails are cracked. She clicks her lower jaw against the upper, then bares stained teeth at me. I swear, if she wasn’t an angel, I’d peg her for a meth head.
She has scars on her cheeks and her armor is dented and battered. She’s seen some heavy action, so my parking-meter stunt isn’t going to impress her. Before she can come at me again, I bark some Hellion hoodoo and the car she’s leaning against explodes in flames, knocking her through a camera-store window. Now the last few hardcore cases in the street abandon their cars and head for higher ground.
When she comes out of the store her face is singed on one side, which doesn’t improve her looks or her mood. But the flames don’t intimidate her. She sticks her face into the burning car, takes a breath, and exhales a goddamn wall of fire in my direction.
I dive between a couple of parked cars, letting the flames pass over my head.
Who the hell is she? She’s sure as shit acting like a Hellion, but fallen angels are trapped Downtown. They can’t come up here. That means she’s come here from Upstairs, which is infinitely worse. It means that whatever angel war is going on in God’s backyard, I’m now part of it.
I’m still hunkered down behind a car when it splits in two in a shower of heat and sparks. With her free hand, the angel shoves the rear end of the car out of the way while holding her Gladius, her angelic sword of fire, in the other hand. I get up and manifest mine. She twitches. Opens and closes her eyes like she’s not sure what she’s seeing. However, it’s not the Gladius that has her vibrating, it’s whatever is wrong with her. But that’s not my problem. She bellows and runs at me, her Gladius held high. I didn’t want to be here before and now I’d like a big fat shadow to disappear into, only I can’t, so I bellow right back at her and charge like the stupidest bull who’s ever been stuck on a matador’s sword.
When her Gladius crashes into mine it sends a shock wave up my arms. She’s goddamn strong. Maybe too strong for me. The fiery explosion from Gladiuses colliding blows out the windows on a nearby shop, setting a row of mannequins and Valentine decorations on fire. An alarm goes off. She doesn’t notice and comes at me, thundering chopping blows down at my head. I get my Gladius up and hold her off, but she’s not stopping, deep into some kind of berserker rage.
I back up under the strength of her blows, but I can’t keep playing defense. When she rears back for one last killing chop, I roll out of the way and tag her in the right arm.
But it doesn’t do anything.
I only caught her with the tip of the Gladius and her armor deflected most of the blow. Still, she’s getting wilder and fighting sloppy. If I can hold on long enough, with luck she’ll do something stupid.
The problem is, she’s taking her sweet time about it. Neither one of us is landing a killing blow, but she manages to get close to my right arm, setting my coat sleeve on fire. I don’t have time to put it out as she charges in again. I aim under her sword arm, hoping that if I can catch her at the right moment, the tightened chain mail will give way. I get the shot in, but the mail doesn’t budge. She smiles, thinking she’s winning, and I’m afraid she might be right. In the second she takes to gloat, I get to wave my arm enough to put out my burning sleeve. Something is going to give here soon and I’m afraid it might be me.
When she comes at me again, I feel the parking meter under my foot. I kick it at her and it glances off her left knee, slowing her just long enough to pull the Colt Peacemaker I keep in my waistband at the back. Normally, shooting bullets at an armored angel is a bigger waste of time than teaching algebra to cats, but I don’t use ordinary bullets. I dip mine in Spiritus Dei, a rare and excruciatingly expensive potion. It can cure wounds when used right, and when it isn’t, it will kill pretty much anything that walks, crawls, or flies. I don’t know what the bullets will do to angelic armor, but desperate times call for stupid choices and I’m the world champion of those.
I fire three times right into her heart. The bullets hitting the celestial armor sound like someone smashing a church bell with a sledgehammer. The bad news is, while the bullets dent her armor, none get through. She takes a step back, realizes what I did, and laughs at me. I’ll admit it. That hurts a little. It also leaves her open, though, so I shoot her where she isn’t armored. The first shot rips off part of her right ear. The second goes through her cheek. The third bullet goes straight through her eye. She staggers, goes down on one knee. There’s no time to see if she’s playing possum. I charge her.
Even hurt, she’s still strong and partially deflects my blow, but I spin my Gladius around and rake it across the side of her throat.
I don’t know what kind of vitamins they have in Heaven, but even wounded, she looks like the berserker in her is making a comeback. She lunges at me, but she’s slow and she knows it. She has one hand to her throat, but she’s leaking blood down the front of her armor. I get ready to move in again, but before I can take two steps, she hammers her Gladius into the sidewalk, splitting open the pavement. I go down flat on my ass, but manage to keep my Gladius up to block her next blow, only there isn’t one.
The angel staggers back and her Gladius flickers out. Then she does the one thing I’ve never seen an angel do in front of civilians. She rolls back her shoulders, allowing her enormous wings to sprout from under her armor.
