James Stark feats (Sandman Slim)

The first instance of Stark's telepathic abilities. The name of a bartender he's never met before appears in his mind.

He's still wiping the same glass. It looks pretty clean to me. "Besides, I get the feeling you might have your reasons."

"That I do, Carlos."

He stops wiping. "How did you know my name was Carlos?"

"You must've said it."

"No, I didn't."

I look over his shoulder, at the wall behind the bar. "That trophy on top of the cash register. 'Carlos, World's Greatest Boss.'"

"You can read that from here?"

"Apparently." The thing with his name popping into my head? That was weird. Time to go. -Sandman Slim

He possesses the key to the Room of Thirteen Doors, which allows him to travel through shadows to any place in the universe. This is our first example of him using this to his advantage:

It's Kasabian, one of my friends from the old magic circle. One of the six on my list.

Santa brought me something, after all.

Max Overdrive Video occupies both floors of an old Hollywood town house, the kind of weekend getaway kept by the gentry back in the forties and fifties, when this area was the most glamorous place in the known universe. Kasabian is moving around inside Max Overdrive like he owns the place. I think I should go and ask him if he does.

It's full-on night now and I'm surrounded by fat, ripe shadows. I cross the street and pick a plump, dark one around the side of Max Overload, next to a health food restaurant. I glance over my shoulder to make sure the street is clear, and when I'm sure I'm alone, I slip into the shadow. The key tickles inside my chest and I emerge into the Room of Thirteen Doors.

I cross to the Door of Ice and quietly step out of the shadow on the other side.

I'm in the far back of the store, in the porn section. The lights are off back here, so I get a good look at the rest of the place. -Sandman Slim

Immortality.

His hands are down now and he's leaning on the counter like a drunk trying to decide whether to fall on his face or his back. I thumb on the stun gun.

"It's okay. I know you don't have anything for me. But I sure as hell have something for you, Kas. Climb up on Santa's lap and I'll show you."

I take a baby step closer to the counter and Kasabian takes one back. Then he does the funniest thing. He raises his hands and there's a gun there-a .45-caliber Colt Peacemaker. Wyatt Earp's favorite gun. He gives me five of the six slugs in the chest and belly, completely ruining my moment.

I drop to my knees, vision going black. The stun gun falls to the floor and I follow it down. I can feeling my lungs drawing in air. I can feel my heart beating. Both organs seem more than a little confused by what's happening. Death is settling over me, soft and warm, like a down comforter fresh from the dryer. My heart stops.

SOMETHING FUNNY HAPPENED to me when I was Downtown. I got hard to kill. When I first arrived there, I was the first and only living human to ever set foot in Hell. I was a sideshow freak. Pay a dollar and see Jimmy, the dog-faced boy. Later, when they got tired of slapping me around, examining me, and displaying me like a pedigreed poodle, they thought it might be fun to watch me die. They made me fight in the arena and they made a big deal out of it. Imagine the Super Bowl every week or two.

Naturally, the location being Hell and the setting being an arena, there was a lot of cheating going on. Hellions don't like losing bets any more than humans. Before almost every fight, a bribed trainer or attendant would show up with a sneaky little gift. They slipped me special weapons. They gave me diabolical drugs. They whispered fiendish spells into my ears. It all helped, though it didn't make me Superman. I was knifed and speared. I was burned. I was almost torn in half by a giant crab-thing that bled fire and screamed in the anguished voices of all the souls it had devoured. My ribs and skull were beaten to Silly Putty.

But I didn't die.

I don't know if it was the spells, the drugs, the Aqua Regia, or just clean living, but I was changing. Every time I should have died but didn't, I got stronger. That meant that the next attack had to be harder, faster, even more ferocious than the one before. After a while, I actually looked forward to the beat-downs. Each one changed me and that change meant that I was immune from a similar attack next time. By the end, I was a flesh-and-bone, armor-plated Dirty Harry.

By the time the ruling-class, old-school Hellions and nouveau celebutante fiends decided it was time to get rid of me, it was too late. I was too strong and by then I was doing more interesting things than killing in the arena. I was freelance - killing Hellions out of the arena, and that meant I was protected from on high by forces far darker than your run-of-the-mill tail-and-pitchfork type.

