The Getaway God (12 page)

The door to the Shonin's magic room is locked and there's something new on the wall. A key pad and a box the size of an old PC, with a glass plate on the front.

There's a shade over the door to the Shonin's room, so I can't see if anyone is in there. I bang on the glass. A few seconds later an intercom crackles.

“Put your hand on the scanner, fatso.”

I push the key on the intercom.

“The glass plate on the front?”

“No. The one sticking out of my ass, stupid.”

I touch the plate and the panel lights up. I feel a gentle vibration as a light inside runs across my hand. A second later, a panel above the scanner lights up.

ENTRY.

The door buzzes. I push and it opens. I'm pissed off until I get inside and see why they put on the extra security.

The Qomrama Om Ya sits in the far corner of the room. It floats, suspended in a magnetic field, spinning slowly, changing shape as it moves.

“You're in the big time now,” says the Shonin.

“I wasn't before?”

“Bigger. You get to play with the expensive toys.”

“I found the damned toy.”

“Yeah, but you gave it to the Vigil, so it's here's now, isn't it?”

The fucker is right. I did give it to them. And I guess it's as safe here as anywhere on Earth. And if I hid it in the Room, where no one could get at it, we'd never figure out how to use it.

The Shonin comes over to where I'm standing and looks at the 8 Ball.

I say, “How did the Vigil get my prints?”

“Have you ever touched anything?”

“Here?”

“Anywhere.”

“I see your point.”

The Shonin goes back to his worktable, piled high musty books marked with highlighters and Post-­its. There's an old box on the table with about a hundred little cubbyholes, each holding a potion in a small vial. If Vidocq was here he could probably tell me what they were. Maybe the bag of bones gets tuckered out and needs mummy Adderall to study for his finals.

“I have a present for you,” I say, and hand the Shonin the dead Goth kid's phone.

“I already have an iPhone. And this piece of shit is cracked,” he says.

“Fuck you. I got this off a dead kid. He was possessed and I got a call from some really annoying ­people in Hell on it. I thought maybe you could do some hoodoo on it and learn something.”

He looks at the phone. Presses it to his chest like he's listening for something.

“I hate this kind of technology. Old stuff. Wood. Fabric. Stone. Metal. It holds pieces of the spirits that move through it. This stuff,” he says, tossing the phone onto the table with his books. “This stuff is empty. It beeps. It plays music. But it has no life.”

“Can you do anything with it?”

“Me? No. But maybe one of Wells's machine fuckers. Boys and girls love staring at the screens. They think I don't see them jerking around, playing World of Warcraft. Planning attacks when they should be saving the world.”

“Everyone needs to blow off steam.”

I can't believe I have to defend federal geeks to a dead man.

“Tell it to Lamia or Zhuyigdanatha. Think they're blowing off steam?”

The Shonin stops for a second. Stares off into space, then grabs a pen and scribbles something on a yellow legal pad.

“That reminds me. The kid said something about the ‘Hand.' He said something like he's many-­handed. A hand for every soul on Earth.”

The Shonin nods and goes to a whiteboard. The names of the thirteen Angra are written there. He puts a check mark next to a name I've never seen before.

“His name is Akkadu. The Hand. Dumb as monkey shit. An enforcer.”

“It was just the kid talking. I didn't see any Angra and the kid wasn't any more or less powerful than other possessed ­people. He was just a vessel for whoever has the possession key in Hell.”

The Shonin writes
Hellions
on one corner of the whiteboard.

“What did the phone caller say?”

“Just what you think. Give us the 8 Ball. Resistance is futile. Help us destroy the universe because we're bummed and daddy's a drunk.”

“Your God really fucked things up when he came up with Hell.”

“My God? You don't believe in him?”

“I'm Buddhist, stupid. I believe in the God in each man and woman. I respect that you believe in your God, but he isn't my concern.”

“Yeah, but he exists. You just admitted that when you said he fucked things up.”

