“See? We’ve got auspicious alignments and everything. We’re golden. Let’s draw up some new plans.”

I pick up a handful of little crackers from a bowl on the table and pop them one by one into my mouth. Really, they’re fried drytt eggs. Drytts are big, annoying Hellion sand fleas. I know that sounds disgusting, but this is Hell. Besides, if you fry anything long enough, it gets good. The drytt eggs go down like fried popcorn.

Semyazah hardly reacts to anything in these meetings and he chooses his words carefully. He says, “You’ve been dismissing everyone’s ideas for weeks. What ideas do you have?”

“I worry about this place ending up like L.A. All Hellion strip malls, T-shirts, and titty bars. The Pandemonium I remember is more of a Bela Lugosi–and–fog kind of town. When I have to choose between Dark Shadows or fanny packs, I’ll step over to the dark side every time. Have any of you ever seen a Fritz Lang movie called Metropolis?”

They shake their heads.

“You would love it. It’s about bigwigs that kick the shit out of proles in a city that’s all mile-high skyscrapers, smoke-belching machines, and office towers that look like dragons fucking spaceships. The place is clean, precise, and soul crushing, but with style. Just like you. So that’s everyone’s homework. Watch Metropolis. It’s in the On Demand menu.”

That’s right. Hell steals cable. Call a cop.

The three most popular TV shows Downtown are Lucha Libre, Japanese game shows, and The Brady Bunch, which Hellions seem to think is a deep anthropological study of mortal life. I hope watching the Bradys depresses them as much as being trapped here in Creation’s shit pipe depresses me.

“Let’s take a break. I need a drink.”

I walk to the bar and sit down. I make the Council hold its meetings here for a couple of reasons. The first is that Hellions love their rituals, and trying to get anything done is like a Japanese tea ceremony crossed with a High Mass, only even slower. There’s enough ritual hand waving down here to put the Dalai Lama to sleep.

Reason two is this place. It’s Hell’s version of my favorite L.A. bar, the Bamboo House of Dolls. The main difference between this and the other Bamboo House is that Carlos runs the bar in L.A. In Hell, it’s my great-great-great-granddad, Wild Bill Hickok.

Wild Bill already has a glass of Aqua Regia ready for me when I sit down.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“About what?”

“About what. About the damn meeting.”

“I think you’re about to drive them fellers crazy.”

“They’re not all fellers.”

He squints at the Council.

“There’s ladies in the bunch?”

“Two.”

“Damn. I never did learn to tell the difference with Hellions. ’Course they’re all pig-fucking sons of bitches to me, so what do I care if I guess wrong and hurt their feelings?”

I don’t think running a bar was ever Bill’s dream job and he’s not exactly the type to throw around a lot of thank-yous, but I know he likes it better here than in Butcher Valley. Bill died in 1876, was damned, and he’s been fighting hand to hand with other killers and shootists in that punishment hellhole ever since. Taking him out was the least I could do for family.

“Is anyone giving you trouble? Do they know who you run the place for?”

“I expect everyone’s aware by now. Which don’t make me particularly happy. I’m not used to another man fighting my battles for me.”

“Think of it this way. This setup isn’t just about me having a place to drink. It’s about showing the blue bloods who’s in charge. If anyone hassles you, it means they’re hassling me, and I need to do something loud and messy about it.”

He puffs his cigar and sets it on the edge of the bar. There are scorch marks all over the wood.

“Sounds like it’s hard work playing Old Nick. I don’t envy you.”

“I don’t envy me either. And you didn’t answer my questions.”

He’s silent for a moment, still annoyed that I’m asking about his well-being.

“No. No one in particular’s been causing me grief. These lizardy bastards ain’t exactly housebroken, but they don’t treat me any worse than they treat each other. And they only get up to that when you and your compadres aren’t around. That’s when the rowdies come in.”

“If you hear anything interesting, you know what to do.”

“I might be dead and damned for all eternity but I’m not addle-brained. I remember.”

We turn and look at the Council.

He says, “So which one do you figure is going to kill you first?”

“None of them. Semyazah is too disciplined. He saw Hell come apart the last time it didn’t have a Lucifer. I don’t really get a whiff of murder from any of the others. Do you?”

I finish my drink. He pours me another and one for himself.

“Not them directly. But I figure at least one’s scribbling down everything and passing it to whoever’s going to do the actual pigsticking.”

“That’s why I keep the rebuilding slow. Keep the big boys busy and scattered all over. Makes it harder for them to plan my tragic demise.”

“It’s funny hearing blood talk like that. I wasn’t exactly a planner when I was alive and it never crossed my mind anyone else in the family would ever come by the trait.”

“It’s new. Since I moved into Lucifer’s place, I spend a lot of time in the library. I never read anything longer than the back of a video jacket before. I think it’s bent my brain.”

“Books and women’ll do that. Just don’t get to thinking such big thoughts you forget to listen for what’s creeping up behind you.”

“I never read with my back to the door.”

He nods and downs his drink in one gulp.

“All it takes is the one time,” Bill says. He looks past my shoulder. “I think your friends are waiting on you.”

“Later, Wild Bill.”

“Give ’em hell, boy.”

The others look impatient when I get back. For a second, I flash on Candy back in L.A. After knowing each other for almost a year, we’d finally gotten together right before I came down here. Managed to squeeze in two good days together. What would she think of Hell’s ruling elite hanging on my every word? She’d probably laugh her ass off.

“We did all right today. Knowing what you don’t want is about as good as knowing what you do. Let’s meet back here at the same time in three days. That enough time for you to sketch out some ideas, Buer?”

He nods.

“I’ll watch your Metropolis show tonight. And have something for you at the next meeting.”

“That’s it, then. Anyone have any questions. Any thoughts? Any banana-bread recipes to share with the class?”

Nothing. Hell’s a tough room. They gather up papers and notes. Stuff them in leather bags and attaché cases.

“Thanks for coming.”

I head back to the bar, where Wild Bill is already pouring me a drink. I need a smoke. I take out a pack of Maledictions and light one up. It might be Hell but at least you can smoke in the bars.

Bill pours a second drink in a different glass and walks away.

Marchosias is behind me. She does this after meetings sometimes. She says she wants to practice her English. I don’t mind; after three months of speaking nothing but Hellion, my throat feels like I’ve been gargling roofing nails.

She says, “What you said to Buer, that was either very rude or very smart.”

“The Devil gets to be both at once. It’s in the handbook. Look it up.”

“You caught everyone off guard. I’ve never heard you ever mention the Kissi before. Everyone admires how you handled them, you know. Getting others to do your killing is the most elegant way and you did it masterfully.”

In another time and place I’d think she was being sarcastic, but I know she’s not. She gets off on what I did. Why not? I brought the Kissi down here like we were allies, trapped them between Heaven’s armies and Hell’s legions, and wiped out most of them in one big royal rumble. That kind of treachery covers pretty much all of the Seven Noble Virtues. Her making goo-goo eyes at me for it makes me want to punch Marchosias very hard and often.