then he—”
“Enough! Enough!” shrieked the saints. “Petition granted! Petition granted!”
Hrundig stepped aside. “Does it every time,” he smirked, as he sauntered past me.
I couldn’t stall any longer. I gave Gwendolyn a glance. She was staring at me, her dark face almost pale. Her lips trembled, as if she were on the verge of whispering something.
She wouldn’t, of course. Not Gwendolyn. But I knew what she wanted to say. Please, Ignace. Do it for me.
Sighing, I took Greyboar by the elbow and stepped up to the table with him.
“He’s Greyboar the strangler,” I muttered, “and I’m—”
But Jack was already scribbling my name into the ledger right after Greyboar’s. “Piece of cake, this one!” he cried. “Can still make it to lunch!”
He swiveled his head. The saints were squinting at us. Jack got a sour look on his face. Very sour.
“Oh, come on,” he whined. “What more do you want? A professional serial killer and his accomplice ain’t good enough for you?”
The saints sniffed. “Possible duplicity,” muttered one. “Not about the sins, of course,” added another, “but about the mending of wicked ways.”
A moment later they started that damned intoning business again: “Need insurance! Need insurance!”
Jack sighed and rubbed his face. “All right,” he grumbled, swiveling his head back toward the Evil Horizon. “Send out a bonding agent!”
Another belch, and out came a rotund little creature looking not so much like a fallen angel as one who’d never risen in the first place. The butterball rolled to his talons and trotted forward cheerfully.
“Only take a minute!” he cried. “Relax, Jack—you can still make lunch. Don’t want to miss it, either. Chipped virgin on toast, today.”
Once he was standing in front of Greyboar and me, the newcomer assumed as dignified a stance as a beachball-shaped demon-sort-of-thing can.
“I’m Fred, by the way. You can read all about me in Logarithms II, Verse Three. The business about not eating armadillos with cranberry sauce. Now. Repeat after me: ‘I solemnly swear . . .’ ”
This nonsense went on for some time, while Greyboar and I swore to abandon all evil and wickedness and devote our remaining days to righting wrongs and blather blather blather.
And still the saints weren’t satisfied.
“New profession!” they intoned. “New profession! Need new professional ethics! Only thing can be trusted!”
“Quite right!” agreed Fred. “What’ll it be, gents? Professional Flagellants? Career Whipping Boys? Mercenary Village Idiots? Or—” Here, a great sneer rippled his face. “Professional Heroes?”
I gagged. What a choice!
But Greyboar didn’t hesitate. “Hero,” he growled.
“Third, Second, First Class—or Excelsior?” demanded Fred.
My agent’s instincts did us in, there. Because—not understanding the new rules—I immediately piped: “Excelsior! Greyboar’s the best!”
The saints and fallen angels snickered. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Good move, Ignace,” hissed Magrit from somewhere behind me. “Third Class only has to tackle stuff like local bullies.”
“And you even get to charge a fee,” cackled Wittgenstein. “Just a token, of course, but it beats the rules for Professional Hero, Excelsior, which are—”
I didn’t hear the rest, though, because Jack was already gleefully stamping our names with some kind of official-looking seal and Greyboar was hauling me toward the Evil Horizon.
“Let’s go,” he said. “May as well get it over with.”
“What about the Cat?” I whined. “She hasn’t had her turn yet.”
Greyboar started running toward the Evil Horizon. For all practical purposes, he was carrying me in one hand. I could see Hrundig pounding after us. Along the way, Gwendolyn tossed him a bag holding something lumpy-looking.
“That’s why I’m in a hurry!” he snapped. “She already went through.”
I must have been gaping. Greyboar chuckled. “What? Rules? You know anything can keep the Cat out if she feels like going through?”
The Evil Horizon was looming over us. I could feel the tidal pull in my soul. And if you don’t think that’s a weird and scary feeling, think again.
“I just want to get there before she gets herself hurt,” he muttered.