DEDICATION
To S. J. Perlman, early Woody Allen (not creepy recent Woody), Douglas Adams, and every heist and caper author and filmmaker ever. You made me want to write one of these stories and so I did. Now, though, I need a drink, so this is also for all the bartenders who got me off the cheap stuff, and especially that guy in Arizona (yes, Arizona) who made a mean Sazerac. You convinced me that whiskey didn’t have to be downed neat and that absinthe was fit for human consumption. Like it or not, this one is for all of you.
EPIGRAPH
“DON’T JUDGE A TACO BY ITS PRICE.”
—Hunter S. Thompson,
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
CONTENTS
Dedication
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Richard Kadrey
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
ONE
Earth. Four thousand years ago. Give or take.
THE ANGEL, MAJESTIC IN GOSSAMER ROBES, STOOD ON a mountaintop, taking it all in. The sky was clear and a few minutes earlier he’d been poking the carcass of a dead whale with a stick. The way he understood things, whales didn’t normally spend a lot of time five thousand feet up the side of a mountain, which was probably why this one was so dead. It was the angel’s first trip to Earth and everything was so exciting and new. Especially the destruction. A whole planet drowned. A damned clever way to clean up the whole “humanity mess.” Of course, the flood made a different kind of mess, what with cities, people, and animals smashed willy-nilly across the land. And now that the rains had stopped, it was all getting a bit, well, ripe. But none of that was his problem. God got things rolling, and now he’d take care of the rest.
The angel raised his arms and unfurled his wings. They were large. Very large. Like a condor with a pituitary problem. The angel cleared his throat and spoke.
“Oh, humanity, heed the sound of destruction for your sins!”
“You don’t have to shout. I’m right here.”
The angel whirled around. The creature behind him was human. A man. His hair was wild, like he hadn’t combed or washed it in weeks. His face was streaked with mud and his filthy clothes were little more than damp rags.
“Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
“Are you the one who’s been fluttering around here the last few days?”
The angel smiled, standing a little straighter. Puffing his wings out even wider.
“Ah, you saw? Yes, that was me. I wasn’t sure anyone had noticed. I was hoping someone might send an emissary. Is that what you are?”
“Sort of. People asked me to come up. I’m Tiras.”
“Hello, Tiras. Very nice to meet you.”
Tiras took a step closer. Having just crawled out of the mess of the semi-destroyed world below, he smelled like one of Lucifer’s more pungent farts. The angel didn’t say anything, partly because he was too polite and partly because he was holding his breath.
“Sounds like you’re here to wipe out what’s left of us,” Tiras said.
“That’s it in a nutshell. I wanted to speak to a representative who could pass the word along that—let me get this right—you’re all awful, God is sick of you, and you should—what was it?—say your last prayers, beg for forgiveness, and all prepare to die horribly.” The angel smiled at Tiras, proud of himself for remembering everything.
“The truth is,” he said, “I wish we’d met a couple of days ago. Now I’m behind schedule.”
Tiras nodded, glanced down the mountain and back at the angel.
“So, you’re the angel of Death?”
The angel shook his head, a little embarrassed.
“I don’t have that honor. In Heaven, I’m the celestial who bears the great golden quills, the silver Chroma, the holy vellums upon which the Lord God inscribes the fate of the universe.”
Tiras’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re in charge of office supplies. You’re the angel of office supplies.”
The angel looked at him.
“That’s a little reductionist, don’t you think? Disrespectful, too, when you get down to it. You do understand that I’m a living representative of God on Earth, right?”
“What’s your name?” said Tiras.
“I’m called Qaphsiel.”
“And you’re here to finish the rest of us off.”
“Hopefully by tonight. As I mentioned, I’m a little behind schedule,” said Qaphsiel brightly.
“Then let me give you a kiss from all of us left slogging around in the mud and dead things.”
Tiras balled up his hand. Qaphsiel watched, fascinated. He’d read about this kind of thing. There was a word for it.
Tiras pulled his hand back and punched Qaphsiel in the nose. It hurt. It hurt a lot.
Fist. Yes, that was the word.
“What’s wrong with you?” shouted Qaphsiel. “Hitting a celestial who sits at God’s right hand?”
“Guarding the cabinet where they keep the quill sharpeners hardly makes you God’s right-hand man.”
“Well, it’s a pretty big cabinet. And who are you to judge one of the holies?”
Qaphsiel took a step back when Tiras balled up his fist again.
The man said, “I should wholly kick your ass all the way back to Heaven for what you did.”
Even though Qaphsiel’s nose still hurt, he squared his shoulders and spoke in the loftiest tone he could muster.
“The flood wasn’t my or any other angel’s doing. It was God’s. At the time, a lot of us didn’t understand, but now, having met a human, I’m getting a pretty good idea why he did it.”
The man stuck a finger in Qaphsiel’s chest. That hurt, too. Were all humans this pointy and painful?
“You don’t like me?” said the man. “What are you going to do about it? Take away my house and sandals? Oh wait, I don’t have any because they all got washed away!”