On the other hand, I'd never been shot before. -Sandman Slim

He has a knife that can sever a person's head without killing them:

My left hand shoots to the side, grabbing the .45's still-warm barrel and driving it into the floor. Kasabian's fat finger is still looped in the trigger guard, so he comes down with the gun. Meanwhile, my right hand flickers to my boot and tears free the black bone knife. I twist my body toward Kasabian and bring down the knife in a smooth arc. Kasabian's head tumbles to the floor and rolls away like a pumpkin. His body flops to the floor.

From beneath the Disney new-releases rack, Kasabian's head begins to wail.

"Oh God! Oh Jesus, fuck! I'm dead!" It's quality wailing. Downtown, I became kind of a connoisseur of wailing and this is prime stuff.

"I'm dead! I'm dead!"

Crawling shakily to my feet, I pick up Kasabian's shrieking melon by the hair, tuck the .45 in the back of my jeans, and grab his leg by the ankle with my free hand. In a situation like this, when you want to clear away the evidence, you want to drag the body. You might think it's faster to toss it over your shoulder in a fireman's carry, but lifting a limp body is like wrestling with two hundred pounds of Jell-O. It wiggles, shifts, and refuses to stay still. Dragging is slower, but much less aggravating.

I carry Kasabian upstairs, his head still screaming blue murder and his heavy torso bumping along behind us.

The second floor is one big room. It's large, with a nice big window on one wall, but sparsely furnished. There's a bed, a couple of desk chairs, and a table piled high with tape decks, DVD burners, and a big color printer-a mini video-bootlegging factory. I drop the body by the door and set his head on the worktable. The gun I toss on the bed. Kasabian is still shrieking like a banshee, which is pretty good for a guy with no lungs.

I grab a chair and drop down in front of him. Digging the cigarettes out of Brad Pitt's now-bloody jacket, I light one up and blow smoke in Kasabian's face.

"Smell that? That means you're not dead." -Sandman Slim

Said weapon doesn't leave magical traces, making it impossible to detect by magical means:

"Fuck you! You think you're sneaky? You used magic. The whole Sub Rosa will know you're here. Mason will know you're here. He'll kill you."

I make a game-show-buzzer noise.

"Guess again, fat man. This knife doesn't disturb the aether and doesn't leave any magical traces. Pure stealth tech, which is sort of its point. That, and not killing its victims unless I tell it to."

"Oh God, look what you did."

"God's away on business, Kas. Talk to me." -Sandman Slim

Stark's new telepathy lets him know when people are telling him the truth:

"Whatever happened, he wasn't just Mason anymore. He was Mason and something else. Like God's older brother, who takes God's money, steals his car, and fucks his girlfriend. That's Mason now. A guy who isn't afraid to pants God. He took off and took Parker with him."

I know that he's telling the truth. In the same weird way that Carlos's name popped into my head back at the Bamboo House of Dolls, I know that Kasabian is telling me the truth. It's not reassuring to know something without understanding why you know it, but I'll figure that out later. -Sandman Slim

Stark heals from his gunshot wounds with some rest:

I want to go and wash off the blood that's drying on my belly and chest, but when I try to stand, my cracked ribs shoot to the top of my pain threshold and convince me that I can wait until morning. I shrug off Brad Pitt's jacket and lie back carefully. The moment my head hits the pillow, I'm out.
----
I snap awake at the sound of the door slamming downstairs. I sit up, relieved that the pain in my ribs is gone. The good feeling is short-lived, however, when I realize that the room looks like a bad night in a slaughterhouse. The bloody jacket and shirt are still on the floor where I dropped them. I'm covered in dried blood, a lot of which I've managed to smear in a crimson Rorschach blot all over the bed while I was asleep.


I toss the jacket and shirt onto the dirty sheet, pull it off the bed and onto the floor. In the bathroom, I use up most of a roll of paper towels scrubbing the blood off me. The bullet wounds are just black welts surrounded by psychedelic-blue-and-purple bruises. If I twist the right way, I can feel the .45 slugs nestled inside me, like marsh-mallows in Jell-O salad. I'll probably have to do something about getting them out, at some point, but not now. -Sandman Slim

A flashback reveals some of the more mundane things Stark could do with magic prior to being sent to Hell:

The night after her card trick, I told Alice about magic. I told her it was real and that I was a magician. She liked me well enough by then not to fifty-one-fifty me to the cops, but she looked at me like I'd just told her that I was the king of the mushroom people. So, I pinched the flame off one of the candles she'd lit and made it hop across my fingertips. I charmed old magazines, dirty shirts, and Chinese-restaurant flyers up from the floor, formed them into a vaguely female shape, and had them strut around the apartment like a fashion model. I made my neighbor's yowling cat speak Russian and Alice's tattoos move around like little movies under her skin.

