Ballistic Kiss

I got my ass kicked by some third-rate spooks and now my nice kitchen looks like a drunk brontosaurus tried to fuck the dishwasher.

Whoever said Hell is other people was wrong. Hell is other people in your house.

You can’t kill everything bad and you can’t save everyone good.” “I’m not sure who the good ones are anymore.” “Yes you are. Because you’re one. It’s just sometimes hard to admit to oneself.” “Fuck.

Your image of yourself is one of a beast. A benevolent one, but a beast nonetheless. As much as this might pain you, it is also easy and familiar. It allows you to do away with deeper emotions.

I close my eyes. “I keep coming back to this one thought: that I know everything about monsters and nothing about people.

He says, “Look into your heart, Stark,” and hangs up. I look into my heart and all I can see is bourbon and me punching Samael in the balls.

I want to say that I’m not doing this because you tried to kill me. I want to be bigger and better than that. But I’m not. I’m doing this because you tried to kill me.

Lions or tigers. They must be off somewhere waiting for the right moment to pounce. I like cats and don’t want to hurt one, but I will beat a lion to death with a shark if it tries to take a bite out of me.

When you’re trying to hold off a hellbeast you better have something bigger than a meatball sub. Especially if it happens to be your only weapon. I mean, this isn’t even a good sandwich. A good meatball sub should be hard to hold. A crunchy, saucy, meat-filled football. This thing is skinny as a ferret. Probably from a chain restaurant in some Fresno mall. Only I don’t go to malls. Or, for that matter, Fresno. And, seriously, the only people who’d buy this crap hate themselves, and I’m merely into self-loathing. The difference is subtle but important. Anyway, back to the hellbeast.

Relax. You think you’re the only pill popper around here? I get migraines and have a knee that should belong to an eighty-year-old lady.” “Yeah, but these are crazy pills. Supposed to keep me from running amok or something.” “How are they working out?” “Great. I just saunter amok these days.” She checks the

Yeah, but these are crazy pills. Supposed to keep me from running amok or something.” “How are they working out?” “Great. I just saunter amok these days.

It’s smooth. Like having a fruit salad punch you in the face.

Learning is miserable. People are awful. Worrying about them is the worst.

I find a filter, shove it into the blessedly intact coffeemaker, and pour in half the damn bag of French roast. “I hope you like yours strong.” “Like the Rock of Gibraltar,” Samael says. And looks around. “A bit of a step up for you.

She’s Samael’s lost angel. “Hello, Zadkiel.” She says, “Hello, Abomination.” I lean against the wall. “Save that ‘Abomination’ crap for someone who cares. You look ridiculous like that.” “You really are as thick as they say. A big mouth and no sense of the inevitable.” “Which is what exactly?” She raises her head in the annoying imperious way angels do. “Your death and obliteration from the universe.” I wave a hand at her. “Please. I hear that every time I get day-old pork buns from the Lucky Phoenix.

What kind of knife is this?” “It’s a chip from the chicken legs that hold up Baba Yaga’s house. A good-luck charm. Keep it if you want. Just don’t tell Baba Yaga you got it from me.

put the book in my pocket and step away from his body. On one side, Janet takes my hand. On the other, Candy loops her arm in mine. Good thing. Looking at Vidocq lying there, I get that disembodied feeling again, like maybe if someone wasn’t holding me I’d blow away on the breeze.

They say, “How are you feeling?” “Like I got gored by a water buffalo shot out of one of those circus cannons they use for clowns. You know the ones?” They smile. “Yeah. I’ve seen them.” “How is that even a job? What do you put on your taxes? ‘Clown gunner’?” Janet laughs a little. “It’s good to see you your own ridiculous self again.

Janet keeps stabbing and all clever Dan can think to do is roll up like an armadillo and hope he grows armor.

Stumbling back, I shout fire hoodoo, but they walk right through that. I can’t think straight. I know there are other ways to hurt them, but my brain has flatlined.

Then that is a problem you can attack. Forget the Zero Lodge and their foolishness. Let us go and rescue your home.” Vidocq gets his overcoat from a hook on the wall. I say, “You’re sure you want to come with me? You’ve seen what those spooks are like.” As he puts the coat on he says, “All the more reason I want to go. Since that attack, I’ve been brewing a supply of bannissement par l’amarante. It won’t destroy the creatures, but it should drive them away.” “Should?” “What is guaranteed in this life?” “Thanks, Dad. You’re a bundle of comfort today.

I consider going to Bamboo House and drinking myself horizontal, but that’s what I always do, and where has it gotten me? Pretty much where I am now—standing in a hallway talking to myself about things and people I don’t understand anymore.

What does that stupid song mean? What’s supposed to be in my heart? I go over the lyrics a couple more times in my head. “All things bright and beautiful, / All creatures great and small, / All things wise and wonderful, / The Lord God made them all.” Basically, it’s saying that God made everything and everything is just great. This thing is a damn Disney nightmare. God made everything and everything is great.

I look around the room for anything that might give me a clue to who might have done it. But who am I kidding? I’m not a real detective. Maybe if the killer dropped an eight-by-ten and their Social Security card I could figure things out, but the room looks just how I remember it, and Gentry’s door was locked.

Gentry’s neighbor is still blasting the same teeth-grating country pop he was playing last time I was here. When the frowning dumbass sticks his head into the hall to complain about the noise I stick the Colt in his face. “Play Taylor Swift one more time, motherfucker.” He turtles his head back into his apartment and the music stops.

Maggie smiles at that and says, “Please don’t upset her. She’s fragile.” “I’ll be like cotton-candy kisses.

The look she gives me isn’t quite a sneer. It’s more like she opened a garbage can and found a dead skunk inside.

I ride the Hog up winding roads into the hinterlands of Benedict Canyon to a Gothic-style mansion right out of a thirties Universal horror movie. Dr. Frankenstein’s summer home, or where a friendly neighbor chains up Lyle Talbot during the full moon. Even the name Lisa Thivierge is living under—Janet Lawton—is a gag: the name of the ingenue in the old Ed Wood movie Bride of the Monster. I like Thivierge already.

Lisa hasn’t directed anything in forty years. Hollywood has a way of forgetting about women when they have the temerity to grow out of their twenties. She can tell you more, though. But she’s old. Be gentle with her.

What did you mean when you said Stein had gone over the edge?” She shifts her shoulders nervously.