Angel Town (22 page)

Little creaks and cracklings ran through the church walls. The building groaned, etheric contamination spreading as the murder and hatred boiled.
Wait. Wait just a second. Hellbreed can’t touch it, and the ground’s sanctified. So he sent Traders to open up the way and contaminate. What do you want to bet some of them are still here?
“Gil. Behind me.”

He moved immediately, thank God. “You see something,
bruja
?”

“Listen.” I kept both guns loosely pointed down. “They’re still in the building, or at least,
some
of them are. Nine o’clock, there’s a door. Move toward it, nice and easy.”

The dogsbody growled and looked up, a quick inquiring movement. “Hey,” I said, and its ear flicked at me. “Go with Gil. Protect him.”

The hound shook its narrow head, then padded toward my apprentice.
Well, there’s that, at least.
“Gil. Get out of here, go—”

Now we hit the stubbornness, at the worst possible time. “Ain’t leavin you,
profesora
.”

I would have kicked his ass for it, but the choir loft exploded and the church was suddenly full of hellbreed, its walls shuddering at the violation. A century of blessing and sacred belief rose to push the intruders out, but it was damaged now. The Traders had broken it with murder and suffering, and theft.

The blessing, crackling fine lines of blue, beat ineffectually at the damned as they swarmed. They hissed, jaws distending, their beauty sliding aside, and every single one of them was ’breed instead of Trader. Fast, brutal, and harder to kill. There were at least a dozen of them. They didn’t look like they cared very much that Perry supposedly wanted me alive.

This is not going to end well.

F
ather Gui’s body hit the altar with a meaty thump. I followed, blood slicking my lips and the knife sinking in past a hard hellbreed shell, twisting through the suction of unholy muscle. We slid down the wall, the gem singing in my wrist as it pumped etheric force through me, every muscle cramping and my breath a harsh ratcheting as I swore, again, obscenities interweaving with a chanted prayer in bastard Latin. The ’breed exhaled foulness in my face, but he was already dying, thin cracks of dusty corruption racing through his skin as the silver’s poison spread.

Gilberto screamed, a high breaking note of rage, and fired again. The dogsbody made another one of those wrenching guttural noises, and my boots jolted down. I heaved the rotting body away, it fell on Gui’s wracked and lifeless frame with a wet splorch.

Sorry, padre. Wish we could shoot some hoops instead.
The dogsbody hunched, snarling, and I crashed into the ’breed crouching in front of my whey-faced apprentice. He was giving a good account of himself, but it was only a matter of time. The ’breed went down in a heap; I cut its throat with one swift motion and the dogsbody was on it too, jaws crunching with sickening finality. The ’breed exploded in a shower of brackish fluid, dust spilling from its veins, and I rose from the tangle, spinning the knife. “Come on!” I yelled, the knife sliding back into its sheath, and we were out the door before more of our pursuers decided to chance the inside of the church. The murder would echo here for a long time, eating further at the blessing in the walls until someone could get out here to clean it up.

I might even be the one cleaning, if I survived this.

“Need transport!” Gil yelled.

Well, at least he was thinking. “Don’t
worry
!” We pounded down the hall, smell of chalk and incense, vestments hung on one side and the wine cabinet locked behind gilt-edged froufrou, my coat snapping and the silver in my hair buzzing and spitting blue sparks. It was dark in here, the lights flickering and buzzing. The sharp-edged charms Perry had given me were heavy, twitching as if alive. “Gonna have to steal a car!”

“Aw,
chica
.” Gilberto coughed rackingly. He was keeping up so far, but soon his strength would start to flag. There was only so much healing sorcery could do, and both I and the dogsbody were moving with eerie speed. “You a real role model.”

“Bite me, kiddo.” Our footsteps sounded like one runner, until I left the ground in a leap that blew the outside door clean off its hinges. I rode it down, guns out, and swept as a howl went up.

The sun was low in the west, not setting yet but damn close, and clouds were boiling over what had been a blue vault. Greenyellow stormlight filled the alley; there was a basketball hoop bolted above the one-car garage at the dead end. The garage door was open, and I didn’t have time to remember playing horse with Father Gui as an apprentice, both of us talking smack and the priest’s three-pointers marvels of accuracy. He crossed himself after each one. Misha would be drinking a beer and watching, occasionally catcalling a point of advice that was of no earthly use whatsoever as Father Rosas sat next to him in a sagging lawn chair and glowered disapprovingly.

No, no time to think about it and feel the rage or the grief, because there was a car backed into the garage, pointed out at the alley. It was the church’s only vehicle, the ancient Cadillac Ignacio had picked up for a song and I’d rebuilt and cherried out, long ago in the dim time after Mikhail’s death. No time to remember working on it, Ignacio handing me tools and Gui asking me soft questions about what this or that part of the engine did. “
Get in!
” I yelled; there were lean shapes at the alley’s mouth.

