The Perdition Score

CANDY AND ALESSA are practicing in the storeroom. One of them is burning through “Miserlou” and the other sounds like she’s falling down the stairs with a boxful of cats. But she keeps playing. Good for her.

It’s after hours and Kasabian has the news on. They’re playing shaky phone footage of me getting my ass kicked, then the angel flying away. I change channels. It’s the same thing. Me down on one knee, then wings flapping into the sky. Everybody likes the part where I’m getting burned and pounded into SpaghettiOs, but no one bothers to show that I actually won the damned fight. I need a better press agent. Kasabian laughs quietly each time they show me falling, but he’s too smart to say anything.

I really hope Abbot can talk to someone about getting my mug off the screen.

Finally, the news gets tired of me and moves on to other local merriment.

Some shitbird shot up the crowd at a food truck selling upscale southern food. Fried chicken, grits, hush puppies, the whole bit. Nine people shot. Six dead. The cops don’t think the shooter’s connected to the truck or anyone in the crowd. They were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. I wonder who the little creep had a grudge against. It doesn’t matter. It’s always the same thing with these guys. His girlfriend left him. He lost his job. He ran out of toothpaste. The news show puts up a yearbook photo of the guy’s face over the bodies in the street. I don’t need to see him. Ninety-nine percent of these guys are the same. They cruise along in a bubble of dude-bro privilege, then can’t stand it when the world lets them know they’re nothing special. Then everyone has to pay.

However, there’s something else that bothers me: I recognize the truck. I ate there once, out at the La Cienega oil fields when I got a note more or less commanding me to come out and meet the Wormwood board of directors. They really rubbed it in too. Made a party of it. Had a circle of food trucks. A dining room table. The works. That was the day where Burgess and Sandoval explained to me how the world really worked. How Wormwood Investments works. That’s what gives me a bad feeling about this particular shooting.

Is this a message from Wormwood? Did someone see me on TV and decide to put me on notice? Try to provoke me into doing something stupid? Did they send that fucking angel after me or are they just having a good time, setting up a massacre to remind me that I can’t eat a taco without lining their pockets?

Or am I going down a paranoid rabbit hole? Maybe the shooting is just what it looks like. One more asshole with a gun and a grudge having a bloody tantrum?

I’m going to make myself crazy thinking like this. I can’t function wondering if everything I do and everything I think is one big Wormwood mindfuck.

What would be hilarious is if I brought the massacre to them. Kill them all in one big Night of the Long Knives dance party. The only problem there is that I don’t know how many of them there are. I met a few of the higher-ups, but for all I know they could be like Abbot and his Sub Rosa contacts, meaning they’re everywhere there’s money or power to be sucked up. That’s the only thing that makes sense. How else could they function? They’re everywhere all the time, like evil bastard Pinkertons. We Never Sleep.

And here I am again. Staring down into a swirling, paranoid rabbit hole.

I go upstairs and check on the box. It’s where I left it in my coat pocket. I take it and put it in the bottom drawer of the dresser with my extra guns. It’s not any more secure than my coat, but if anyone goes for it while I’m home, at least I know I can shoot the hell out of them.

The worst part of all of this is that every part of my brain and body wants to go back to the abandoned high school and get down into the fight pit with some big bruiser with something to prove and no damned sense. But I made a promise to Candy and to myself, so I light a Malediction instead.

I’m standing by the window, blowing the smoke into the street, when Brigitte calls. We talk for a minute and she suggests something even better to do. I toss the cigarette out the window and go downstairs.

It’s quiet in the storeroom when I knock on the door. Candy opens it and smiles when she sees me.

“What’s going on, TV star?”

“Please. That’s the last thing I want to hear.”

“Poor baby. You need a drink. Why don’t we go to Bamboo House after we finish practice?”

“Actually, Brigitte is over there with a friend and I’m kind of climbing the walls. I might head over there now.”

“Okay. We won’t be too much longer. I’ll meet you there.”

“Great. You’re sounding good in there, by the way.”