She loved it. She was like a kid, shouting, "More! More!" What she didn't want was anything serious. Every civilian I'd ever shown magic to had the same response - how can we use it to get rich? Let's manipulate the stock market. Turn invisible and rob a bank. Throw on a glamour so that cops can't see us. -Sandman Slim

Stark has become exceptionally perceptive since he was thrown into Hell, for reasons he doesn't quite understand yet:

I stand by the door for a second, listening to Allegra move around downstairs. I can almost see her in my mind's eye. She's young. Bored and annoyed at having to open the store so soon after Christmas. I get a sense of brains and something else. Something she's trying not to think about as she straightens the shelves and counts the cash in the till. Quietly, I open the door and start down the stairs, then turn around and go right back up. The .45 and Brad Pitt's stun gun are lying on the floor. I stuff them under the mattress, then head back down.

Allegra is by the door, backlit by the light through the window. She looks to be not much older than I was when I was carried off to Oz. Maybe old enough to drink. Maybe not. She doesn't wear much makeup. Black around her eyes. Gloss on her lips. She's thin, with darkish cafe au lait skin. She'd look like Foxy Brown's little sister, except her head is shaved smooth. Her coat and skirt are thrift store hand-me-downs, but her boots look expensive. An art school girl with priorities.

She looks up as I unlock the chain at the bottom of the stairs.

"Morning. You must be Allegra."

Her head snaps up in my direction. "Who are you? Where's Mr. Kasabian?"

"Kasabian had to leave town. Some kind of family crisis. I'm an old friend. I'll be in charge of the place while he's gone."

That wasn't the right thing to say. Allegra is angry. She tries to hide it with surprise, but doesn't pull it off.

"Really?" she asks. "Have you run a video store before?"

"No."

"Ever run any kind of retail operation?"

I come up front and lean on the counter, checking the floor for blood as I go. Only a few drops that I can spot. I tend not to bleed for very long, and it looks like Brad Pitt's clothes soaked up most of what leaked out of me.

"Let me clarify. When I say I'll be in charge, that doesn't mean I'm going to actually be doing anything. I'll mostly be gone or working upstairs."

"Ah," she says, even colder than before. She knows exactly what Kasabian does up there and she doesn't approve. An L.A. girl with a conscience. They're about as rare as unicorns.

"Not doing anything is Mr. Kasabian's management style, too. You'll fit right in." Her heartbeat kicks up and her pupils dilate. Why the hell am I noticing these things?

She frowns, looks down, then up at me. "Please, don't tell him I said that."

"Your secret is safe with me." -Sandman Slim

Stark's bone blade can open locks:

I grab the garbage with the bloody clothes and sheets and head down the stairs to the store. Allegra and another kid are behind the counter, busy with customers. There's a rear exit to the store in a small storage room behind the porn section. I get out the bone blade and try a trick that worked in Hell. Placing the tip of the blade into the lock, I push it inside and turn. The lock clicks open. -Sandman Slim

Stark uses the bone blade to not only break into a car, but also start the ignition:

There's only one way to steal a car and not feel guilty about it, and that's to steal the most expensive car you can find. That way, you know that it carries the maximum insurance possible, so whatever happens, the owner is covered. I pick out a black Mercedes S600, go around to the driver's side, and using my body to block the view, stab the bone knife into the lock. I hold my breath. The car chirps once and the lock pops. I slide in with my bags, jam the knife in the ignition, and the engine purrs to life. I do a check of the mirrors and windows. No one is even looking at me. Stepping on the gas, I guide the Mercedes into the afternoon traffic. -Sandman Slim

Stark kicks a solid steel door open, breaking the lock mechanism as he does:

When the elevator hits three, I roll up the gate and sprint right down the central corridor, then cut left. My place is at the end of a hall just long enough to let me get a running start. The door is the original, solid steel and balanced perfectly on two heavy metal hinges. I wouldn't have thought about doing this before, but I'm a bit stronger now. I take a few long, running steps, swing my leg up, and slam my heel into the door. It pops open, the rusty lock mechanism spinning through the air like a metal Frisbee. I have the .45 up and in front of me, ready for anything.

