“Even sloppier,” Lucifer says.
“Sloppy but possible.”
“Not possible,” Lucifer says. “You have forgotten the details of our arrangement. You will be provided with a ward that will leave Ollard unable to harm you, by magical means or otherwise. Speaking of which.”
Lucifer downs the last of his coffee, and then reaches into the inside pocket of his peacoat and draws out a cigar tube.
“Here,” Lucifer says, unscrewing the end of the tube. He draws out the cigar and steers it firmly into Billy’s mouth. Billy sputters a bit around it, pulls it out and weighs it in his hand. It’s hefty, like something a billionaire might light with a bundle of money. It has no band or other identifying mark.
“You’ll want to smoke that,” Lucifer says, rising, using the edge of his hand to smooth the front of his shirt.
“What, why?” Billy says, looking from the cigar to Lucifer and back again.
“The ward requires a variety of herbs and other assorted components to be transmuted by fire, the ceremonial smoke entering the body of the individual to be warded. The traditional swinging thurible is a little conspicuous, as I’m sure you’d agree.”
“A giant cigar is conspicuous. It’s illegal for me to smoke that in a restaurant; maybe you didn’t get the memo.”
“This place has a back room we can use,” Lucifer says. “That’s part of why I wanted to come here.” He drops some bills on the table and calls to the proprietor: “Hadadj! Back room?”
“For you,” the lean man replies drily from the front counter, “anything.” He is punching numbers into a calculator. He does not look up.
“Follow me,” Lucifer says to Billy. Billy pushes himself off the ottoman clumsily and follows Lucifer through a beaded curtain. They pass the restrooms and open a door bearing an EMPLOYEES ONLY placard. Behind it is a small, harshly-lit office almost entirely taken up by a steel desk and a filing cabinet, both of which are obscured under the burden of slumping piles of three-ringed notebooks. A portly man wearing a gold chain and white earbuds sits at the desk, leafing through what appears to be a catalog of men’s shoes. He looks up at Lucifer and glares with contempt and distaste. Lucifer ignores him, doesn’t even spare him a look, and instead crosses the room and opens another door.
Billy follows briskly. The back room is a cramped, dim space, smelling strongly of lentils. Two overstuffed recliners marred with what Billy hopes are soup spillages squat on a dingy Persian rug, with an elaborate brass hookah placed between them. The chairs face a flat-screen TV, which has a stack of Algerian-market VHS cassettes and Xbox games heaped in front of it like an offering. Lucifer takes up one of the hoses from the hookah, sniffs it, makes an assessing face, and then replaces it.
“Sit,” Lucifer says. Billy sits, the cigar still in his hand. Lucifer takes the cigar, lops one end off it with a handheld cutter that he’s produced from somewhere, and directs it back into Billy’s mouth, whereupon Billy promptly takes it out again.
“I still haven’t said that I’m doing this,” Billy says.
“I understand,” Lucifer says. “Nonetheless, I see no reason to postpone your preparation. It is my sincerest belief that once the pieces are all in place you will act with no further hesitation. Regardless, it is probably a good idea for you to receive the ward: now that more people know that you and I are … affiliated, word may get to Ollard before too long, which will put you at risk, risk that this ward will mitigate.”
“Affiliated?” Billy says. “We’re not affiliated.”
“Shall we commence?” Lucifer says.
He points at the cigar with a tiny, steel lighter which has somehow surreptitiously replaced his handheld cutter, and then he points the lighter at his own face, encouraging Billy to mirror the gesture by lifting the cigar to his mouth. Which he does.
“Very good,” says Lucifer, in a tone one might use to speak to a dog. He leans in and presses a button on the lighter, which emits a blue flame with no perceptible sound. Billy awkwardly angles the cigar into the flame, and takes a long pull, which immediately dispels whatever goodwill toward the world the lamb crepes and coffee had helped him to muster.
“Oh,” Billy says, a huge cloud of rank smoke rolling out of his mouth. “That’s bad.”
“My apologies,” says Lucifer.
“It’s like smoking compost.”
Lucifer regards him.
“It’s like smoking compost through a raccoon,” Billy says. He sticks out his tongue, scrapes it against his upper row of teeth in an attempt to scour off the dank, fungal taste. “It’s like you put a fur-lined shit in my mouth.”