Papers, blueprints, scrolls, and spell books are scattered all over Mason’s desk and the floor. Someone has dumped the contents of the drawers on the floor. I sit in Mason’s desk chair, close my eyes, and step aside so the angel can take over for a while and read the room. It feels around for any signs of him, not just in the room, but also in the aether, where hoodoo leaves trails and powerful magic leaves the magician’s fingerprints. There’s nothing there. Not an easy trick. He really wants to keep his backup plan to himself.

There’s something familiar in a wooden box doubling as a trash can. I upend it and the leather satchel Jack stole from me falls out. I open it and take out the carefully folded cloth. My face is still there. At this point I’m so far past numb that I’m not even happy to find it. More like relieved that there’s one less thing to run around after.

I push everything off Mason’s desk with my robo-bug arm and lay out my skin. I chant, letting the rhythm and the hougans’ words drift back into my head. I rub my temples until the flesh goes soft. When it feels loose I pinch the edges and pull. Mammon’s face peels away like the bandage off a wound. I concentrate, keeping the rhythm going while I press my face into place. The skin burns slightly as it settles and reattaches itself. I stop the chant and take my hand away, go to Mason’s worktable, and paw through the junk for anything reflective. I find a polished metal toolbox and hold it up.

I recognize this guy. He smokes all my cigarettes and gets me in trouble. And when I find Alice this face won’t scare her as much as the other. Of course, she hasn’t seen all my scars. She might not think this is an improvement.

If the bag is here, it means Jack must have made it back. But if Mason tossed it, that means he wasn’t much interested in Jack’s swag. I’m a little hurt. I thought he’d at least have my face stuffed and mounted like those mariachi frogs you get in Tijuana.

“Is that you, Stark? Or are you another bad dream?”

The gurgling voice drifts in from an open window. Something is moving out there, casting a wavering shadow on the floor. I get out the na’at and push aside the curtains.

There’s a heavy chain and something wet and red dangles from it, swaying gently with the breeze. It’s too small to be a side of beef and too big for pork.

The meat smiles at me.

“Are you real?” it asks.

“Hello, Jack. You’re not looking so good.”

“I’m not, am I?”

He gurgles the words. There’s a lot of blood in his throat, just one of the many downsides to being skinned alive (or as alive as Jack can be). He giggles high and crazy as the breeze moves him in gentle circles. Suddenly being tossed into the Tartarus furnace doesn’t seem so bad. At least it’s quick.

“As you can see, I received somewhat less of a reward than I’d hoped for,” Jack says. He grimaces, grinding his teeth as the pain cuts through whatever mad place his mind has gone to.

“What happened?”

Jack kicks his fleshless legs in frustration.

“He didn’t even want it. He was disgusted by it and by me for bringing it. He said he already knew where you were.”

“Did he say how?”

Jack giggles again.

“It wasn’t much of a conversation. My contribution consisted mainly of screams.”

This time the laughing doesn’t stop. It goes on until it’s kind of a mantra. It stops when he coughs up a bucket of blood.

Why do I feel sorry for this murdering thieving psychopath? He’s getting exactly what he did to all those women.

“I’ve got to go, Jack.”

“Toodle-oo,” he says. “Toodle-oo. Toodle-oo. Toodle-oo . . .” He sings it like a kid’s song.

The angel in my head ew in my prods me.

When the wind blows Jack around so his back is facing me, I jam the black blade between his ribs and into his heart. He stops singing. Twitches for a few seconds. Then slows. Then stops. Then vanishes.

Even a bastard like him doesn’t deserve what Mason did. Soon he’ll wake up in the ruins of Tartarus and climb out like the rest of the double dead. He’ll wander there forever, a ghost among the ordinary souls. I don’t know if that’s justice, but sometimes you take what you can get.

I say, “Olly olly oxen free, Josef. It’s showtime.”

A second later the Kissi’s standing by the desk.

“I hope this isn’t another excuse or delay,” he says.

“Delay? You’re already late for the ball. Get the kids in their Sunday best and bring them out front. It’s time to go.”

He struggles not to let his smile get too broad and loses.

“It’s about time. When we destroy Heaven’s armies and the Hellion legions are gone, I think I’ll take this palace for myself. I like the desk and have always admired that little furnace. What happened to the hanging man outside? I was thinking of getting several of them and using them as wind chimes.”

“Bring your troops out front with the legions. Feel free to make a gaudy entrance.”

Josef disappears. I pronounce a few words and the glamour that’s hidden my being alive fades away. There’s no point to that anymore. I go to the nearest shadow and disappear, too.

I COME BACK out on the reviewing balcony. The officers are in a ring around the floating map as Semyazah explains the plan. I shoulder my way into the ring before anyone can react.

Knives come out, but no one throws any angel hoodoo. I’m next to Semyazah and they don’t want me quite enough to risk making him collateral damage. Baphomet, the oldest, isn’t intimidated. He heads straight for me, a long curved blade in each hand.

“I’ve waited a long time for this.”

Rule one in wolf-pack territory is stand your ground. I manifest the Gladius and hold it up to his face. Curses and gasps erupt around the room.

Semyazah pushes me back and gets in front.

“Enough!” he barks at Baphomet. The old general stops, confused. I guess even he can’t do the sword trick. If any of the others can, Semyazah has intimidated them enough to back down.

- t000000"01C;Sandman Slim fights with us against Mason Faim.”

Baphomet says, “Why should we trust this monster now?”

I say, “I’m not here for your piano recital. I’m here because the enemy of my enemy isn’t exactly my friend. But he isn’t my enemy until this shit is over.”

“You haven’t been here for months. How could you know what’s happening in Hell?” asks Baphomet.

“Didn’t Lucifer mention it to you? He gave me his password to The Daimonion Codex. If you squint hard enough, you can see past the words and into every nook and cranny in Hell. I watched every one of you assholes betray each other, trying to get just an inch closer to Mason.” I look at Baphomet. His eyes are red with fury. “Mammon, who poisoned your troops before the attack exercise in Dis. He’s dead now, by the way. You’re welcome.” I look around at the circle. “Do you want a laundry list of which one of you shafted the other and how? How about it, Shax? Belial?”

Semyazah says, “Lower your weapons, both of you. Sandman Slim fights with us, and whatever happened in the past can be dealt with after the battle.”

Baphomet sheathes his knives like a kid who has to put back the cookies he stole before dinner.

Shax says, “I still don’t trust him. You said he’s involved with the Kissi. They don’t have a stake in this fight. Why would they come?”

I look up at the sky.

“Why don’t you ask them yourself?”

Shax and the others follow my gaze.

Something bursts through the burning clouds. It comes in a long solid line that snakes from the clouds. It spreads out, staining the air black. Then the dark breaks apart into a thousand pieces and settles to the ground like a plague of giant locusts. One bug heads straight for us and lands on the edge of the balcony. Josef steps down and bows. Not Aryan supermodel Josef. Kissi Josef.

He looks like an unfinished insect angel. His features are half melted, like sculpted wax. Josef glows faintly with a blue-white light that makes him look like a bottom-of-the-ocean predator. He’s so awful he’s almost beautiful.