and is examining the wallets.
He says, “They’re empty.”
“Are they?”
“Was there anything inside when you found them?”
“How do I know? I was killing vampires, not checking their IDs. I’ve seen plenty of Lurkers that don’t use money. They steal what they want.”
“Then why carry a wallet?”
Shit. Good point.
“Ask a shrink. I get paid to kill things.”
“Right.”
He turns to a female agent standing on his right.
“Bag these and take them downstairs for identification.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wells motions for me to follow him. We head out across the warehouse floor.
I kind of like the organized chaos of the Golden Vigil’s headquarters. There’s always something fun to scope out and think about stealing. A group of agents in Tyvek suits and respirators forklifting a massive stone idol onto the back of a flatbed truck. The idol is on its back, and from where I’m standing, it’s all tentacles and breasts, but I swear some of the tentacles move a little as they tether the idol down. Across the floor, welders are modifying vehicles. Agents are examining new guns as they’re uncrated. A guy as skinny, leathery, and looking as old as King Tut’s mummy wanders the floor sprinkling holy water on everything.
“What kind of a bonus am I getting for taking out those four extra bloodsuckers?”
“From the look of those wallets, seems to me that you already got your bonus.”
“Is that what it seems to you? If I happened to find anything at the crime scene, trust me, it’s barely enough to cover the cost of a replacement jacket. Besides, with intelligence as bad as that, I deserve extra money just on principle.”
“Do you?”
“Unless you knew what was inside that building.”
Wells stops and looks at me.
“Come again?”
“Unless you knew there was a pod in there, but sent me in looking for one inexperienced girl. Isn’t that exactly the kind of thing you’d tell someone if you were setting them up?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“How’s your lady friend downstairs?”
“Don’t talk about her like that.”
Wells gets a little defensive whenever I mention Aelita. He’s got a thing for her but an angel is just a little out of his league.
“Okay. How is Miss Aelita? Healthy? Happy? I haven’t seen her since right after Avila.”
Aelita is a kind of drill sergeant angel. She runs the Golden Vigil, Heaven’s Pinkertons. She knows I’m a nephilim and has a cute nickname for me: “The Abomination.” I’m pretty sure she’d like to see me dead.
“Did you send candy and flowers on Valentine’s Day, Wells? It’s okay, you know. He was a saint.”
His phone goes off. He walks away and speaks quietly into the receiver. I think an angel’s ears are burning.
Wells nods and pockets the phone.
“You get a twenty percent bonus added on to your next check.”
“Twenty percent? What am I, your waiter? I got you five vampires, not a BLT.”
“Twenty percent is what I’ve been authorized. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.”
He takes a white business envelope from his jacket and hands it to me. The check for my last Vigil hit. A bunch of suburban Druids in Pomona were trying to resurrect the Invidia, a gaggle of transdimensional chaos deities. The Druids were hilarious. They looked like extras from The Andy Griffith Show trying to call up the devil in matching white housedresses. What’s even funnier was that their plan almost worked. Their scrawny Barney Fife leader was one murdered infant away from annihilating Southern California.
I wonder if I’d just held back a little and Barney did get to unleash the Invidia, would we really be able to tell the difference?
I look at the check and then at Wells.
“Why do you always pull this shit?”
“Do what? Obey the law?”
“I’m a freelancer and you’re deducting things like taxes and Social Security.”
“You don’t strike me as the type who files his taxes on time. I’m doing you a favor.”
“I don’t pay taxes because I don’t exist. You think I’m going to apply for Social Security when I’m sixty-five?”
“You’re going to want to wait until you’re seventy. The extra benefits are worth it.”
“I’m not waiting for anything. I’m legally dead. Why am I paying any of this bullshit?”
“I told you to watch your language.”
“Fuck you, Miss Manners. You get me to kill for you and then you screw me out of my money.”
“That money belongs to the government. It funds what we do here. You don’t like it, run for office.”
I don’t want to run for anything. I want to shove this miserable cheap-ass check so far up Wells’s ass he can read the routing number out the back of his eyes.
But Max Overdrive is just limping along these days and I don’t want to have to find someplace else to live. Landlords in L.A. don’t want you to have pets. What am I going to do with a chain-smoking severed head? Dignity is nice but it’s money makes the lights and shower work.
I watch the welders working across the warehouse so I don’t have to look at Wells while I fold the check and slip it into my pocket.
“At the end of time, when your side loses, I want you to remember this moment.”
Wells narrows his eyes.
“Why?”
“’Cause Lucifer doesn’t expect you to thank him when he fucks you over. That’s why he’s going to win.”
Wells looks down at the floor for a minute. Puts his hands behind his back.
“You know, my mother watched a lot of Christian TV when I was growing up. Hellfire-and-brimstone hucksters telling Bible stories and yelling about damnation to get fools and old people to send them their welfare checks. I never paid much attention to ’em, but one day out of nowhere this one wrinkled old preacher starts
