She lays her hands flat on the backs of her knees, a tense gesture. She nods.

“Okay. I thought you might say something like that. I’m going with you.”

“Not this time. This won’t be like going to see Muninn. It’s a hit-and-run trip and I need to move fast. I know Hell and half the population is already scared of me. Let me do this.”

“But you promised.”

I nod and slide down next to her.

“Understand something. I’m not going as me. I’m going as Sandman Slim. No stopping. No deals. No games. Anyone gets in my way dies.”

She looks down at her hands.

“I hate it when you get like this.”

“This is the only way it’s going to work. I’ll be in and out in a few hours.”

“Last time it was only supposed be three days,” she says. She gets up and moves to the chair across from me, putting space between us.

“I know.”

“I’m not waiting for you again, you know. You have one day to get in and back. After that I’m gone.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t tell me you understand. I don’t care if you understand. I care what you do. And you have a day to do it.”

She looks through the bottles by the food carts and finds a bottle of whiskey. She pours herself a drink.

“Anyway, Brigitte shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Don’t tell her what I’m doing. In case it doesn’t work out.”

She takes a belt of whiskey.

“I don’t even know if you’re coming back. You think I’m going to tell her about Liam?”

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“Loan me your knife.”

She’s not happy at all to hear that request.

“This is a loan,” she says. “Bring it back to me.”

“I promise.”

“You better.”

She finishes the whiskey and goes back into the bedroom.

“You sure have a way with women,” says Kasabian.

“Shut up.”

I TAKE THE elevator down to the garage. I’m wearing a hoodie under my coat. I’ve reloaded all my guns with bullets dipped in Spiritus Dei. No need to worry about whether it’s silver bullets or garlic or white oak you need in order to kill something. Spiritus Dei on a hollow point cutting the air at twelve hundred feet per second will kill anything dead.

The Hellion hog, a damned version of a ’65 Harley Electra Glide built for me when I was Lucifer, is stashed in the back under a vinyl cover. I pull it off and look it over. There’s no lock to undo. Who would steal something like this? Who except someone who’s hard to kill would ride it? It’s built like a mechanical bull covered in plate armor. The handlebars taper to points like a longhorn’s head. The exhaust belches dragon fire and I can get the hypercharged panhead engine glowing cherry red on a long straightaway. I’ve only ridden it a few times in L.A. because it’s like wearing a neon “Arrest Me” sign on my back and LAPD doesn’t need any more encouragement.

Vidocq’s potion cleared my head and Allegra did a good job healing my gut. Despite Candy being pissed at me for passing out, the sleep was good and deep. I feel strong enough to try a little hoodoo.

I whisper some Hellion, wait a few seconds, and touch my face. It isn’t my face anymore. I’m just another ugly Hellion. I kick the bike into gear and it roars like a hungry Tyrannosaurus at an all-you-can-eat buffet. There’s a nice shadow at the far end of the garage. I pop the clutch and lay rubber. I hope there aren’t any parking attendants coming down with someone’s Lamborghini because it’s about to get all scratched up.

I disappear into the wall.

And blast out of the other side of the Room into Hell. I’m on the Hellion version of Sunset Boulevard, near Fairfax. The streets are in better shape than when I was Lucifer. Mr. Muninn must have the repair crews working round-the-clock shifts. The pavement along Sunset isn’t buckled and I don’t see a sinkhole in sight. I don’t even smell any of the nauseating blood tides bubbling up from under the city. Nice work, Lucifer 3.0. I hope it’s getting you some goodwill from these Gloomy Guses.

I aim the bike east, out where the street markets are clustered. The last time I was there I got into a scuffle with some army deserters when the 8 Ball went nuts and killed them all. Ground them up like fresh sausage. I’m hoping to keep a lower profile this trip. Which doesn’t include worrying about stoplights and pedestrian crossings. Most of the vehicles on the road are still Unimogs and troop trucks. I’m the fastest thing in the afterlife. Eat my dust.

I SHOULD HAVE guessed that most of the changes to Pandemonium were cosmetic. Fix up the main streets to boost morale. But get off Sunset or Hollywood Boulevard and the city is still a wreck. Never recovered from when Samael, the first Lucifer, deserted the place for Heaven. Most of the regular bars, restaurants, and stores are still closed, so the big street market is packed. This is Harry Lime territory. Some of the goods are legit but just as many are black-market items, mainly from the legion’s supplies. There’s anything a handsome young Hellion out on the town might want. Clean clothes. Guns. Health and hex potions. High-end Aqua Regia and wine. But most of the goods are the same flea-market junk you see from L.A. to Tijuana to Narnia. Knockoffs. Stolen goods. And the things no one else wants anymore. The same goes for the food. But at least the portions are large.

I hide the hog in the same abandoned garage I did the last time I came to the market. I pull up my hoodie, still not convinced my hoodoo is a hundred percent yet. I don’t want to turn back to my handsome self in the middle of a crowd. I’m a little twitchy being back here. It brings back bad memories. Not just of being Lucifer. It wasn’t far from here that I got my left arm hacked off. And I know that if I head due south, I’ll hit the arena, where I spent eleven years learning over and over again how close you can come to dying without ever quite making it. It’s where I learned to be Sandman Slim. I don’t like to think about him too much when I’m back in the world, but tonight I’m prepared to let him run wild and fancy-free.

It doesn’t take long to find a bar. And then spot an officer. What I need is an officer drinking by him- or herself. At the far end of a small, tented joint I see one. A captain. Leaning on the bar with a whole company of shot glasses by his elbow. Perfect. I take out a Malediction and circle around so I come up behind him.

I get close with the cigarette out so he’s looking at it and not me.

“Hey, General, got a light?”