“Oh, he exists. I just don't care,” he says. “But don't tell Wells I said that. His metaphysics are as simple as your brain.”

The Shonin takes one of the potion vials from the box, pops the cork, and drinks, shuddering as it goes down. The shuddering sounds like someone shaking shrubbery in a paper bag. When he's done he scribbles more notes on the pad. I start to say something, but he holds up a finger for silence. When he's finished writing he looks up.

“You're still here? Go out and do something useful. Get attacked again so you can bring me more useless junk.”

“Funny you should use the word ‘useless.' I'm starting to think of it when I think of you. You talk big about magic and studying the 8 Ball, but what have you got to show for it? Can you use the thing yet?”

“You think I'd be standing here talking to you if I could?” he says.

The Shonin stumbles and sits on a wooden stool next to the table with his books.

“It's not so simple, understanding the Qomrama. Remember, it's two things.”

“It's a weapon. The Godeater.”

“Yes, but it's also a summoning object. The Angra can pound on the door to our universe. They can stick a finger or toe in, but they can't enter without being summoned with it.”

“I guess that helps us a little. But even a little piece of an Angra is trouble. Have you ever fought a demon? They're just tiny brainless fragments of the Angra. The dandruff of the old Gods that fell off when they were kicked out of here. But they can kill you as dead as a bullet.”

“Seen a few. Never fought one,” says the Shonin. “Of course, you have. You'd fight your own shadow if you got the chance.”

“So, what does knowing it's a killer and a dinner bell get us?”

The Shonin shrugs.

“I don't know yet. That's why I have my books. And this new one your friend Blackburn gave us.”

I go over to his desk.

“He told me he sent something over. Which book is it?”

The Shonin puts his hand on the box of glass vials.

“This one. Great stuff. Fascinating old magic. One of the rarest grimoires in the world.”

“It looks like a medieval juice bar. How is that a book?”

The Shonin smiles. It cracks his dry cheeks.

“Magic, dummy. You don't read it. You drink it. Each potion is a page of powerful old knowledge. The right bastard could kill the world with what's in here. Good thing it's a trap.”

“What does that mean?”

The Shonin puts his hand back on the wooden box.

“Each potion is a page. And each page is a different poison. See the trap? You gain vast power and knowledge from a book like this, but when you have all of it, it kills you. It's genius, don't you think? It keeps deep, world-­altering magic out of the hands of ­people like you.”

That's what the Shonin has been scribbling. Poison wisdom from a killer book.

“I get it. That's why Wells wanted you on this case. He knew about the book or knew about something like it. Something that would kill a regular magician. So he hired himself a dead one so it wouldn't work on him.”

The Shonin sits down again.

“But it
is
working. I told you, this is old magic. Stuff from when the world was young. Not like the flashy stuff you magicians do today. This is the magic of continents dividing and life moving from the sea onto land. Powerful enough to kill even a dead man.”

“Then why is Wells letting you read it? Drink it? Whatever the hell you're doing with it.”

“Because it's necessary. Why do you think I worry, working with such a fathead? I won't be here for the end. But you will be, and all these poor fools will rely on someone who'd rather be eating pork chops.”

“And all you do is make fat jokes when you should be teaching me about these things. Like, if the Angra can't get through to us, what about Lamia? I talked to her. She appeared as a demented little kid, but she still managed to murder a lot of ­people.”

The Shonin nods impatiently.

“Her real name is Aswangana. What you saw was like a demon version of the goddess. Not all of her broke through to this dimension, but enough so she was smarter and more powerful than ordinary Qliphoth. What you defeated was a fragment of her essence. Do you believe you could do that to a full Angra?”

“I'm not stupid enough to think that.”

“Good. You know something after all.”

“The Angra sound a little like Hellions. They can't break out of Hell into this world, but they can influence the world through their worshipers and using the possession key. But they're no closer to bringing the Angra back than anyone on Earth.”

“I'm trying to learn how to destroy the Qomrama. If it can be destroyed,” says the Shonin. “I don't have much more faith in the Vigil than I have in you. If things go badly, destroying it might be the only way to save the universe.”