"Well," says the two-hundred-year-old Frenchman from his easy chair. "It fucking took you long enough." -Sandman Slim

During Vidocq's recounting of how he and James met, it's revealed that the two of them were both capable of using memory charms easily enough:

"You and I met at a saloon. It's closed now. Blood Meridian. This was before you met lovely Alice. We were both at the bar, each chatting up the same pretty girl, who stood between us. Neither of us had more than a few dollars then, so we'd employed a small memory charm on the bartender so that we could pay for drinks with the same money over and over again. When we realized what the other was doing, we forgot the pretty girl and talked about what and who we were, what and who we knew, paying the poor bartender with the same few dollars all night." -Sandman Slim

More of Stark's telepathy at work:

Something flashes through Vidocq's mind. I only catch a fragment of it before he pushes it away. Seeing it feels like a migraine coming on, a knife behind my eyes.

"What's wrong?" asks Vidocq.

"There's something funny going on with my head. I keep feeling and hearing things I shouldn't. Like right now you're sweating and your heartbeat is going up. Like maybe you're a little afraid."

"You're back here from Hell, talking about murder, and you're pulling guns from under my floor. Shouldn't I be a little frightened for both of us?" -Sandman Slim

Apparently Stark was able to cut out Azazel's heart prior to leaving Hell:

"Is that how you got away?"

"No. I was the property of Azazel, one of Lucifer's generals. He made me his designated hitman. He said that Alice would be all right, as long as I played along."

"And then she wasn't all right."

"I don't know how I knew, but I did. It's like these new things I can hear and feel." I gulped some wine. "Before I left, I cut out Azazel's heart and left it on his altar." -Sandman Slim

Stark states that his key to the Room of Thirteen Doors can take him anywhere in the universe:

"How did you get out?"

"A key. A key to anywhere in the universe I want to go."

"Do you have it with you?"

"It's right here," I say, putting my hand on my chest like I'm about to say the Pledge of Allegiance. "Over my heart. I took his knife, cut myself open, and put the key inside. Now I can walk through shadows to the Room of Thirteen Doors. Go anywhere I want, anytime I want. Back to Hell. Maybe Heaven, too. I don't know. I haven't opened all thirteen doors." -Sandman Slim

Stark learned how to shoot guns at a young age. He also may or may not be a descendant of Wild Bill Hickok.

Vidocq is one of the few people who know that my full name is James Butler Hickok Stark. That's Wild Bill Hickok's name, except for the Stark. I learned to shoot and appreciate guns young because we're supposed to be direct descendants of Wild Bill, the greatest shootist of the American West. "Stark" was tacked on sometime after those prairie towns became cities to keep idiots from showing up at the door wanting to touch great-great-granddad's legend. Or worse. There were more than a few fights and even some gunplay. The funny thing is no one knows for sure if we really are connected to Wild Bill. Supposedly, he left a few little bastards behind in Kansas and Missouri, so it's possible. But it might just be a tall tale. My family never let facts get in the way of a good story. -Sandman Slim

Stark elaborates that he knows medical spells, and has learned how to use those spells in order to kill someone:

"Up here in the City of Angels USA, magicians worry about good and evil. White magic versus black."

"All magicians think about those differences."

"Not Downtown they don't. Hellions understand something we don't. That there is no white magic. There is no black magic. There's just magic. You can kill with a healing spell as easily as with a curse. If you were having a heart attack right now, I could do a spell to slow your heart and keep it from beating out of your chest. I could regulate your blood pressure, bring it up or down. But I can use those same spells if you aren't having a heart attack. I can turn down your blood pressure until you pass out. Slow and stop your heart. And you'd be just as dead as if I'd hexed you." -Sandman Slim

Even before being sent to Hell, this is how easily magic came to Stark:

"Back with the Circle, Christ, you were just a punk kid and you had all this power. More than any of the rest of us, including Mason. But did you care? Hell no. It all came too easy for you. The rest of us had to kill ourselves studying to get the simplest spell to work. Most of the time, you didn't even pretend to study the books. You'd just make up something on the spot and angels would fly out of your ass. Do you know how that made the rest of us feel?" -Sandman Slim

...

