"Or an angel's weapon," said Spyder, pulling Apollyon's knife from his belt. "This was made by a demon to kill demons."

"The weapon is ready, but are you? You will have to get very close to use that. You've never even seen a true demon. Will you be able to walk up to your worst nightmare and stick that toothpick in its gut, little brother?"

"The babe to my left is the killer. I'm just here to hump gear and look pretty."

"You're doing a fine job," said Shrike.

"Thank you. Where'd you get all this Trivial Pursuit data, Count?"

"I study life. It's what my people do. We are infinitely curious about the forms that life takes, from insects to angels. We know them and treasure them all."

"You're like an anthropologist or something?"

"Both really. That's the best way of putting it."

"An anthropologist with a big goddammed sword," said Lulu.

"'God will put his angels in charge of you to protect you wherever you go. You will trample down lions and snakes, fierce lions and poisonous snakes,'" recited the Count. "Self-preservation is no vice. If a black widow spider tried to bite Charles Darwin, I doubt he would have had much guilt about crushing it under his boot. Loving life doesn't mean being soft."

"Amen to that," said Shrike.

When the sun was almost directly overhead and the sky was unbearably bright, they rested in the belly of a ruined metal storage tank in a scattering of industrial ruins. The night and first part of the day had been rough. Now, they drank water and ate dried meat and what little bread hadn't been lost in the fight the night before. Things buzzed gently in the ground beneath them. If he weren't so tired, Spyder imagined that he might have found this alarming.

Later, Shrike lay down beside Spyder. "Thousand fingers massage," he said.

"What?"

"The buzzing downstairs. It doesn't feel so bad."

"Mmm," Shrike said, and was asleep against him. Spyder closed his eyes and in a few moments, he, too, was asleep.

Spyder was in a scrap yard like the lot behind Santos Raye and Iggy Atkinson's chop shop, only this scrap yard stretched to the horizon in all directions. Piles of dead cars burned in the distance, sending up gushers of flame and black smoke that boiled together like entwined snakes in the sky. Spyder looked down at the ground. It was wet and bones protruded from the red soil. The burning cars threw his shadow, long and distorted, behind him. When he looked again, Spyder saw his younger self there. He wasn't surprised. The kid had always been just a step or two behind him. He looked worse than ever. His clothes hung from him in rags as if he'd been in a terrible accident. His eyes were gone and his body looked like something dragged off an autopsy table. Spyder's shadow-self smiled. He was still holding the punch dagger he'd had in Berenice. The blade was still slick with Spyder's blood.

Spyder knew what was coming. He dragged a heavy femur out of the wet ground so that he could hit the kid when he made his move.

Something came clattering toward Spyder across the scrap yard. A filthy old man with a bit in his teeth was pulling a flaming chariot. The chariot's rider wore a golden war helmet with a mesh face-shield. He pulled that off and Spyder saw that the chariot driver had the same face as the old man with the bit in his mouth. The rider then pulled that face off to reveal a lean, foxlike face that Spyder didn't recognize. "How many masks are we wearing today?" shouted the rider, and he pulled at the face of the old man dragging the chariot. The old man's skin came off his skull, a limp rag, exposing muscle, bone and mucous. Spyder was still considering this vision when a white-hot blow to the back staggered him. The punch dagger, ruby-red with blood and glittering like Christmas lights, was sticking out of his chest. It had been pushed clean through him, back to front. He felt weak, but the shock to his body was so great that the wound didn't even hurt.

Shrike screamed and startled Spyder awake. Before he could move, Shrike was up and out of the tank, charging across the desert with her sword drawn. Spyder ran after her, and finally caught her by a collapsed brass tower thirty yards away. Shrike shook and cried, but her body was tense, ready to spring, ready to kill something.

"Were you dreaming?" Spyder asked

"Yes. My father was in Hell being tortured by the bastard, Xero Abrasax."

"Was he pulling a chariot?"

"Yes," said Shrike. "How did you know?"

"I think I might have had part of your dream."

Shrike breathed deeply. "We're close to Hell. It can creep into your dreams. That's good. It means it was just a nightmare and not an omen."

"Yeah. We just dreamed what scares us the most."

"But why did you dream about my father?"

"I don't know. I know I'm not going to sleep again, that's for sure."

"Me neither."

"Listen, let's just go till we reach the mountains. No more bullshit. No more pit stops. We wait for it to cool off and we walk till we drop."

"You're right."

Shrike nodded and they walked back to the tank. The others were all up, looking pale and agitated, as if they, too, had been awakened by disturbing dreams. There wouldn't be any arguments about pushing straight on through to the Kaslas.

Forty

The Possibility of Floating

"Have you thought about what you're going to do, little brother?"

"When?"

"When we reach the gates of Hell."

"Not much, no."

"Maybe you should. I've listened to you talk about the place and, while I admire your scholarship, I wonder if it's enough."

It was just after sundown and the sky along the horizon was the color of rust and bruises. Spyder was spinning the flails of the Hornet over his head, speeding and slowing the serrated metal as they walked. Count Non was beside him. Lulu and Shrike walked ahead, led by Primo. Lulu said something that made Shrike laugh.

"What's ever enough? In for a dime, in for a dollar," said Spyder.

"Does that attitude make you a hero or a fool, I wonder."

"They're the same thing. Fools get themselves cornered. Heroes are just the fools who get out of it."

Count Non nodded. "Being a fool might just be your greatest strength. A fool can do what a wise man won't," he said, and shifted his pack from one shoulder to the other. "In the Tarot deck, the Fool is depicted as a young man about to step off a cliff into empty air. Most people assume that the Fool will fall. But we don't see it happen, and a Fool doesn't know that he's subject to the laws of gravity. Against all odds, he just might float."

"If fucking up is power, I should be the Hulk by now," said Spyder. He took a breath. "Goddam. I'm going in. I told myself I wasn't. I've been sort of turning it over in my mind this whole time."

"Thinking goes against the Fool's strengths. Just do what you have to do."

"Truth is, I kind of always knew I was going, from the first time Cinders brought it up. But I couldn't admit it," Spyder said, spinning the Hornet from side to side. "There's an old Buddhist saying that whenever you ask a question, you already know the answer."

"I'm glad to hear you bring up the Buddha," Count Non said. "All that medieval Christianity that informs your descriptions of Hell had me worried. We can learn a lot from the Buddha. In Hell, you'll be all right if you remember his most basic advice: follow the Middle Way."

"All the books say that Hell's a naked roller derby on broken glass. It's nothing but extremes. Think there's a Middle Way down there?"

"If you're on fire, do you jump into the pool of water or the pool of gasoline? Even in the most extreme circumstances there's a choice."

"I wish I could see the place. Being blindfolded the whole time sounds like balls."

"That's the first choice you have to make. Is seeing Hell's decor worth being trapped for eternity?"