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“I didn’t say I wanted to stay. But if I can stand Disney World, I can handle an afternoon with halo polishers.”

“Where are we headed?”

“To Tartarus.”

He frowns.

“Why there?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do. And because it’s what Hesediel would have done.”

“Then let’s get moving. The sooner we’re done, the sooner we’ll get you home.”

Bill heads for the door. I blow out the candles and we go outside.

“First we’re going to need another car.”

He drops his head a little.

“Try to pick a better one than last time. I don’t want to spend eternity walking home from one of your damn errands.”

There are vehicles abandoned by the outskirts of the old street market. I get out the black knife and start testing ignitions.

It doesn’t go well.

I CLEARLY DON’T have Candy’s luck when it comes to cars.

It takes a couple of hours to find one that starts. A rusted-out Corvair with seats that are mostly springs. That’s bad enough, but the fuel gauge is almost at empty. After some looking, I find a length of hose and bucket in one of the old market stalls.

Did you ever siphon gas from a car by sucking on a hose? It’s pretty much the worst thing you can do with your mouth. To make it more fun, Hellion fuel tastes even worse than regular gasoline. It’s like gas that’s been filtered through a bloated whale carcass and served with a side of overcooked broccoli. I have to hit a dozen cars to fill the damned Corvair, but after another hour it’s done. Bill was a big help throughout the ordeal, smoking and shaking his head at me from the back of an old pickup truck.

“You anywhere near a conclusion? You’re making damnation boring.”

I give him a thumbs-up. Then go behind a VW Bug and throw up.

Bill hands me a handkerchief when I get back to the Corvair. I spit and wipe my mouth.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t bother giving it back,” he says.

I toss it away and we climb into the car. It’s a tight fit, but we manage it after Bill figures out how to push his seat back.

“Where to, Magellan?”

“Tartarus.”

“I should have stayed at the bar.”

“You’ll love it. There’s a river view.”

“It sounds rapturous.”

“That’s exactly the word I was thinking of.”

TARTARUS, THE HELL below Hell, a Holiday Inn for the double damned, is a place of eternal darkness. A stinking cattle car crowded with all the suckers unlucky enough or stupid enough to die a second time. Then there are the Hellions. Unlike Heavenly angels, the fallen don’t blip out of existence when they die. No, they get to fall a second time.

Bet Lucifer didn’t mention that on the job application.