To spend your whole life brownnosing and riding on the coattails of smarter and more talented magicians, then having them dump you like the prom date who wouldn't put out right as they become infused with who knows what kind of power, has to sting. It has to be the final confirmation of all your worst fears, that you really are the chump you were always afraid you might be.

I, on the other hand, was exactly the prick Kasabian said I was. While he was struggling with kindergarten levitations and Mason was compulsively showing off some new spirit conjuration or fire blast, I bullshitted my way through magic the way I bullshitted my way through everything else, pretty well.

Magic really was always easy for me. At my fifth birthday party, I floated the family cat over to Tiffany Brown, a redhead I had a crush on, and dropped it on her. Tiffany didn't get the joke and that was the end of my first romance.

When I was twelve, the teacher had us make clay animals in art class. I squeezed together some fat little birds. Then I made them fly around the room and out the window. I got suspended for a week for that one, though no one could explain to me exactly why.

I didn't even know I was doing magic back then. All I did know was that I could do funny tricks and make the other kids laugh.

My family never talked about it, but they knew what I could do. I was dangerous when I got sick. I'd break windows with a look. My fevers started fires. I only learned that what I was doing had a name when my father gave me an old, leather-bound book titled A Concise History and Outline of the Magickal Arts. I knew right away what I was. Not a warlock or a wizard. That was Disney stuff to me. I was a magician. A few years later, I found out there were other magicians and some invited me into their tight little Circle. Then they tried to kill me. -Sandman Slim

Stark's key to the Room of Thirteen Doors is yet again stated to be able to take the user anywhere and everywhere in the universe, this time by Azazel. He also states that the Door of Fire is a killing portal, leading directly to the bearer's prey:

Azazel reaches into his robes made of shimmering golden water and pulls out a heavy brass key. "Have you ever heard of the Room of Thirteen Doors?" he asks. "This key will take you there. The room leads to anywhere and everywhere in the universe simultaneously. Including Beelzebub's bedroom."

He hands me the key. It's heavier than it looks and weirdly soft. I realize that it's not made of brass after all. It's living skin over bones.

"In one hour, you'll enter the Room of Thirteen Doors through a shadow behind this altar. From the room, you'll go out through the Door of Fire. That's a killing portal. It will take you right to your prey. Once you've killed Beelzebub, leave Belial's weapon and return here." -Sandman Slim

Stark's telepathy floods his head with knowledge of Mason's sealed room:

Much as I don't want to, I lean against a mildewed wall. My head is suddenly spinning. Voices and faces shoot through me, like streaks of lightning. I can even feel echoes of the Circle, all of them, even my younger self, trapped in here. I've heard of dark magicians doing this. Sometime in the past, Mason hermetically sealed the room from the rest of the world with a kind of barrier hex. He didn't want what he was doing to leak out into the aether. It might let other magicians know that he was horse trading with Hellions. A lot of scary things passed through this room. A lot more than the few beasties that dragged me Downtown. Some I can see and feel, but others are just blurs that I can't get a fix on. The inside of their heads is all hunger and knives, like insects. I'm not sorry that I can't get any farther inside. I'd been getting used to sensing other people's thoughts and feelings, but the intensity of this place makes the experience new and weird again. Suddenly I don't want to be here anymore. -Sandman Slim

Stark yanks a guy out of his car, and accidentally sends him flying "about ten or fifteen feet" farther than he meant to:

I go for the passenger first. He's so ripped that when I grab him, he's in full rag-doll mode, loose and relaxed. That's a good way to hit the ground if you're ever thrown-or pulled-from a vehicle. Only I toss him about ten or fifteen feet farther than I meant to. I've been boxing giant fire-breathing jellyfish and Hellions with skin like titanium. What do I know about fighting humans? -Sandman Slim

He manages to hop up and over a car to the other side in the time it takes a pothead to fumble a gun in his direction:

While he fumbles I grab the top of the door frame, kick off the edge of passenger door, and slide across the Escalade's roof, landing cat quiet on the driver's side. Speed Racer finally has the gun out, cocked and pointed at exactly where I'm not anymore. -Sandman Slim

Stark uses a Hellion body-controlling spell to take control of a stoplight. It works for all of a couple of seconds before the light simply explodes:

This isn't a situation where red lights, yellow lights, or anything that slows us down are acceptable. But what kind of a spell do you use to change the timing on traffic lights? If I wasn't such a freak-show attraction, I'd know something like that. Or I'd be able to fake it the way I faked my way through magic in the old days. All I can think of right now is a Hellion controlling spell, something I'd throw at an opponent in the arena to take control of their body and keep them from murdering me for a little while longer.

