“That could be a first-date movie.”
“Okay,” he says, taking out his beer and finishing it in one go.
“You keep saying ‘okay.’ ”
“Do I?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Drums come through the wall, mixing with the wailing guitar.
“Good luck,” I say. “I’m going to Bamboo House.”
“Okay.”
A LITTLE HUNG over, I head to the Vigil the next afternoon.
Outside, I stop with the other smoking fed delinquents and light up a Malediction. A grounds-keeping crew is running an industrial mower over the golf course, convincing absolutely no one that life goes as usual in the country club. How are they trying to fool with this shit? Is there anyone left in the neighborhood? These were high-toned families. Old money on the skids and new money on the way up, but all with enough resources to be among the first to blow town when the skies opened up.
Maybe the Vigil is keeping up the charade in case they get buzzed by enemy drones. Only who’s using drones over L.A. anymore? Not the Angra. Maybe al-Qaeda is in cahoots with the old Gods. Why not? We don’t look much like winners down here.
Inside Vigil headquarters is like the outside. Busy. Busy. Busy. Feds in suits and others in their golf togs disguises hustle from meetings with tablets under their arms. Others unpack and test angelic Vigil tech freshly shipped in from Washington. Maintenance crews swab the walls and floors. In the constant damp, mildew turns up here like anywhere else and the wet fouls some of the gear.
A group of Dreamers sits around a long plastic table in a break room. There’s a crèche and a little aluminum Christmas tree by the microwave. The Dreamers seem tired and a little hung over themselves. Looks like holding reality together is a bad career choice these days. Keitu Brown is there with her parents. Ten years old, she’s the leader of the bunch. Kids are always the strongest Dreamers. I met her once through Patty Templeton, a dead Dreamer I didn’t do a very good job of protecting. Keitu gives me a little wave. I wave back. Dad gives me a look and puts his arm around his daughter’s shoulder. I keep moving.
The door to the Shonin’s magic room is locked and there’s something new on the wall. A key pad and a box the size of an old PC, with a glass plate on the front.
There’s a shade over the door to the Shonin’s room, so I can’t see if anyone is in there. I bang on the glass. A few seconds later an intercom crackles.
“Put your hand on the scanner, fatso.”
I push the key on the intercom.
“The glass plate on the front?”
“No. The one sticking out of my ass, stupid.”
I touch the plate and the panel lights up. I feel a gentle vibration as a light inside runs across my hand. A second later, a panel above the scanner lights up.
ENTRY.
The door buzzes. I push and it opens. I’m pissed off until I get inside and see why they put on the extra security.
The Qomrama Om Ya sits in the far corner of the room. It floats, suspended in a magnetic field, spinning slowly, changing shape as it moves.
“You’re in the big time now,” says the Shonin.
“I wasn’t before?”
“Bigger. You get to play with the expensive toys.”
“I found the damned toy.”
“Yeah, but you gave it to the Vigil, so it’s here’s now, isn’t it?”
The fucker is right. I did give it to them. And I guess it’s as safe here as anywhere on Earth. And if I hid it in the Room, where no one could get at it, we’d never figure out how to use it.
The Shonin comes over to where I’m standing and looks at the 8 Ball.
I say, “How did the Vigil get my prints?”
“Have you ever touched anything?”
“Here?”
“Anywhere.”
“I see your point.”
The Shonin goes back to his worktable, piled high musty books marked with highlighters and Post-its. There’s an old box on the table with about a hundred little cubbyholes, each holding a potion in a small vial. If Vidocq was here he could probably tell me what they were. Maybe the bag of bones gets tuckered out and needs mummy Adderall to study for his finals.
“I have a present for you,” I say, and hand the Shonin the dead Goth kid’s phone.
“I already have an iPhone. And this piece of shit is cracked,” he says.
“Fuck you. I got this off a dead kid. He was possessed and I got a call from some really annoying people in Hell on it. I thought maybe you could do some hoodoo on it and learn something.”
He looks at the phone. Presses it to his chest like he’s listening for something.
“I hate this kind of technology. Old stuff. Wood. Fabric. Stone. Metal. It holds pieces of the spirits that move through it. This stuff,” he says, tossing the phone onto the table with his books. “This stuff is empty. It beeps. It plays music. But it has no life.”
“Can you do anything with it?”
“Me? No. But maybe one of Wells’s machine fuckers. Boys and girls love staring at the screens. They think I don’t see them jerking around, playing World of Warcraft. Planning attacks when they should be saving the world.”
“Everyone needs to blow off steam.”
I can’t believe I have to defend federal geeks to a dead man.
“Tell it to Lamia or Zhuyigdanatha. Think they’re blowing off steam?”
The Shonin stops for a second. Stares off into space, then grabs a pen and scribbles something on a yellow legal pad.
“That reminds me. The kid said something about the ‘Hand.’ He said something like he’s many-handed. A hand for every soul on Earth.”
The Shonin nods and goes to a whiteboard. The names of the thirteen Angra are written there. He puts a check mark next to a name I’ve never seen before.
“His name is Akkadu. The Hand. Dumb as monkey shit. An enforcer.”
“It was just the kid talking. I didn’t see any Angra and the kid wasn’t any more or less powerful than other possessed people. He was just a vessel for whoever has the possession key in Hell.”
The Shonin writes Hellions on one corner of the whiteboard.
“What did the phone caller say?”
“Just what you think. Give us the 8 Ball. Resistance is futile. Help us destroy the universe because we’re bummed and daddy’s a drunk.”
“Your God really fucked things up when he came up with Hell.”
“My God? You don’t believe in him?”
“I’m Buddhist, stupid. I believe in the God in each man and woman. I respect that you believe in your God, but he isn’t my concern.”
“Yeah, but he exists. You just admitted that when you said he fucked things up.”
“Oh, he exists. I just don’t care,” he says. “But don’t tell Wells I said that. His metaphysics are as simple as your brain.”
The Shonin takes one of the potion vials from the box, pops the cork, and drinks, shuddering as it goes down. The shuddering sounds like someone shaking shrubbery in a paper bag. When he’s done he scribbles more notes on the pad. I start to say something, but he holds up a finger for silence. When he’s finished writing he looks up.
“You’re still here? Go out and do something useful. Get attacked again so you can bring me more useless junk.”
“Funny you should use the word ‘useless.’ I’m starting to think of it when I think of you. You talk big about magic and studying the 8 Ball, but what have you got to show for it? Can you use the thing yet?”
“You think I’d be standing here talking to you if I could?” he says.
The Shonin stumbles and sits on a wooden stool next to the table with his books.
“It’s not so simple, understanding the Qomrama. Remember, it’s two things.”
“It’s a weapon. The Godeater.”
“Yes, but it’s also a summoning object. The Angra can pound on the door to our universe. They can stick a finger or toe in, but they can’t enter without being summoned with it.”
“I guess that helps us a little. But even a little piece of an Angra is trouble. Have you ever fought a demon? They’re just tiny brainless fragments of the Angra. The dandruff of the old Gods that fell off when they were kicked out of here. But they can kill you as dead as a bullet.”