“The Ghoul called me,” she says. “He told me you were coming here. I thought I’d see if — if you were in trouble.”
“I thought you were still pissed at me,” Billy says.
“I am,” Denver says. “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t show up. That’s what I keep saying.”
Billy pauses, and he lets this sink in, and he says, “Thank you.”
Then he looks both ways for Lucifer, but there’s no sign of him; the two hours aren’t quite up yet. There are no NYPD personnel in sight, either, even though the sidewalk is covered with clear signs of forced entry. The only official on the scene is a Traffic Enforcement Agent, busy printing a ticket for the Trusty Econoline Van.
“Fuck,” Billy says. “Can’t she see that the hazards are on? That means back in a minute!” But Denver puts her hand on his shoulder, steers him away from the van, directing him instead toward a yellow cab, idling at the curb. Billy stops when he sees it.
“I told them that I’d get you, and take you to see them,” Denver says.
“Who?” Billy says.
“The Ghoul. Anil. They just want to see you, Billy.” She speaks cautiously, as though he may be insane.
Billy winces. He’d already pretty much assumed that after this afternoon he’d never see any of them again, and while he is still far from coming to terms with that there was at least a way in which he thought it would be easier, emotionally. He’s never really liked long goodbyes and the idea of sitting with them, knowing that it’s the final time, seems grueling.
He contemplates running. But then he remembers last night, at Barometer, just sitting there and laughing and enjoying everyone’s company. He remembers feeling, even if it was only for fifteen minutes, like everything in his life was going to be okay. He’d like to have that experience one final time. A last toast together before Lucifer sucks him down to Hell. Sad, but it would give him a thing to hold on to, an image he could take with him down to the void. And he sees no prohibition against it; it doesn’t appear to violate his vow, as long as he comes when Lucifer calls. So he lets Denver steer him into the cab, and off they go, into the night.
They put the gun and the tire iron in the duffel bag, along with the Neko, which floats serenely in the bubble of its shining final seal, and then Billy tries to fill Denver in on everything that’s happened, but she has pieces of the story from Anil and the Ghoul, and she ends up shushing him so she can tend to his wound. He’s grateful for that, because it allows him to not have to figure out what to do when he gets to the part of the story where he and Elisa fuck one another.
He leans his head back and lets Denver press a tissue against his chin, watches the streetlights recede through the cab’s rear windshield. It’ll be sad, to say goodbye to all this. This world, with all its weirdness. He will, in the end, miss it.
After the blood seems to have been stanched, he wonders if he can get away with leaning in for a kiss. He can.
They kiss for a while, and it’s good.
And then Billy looks out the window. They’re still in Manhattan. If they were going to Anil’s place, or the Ghoul’s place, or any of their normal haunts they should have crossed over to Brooklyn long ago. And they’re going completely the wrong way to get back to Denver’s place, where they wouldn’t go anyway, ’cause Denver has eleven fucking roommates. It occurs to Billy to ask what he should have asked before he got in the cab.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to see your dad,” she says.
“That guy’s not my dad,” he says, beginning to get agitated. “I don’t want to see him. I thought we were going to see Anil—”
“Anil gave me an address. He said we should meet him there, that there were people there who could help you—”
“You’re taking me to the Right-Hand Path headquarters,” Billy says, incensed at what suddenly appears to him as her betrayal. “I can’t go there. That’s like the one place I can’t go.”
“I don’t understand,” she says. “Everybody says that these people can protect you.”
“They can’t protect me,” Billy says. “And I’m not allowed to let them try.” They cross through an intersection. Billy figures out where they are on the grid; they aren’t far, now, from the Right-Hand Path headquarters. “Hey,” Billy says. He reaches up and raps on the scratched plane of Plexiglas separating him from the cabbie. “Hey, pull over. I have to get out.”
“Billy,” Denver says. “Just wait.”
“You don’t understand,” Billy says. He can feel the prohibitions put in place by his vow begin to rise in him, a sort of physical discomfort, a vague, burning itch prickling over him, as though he’s been sprayed with a fine mist of allergens.
They roll up to HQ. There are signs that Lucifer has been here. Billy remembers Lucifer saying that when he came for Elisa and Jørgen, he came in his full splendor. Billy didn’t think too much about what that meant at the time but he thinks about it now. The building looks like a bomb went off inside it. Scorch marks, some of them fifteen feet high, mar the granite facing. Clean-cut looking men and women with violet hard hats — Right-Hand Path employees, Billy guesses — politely herd pedestrians along a strip of CAUTION tape that cordons off the site. He wonders whether the pedestrians will remember having seen the damage, or if some replacement memory gets installed in their minds before they go.
The cab pulls over. While Denver fumbles with her credit card Billy grabs the duffel bag, pops the door and hurries out. He’s going to run. Or at least that’s the plan. He looks both ways, trying to decide which way to bolt, but then right there at his side is Barry, the big guy with the serpent facial tattoo who plays Gorbok the Mad.
“Don’t worry, Billy,” Barry says, in his sweet, high voice. He places a firm hand on Billy’s shoulder. “We got ya.”
Billy tries to twist free but Barry’s hand stays heavily on his shoulder; it sends some kind of line of force down through his body, rooting his feet to the pavement.
“Come on now,” Barry says. “Let’s get you upstairs. We’ve regrouped into the secure room, on three.”
“Fuck you,” Billy says. In response, Barry steps behind him, and twists his arm back between his shoulder blades.
“Don’t hurt him,” Denver cries, as Barry marches Billy forward. They enter the burnt lobby through a seam in a translucent tarp, stretched across the spot where there used to be a revolving door. Standing in the lobby is Laurent, wearing one of the violet hard hats.
“Billy!” Laurent says. “Good to see you, very good to see you. We’ve suffered some, ah, unfortunate setbacks today, you can see, the old place looked a little better this morning.” He smiles. “But it’s good to have you back in our court.”
“I’m not in your court,” Billy says, as they usher him through the lobby.
“Oh, no, I suppose not, not if we’re speaking about, you know, where your loyalties lie.” They push Billy through a door and begin guiding him up a flight of stairs, with Denver bringing up the rear.
“We have your friend Anil in the secure room; we got his report of the situation, a layman’s report, but very good nonetheless, very rich in nuances, the fine details, I can understand why the man became a writer. In any case! He seemed to indicate that you might be on the wrong side of some kind of Dark Oath scenario. Which would match, you know, with what happened with Elisa, and the other one, the big gentleman?”
“Jørgen,” Barry offers, as they cross the second floor landing.