Qaphsiel’s eyes flashed with anger.
“Though I’m not the angel of Death, I’ve been charged by the Lord with finishing his work. The great flood was supposed to purge humanity from the Earth. Yet, some of you remain.”
The man shook his head.
“Not that many. There wasn’t much room in the boat.”
“There are others, scattered around the world, on islands and high peaks like this. Enough to repopulate the world. That is why I’m here. I’m the Lord’s hand in this matter. The wrath of God on Earth.”
“You said you were in charge of paper clips.”
Quietly, Qaphsiel said, “This is my chance for a promotion. Really. So yes, this isn’t at all what I usually do, but destroying you people is getting more appealing by the minute.”
The man smiled and backed away, holding up his hands in mock fright.
“What’s your plan? Murder us wit
h an inkwell? Stab us with a stylus?”
“No,” said Qaphsiel. Storm clouds gathered overhead and the mountain turned dark. Lightning spiked across the heavens and crashed to the ground, exploding the rotting whale, sending a great blubbery rain down around them.
“Behold! The Apocalypse is nigh!” Qaphsiel shouted.
Tiras looked around, his eyes darting back and forth in their sockets like they were trying to figure out how to get away from the rest of him.
“Listen, Qaphsiel. I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot. No one’s been sleeping or eating much, and I have this low-blood-sugar problem.”
“Too late, wretched mortal!” thundered Qaphsiel, and the Earth rumbled beneath them. Tiras backed down the mountain away from the angel. Qaphsiel felt good. He felt powerful. Yes, he was going to enjoy obliterating these people and finally leaving office supplies behind.
He looked down upon Tiras and said in a voice that made the sky tremble, “Behold the instrument of thy destruction!”
Qaphsiel plunged his hand into the pocket of his gossamer robe . . .
. . . then his other hand into the other pocket. He patted himself down and looked in the silk bag he kept tied to his belt. It was empty. He turned in a circle, scanning the ground.
“Hmmm.”
The object was gone. Qaphsiel looked down the mountain.
Humanity continued to crawl across the face of the Earth.
“Oh, crap.”
TWO
Earth. The present.
ON A HOT MIDNIGHT IN LOS ANGELES, CHARLIE COOPER—Coop to his friends—hung suspended by a thin wire a few feet off the floor of Bellicose Manor’s dining room, hoping he wasn’t about to be eaten by a monster.
“Careful,” whispered Phil.
“Of what?”
“Just careful. Don’t want you to break a nail.”
“That’s really thoughtful. Now shut up.”
Phil Spectre, freelance poltergeist, continued scrabbling around inside Coop’s head. It felt like rabid ferrets were using his frontal lobe for a scratching post.
“Cut it out,” said Coop.
“I can’t help it. Your skull is so thick I get claustrophobic.”
Coop—tall, sandy haired, in his mid-thirties—pulled himself slowly and steadily along the wire, careful not to touch anything. To his relief, Phil was quiet for a minute. Those few seconds let Coop concentrate on the job at hand. He looked around, and while he couldn’t see the wall safe yet, he knew where it was hidden.
Bellicose Manor didn’t stand so much as flop on a hilltop, like a giant Gothic carbuncle, in Benedict Canyon. The house wasn’t an eyesore per se, but rather a soul-sucking nut punch to anyone who hung around the place too long without an invitation. This was by design, just one of the many magical defenses the Bellicose family paid for to keep the nice things they had in their house in their house. Anyone who was anyone had at least a few spells sprinkled around their place. How else would people know that they had things nice enough to steal? This idea had eventually trickled down to Hollywood hipsters and even some middle-class families. The kind that had a soft spot for government conspiracies and UFO conventions. You know the type, the ones crazy enough to believe that monsters and magicians actually existed and walked side by side with them down the Pop-Tarts aisle in Safeway. This paranoia led to a thriving industry in bogus wards and do-it-yourself witchproofing, proving once again that con men had been separating people from their cash since long before the first witch invited the first black cat for a ride along.
“Wendigos,” said Phil suddenly. “I bet they have a Wendigo. Big place like this. Family has money. A vampire would be gauche. A hungry Wendigo, that’s the way they’d go. It’s probably right past the dining room table.” He went quiet again. Then, “Or something with tentacles. Which do you hate more? I can’t remember.”
“Yes, you can.”
“It’s coming back to me. Is this a good time to discuss your fear of intimacy?”
Coop was sweating, and it wasn’t just from exertion. His hand slipped and grazed the side of an antique wooden chair, one of several similar chairs surrounding an impressive dining room table. Bellicose Manor was stuffed to the ceiling with impressive bric-a-brac, most of which would kill you if you touched it the wrong way.
“Which part of you do you think the Wendigo will eat first?”
“Please. I’m asking you nicely,” said Coop.
When he was twelve, Coop had checked out a book on emergency medicine from the school library specifically to see how many organs a human body could lose and live. It turned out that people needed pretty much everything they had, inside and out. Worse, Coop knew that Phil knew it, and when the poltergeist got bored or nervous it was hard to shut him up.
