Pandemonium

herself so ugly like that?” She sniffed. “She said she’d help me, but she was no help at all.”

“What happened?” I said quietly.

The Angel shook her head, exasperated. Glossy curls swayed and bounced. “See for yourself.”

She stood, wiped at her cheeks, and leaned back to pull open the heavy door. I followed her out.

The long hallway was empty for most of its length. At the end, where it T’d with another corridor, a man stood in an open doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a red top and red tights, and a white cape that hung down his back. A figure lay on the floor in front of his white boots.

I walked forward, a sick feeling in my stomach. It was O’Connell. She lay sprawled at his feet, one arm flopped across her chest, the other stretched in my direction, reaching toward a pistol that lay on the floor. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth pooled with blood.

The caped man looked at me, smiled. His face was square and handsome, and his hair, so black it was almost blue, shone as if coated with Vaseline. “Hi there,” he said. The Boy Marvel, I presumed. But a full-grown man, just like in the comics.

I slowly walked forward. “I just want to take her out of here,” I said to him.

The Little Angel spun to face me, her small fists clenched. “What did you say?”

“I’d like to move her,” I said to the man, and stepped closer. He moved too fast for me to see. One moment his arms were crossed over his chest; the next they were straight in front of him, and I was flying back. My shoulder hit the floor first and I tumbled. I landed on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. My lungs felt like they’d been smashed to the back of my ribs.

“No one gets to the boy except through me,” the caped man said. His voice carried easily, like a radio actor leaning into the mike. I turned to my side, gasping. Twenty feet away, at the other end of the hallway from the Boy Marvel, the Truth stood with his hands at his sides, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. Beside him stood a gray-haired man wearing only pajama bottoms. His chest and wide belly were covered with white hair. The old man looked at me for several seconds, then he opened his hand and showed me the silver butter knife he was holding. I got my elbows under me, pushed myself to a sitting position. Who the hell was this now?

The old man closed his fist, then turned to the wall and plunged the tip of the knife into the drywall. He dragged down, slicing a line that puffed chalk, then slashed sideways. Three more quick strokes and he’d carved the suggestion of a hallway and the outline of the door. He looked over at me and winked.

The Painter. Well, fine. At least there’d be a record of this night. The demon wouldn’t help me, but neither would he get in my way. That wasn’t his job. And the Truth wouldn’t interfere unless somebody violated his code of honesty.

I got to my feet and turned back to the Boy Marvel. The Little Angel stood between us, her arms crossed petulantly. “But he wants me in,”

she told the caped man. “You know he does. How long do I have to wait?”

“What—” I coughed wetly. “What did you do to O’Connell?”

“I never hit a lady,” the caped man said. He stepped over O’Connell’s body, picked up the pistol. “But she was no lady.” He gripped the gun by both ends and frowned in concentration, like George Reeves working on a rubber prop. The muzzle snapped away from the base, and metal parts clinked to the floor.

He shrugged, tossed the two pieces at me. The pistol grip struck the floor and broke open. Bullets bounced out of the cartridge and rolled, glinting in the yellow light.

O’Connell had lied. She hadn’t thrown away my father’s .45. She’d kept it, probably as protection against me.

“Nobody’s a threat here,” I said to the Boy Marvel. “I’m not trying to get past you. I just—”