The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(73)

Johnny reaches for the lighter, but Doris snatches it away and hands it back to me.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he says. “He could have had that all along.”

“He’s been bumming lights and matches from people since he got here,” Daja says.

“Bollocks.”

I flick the Dupont on and off a couple of times. Point it at Johnny.

“That’s it, pal. You’re off my Christmas-card list. It was going to be a good one, too. Kittens pulling Santa’s sleigh.”

“Stay away from me and my people,” he says.

“Your people? You’re a joke. A handful of cretins and scaredy-cats doesn’t make you John Dillinger or the Magistrate. They’ll dump you at the first sign of trouble.”

“Come on,” he says, and his puppy pack trails behind him, tails wagging for their master.

“That was fun. Can I go see the goddamn Magistrate now?”

“He’s downstairs in his room,” Daja says. With a week full of healing, her hand is looking a lot better.

We follow her to the hatch belowdecks and down the ladder.

“Is he still fucked up?”

“No. He’s mostly better.”

Mostly. The fucker is faking it. Archangels heal even faster than I do.

“That’s good to hear.”

Daja knocks on his door and we go inside.

Sure enough, he still has a big bandage wrapped around his chest. I bet he does it himself. Won’t let anyone help him, not even Daja. They all think he’s such a strong, brave soul when he’s just exactly the kind of winged asshole I’ve been dealing with for years. I’d like to rip the bandage off and show everyone what a liar he is, but I stay cool. Samael was probably right. Hang on and find the Light Killer. Then make sure this clown doesn’t play with it like a ten-year-old with the combination to Daddy’s gun locker. He looks up from the map in surprise when I come in.

“Mr. Pitts. You have come back to us. I’d almost lost hope.”

“I was out of Moxie.”

He comes over and gets me in a big bear hug. For a guy who’s supposed to be hurt, he’s got a pretty good grip.

“Come. Sit down. Do you bring good news?”

I sit on one of the bunks while the remaining pack crowds in.

I say, “Where’s Traven?”

“The good father is going through what books he could save from his library. Vehuel and her companions have pinpointed the location of the Lux Occisor. We planned on sailing there tomorrow, with or without you.”

“Glad I made it back for supper.”

“You better eat up while you’re on board. We’re not taking any supplies with us when we go for the sword,” says Wanuri.

“Why?”

“We cannot carry them,” says the Magistrate. “Without the vehicles, we will have to move the weapon ourselves.”

I look around the room. He’s serious.

“We’ve gone from a crusade to pack mules? Why not just leave the gun, get the sword, and bring it back?”

“With whom should we leave it? Who can we trust at this point?”

“You saw Johnny and his bunch,” says Daja. “He isn’t the only one with a gang at this point.”

I say, “What about the angels? Can’t we leave the gun with them?”

“Then who would lead us to our goal?” says the Magistrate. “Who would protect us if there was another attack?”

I shake my head.

“I don’t believe you people. I’m gone a few days and I come back to the end of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.”

Everybody stares at me.

“It’s a movie. There’s a standoff in a graveyard at the end. Everybody is going to shoot everybody else.”

Gisco says something and signs. I don’t need a translator to know he wants to hear how it comes out.

“Clint Eastwood is the star. You do the math.”

He gives me a thumbs-up.

“That is all terribly interesting, but what about the larger issue? Did you find Death?”

“Actually, he usually finds me. But yes, I did.”

His eyes light up. At least someone around here believes that I know interesting people.

“And what did he say?”

“He’s with us. He’s not going to run around killing everybody who looks at us cross-eyed, but when the time comes, he’ll be there.”

“Is that all? Did he give you anything to bring back that might help us?”

I wonder if he knows about Death’s hoodoo knife? He’s an archangel. Of course he does. He was probably on the budget committee that approved it.

“There’s this.”

I hand him the lighter.

He holds it up to the light and looks it over.

“What does it do?”

“It lights cigarettes.”

He hands it back to me.

“I was hoping for a more tangible symbol of his support.”

“What did you want? Team jackets? He’s Death. Death doesn’t lie. He just kills you. Or the other guy. In our case, it’s going to be the other guys.”

The Magistrate sighs.

“You are right. Death is a celestial being and celestials do not lie.”