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Thanks to my agent, Ginger Clark, and my editor, David Pomerico. Thanks also to Pamela Spengler-Jaffe, Jennifer Brehl, Caroline Perny, Shawn Nicholls, Angela Craft, Priyanka Krishnan, Owen Corrigan, and the rest of the team at Harper Voyager. Thanks also to Jonathan Lyons, Sarah Perillo, Holly Frederick, Nicholas J.L. Beudert, and Tess Callero. Thanks also to Genie Casillas for Latin advice. As always, thanks to Nicola for everything else.

The Devil in the Dollhouse

Being Lucifer is an inherently heinous job. But some things done in Hell are so bad, even the Devil himself needs to forget. So while Stark cannot remember what happened at Henoch Breach, he was there.

And he was responsible . . .

The Devil in the Dollhouse

A Sandman Slim Story

The Unimog bounces down a shattered freeway that looks like a set from Crackhead Godzilla Goes on a Bender and Fucks up Everything. Exit signs and overhead lights are melted to slag. Buildings along the edges of the road look more like the stone skeletons of giant fish than settlements. We have to inch our way down and then back up collapsed overpasses like arthritic grasshoppers.

And it gets worse. This thousand-mile-long ribbon of shit? Technically, I own all of it. All of Hell is falling apart and one of my jobs is to put it back together. But not today.

Let’s back up and get a look at the big picture.

There are just as many assholes in Heaven as there are in Hell. The only difference is the ones in Hell aren’t slick enough to hide it. Therefore Hell is a kingdom of assholes, and thus the Devil is the king of the assholes.

Hi. I’m the Devil. No, seriously. I used to be James Stark or sometimes Sandman Slim, but then the Lucifer 1.0 pissed off back to Heaven and stuck me running Hell. I thought that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. That was three days ago. Today things got worse. Today I’m in a truck convoy heading somewhere I never heard of to find some place that scares even these evil fallen-angel pricks. Plus, I can’t eat the lunch they packed for me. I never could stand unicorn salad.

Here’s how it all started: I was hanging out in Lucifer’s library—my library now—when a bookcase opened and two Hellions came in, looking at me like I was a two-headed rattler in the reptile booth at a Texarkana sideshow.

“So, this is him,” said the smaller Hellion.

“I guess so,” said the big one.

“He doesn’t look like much of a monster.”

“He’s the monster who kills monsters, so naturally he’s a lesser monster.”

“He still looks like any other mortal to me.”

“You know I’m standing right here, right?” I said.

The smaller Hellion raised his voice, like maybe I was hard of hearing.

“I was saying that you don’t look like much of a monster.”

“I look better covered in blood. You never saw me fight in the arena?”

Big Boy shook his head.

“Merihim there is a priest. He can’t go. Me, I don’t like to go. Fighting for fun doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Trust me. It wasn’t fun.”

The smaller Hellion was in sleeveless black robes. Every inch of visible skin was tattooed in sacred Hellion script, like he’d been mugged by the tiniest graffiti crew in the universe. Big Boy looked like the Hulk’s runt cousin in rubber overalls. Dangling from his thick leather belt were enough vicious-looking tools to give Torquemada the vapors.

“I’m Ipos,” said Big Boy. He hooked a thumb at the tattooed squirt. “He’s Merihim.”

I recognized the names. Samael, aka Lucifer 1.0, left me a note with their names. They’re a couple of his spies and sometime advisors.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m the Devil.”

Merihim nodded. Pursed his lips.

“Yes. That’s what we’re here to talk about. You’re not, entirely, quite Lucifer.”