The key was in the ignition, and it reeked of Ignacio’s cigars. Gil was coughing, gone cheesy-pale in a way I didn’t like at all, and the dogsbody growled as the tools hung on pegboards chattered, the entire garage rocking like a ship in a storm as the church tolled its distress.

The shapes at the end of the alley were hellhounds, their eyes full of venomous, greenish glow. I twisted the key and was rewarded with a throbbing purr. The old girl still remembered me. “
This
is a car!” I barked. “This is the kind of car you steal, Gil! Good old American heavy metal!”

He slumped in the seat, but his quick brown fingers were busy reloading. “They don’ look happy,
bruja
.” Another cough, but I’d snapped the parking brake and dropped it into gear. I floored it and the Caddy leapt forward like it had never intended to stay still.

“
Fuck
them!” I yelled, and we hit the massed bodies at the end of the alley with a crunch. The Caddy snarled, the dogsbody let out a yowl, and we were through as the sky muttered with thunder.

“Where we goin’?” Gilberto grabbed for his window, rolling it up, and I had a mad desire to flick on the air-conditioning.

Shit if I know, kid.
But it hit me like lightning, Melendez’s mouth shaping a spirit’s words, and understanding broke through me like water through a bombed dam. It could have been intuition, or the gem in my wrist suddenly singing in a language I understood, or just the most insane option at this point. But as soon as it occurred to me, I knew it was right.

The speedometer’s needle popped up past sixty and I stood on the brake, twisting into a bootlegger’s turn, fishtailing as hellhounds boiled out of the shadows, their hides leprous with steam in the scabbed light. They closed around us like a wave, running, their obsidian-chip teeth champing between gobbets of poisonous foam, and Gilberto let out a short miserable cry as he realized they were
herding
us.

“Gonna play some baseball, Gil. It’s the World Series, and I’m on call.” My breath came in heaving gasps, and my cheeks were wet. The world was doing funny things seen through my left eye, jumping and twitching as the strings under the fleshly curtain were plucked and torn. “Listen carefully, and
don’t argue
.”

T
here was nobody on the streets. I wasn’t surprised—even numbskull civilians will stay inside when the sky looks like a ripening bruise and the air is full of scorching that feels like an ice bath. Now that we were going the way they wanted, the ’breed hung back, letting the hounds nip and harry us through the streets. I made a few attempts to shake them, just because I don’t like being chased. Mother Mary on a pogo stick, how I
hate
to be pursued.

But there was nothing left to do, and Gilberto did
not
look good. He clutched at the gun like it was a Grail, and his lips moved a little as if he was praying.

It was a good idea, but I had no time.

“You hear me?” I finished, as we hit International Way and the four lanes ribboned around us, every light turning green as we sped through, tires smoking and the hellhounds pouring around us in a steaming wave. “No heroics, Gil. You get the
fuck
out of here and strike for Ridgefield. Leon’ll take you in.”

Gil’s chin set stubbornly.

“Gilberto. You’re a liability, not a help. You go, or I swear to God I’ll beat the shit out of you myself.” It was a good threat. I even sounded like I meant it.

“You goin’ in there to die.” Flatly, as if he was talking about the nice weather we were having lately. “
Mi hermano
, he look like this, like you. Right before he got shot.”

I almost winced. His brother was not a safe subject, the past reaching out its tentacles to strangle us all. “They can’t kill me, kid.” I sounded weary even to myself. “Perry needs me for this.”
A Trader can steal a Talisman, but not wield it. Not for very long, anyway—but if he’s using
it to power the hellmouth…Still, I’m the Judas for the Other Side. I have to make it a little longer, right?

It was
so
not a comforting thought.

Gilberto’s chin set itself, stubbornly. “So I go in. Watch your back.”

“No.”

“
Profesora
—”

“No, Gil. You have your orders, goddammit.”

“
Profesora
—”

“
No.
” I said it a lot more sharply than I meant to, and hit the brakes, slewing us sideways as International dove down to follow the river. The stadium was here, hulking like a giant animal over a bone, one of the places in the city where you can’t see the huge granite Jesus on top of Mercy General. Sometimes I’m pretty sure it’s an act of will that keeps that particular landmark from being visible in some pockets of urban real estate. “I’m counting on you, Gilberto. Don’t let me down.”

He mumbled something. I smashed the accelerator again, spun us into another turn, stood on the brake. “I can’t
hear
you, apprentice.” Snap of command.

“
Si,
” he said, scowling. “
Si, profesora.
” Just like a good soldier.

Just like me, when Mikhail would tell me what was what. Would I ever reach the point where I’d trade Gil for my own mark, sell him to Perry to buy a little more time? Or bargain him into it out of love, believing that he could do what I couldn’t and stop
el rubio Diablo
from spinning the wheel and landing a double zero?