“Have you found anything?”

He gets up and goes to the magnetic chamber holding the 8 Ball.

“No. I don't think it can be destroyed. Gods made it. Only a God can unmake it.”

“What about Mr. Muninn? He's a piece of God. Maybe I should take it to him.”

The Shonin laughs his rattling laugh.

“Your God is so broken up he can barely wipe his own ass. You think he can destroy this?”

He's probably right. If Muninn or any of the other God brothers could kill the 8 Ball or the Angra, they would have done it by now. Especially Ruach, the only part of God left in Heaven. Blind and half deaf, he has it in for all the other brothers.

“Maybe I should take it to him. Just to see.”

“No,” says the Shonin. “It doesn't leave here. There's something to be done with it and I'll find it out.”

I stand next to him at the magnetic chamber.

“What about the Tears of Gihon? That's a potion that's supposed to cure all poisons.”

“I know what it is,” says the Shonin quietly. “It won't work. I'll drink a hundred different poisons by the end. I'll be too weak for any cure, from this world or Heaven.”

“Seems like a waste of four hundred years to just die.”

“You're telling me.”

“How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“The only interesting thing about you. Self-­mummification. How does it work?”

“Everybody asks that sooner or later,” he says, and walks away. “It's boring. Monk stuff. You're a monster in love with another monster. You wouldn't understand.”

“Maybe I will and that won't make you so special anymore.”

The Shonin stands and pulls his robes around him in mock outrage.

“Ooo, psychology,” he says. “You took me down a peg, didn't you, you sly dog? Here's the truth. I didn't want to talk about it because I think all you want to do is compare it to your time in Hell and see who suffered the most. Think about it. What if I suffered more? Then you're the one who won't be so special anymore.”

“I'm willing to take that chance.”

The Shonin looks at me with his empty eye sockets. The bone around the edges is the color of dirty tea. He opens and closes his mouth. Thin lips stretched across rotten teeth.

“It begins with a thousand days,” he says. “Fat rots the body, so you have to get rid of it. Even rice can make you fat. I ate only nuts and seeds, with a little tea, but mostly just water. I worked hard. Manual labor. It burns the body down to its essence. Want to hear more?”

“Right now it doesn't sound much worse than what an Olympic runner goes through.”

The Shonin shakes his head.

“In the next thousand days there's nothing but bark and pine roots to eat. You'll find this part funny. To prepare my body I had to drink a kind of poison mixed with tea. Not strong, but it will ruin you if you drink enough. You puke your guts out. Maggots hate it. I drank plenty. I loved it more than you love tacos.

“When there is so little of us left in this world we're barely ghosts, monks like me, we enter our tombs. There's a tiny breathing hole and a bell. We sit and meditate. Clear our minds and let eternity enter us. Once a day I rang the bell to let other monks know I'm alive. Soon I can't even do that. I'm not sure if I'm dead or dreaming I'm alive. I've stopped ringing the bell, so the other monks seal my tomb. I stay there for another thousand days before the tomb is opened. They took my body, placed me in robes, and put me in a place of reverence. There are not so many like me who made the journey intact.”

“So, you're dead. What happened next? I mean what was the point of the whole thing?”

“I preserved myself to come back with wisdom to help the world when I'm needed.”

“Why you?”

“Why not?”

“Who woke you up?”

“No one woke me up. I woke myself when I sensed it was time. A young attendant came in one day to brush the dust off and I said ‘Boo.' Not only was I awake, but the boy attained enlightenment the moment I spoke to him.”

“One soul saved. Only six billion to go. That's a lot of ‘Boos.' ”

The Shonin gets up and puts a kettle on for tea.

“What do you say, fatty? You heard my story. I already know yours from Wells. Tell me. Who suffered more?”

I feel in my pocket for a Malediction, then remember I can't smoke in here, like maybe I'm going to give a dead man lung cancer.