a preacher invoking the Holy Spirit or asking for a handout.
“Give me something more precious than gold—”
“I think he means me,” says Candy.
“—but that you have no use for.”
Candy does a mock frown.
“Now he’s hurt my feelings.”
“Does this thing have a name?” I ask.
Declan speaks quietly. Suddenly serious.
“Come now, Mr. Stark. We both know what I’m talking about.”
“No. We don’t.”
Samael sighs.
“He means the Qomrama Om Ya.”
“Is that right?”
Declan’s lips curl in a sly smile.
“He’s a smart man.”
“Yeah, he is. Ask nice and he’ll guess your weight. What makes you think I have it?”
“Because you were seen using it. On the child ghost.”
Oh, right.
The Qomrama is a weapon designed by old gods, the Angra Om Ya, to kill other gods. Namely ours. Turns out that the universe really belongs to the Angra and our God foxed them out of it. Now they’re pissed and they want it back. The child ghost, Lamia, was a piece of one of the Angra that leaked through to this universe, and in a pretty blue dress and with a great big knife, she came close to destroying the world.
“You got me there. I guess I did have it.”
“Did?” says Declan.
Candy nods.
“As in past tense. As in it went bye-bye, Charlie.”
Declan cocks his head. A coy move I’d call him on if I wasn’t sure it would cost me money.
“Come now. Who could take it from you, Mr. Stark?”
“A crazy rogue angel named Aelita.”
Declan doesn’t say anything for a minute, like he’s thinking things over.
“If it’s a question of payment, I can offer you more than money. A man like you must have a use for power objects. I can offer you the Spear of Destiny. The actual spear that pierced Christ’s side on the Cross.”
Samael rolls his eyes. He’s heard the line before. Candy smiles. She thinks she’s getting a new toy.
“No thanks. I already have one of those. Right between my Nunchucks of Fate and my Zip Gun of Doom.”
“I’m disappointed to hear that,” says Declan.
“How do you think I feel? I just lost a million dollars.”
“Not if you find it. If, for instance, you manage to reacquire it, I wouldn’t ask how.”
“How open-minded of you.”
Declan’s eyes flicker to Samael and back to me.
“Can I ask what kind of business you are discussing?”
“I was updating their Wikipedia pages,” says Candy. “Do you have one? I can do yours too.”
Declan gives her an indulgent smile.
“I’m afraid I’m not nearly as colorful as these gentlemen. But thank you for the kind offer.”
He reaches into an interior pocket in his jacket and pulls out a business card. He sets it on the table.
“I suppose there isn’t a lot more for us to talk about here in public. If you’re interested in getting serious, you can reach me here.”
“If I find anything interesting under the sofa cushions.”
“Exactly,” says Declan. He holds out his hand. I don’t shake it. After a minute he drops it to his side.
“Good-bye,” he says and walks away.
“Bye,” Candy calls. “It was strange meeting you.”
No one talks until Declan gets outside.
Samael says, “You realize that he didn’t believe a word you said. He thinks you still have the Qomrama and that you’re selling it to me.”
“How do you know that?”
Samael pushes Candy’s hands away from the laptop and closes the lid.
“Because the man I said was a pious bore? He’s about to shoot you.”
He pushes Candy down and ducks himself.
The guy fires just as I turn. The shot is close enough that I feel it breeze by my ear. It hits Candy’s laptop dead center. Her head pops up from under the table.
“You killed La Blue Girl, you asshole!”
Samael pulls her back down.
The guy pulls the trigger again, but I’m looking at him this time. I think he’s more used to shooting people in the back because the moment we make eye contact his hand shakes and his next shot goes through the window, cracking the safety glass. He pulls open the door and takes off across the parking lot. I’m not wasting time going for the door. I go out the window, broken glass flying across the windshields of parked cars.
Samael was right that it looks like things haven’t worked out for the shooter. He’s in a tan raincoat wrinkled enough that it looks like he sleeps in it. He’s an older guy. Midfifties. A bit of a gut hanging over the top of his jeans. But he runs like a fucking demon.
I chase him across Hollywood Boulevard and down La Brea. The shooter lane-splits between the gridlocked traffic, gracefully sliding across hoods and car roofs when they’re too close to squeeze between. I chase him as hard as I can, but I’m not gaining much ground and I can run damned fast. This tubby sad sack isn’t normal. He’s potioned up or there’s hoodoo on him. I could fry the shooter’s fat ass with a hex, but I learned my lesson after blowing up Rodeo Drive. Zipping through traffic at Mach 5 isn’t exactly low profile, but it’s better than launching hoodoo RPGs at the guy. I don’t need a beef with the Sub Rosa right now. So I suck it up and run faster.
He cuts to his right, running behind a gas station. I follow him but he clears a fence in one jump. I have to climb the damned thing. He’s gone when I hit the ground. I take off after him again.
At the corner of Sunset the shooter turns and sees me. His chest is heaving like his lungs are going to blow up like Macy’s Thanksgiving balloons. His eyes are twitching in their sockets like he’s maxed out on PCP. He’s definitely on a potion or two. I don’t think anyone has ever caught up with him before.
