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“If you know me so well you know I don’t take advice from angels.”

“Not advice. Merely an observation. Before I came here, Father—Mr. Muninn—wanted me to tell you to follow your instincts. But do you have any left I wonder.”

The clown is getting to me. I want to kick him out, but I remember being bloody and ready to die in the arena. And I can’t kick an angel out in the street, especially not near a church. For all their God talk, the last people alive who want to meet an angel are church types. Show them that Heaven isn’t all gossamer robes and harp recitals and they’ll hallelujah their lunch right into the toilet.

“Look. I’ll get this stuff checked out, but I don’t know what you or Muninn expect me to do after that.”

But when I look up, Karael is gone. Angels do that when they die. Blip out of existence like they were never there. I look at the box, close it, and put it in my pocket. Asshole angel that he was, he died to bring me this sludge. Black milk. I’ll show it to Vidocq tomorrow. Right now I have to get across town. I’m late and I can’t afford to miss tonight. It’s funny, though. Arguing with an angel, my headache disappeared. Now that he’s gone, I can feel it crawling back behind my eyes.

I need the cure and I need it soon.

For a second, I wonder about Alessa waiting for her cab. Could she be in on this? Was she there to distract me from Karael in the backseat? If there’s something more going on with her—more than playing guitar with Candy—I’m going to find out what. Until then, it’s time to get on the road. I start the car and head back into traffic, hoping that whatever kind of ectoplasm Karael leaked onto my seats will come off with soap. Heaven might be at war, but that doesn’t mean angels get to fuck up my car.

HE COMES AT me low, puts his weight behind the punch, and slams it in under my ribs. I let him do it. I like the feel of the blow, my muscles screaming, the breath rushing from my lungs. I relax into the pain. It’s something real and tangible, and unlike the headaches, these punches, elbows, and kicks deliver a completely different kind of pain. The headaches make me weak at the knees. This Hulk Hogan stuff, I can grab on to and choke the life out of.

The guy coming at me is built like a battleship welded together from fat and blind fury. Whatever he does for a living, he needs a new job. Whoever he’s married to needs to get a ticket back home to Mom because the SS Shithead here is not fit for human company. I guess that’s why he was the only one who wanted to fight me tonight. There are a couple of dozen other guys in the abandoned high school, but none stepped up. I’ve beaten most of the others down here in the fight pit. No one knows who I am down here, but I’ve laid out enough of them that it’s mostly the new guys and the crazy ones who want to go at me. I’m not exactly a big guy—people call me Slim for a reason—but most of the weekend gladiators down here are scared off by my scars. But the ones who step up—the crazy ones—they’re the cure for a sane life. My best friends and the only elixir for a Trotsky headache.

The only thing I worry about is my left arm. The Kissi one, an inhuman prosthetic that looks more like it belongs on a Terminator insect than a person. That’s a problem.

My buddy Manimal Mike makes mechanical-animal familiars, though. He’s good with fake skin and made me a sheath so my freak-show left arm matches my right. As far as anyone here knows, I’m just ugly, scarred meat that, like them, is looking to blow off a little steam.

I let the battleship thunder a right cross into my chin. It’s gorgeous. A work of art. For a second, I see stars and choirs of angels. The harder he hits me, the more he loosens the icepicks behind my eyes.

Unfortunately, right when I’m having fun, the big guy decides to get stupid. I’ve let him hit me enough that he thinks I’m out on my feet and his mean streak is kicking in. When he punches my face he sticks out his thumbs, hoping to gouge out an eye. I shove him back a few feet to get his attention. He thinks it’s just muscle memory. That I’m punched out. I give him one more chance to fight like a human being.

But he does it again. I feel his thumbnail catch skin and tear open a slit over my eye. The sight of blood turns him from asshole into animal and he rushes me, hoping to rip the cut open more so the blood blinds me. It’s a decent strategy, but he’s too big, too dumb, and too slow.

When he swings, I duck his first punch, then block the jab he throws with his other hand. While he’s still surprised I give him a shot in the Adam’s apple. Hit there hard enough and you can collapse someone’s trachea and they’ll choke to death, spitting blood the whole time. But I just hit hard enough so that he won’t be able to breathe for a couple of minutes.

The battleship staggers back and I close on him, jamming a fist into his gut, then an uppercut when the first punch bends him over. He falls to his knees and I hope he’s going to stay down, but the dumb animal doesn’t know he’s beat. He pushes himself up and runs at me like a bull with a bottle rocket tied to his balls. I wait until he’s almost on me, then jump, slamming my knee up into his jaw. This time when he goes down his eyes are pinwheels and his brain is on a train to Cincinnati. He doesn’t get up.

The room is quiet for a minute, then a whoop goes up. Two dozen shirtless attack dogs—the other fighters—cheer me on, except for a few I beat as badly as this guy. The pit boss, the closest thing we have to a ref, comes over and checks the battleship’s eyes and breathing. He waves his hand in a circle, signaling that the guy is alive, but he’s not getting up. A couple of the boss’s flunkies come over and haul the guy off the fighting floor like a pile of bad meat. I don’t see where they take him. Supposedly, there’s a volunteer doctor down here, but I’ve never seen him.

The fighting pit is really an empty swimming pool in the old school gym. I climb the few steps up to ground level. Guys pat me on the back and call me “killer,” tell me what a champ I am. Who fucking cares? All I know is Trotsky is out of my head and I can look at the gym lights without running into the dark like a bug.

Part of the gym roof is down. The floor is warped in places, collapsed in others. Filthy clothes and food cans lie scattered around the walls. The place must have been a homeless crash pad before the amateur brawlers took over. For all I know, one of the other fighters owns the property. I’ve seen some flash shirts and designer shoes around the pit during the fights. Maybe here is the real estate agent for his family’s property. What would Daddy and his money think if they knew what junior was up to?

As I put my shirt and boots back on, the pit boss comes over. He’s an older guy with a few scars of his own. He has one cauliflower ear and nicotine-yellow teeth. I never did learn his name. He stands there a minute waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, he starts in.

“You ever fight professionally?”

“Nope.”

“You interested?”

“Nope.”

I touch the heel of my hand to my eye. It comes back with a streak of blood and the cut hurts from the salt in my sweat.

“There’s good money in it,” continues the pit boss. “I have connections. I could put you in the ring tomorrow. Strictly underground, you understand. A grand in your pocket guaranteed. More if you win.”

I pick up a piece of broken glass from the floor and check my reflection. I heal fast and the cut is already beginning to close, but I’ll have a bruise until morning.

The pit boss is still standing there. I want him to go away before he sees me heal too quickly for an ordinary person. I turn around and give him a friendly half smile.

“Let me think about it.”

“Sure,” he says. “We can talk about it next time. You can sure handle yourself out there and, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you could use some walking-around money.”