“Too bad people aren’t more like lizards, huh?” Phil said. “Just regrow a spare leg or lung. But you can’t. No, humans are good at growing bones, toenails, and cancer. That’s about it.”
The problem was, for all his pain-in-the-assness, Phil was actually good at his job. He’d pointed out many of the wards and electronic alarms protecting the mansion, and had even disabled a few so that Coop could break in. Now, if he’d just shut up, Coop would maybe get him an Employee of the Month cup.
Coop’s fingers ached. The wire he was on was attached to the dining room’s far wall with a claw made of cold iron, magicproof and cheaper than a silver one. Only Eurotrash and cowboys still used silver. What a waste of money, Coop thought. Still, someday it would be nice to have some extra cash to toss around on gear and a partner more reliable than a jumpy poltergeist.
“Please,” said Phil. “If you had more money you’d still hire me, because you’re too cheap to splash the cash for anyone else. Isn’t that one of the reasons what’s-her-name left you?”
“Leave my love life out of this and do your job. Look for traps.”
Phil scrambled around some more. “Man, it’s hot in here. Are you hot, too?”
“Shut up.”
“Hey, pal. I’m your partner, remember, and I don’t like your tone.”
“You’re fired.”
“Duck,” said Phil.
Coop lowered his head, just missing a nearly invisible glass needle hanging from a nearly invisible line right at eye level. “Okay. You’re rehired.”
“Goody. Now I can finally get that place in the Bahamas.”
When he had his bearings again, Coop inched along the wire like a worm, in a skintight carbon-fiber suit that hid both his body heat and his breathing. Phil was right—the suit was hot as balls and smelled like sweat socks, but it did the trick. The room’s heat and pressure sensors had no idea he was there.
Now if we could only finish this up and actually not be here, that’d be swell.
Easier thought than done. Bellicose Manor was well known in the criminal world for its curses and traps. That’s why it was such a perfect place to rob. But it made things go slowly. And it was costing him a lot of money.
Phil charged by the hour.
“This better pay off big time,” Coop said.
“That would be a nice change,” said Phil.
After what felt like an eternity, Coop made it to the far wall. Before him was a large oil painting of a spectacularly ugly woman in a fuchsia ball gown. The Bellicose family claimed that it was a two-hundred-year-old portrait of the first Lady Bellicose back in Whereverthefuckland. Coop, however, had it on good authority that it was Grandpa Bellicose in a wig and party dress after losing a bar bet to Aleister Crowley. Coop touched the brass nameplate on the picture frame and the painting slid up into the ceiling to reveal a safe underneath.
“Well, that was disappointing,” said Phil.
“Missing your Wendigo already?”
“A little. I mean, we’ve been here half an hour and still no carnage. And we haven’t stolen anything. It’s nerve-racking, you know? Mind if I sing?”
“Don’t you dare.”
Coop felt a tickling on the inside of his
skull.
“It helps my nerves.”
“Please don’t sing.”
“Fine,” said Phil in a huff. “I’ll hum.”
Phil went into a hushed, tuneless free jazz number. Calling it noise would have given it too much credit. It sounded like claws on a blackboard, thought Coop, if the claws were chain saws and the blackboard was a busload of grizzly bears. Now that he was close enough, Coop could see why Phil had chosen this particular moment to turn his head into a karaoke bar.
In a darkly enchanted house like Bellicose Mansion, the term wall safe could mean a lot of things. In this case it meant a ten-foot reptilian snout with teeth the size of dragon fangs, which, in fact, was exactly what they were. The dragon growled at Coop uncertainly, like it didn’t know whether to roast him or invite him in for a nightcap. Coop didn’t like dragons.
“Neither do I,” Phil said.
“Do you know what it is?”
“It’s a dragon. Shit comes out one end and fire out the other.”
“I mean what kind of dragon.”
“Right. Sorry. It looks French. Rich jerks like French.”
“Why?”
“They’re loyal and vicious. Plus, did I mention it’s a dragon? You might want to shake a leg.”
“Good idea.”
He pulled the portable alchemy kit from the utility sack at his waist. On other occasions, Phil had called it Coop’s wicked witch fanny pack, but now he was too busy being terrified to say a word, which suited Coop just fine.
The dragon’s growling changed, like it had decided that Coop was more of a petit four than a drinking buddy. As it opened its mouth, sucking in air to stoke its internal furnace, Coop held up the potion so it got a good whiff of the brew.
The dragon sneezed. Once. Twice. Then it yawned, showing even more horrifying lawn-gnome-size teeth and a tongue like a meat Slip ’N Slide, at the far end of which were the boiling guts of a Parisian hell beast. The dragon’s eyes slowly began to close and it relaxed. A few seconds later and it was sound asleep.
“Nicely done,” said Phil. “Too bad the critter’s mouth is shut tight. You think you’re going to Schwarzenegger those choppers open? You don’t have the guns for it.”
“You might have mentioned that before.”