Sandman Slim. Richard Kadrey

magic versus black.”

      “All magicians think about those differences.”

      “Not Downtown they don’t. Hellions understand something we don’t. That there is no white magic. There is no black magic. There’s just magic. You can kill with a healing spell as easily as with a curse. If you were having a heart attack right now, I could do a spell to slow your heart and keep it from beating out of your chest. I could regulate your blood pressure, bring it up or down. But I can use those same spells if you aren’t having a heart attack. I can turn down your blood pressure until you pass out. Slow and stop your heart. And you’d be just as dead as if I’d hexed you.”

      “This isn’t Hell, boy. People will know. There are rules up here.”

      “Not for me. I don’t even know if they can read my magic up here. If it will even disturb the aether.”

      Vidocq picks up, and then sets down his wineglass with a thud. Loudly, he says, “Then why don’t you use it? Go on and do a location charm for Mason right now.”

      I set down the mercury and look around the unfamiliar familiar room. “I can’t. I don’t know what will happen. The magic might not show up at all, or it might go off like fireworks at the Super Bowl. I can’t take a chance on anyone knowing I’m back.”

      Vidocq smiles and wags his finger at me. “So, for all your power you have no power at all. That’s a little funny, don’t you think?”

      “I have guns.”

      “Yes, you’ll conquer the whole Sub Rosa with guns. More Roy Rogers bullshit.”

      I think about that for a minute. “There are things I used in the arena. I’m going to have to get some weapons made. I need to find someone who can work with metal.”

      “You must let me help you,” says Vidocq intently. “Let me help keep this plan of yours from going too far. I know that you’ve come back to Le Merdier, this world of shit, but where else is there for you to go? You must live here. You must have a name. You must be a man again.”

      What’s that old Sunday school warning about how if you fight dragons too long, you can become one? That’s been spinning around in my head for years, long enough that I know I’d rather be a dragon than a sheep to the slaughter. Maybe, in some kinder, gentler version of the world, I could walk away from the Circle, get Zen, and forgive them for what they did to me. But I can’t forgive them for Alice. Never for that. Maybe I’m not worth killing for, but she is.

      “I should go. I have to meet someone,” I lie. I set the guns back in the oilcloth and wrap them up. I’m feeling a little ashamed of myself, like I’m letting down the old man. Without looking at him, I ask, “Want to meet up tomorrow?”

      “Of course.”

      I make it out the door before he can give me another French bear hug.

      I STEER THE Mercedes west toward the one other place in town that makes my skin crawl almost as much as the old apartment.

      I turn off Sunset and onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard. The change from Hollywood to Beverly Hills is always sudden and startling, like flipping a switch. Bus fumes and strip-mall nail salons transform to trimmed green lawns and stately homes. This isn’t movie-star Beverly Hills, but the older part. The homes are large, but not bloated parade floats. It looks like grown-ups might have lived here.

      After crossing Mulholland, I turn right into a maze of streets all named Doña. Doña Isabel. Doña Marta. Doña Sarita. When I find the right Doña, I park and sit for a minute, thinking. I should have seen something like this coming. Things had been going too easy since I got back. Brad Pitt wasn’t my fuck-you welcome back to the world. This is.

      There’s no need to get out of the car, but I do anyway, and cross the street to the empty lot where Mason’s house—the place where our magic circle used to meet—once stood. The vacant land looks corrupt and out of place in this perfect landscape, like a starlet showing rotten teeth behind her million-dollar smile. Tall weeds grow through the sandy soil. There’s a faded sign with the name of a real-estate developer and a “Coming Soon!” message on top, but it doesn’t look like anyone has set foot anywhere near the lot in years.

      The sun is going down fast. When a breeze picks up, I feel a chill. I know it’s all in my head. Even at Christmas, L.A. isn’t that cold, but it doesn’t stop my teeth from chattering.

      Night is coming on fast. I walk back to the Mercedes, get in, and light up one of the last few cigarettes from the pack Carlos gave me. I look at the empty lot and wonder what happened there. It doesn’t look like the house burned. From what I remember, this neighborhood is on bedrock, so it probably didn’t fall down in a quake. It just went away. I know I should go over and walk around to see if I can find something that could point me to Mason and the others. But not tonight. The shit and sulfur smell when I was dragged to Hell through the basement floor are coming back strong. I stay in the car, and when the last of the cigarette is gone, I flick the butt onto one of the manicured lawns and drive away.

      I DITCH THE Mercedes a few blocks from Max Overdrive. At another time it would break my heart to have to leave such a brilliant machine behind, but L.A. is an all-you-can-eat car buffet, and now that I’ve seen what the knife does to locks and ignitions, I’m never going to starve.

      I grab the oilcloth bundle with the guns and the bags with my new clothes. When I get to the store, it is closed, but I rap on the glass and Allegra lets me in.

      “Damn,” she says. “You clean up pretty good.”

      “Thanks.” It feels nice being complimented by a human woman. The few kind words I’d heard in the last eleven years usually came from Hellions that looked like something a snake had just thrown up.

      “Did you lose your key?”

      “I forgot it. I haven’t had to carry one for a while.”

      “Where did you live that you didn’t need keys?” She looks at something in her hand that’s beeping at her. It looks like a TV remote fucked a little typewriter and this is the bastard offspring. She types something on the tiny typewriter with her thumbs, and smiles.

      “What’s that you’re playing with?”

      “You’ve never seen one of these? It’s a BlackBerry.”

      “Is it like a phone? But you’re typing with it.”

      “I’ve got it now. You’ve been in a coma since the seventies. No. Abducted by aliens.”

      “You nailed me. Klatuu barada nikto.”

      “The Day the Earth Stood Still, right? That was one of my favorites when I was a kid.”

      “Me, too. So, why are you typing on your BlackBerry thing?”

      “Just BlackBerry. Like you, Just Stark.” She turns the little device so I can see it better. “You can talk on it or you can send text messages. It’s like e-mail, only it’s instant. You’ve heard of e-mail, right.”

      “Sure. But why would you type something to someone? Why not just call them?”

      “Sometimes texting is more fun. Or, like now, if you’re sending someone an address, it’s nice to have it in writing.”

      “What’s that on the screen?”

      “It’s Google Maps. I looked up the address so I could give Michelle directions.” She clicks and the little screen changes. “See, you just get on the net and enter the address.”

      “You have the Internet on that? If I got the Internet, I could look things up on it, right? Names, places, history?”

      “First off, you don’t get the Internet. It’s the Web, and you don’t get it. You use it. And, yeah, you can look up anything you want.”

      “Can I get one of these?”

      She looks at me like I really have spent