The Sandman Slim Series Books 1-4. Richard Kadrey

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      Wells takes my arm and leads me to the middle van. Just before I step inside, he slaps cuffs on my wrists in one smooth motion, like maybe he’s done this before. He pushes me inside and joins me in the rear seat, keeping himself between the door and me. All three vans shoot straight down Western, turn right on Beverly, and keep going.

      “Is this about those library fines? I swear I meant to pay them, but I was ten at the time and had a lousy credit rating.” The marshals in the front ignore me. Wells checks his watch and looks out the window. I pull on the cuffs. There’s barely any give. I might be able to break them and get them off, but not without shattering bones and peeling most of the skin off my hands. “For a Sub Rosa hit squad, you hide it well. I’m not picking up any magic vibes. I don’t see a binding circle or any killing charms. Did you hide them in the headliner?” I reach up and touch the vinyl, feeling for lumps or ridges that might give away hidden evil eye booby traps.

      Wells snaps, “Don’t touch that.” He’s still not looking at me. “And the Sub Rosa can kiss my ass. I don’t work for pixies and necrophiliacs.”

      He says “pixie” the way a redneck says “faggot.”

      I say, “I think you mean ‘necromancers.’”

      “It’s all the same to me, Merlin. A bunch of middle-age Goths playing with Ouija boards, and talking to spooks and fairies. Or playing Martha Stewart with their Easy-Bake Oven potion kits.”

      “You keep bad-mouthing them like that, one of those pixies is going to turn your guts to banana pudding with one hard look. Or don’t you believe in that kind of thing?”

      “Oh, I believe. I just think those absinthe sippers are a joke. Half the Sub Rosa are out-of-their-mind party animals. The other half dress up like the Inquisition and have committee meetings on how you pixies should live and behave around normal humans. You people are all either drug addicts or the PTA with wands.”

      “They sound like a lot more fun than I remember.”

      “I bet they’re in love with you, boy. You must have missed the memo about keeping a low profile.”

      “If you’re not Sub Rosa, tell me why I shouldn’t be killing you right now.”

      Wells finally turns and looks at me, giving me his best El Paso squint, trying to drill a hole in my head with his eyes.

      “Because if I shoot you, you’re not going to hop up and decapitate me. Just because I don’t work with the Sub Rosa doesn’t mean that I think all nonhumans are worthless. For example, the guns my men and I are carrying were designed by a coalition of human engineers and certain respectable occult partners. What I’m saying is that if you sneeze or blink or do anything even slightly annoying, I’ll burn you down with the same holy fire that the Archangel Michael used to blast Satan’s ass out of Heaven and into the Abyss.”

      “If you’re not Sub Rosa, who do you people work for?”

      “I told you. Homeland Security.”

      “The federal government monitors magic in California?”

      “Not just California. The whole country. It’s our job to keep our eyes on all freaks, terrorists, and potential terrorists, which describes all of you pixies, in my opinion.”

      His heartbeat and breathing are steady. His pupils aren’t dilating. He’s telling the truth. Or he thinks he is.

      “Are you spooks local? ’Cause I just met this funny little Nazi named Josef. Know him? Blond. Good-looking. Not even remotely human.”

      “We know about Josef and his goose-steppers. They’re irrelevant to our current concerns. And we’re not spooks. The CIA are spooks. We heard you and Josef got into a little dustup.”

      “It wasn’t so much a dustup as him beating me about three-quarters to death. He also showed me that I can die and how it’ll probably happen. So, how was your day?” Wells checks his watch again. He’s not as cool as he looked at first. Something is worrying him and it’s not me. “That probably doesn’t make much sense to you.”

      “I’ve read your file. I know all about you. You’ve haven’t exactly been inconspicuous since you got back to town.”

      “You guys have been watching me?”

      “From the moment you walked out of the cemetery. At first, we thought you were just another zombie, and were about to send out waste disposal. But when you mugged that crackhead and didn’t eat him, we decided just to keep an eye on you.”

      “How?”

      “Radar. We’ve got all you pixies on radar.”

      “More respectable magic?”

      “Our friends understand the security issues at stake.”

      “Radar and death rays. Where do I sign up? It doesn’t seem fair that you get all the fun toys.”

      “Cry me a river. Anyway, with all your fun and games, my superior asked me to bring you in for a talk.”

      “Seems like my week to meet bosses.” The cuffs hold my wrists together, which makes my arms rest on my sore chest. I shift around in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. I glance out the window and see that we’re crossing La Cienega. “I notice we’re not going to the courthouse.”

      “What makes you think you deserve a day in court?”

      “You’re a cop …”

      “U.S. marshal.”

      “Fine. A cop who can read. Isn’t there something in the law or the Constitution about everyone getting a day in court?”

      “That only applies to the living, son.”

      “I’m sitting right here.”

      “Technically, no. Not in any legal sense. Legally, you’re a nonperson. You’ve been a long-gone daddy out of this realm of existence for eleven years and change. A missing person can be declared dead after seven, which means that you’ve been legally dead almost four years.”

      “You’re not serious.”

      “Look at the bright side. If you were alive, you’d still be the prime suspect in your girlfriend’s murder. If you were alive, the IRS would want to know why you haven’t been filing taxes. Ask me whether I’m more afraid of Hell or the IRS, I’ll go with the IRS every time.”

      “So, you know who I am and where I’ve been.”

      “I know every inch of your sorry waste of a life. My boss might want to talk to you, but to me, you’re a parasite. A waste of space and air. It makes a person wish the earth really was flat. Then we could take all the people like you, load you in a garbage scow, and push you over the edge and out of everybody’s hair.”

      “If you know where I’ve been, then you know why I’m back. Let me go and let me do what I came here for. I’ll get rid of some very bad people for you.”

      “How? By blowing up Rodeo Drive?”

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