He turns and gives me a bleary look. I must look all right because he glares at me like any other Hellion.

“I’ve got an extra for you if you have some flame,” I say.

He pats himself down and stands when he feels a lighter in his pocket. As he gets up, I clip him on the jaw. Not hard enough to knock him out. Just enough to make his knees wobble like he’s even more loaded than he really is. I get my arm around his shoulder and walk him around the back of the tent, between the market stalls where no one can see us. When I’m sure we’re alone, I grab him by his collar and slap him a couple of times until he comes around.

“What happened?” he says.

“I hit you.”

He looks up at me, trying to put a face and a memory together.

“You did. Didn’t you?”

He reaches for his gun and I let him get it. I want him to feel it in his hand. Then I slam the pommel of Candy’s knife into his temple and down he goes again. Now he knows his weapon isn’t going to help. I put his pistol in my pocket and slap him again. When he comes around this time, he remembers me.

“Helheim,” I say.

“What?”

“Helheim. Do you know where it is?”

“I can read a damned map.”

“Take me there.”

He looks at me like he didn’t understand what I said. I haven’t spoken Hellion in a while. Maybe I’ve gotten rusty.

I say, “Do you know where Helheim is?” while dragging the knife across his cheek. The sight of his black blood wakes him up fast.

“Yes. Of course. Only the lowest damned souls and the worst troops go there. Which are you?” he says. I smack him with the pommel again.

“I’m prepared to beat the brains or the attitude out of you. Which do you think will go first?”

He holds up his hands in front of his face.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you where it is.”

“No. You’re going to take me there.”

He looks up at me.

“It’s days from here.”

“Not for me. And now not for you.”

I put the blade under his chin and stand him up. Move him toward a shadow against the side of the tent and pull him in.

We come out by the garage where I hid the bike.

He looks around. Touches his head, wondering if he’s even drunker than he thought.

“How did you do that?”

With the knife against his throat, I pull him into the garage and push the hood off my face. Say a few hoodoo words, and the glamour winks off. I’m me again.

“I did it because I’m Sandman Slim and I’m two seconds from turning you into a bologna sandwich.”

He lurches back, more surprised than afraid. I grab him.

“What’s it going to be, General? Helheim or I can leave your carcass here for a vendor to cut up and put on the spits in the market.”

He says, “I’m telling you. It’s days from here.”

“I’m guessing there’s light there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Light. Enough light to throw shadows in the crevices in ice and mountains.”

“Sure. Lots of shadows.”

“Then it won’t take days. Turn around and lean your back against the front of the bike.”

I hand him two short lengths of rope.

“Tie each leg to the front forks.”

“What are you going to do?”

I punch him in the solar plexus. It doubles him over and motivates him to stay down and tie himself to the bike.

“What’s happening is this. I’m going to try something because I’m on a tight schedule. What you’re going to do is think real hard about Helheim and I’m going to click my heels together and we’ll be there in no time flat.”

He finishes tying his legs and stands up.

“You’re as crazy as they say.”

“No. Crazy is when I break your arms and legs and bury you alive just to see if you can dig your way out. Want to play that game, General? Bet I can find a shovel or two for sale.”

He shakes his head, clear-eyed. There’s nothing better to sober you up than the certainty of your own imminent death.

I hand him a strip of cloth.

“Tie that around your eyes. Tight. If I don’t think it’s tight enough, I’ll just slice your eyes out so you can’t see how we’re getting there.”

“I’m tying it,” he says through gritted teeth.

When I’m sure he isn’t playing possum, I push one of his arms out over the handlebars.

“Tie your arm on. Do it tight. If you fall off, you’re going to get run over.”

He has to use one other hand and his teeth, but he gets it done. I have to help him tie the other side while keeping the knife to his throat. It isn’t easy for either of us. When we’re finished, he’s spread-eagled over the front of the Hellion hog.

“How you feeling up there? Snug as a bug?”

“You are crazy. People will see us. You’ll crash the bike and kill us both.”

“The only thing that’s going to hurt us is if you don’t think of Helheim. If we end up anywhere else, you’re going to be road gravy. Understood?”

“Understood.”

I start the bike and check that my new best friend’s legs are clear of the wheels and the road. When I’m sure, I get on the bike and ease it into first and do a one-eighty turn. There’s a nice fat shadow across the street on the side of a burned-out grocery.

“Thinking of Helheim?” I shout over the rumble of the engine.

“Yes.”

“You better be. Here we go.”

I hit the throttle and accelerate all the way across the street, almost clipping the rear end of a pedicab on the way. When did they get those? Too late to worry. The wall comes up fast. I hope we don’t end up in Hellion Fresno.

And then we’re skidding on ice. The rear end starts to fishtail, so I hit the accelerator to straighten out. When we do, I throttle down and creep forward in second gear.

I’ve been in cold places, but this is ridiculous. The wind comes down from high snowy peaks. Every time I exhale, the frost from my breath almost covers my face. I can already feel ice forming in my nose and the corners of my lips. My hands are numb. If we don’t get someplace soon, I’m going to end up with frostbite.

“What’s happening?” screams Captain Sunshine.

Around the next corner I see it. Like Butcher Valley, Helheim is a deep depression surrounded by hills and watchtowers. And like the other valley, most of the towers are dark and look like they haven’t been used for years. The main difference between the two places is the temperature. Butcher Valley burns with open lava pits. Helheim is a glacier, a moving river of ice scouring the valley and increasing its size forever. There will always be room for racy nuns and naughty heretics down here.

I stop the bike by a Quonset hut encased in so much snow and ice it looks like the bottom of a life-size snow globe. There are a couple of snowcats outside and a hellhound. I can’t tell if it’s in working order or not.