As the light turns yellow at the intersection ahead, I bark out the spell. Literally bark. High Hellion is mostly a bunch of low, guttural verbs and nouns strung together with growling adjective gristle. It sounds like a wolf with throat cancer.

I get the spell out as the light goes from yellow to red. As I finish the spell, it flips back to yellow. Then the light explodes, the housing suddenly white-hot shrapnel that hits the Escalade's roof like metal hailstones. The light's support pole is pretty much gone. So are the overhead lines that send juice to electric buses below.

Sorry, commuters. Tell your boss to fuck off tomorrow. Some terrorist asshole blew up all your vital crosswalk signals.

The second and third lights explode, too. The fourth just kind of sizzles, spits sparks, and goes out. I don't even look after that. It's flare guns and Roman candles all the way down to Sunset. -Sandman Slim

Even before going to Hell, Stark could manipulate a person's mind into thinking he's done something he hasn't:

"Why aren't you rich? Why aren't all magicians rich?"

I shrugged and lay down beside her.

"Partly it's keeping under the radar. Partly it's tradition. A sort of code or something. What's cool about being rich if you do it by reciting a few words? Most rich Sub Rosa are connected to some kind of legit business. The rest of us just skate by. We just use magic to cut some corners. And that's the point. I'm not rich, but I know I'll never starve because I can order a burrito and make the counter person think I've already paid. -Sandman Slim

Some further elaboration on Stark's immortality. Also, he takes a stab through his hand and wills himself through the pain:

I go over to her walking on my knees, like a kid. Staying lower than the eye level of an opponent often has a calming effect on them. Maybe it will work on a nervous friend.

When I'm at the foot of the beanbag chair, I hold up my left hand and say, "Try to stab me."

She cocks her head to the side like she's trying to figure out if her cat suddenly started speaking French. "No, I don't think I'm going to do that."

"It's okay. Don't hold back. I know you're pissed at me. Let me have it."

She just stares down at the knife in her hands. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the knee walk made me look too silly to stab. There's a way to fix that.

I lean right into her face and scream, "Stab me, dammit!" as loud as I can. She lunges. And jabs the knife all the way through my left hand.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry!" she says, covering her mouth with her hands.

What most people don't understand about being hard to kill is that just because getting shot or stabbed or set on fire doesn't kill you, it doesn't mean that you don't feel it. When someone shoves a big knife through my hand, it feels like anybody else's hand getting stabbed. This is a nice way of saying that when Allegra pigsticks me with the bone blade, I want to scream like a little French girl and roll around on my back demanding a thousand cc of Jack Daniel's, stat. But I don't do any of that. I calmly pull the knife out of my hand. I wipe the blood off on my pants leg. I don't want to piss her off more by bleeding on her carpet. -Sandman Slim

And then he heals the injury in a few moments:

Allegra finds a couple of paper napkins next to a half-eaten sandwich on a plate on the floor. She presses the napkins hard against the hole in my hand.

"Thanks. You're being nice for someone who thinks I'm crazy or a snake."

"Shut up. Now I know you're too dumb to be a snake. You're probably too stupid to be crazy. I don't know what you are."

"I'm magic," I say. I pull the napkins away from my hand and wipe off the last of the blood. The wound is already closed. -Sandman Slim

That same hand is now impervious to being stabbed. Stark explains that his immortality only protects the parts of his body that are damaged, from the manner in which they are damaged:

"Now what?" she asks.

"Try to stab me again."

"What is wrong with you? If you want a girl to hurt you, there's professionals for that in the phone book."

I hold up the hand she just stabbed. "One more time. Come on. Have fun with it. Most people don't live long enough to do this twice."

I don't have to shout this time. She shoves the blade straight into my hand. But it sticks there, only about an eighth of an inch into the skin. There's no blood at all. She keeps trying to push the knife through. Really starts leaning on it. I have to take the knife out of her hand and set it on the floor. She takes my hand and examines it, looking for blood or a new wound. All she finds is a fresh red scar from where she stabbed me a couple of minutes ago.

"My whole body is kind of magic. Once you attack me a certain way, it doesn't really work all that well again."