I don’t want to find out. It ends here.
“Good fucking deal.” We rocked to a stop, tire smoke rising in sharp-toothed shapes around us. The hellhounds flowed in a leaping circle, stormlight running wetly over their smoking hides as thunder rumbled again. “Gil…”

He stared out the window, sallow, pitted jaw working.

“You’re my apprentice,” I said, finally. “And you’re a good one. You won’t understand for a long, long time. But I love you, and I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”

I hit the latch and was outside in a hot second, leaning down to glance through the back window. “Stay with Gil,” I said, sharply, and the dogsbody settled into the backseat, whining. Every hair on my body tried to stand straight up, I heard hellhound claws skritching and scratching, and the splatter of foam from their panting mouths. The circle tightened, pressing closer, and I glanced up at the sky.

The clouds lowered, sickly greenish-black. Lightning crawled through their billows, occasionally lancing with a
crack
like a belt hitting naked flesh. I slammed the door, Gilberto already shimmying over into the driver’s side. The Cadillac purred, a plastic rosary swinging from the rearview—maybe it was Father Gui’s, maybe Rosa’s—and Gilberto stared through the window, his dark eyes suddenly wet.

I told him what I wish Misha had told me,
I realized, and swallowed hard. The hellhounds didn’t draw any closer.

I stepped back once, twice. The engine revved, the tires chirped…

…and the hellhounds flowed aside at the last moment, leaving a clear path for Gilberto as the wine-red Caddy shot up Martin Luther, its engine singing in mingled pain and relief.

The Santa Luz Stadium and Convention Center was a squat, graceless concrete dome, pathways cut up and down its sides like ribbons of frosting on a particularly nasty soot-gray cake. Normally, a gigantic American flag fluttered atop it, waving like a stripper’s pasty, but the three squat glass towers of the nearby convention center leered at an empty flagpole now, reflecting bright white flashes as the storm closed over Santa Luz. No rain, everything hot with that queer icy heat, the edges of my coat flirting as the wind teased them. My right hand touched a gun, and I felt very exposed standing here.

Almost naked.

I swallowed again, waited as the Cadillac’s roar was lost even to my jacked-up hearing. “
Do svidanye,
” I whispered. My left hand had already closed around the whip’s handle.

If they wanted me to go in there, they were going to have to work for it.

Unfortunately, the hellhounds took me up on the challenge. They moved in, heads down and snaking, a whole massed tide of them, and I gave ground. The whip flicked, breaking tough skin and loosing spatters of stinking ichor, but I didn’t draw the gun.

I had no bullets to waste, now.

They herded me past the ticket booths—all their glass shattered, glinting back little fractures of lightning—and the crowd-control turnstiles, the aluminum tubes twisted back in weird contorted flower-shapes. Someone had certainly been smoothing the path for me.

The primrose path, Jillybean. All the way down to Hell.

When the dogs got too close I flicked the whip at them, and one or two screamed in high, childlike voices. Thunder was a constant roar now, and I
felt
the sun touch the horizon, beginning its slow nightly drowning. The city shivered, concrete groaning, and the wind from the river howled through empty parking lots, tearing at the edges of the dome.

Darkness rose from the corners of the earth, and the hellhounds herded me into a long, low corridor. I heard a mutter, the bulk of the storm shut away. They’d stopped steaming under the lash of daylight, but the press of their bodies made the air quiver with unhealthy heat.

The corridor curved, and for a long time it seemed like I’d be in it forever, the hounds pressing forward to nip at and drive me along, my whip flicking with a jingle of blessed silver every few moments to hold them back. I skip-shuffled along, my back to one wall or the other, and ghastly fluorescent tubes fizzed and blinked overhead. Chipped paint on the concrete turned sickly as the hounds brushed against it, and the little dapples of my sea-urchin aura showed up, punctuating the etheric bruising with tiny crackles.

The corridor terminated in a set of double doors, pulsing as the air behind them pressed close with a crowd-murmur. The hounds stopped, some of them crouching on their haunches, tongues lolling and yellow foam dripping, wriggling into cracks in the floor with subtle hisses.

He must really be excited.
I bit back a bitter little laugh.
All this trouble, Perry, when you knew I’d show up anyway.

One of the hounds hiss-growled very softly, its lip curling back from glassine teeth. I jingled the whip and the beast cowered back into the mass.

Gonna see what’s behind Door Number One, Jillian? Oh yeah, you bet. Right now.
I eased along the wall, keeping an eye on the hellhounds.
Right fucking now. He’s been setting this up for decades.

Be a shame to keep him waiting.

I pushed against the crossbar. The door opened, sterile white light flooded through, and the sound of a crowd belched into the hall on a tide of dry candy corruption. The hounds pressed further back, and for a moment I considered taking them on until I ran out of ammo.

But that would be a waste. I had better things to use my bullets on.

I braced the door wide and stepped out into the glare.