“I shall honor our agreement,” Lucifer says, looking Billy straight in the eye. “And if you wish to go home, then home is where you shall go.”
“Yes, very good,” says Laurent, rising from his chair, “but, but, wait, wait just a second—”
But Lucifer does not wait a second. He releases the handshake and there is the flashbulb crackle. Everything goes white.
For a second Billy fears he’s been tricked, that he’s going back to Hell, on the grounds that Hell Is His True Home or some shit. Or even that he’s being flung back to Ohio, where he’ll have to deal with his dad. But no. When his vision clears he’s happy to see he’s back in his apartment, as he left it, only with one difference: Denver is next to him.
“Oh, thank God,” Billy says.
Denver, looking completely drained, drops onto the couch. She shoves open a space on the messy coffee table and drops her camera there.
“I’m sorry the place is such a mess,” Billy says, exhausted.
“It’s okay,” she says.
Billy makes a restless circuit of the room, wonders whether Jørgen will be magically appearing in the next minute or so. In the end, he figures that Jørgen is probably still in the hospital, and Elisa is probably still talking to cops — they may be free of their servitude to the Devil, but there’s still some sorting out to do. He feels an impulse to try right now to call around, figure out what hospital Jørgen might be in, see if he’s all right, but after patting down his jumpsuit for the hundredth time Billy realizes that he still doesn’t have a goddamn phone, and the thought of getting on the Internet right now makes him squirm. Either Jørgen is all right or he isn’t, and nothing Billy does right now either way is going to change that. He puts it in a great file of things that he can worry about in the morning.
For now, he can assume that he and Denver have the place to themselves.
“Hey,” he says, pausing in his pacing. “Look, I don’t know if we’re — if we’re still a thing, or what. I kinda hope we are.”
“You kinda hope we are?” Denver says.
“I hope we are,” Billy says, groping for definitiveness. “I do. I just — you know, maybe you want to go home, I get it, but I would really love it if you would spend the night here with me tonight. I could go out and get a bottle of wine”—he can’t really, it occurs to him, since he has no cash and no ID—“and we could order Chinese or something and just — hang out? Or something?”
“You still have to work on your delivery,” Denver says. “But yes, I would like that.”
Billy breathes an enormous sigh and collapses onto the couch next to her.
“Wait a second, though,” Denver says. “Do you think it’s safe?”
“Safe?” Billy says.
“Well, I’m still missing parts of the story, but if I understand correctly you occasionally turn into some kind of — sex-demon wolf thing?”
“Hell-wolf,” Billy says.
“And it was some kind of mystic ward or something that kept you from changing? That your dad put on you? But that ward never got put back on.”
“Oh, right,” Billy says. “My dad wanted me to go back home; he said he could sort it out there.”
“Do you want to go?” Denver asks. “We could — get on a bus, or—?”
Billy frowns at this. “I don’t know what I want,” he says.
Except he does. He knows that he wants to sit down and have a conversation with his dad, to speak honestly with him for maybe the first time ever. But he also knows that he’s done, at least for a while, with people doing things to his brain, with oaths and wards and whatever else.
Before he has a chance to really think about that, Denver speaks again. “Let me ask it this way,” she says. “Do you think you’ll try to kill me in the night?”
“No,” Billy says, with resolve.
Denver looks into his eyes, inspecting something in his pupils. She gets a penlight off her belt and shines it into each of them in turn. “You seem normal,” Denver says.
“I’m not,” Billy says.
“No,” Denver says. “You’re not. But I think that might be okay.”
They don’t order Chinese. They don’t go out and get wine. They drink a half a bottle of Jørgen’s port that they find in the back of a cabinet above the refrigerator and they go up to the loft.
For a while they lie in bed and watch the footage that Denver captured. Billy laughs out loud at seeing Anton Cirrus fall down the stairs, but then he remembers the reality of the situation and it sobers him.
“I think you saved my life,” Billy says, “showing up when you did. He really would have shot me if you weren’t there.” It occurs to him that that means he’s on his third life. Or maybe fourth, if he counts his dad busting him out of Hell. Or fifth, if he counts Anil calling for Krishna’s intercession. Fuck, he thinks, I’m in debt to everyone now.
And then he realizes that that’s okay. Denver is right: when people love you, they show up. Sometimes that means that they get to bail you out of trouble. It’s not bad when that happens; it just means that you return the obligation when you get the chance. You be a guy who is present instead of a fuck-up.
He thinks he can do that.
Billy dreams of Ollard.
First he dreams of the tower, looming, dank, writhing like a living thing.
And in this dream Billy enters the tower and finds there not a Starbucks but a room, Billy’s own writing room from long ago, on the third floor of his childhood home. Ollard is there, pecking at the precious Olivetti with stained fingers, and Billy finds one of his mother’s antique blades in his hand. He comes up behind Ollard and slashes his throat. He slashes again and again. Ollard gurgles beneath the blade. Blood sprays onto the page loaded into the typewriter.
And Billy looks at the page, to see what Ollard has written, and the page is blank, there are no words upon it, even the blood is gone, it is just blankness, the pure blankness of Hell, and Billy can feel himself and Ollard falling into it, forever together.
And Billy wakes, next to Denver; it is dark and he is safe, surrounded by the comforting things of this world. But the blankness hangs in his mind like a specter. He struggles for a moment to banish it, the only way he knows how. He has an idea.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN. FULL DISCLOSURE
Hello.
You are listening to the August 17 edition of The Stolon, the Bladed Hyacinth weekly podcast. Fifteen minutes of Q&A about books and the people who make them. I’m your host, Ethel Shira Wise. Today our guest is author W. H. Ridgeway, here to discuss his book-length lyric essay of moral inquiry, On Killing. Thank you for joining us.
Thank you for having me.
So. Killing. It’s a heavy topic.
It is.
But not a new topic.
No. It’s one of the oldest topics, in fact. The history of literature is, in some ways, the history of writing about killing. Beowulf, The Iliad—these are works that are intimately attentive to the act of killing.
And religious literature, as well, is certainly concerned with the topic.
Indeed. All religious traditions define themselves, partially, by the nature of their ethical values, and all of them therefore end up having to say something about killing. Usually it’s in the form of a proscription of some sort, although in practice religious traditions tend to be fascinatingly inconsistent in exactly how and when they enforce this proscription.