She goes and Allegra follows her over. Vidocq and Father Traven are together at the end of the bar, so I head down that way. When I get there, Vidocq drops his arm on my shoulders again. Damn French.
“Hey, Father. When did you get in?”
I put out my hand. When Traven shakes it, he lays his other hand on top like I’m the pope or Little Richard. Liam Traven is my favorite priest. Partly because he was excommunicated, which means he doesn’t take corporate shit, and partly because he’s nuts. He reads, writes, eats, and breathes ancient languages no one has ever heard of. He knows the names of more old gods than the Vatican and every Dungeons & Dragons player in the world.
“I just walked in,” he says. “When Eugène called me, I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him. And here you are.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’m not sure if I’m here either. I feel like a bad Xerox someone put through the shredder.”
“I’m sure that will pass.”
“Sorry about your car. Did you get it back?”
On my way back to Hell, I had to abandon Traven’s car on the street near the body of a dead cop. It was an ugly scene but it was Josef’s fault not mine and there was nothing I could do about it.
“Eventually. The police held on to it for a few weeks. I feel awkward asking you this right away but I need to.”
“No. I didn’t kill that cop. But for what it’s worth, I killed the guy who did it.” And slept like a baby. But I don’t tell him that part.
I say, “I’m glad I caught the two of you together. There’s some stuff I want to talk to you about. Things that happened to me in Hell. Changes I’m still trying to get my head around.”
“Is that what the glove is for?” asks Traven.
I look down, relieved I remembered to put it back on.
“This? No. I just lost my arm and the new one is kind of ugly.”
“You lost your arm? My God.”
“Don’t sweat it, Father. Now I can get handicap plates.”
“What do you mean ugly?” asks Vidocq.
I scan the room. No one is looking, so I slip off the glove and let them get a good look at my demon mitt. Immediately I realize that it was a mistake. Traven has gone white.
Vidocq says, “Allegra tried to describe it but didn’t come close to capturing la horreur exquise.”
Traven stares at me. If eyes could scream, run home, and hide under the blankets, he’d be blind.
“Is that what Hell is like? What else did they do to you? I couldn’t psychologically survive something like that.”
Father Traven used to translate old books for the Church. Then he translated the wrong one. An evil Necronomicon thing. The Bible of the Angra Om Ya. The gods before God. He got excommunicated for his trouble, and in the priest game, excommunication is a one-way ticket to Hell. Traven is the dirtiest guy in the bar. His sin signs are deep and awful. Almost every bare inch of skin is black. His hands look like he dipped them in tar. They practically drip with sin. Then I remember. Traven’s a sin eater, from a long line of sin eaters. He’s swallowed more sins than a thousand of the worst killers and bastards you can think of. The weight of it must break his back. And he says he couldn’t survive getting an arm like mine. I think he’s selling himself short but we all define horror in our own way.
“Don’t sweat it, Father. I met God. He isn’t what you think He is. I know the Devil pretty well too. He isn’t what you think either. Trust me, Heaven or Hell, consider yourself taken care of.”
“I know that should reassure me but somehow it doesn’t.”
“Then let’s have another drink,” says Vidocq.
I call Carlos to bring over a round of drinks. We clink glasses and throw them back.
Vidocq raises an eyebrow at Traven.
“Have you told him about the Via Dolorosa?”
“Not yet.”
“The Via Dolores? What is that?”