I say, “I’m usually more of a hands-on guy when it comes to killing.”

“Of course you are. Sandman Slim has an ocean of blood on his hands. ‘The monster who kills monsters,’ isn’t that what they called you in the arena? Now here you are, Lucifer, the greatest monster of them all. Maybe God really does have a sense of humor.”

Her eyes shine when she says it. She loves being this close to the grand marshal of the Underworld parade. She’d like to have Lucifer’s power but the thought of it scares her stupid, which makes it that much more exciting. This is why she stays behind. An intimate tête-à-tête with Satan. It’s not getting her any brownie points with me and she knows it, but it makes the rest of the Council nervous and that makes it fun for her.

I take a long drag on the Malediction like maybe it’ll start a tornado and carry me back home like Dorothy.

“All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.”

She looks at me and then glances at Wild Bill, not getting the joke. Bill ignores her and wipes down another glass.

“While I have you here, you’ve never told me why you chose me for your council. Or why you decided to create it. Lucifer—”

“The former Lucifer, you mean,” I cut her off. “I’m Lucifer now. That other guy goes by Samael these days and he’s home crashing with Daddy.”

“Pardon me. Samael would never have considered working with anyone but his most trusted generals.”

“Maybe if he’d asked more questions, this place wouldn’t look like a second-rate Hiroshima. I don’t have a problem with getting advice from smart people. And to answer your question, Samael recommended you.”

“I’m honored.”

She glances over her shoulder. The others are all outside. She’s enjoying making them wait.

I say, “Your English is getting better.”

“So is your Hellion. You’ve lost most of your accent.”

“Someone told me I sounded like a hick.”

“Not that bad. But you’ve become more dignified, in every way.”

“I’ll have to watch that. Dignity gives me gas.”

Over by the door of the bar someone says, “Are you ready to go, Lucifer?”

It’s a military cop named Vetis. He runs my security squad. He’s a mother-hen pain in my ass but he’s an experienced vet with his shit wired tight. He looks like Eliot Ness if Eliot Ness had a horse skull for a head.

“I’m staying but the lady will be right out.”

Vetis goes outside. I nod toward the door.

“Your caravan is waiting.”

Marchosias straightens to leave but doesn’t move.

“You never come back with us. Why not ride in my limousine with me? It’s very comfortable and roomy.”

All the councilors travel in individual limos and vans between a dozen guard vehicles. It’s like the president, the pope, and Madonna cruising town with a company of demon Wyatt Earps riding shotgun.

“Thanks, but I have my own way back.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“Would you?”

She picks up her bag.

“Probably not.”

“Anyway, I like to clear my head after a meeting.”

“Of course. I’ll see you in three days.”

“It’s a date.”

She slides a leather satchel over her shoulder. Rumor is that the leather is the tanned skin of an old political opponent.

I call after her.

“One more thing. I know one of you is gunning for me. When I find out who it is, I’m going to stuff their skull with skyrockets and set them off like the Fourth of July. Feel free to tell the others. Or keep it to yourself. You’re smart. You’ll know which is best.”

She raises her eyebrows slightly. This time in amusement. She gives me a brief smile and walks out.

Of course she’s not going to tell the others. Just like none of them said a word to her when I told them.

“That got her attention,” says Bill.

“I already had her attention. She won’t tell the others, but I want to see if she tells anyone else.”

Bill shakes his head.

“She’s not going to tell a soul. She’s got a knife tucked up that right sleeve, you know.”

“Everyone knows. That’s what it’s there for.”

When Bill starts to pour me another drink, I put my hand over the glass.

“How do you know she’s not the one making a play for you?”

“I don’t. I don’t know about any of them. I’m just stirring the pot and waiting for something interesting to happen.”

“That sounds like putting your boot up the ass of fate, and that’s a mite dangerous.”

I shrug and puff on the Malediction.

“I’m locked in a loony bin with God’s worst brats. I have to do something. It’s screw with them or get a dog, and I’m not a dog person.”

Bill nods. His eyes go soft like they do when he remembers his life before he took a bullet in the back.

“I’m not much for dogs either. I saw an elephant in a tent show once and thought it might be a fine thing to have one of them. Ride up on some Abilene rowdies atop that walking gray mountain and take bets on which of them shits himself first. Yes sir, I’d prefer an elephant to a dog any day.”

I push away from the bar and get up.

“Look for a big box and a ton of peanuts on your birthday, Bill.”

He hands me the leather jacket and helmet I keep behind the bar during meetings. Let the rest of the Council ride through town like Caesar’s army. I’ll take my bike down and do a flat-out burn all the way to the palace. Yes, I have a palace. I’m a rich, pampered prince and politician. I’m everything I ever hated.

I slip on the jacket and put on my gloves. Bill watches me out of the corner of his eye, pretending to wipe down the bar. My prosthetic hand and arm are a beautiful horror. A weird combination of organic and inorganic. Like something someone pried off a robot insect. The Terminator meets the Fly. I look at Bill. He nods at my hand.

“Seeing that thing disappear always puts me in a pleasant mood. No offense, but I keep waiting for it to creep over here and strangle me with my own damn bar rag.”

“You have my permission to shoot it if it does.”

“Good, ’cause I wasn’t going to take the time to ask.”

I grab a handful of the drytt-egg crackers, pop a few in my mouth, and put the rest in my jacket pocket.

“Keep your ears open for me.”

“I always do,” says Wild Bill.

I go out through the rear exit. The motorcycle is parked out back, covered with the dirtiest, shittiest tarp in Hell. No one is ever going to look under it.

They don’t exactly have a lot of stock motorcycles Downtown, so I had some of the local engineers build me a 1965 Electra Glide. I’ll give the local boys and girls credit. They did their best, but it’s a lot more Hellion than Harley. It’s built like a mechanical bull covered in plate armor. The handlebars taper to points like they’d be happier on a longhorn’s head. The exhaust belches dragon fire and the panhead engine is so hypercharged I can get it glowing cherry red on a long straightaway. There’s no speedometer, so I don’t know how fast that is, but I’m pretty sure I’m leaving a few land-speed records in the dust.

I swing my leg over the bike and kick it to life. I always put on my helmet last. It’s the story of my life that I had to come to Hell to start wearing a helmet. Back in L.A., Saint James, my angel half, hated that I rode bareheaded. All I had to worry about back home was cops. Here it’s the paparazzi. I like my solo rides and don’t want the rabble to know about them. They give me a chance to blow off steam. Plus, I get to see Pandemonium at street level without flunkies or political suck-ups telling me what they think I want to hear.

I gun the bike and swing into the street. I don’t worry about traffic. The streets are still a bombed-out wreck in this part of town, so most of the traffic is trucks hauling soldiers and supplies. Almost everyone else is on foot. I rev the engine, turn, and blast down a side street, taking the long way back to the palace.

Block after block, streets are buckled and houses are knocked off their foundations. But now there’s food in the markets and the burning buildings aren’t the only lights in the streets. I steer around a panel truck where Hellion soldiers are dragging cuffed and shackled looters. The troops aren’t gentle about it. The looters are a bloody limping mess. Fuck ’em.