"So, no one can ever stab you again?"

"I wish. The new scar you gave me just means that this hand is protected from being stabbed like that." -Sandman Slim

Another random spell Stark knew in his youth:

Tucked in a corner near the bottom is a pair of vintage Ray Bans she'd hot-glued back together after a bouncer knocked them off her face for slamming too hard at a club in Culver City. These days, I would have pulled the guy's spine out through his ass, but I wasn't such a hands-on type back then. A simple Sumerian spell gave the bouncer the worst case of food poisoning he'd have in this or any other lifetime. -Sandman Slim

He can fairly easily "fake his way" through a locator spell ritual:

After I unfold it on the floor, take out the piece of lead the doc gave me, and start drawing a magic circle around it, I can't remember any specific locator spells, but the idea is pretty simple and I know I can fake my way through one. -Sandman Slim

Stark theorizes that the key to the Room of Thirteen Doors either temporarily blinds or switches off the memories of anyone nearby whenever the user emerges into their destination:

WE STEP FROM the room and into Avila without anyone noticing, which is something I've always wondered about. How can you see two guys dressed like ushers at Liberace's funeral walk out of a wall and not react? My guess is that no one sees us or remembers us. The room or the key or some combination must temporarily blind or switch off the memories of anyone nearby. Otherwise how could I have sent so many of Hell's A-team killers down to Tartarus, the special Hell for the double dead. -Sandman Slim

Stark uses a Hellion spell to make an entire hallway floor disappear:

I drop to my hands and knees, breathing hard through the froth in my throat. Blondie and the fop stop and look at each other, a couple of good hunting dogs who just ran down the fox and are about get their reward.

I've got their reward.

I shout guttural Hellion syllables, coughing up blood with every word. I push every ounce of power I have down through my arms and legs. I spit and my blood soaks into the expensive carpet that lines the hallway. Then it's gone. So is the floor. But I knew that was going to happen. Jayne-Anne's magicians and her armed linebackers didn't. They fall straight through where the hall floor used to be, roll down the hillside and into the trees. Jayne-Anne's and my eyes meet just long enough for me to give her a little wink. Then someone grabs me from behind and drags me back into the office that I wasn't supposed to leave in the first place. -Sandman Slim

Stark reads that a girl isn't properly trained with a knife, then disarms her faster than she can see:

I've never been chewed out by a fourth grader before. It's all I can do to keep from laughing. She must see it in my face because the next thing I know, she's snapped out a white furry-handled tanto knife and is pressing it under my chin hard enough to break the skin.

"Why don't you get out of here, Grandpa? We have a reputation and you're driving down property values. Cherry doesn't want to talk to you. And, by the way, you look like a faggot in that jacket."

Even with her cute move with the knife, I'm guessing that she's not a real blade fighter. If she was, she'd be holding the tanto under my ear, where she'd be right above a major blood vessel.

I sweep my arm in front of me, faster than she can see. All of a sudden I'm holding the knife and she has a sore wrist. The first thing she does is register surprise. Then fury. -Sandman Slim

Stark hits a parking meter a couple of times with his shoulder, cracking the ground around it as he does. Then he pulls it out of the ground:

I spring forward from a crouch and slam my shoulder into a parking meter. The pavement cracks. Two more slams and the meter is loose enough for me to pry it from the ground. -Sandman Slim

Stark hits a man with a parking meter, sending him flying into a nearby bus kiosk:

When he steps around the car to knuckleball the burning plasma, I'm already there. I swing the parking meter up and catch him square in the chest with the end that's still hanging on to a nice chunk of concrete. Parker goes flying, smashing into the half-inch-thick glass of a bus kiosk, where he leaves a nice bloody spot on the shattered glass. I'm amazed, but he manages to crawl to his feet. That's something new. The old Parker was tough, but there's no way he could have taken a blow like that and lived, much less stood up. -Sandman Slim

Stark causes a long, inch-wide fissure to form in the street around him by slamming his bone knife into the ground:

Desperate to keep him in sight, I do the only thing I can think of. I grab the knife and slam the blade down as hard as I can lengthwise on the street. This one block of Wilshire shudders and an inch-wide crack slices the sidewalk in both directions. It's not exactly ten-point-oh on the Richter scale, but it makes Parker stumble. He looks back and, for the first time, seems a little nervous. -Sandman Slim