“No, I don’t, but I appreciate the sweet lie.”

“Anytime, baby.”

“But I am getting better, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

“See you soon.”

“Sounds good.”

She closes the door and the noise starts up again. This time I really can hear her hitting the melody. It’s slow and creaky, but it’s there. It’s nice to see her so happy.

Kasabian puts on gloves to hide his metal mitts and we head out a couple of minutes later. I look around at the movie posters on the wall and decide to put on Robert Mitchum’s face from Out of the Past. Kasabian rolls his eyes when he sees the glamour, but, once more, he’s too smart to say anything.

THERE’S A DECENT, but not oppressive crowd in Bamboo House. Nobody says hello or bugs me on the way in, which is a nice change. I might have to wear faces more if it will keep the selfie-stick crowd at bay.

Les Baxter is on the jukebox playing “Oasis of Dakhla.” Brigitte is standing near it drinking martinis with a woman I’ve never seen before. She’s shorter than Brigitte, with blond hair and the kind of dark eyes that inspire duels. I ditch Robert Mitchum. Brigitte waves when she sees us and Kasabian and I go over.

“Where’s Chihiro?” she says when we get close enough to hear.

“A new friend is teaching her some tunes. She’ll probably be here soon.”

“Hello, Kasabian. How are you?”

“Great, now that I’m with actual people and not stuck in the store with Johnny Buzzkill here.”

Brigitte looks at me.

“Are you all right? Are you feeling ill?” she says.

I shoot Kasabian a look, but he’s looking at Brigitte.

“I’m fine. Who’s your friend?”

Brigitte loops her arm around the other woman’s.

“Stark, Kasabian, this is Marilyne. All the way here from the wilds of France.”

Marilyne smiles softly and offers her hand. Kasabian and I shake it. She gives him a slightly funny look afterward, but covers it well. His mechanical hands are hard to disguise, even when they’re wrapped in suede.

“Nice to meet you both,” she says with barely a hint of accent.

Kasabian has had a crush on Brigitte ever since she arrived from Prague, but from the way he’s looking at Marilyne, his affections might be defecting.

“How do you two lovely ladies know each other?” he says.

“Marilyne is friends with some of the producers of my new film,” says Brigitte.

“How interesting. Are you in the movie business too, Marilyne?”

“Not even remotely,” she says.

“She’s a doctor,” says Brigitte.

Marilyne looks at her.

“Don’t be silly. I’m just a chemist.”

“But you have a doctorate degree.”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re a doctor,” says Brigitte insistently.

Marilyne sips her martini, then shakes her head.

“I just run a small lab, analyzing whatever the true doctors send to us.”

Kasabian starts to say something. His pupils are the size of tractor tires. It’s true love and whatever is about to come out of his mouth is going to be embarrassing for everyone.

To cut him off I say, “What part of France are you from?”

“Nothing exotic. I was born and raised in Paris. Have you ever been?”

“No. I have a friend from there, but I’ve never been there myself.”

“Yes, Marilyne. You must meet Eugène,” says Brigitte. “He’s the most French man I’ve ever met and he’s a chemist, like you.”

“That sounds lovely,” she says. “This is only my second visit to the States, but I liked it enough that I came back and have decided to get my citizenship.”

I cut Kasabian off again.

“Good luck with that.”

“If you ever need any help studying . . .” Kasabian says.

“Thank you,” says Marilyne. “That’s very kind of you.”

She looks back at me.

“And what do you do, Mr. Stark?”

Brigitte touches her arm and aims a wicked smile at me.

“Don’t call him mister. It makes him uncomfortable. And don’t call him Jimmy. That makes him furious.”

“Not furious. But only you and Chihiro get a pass on the Jimmy thing.”

“Don’t let the tough-guy act fool you,” says Kasabian. “He loves being called Jimmy. Isn’t that right, Jimmy?”

The jukebox changes to Arthur Lyman doing “Sakura.”

“If you ever call me that again, I’m going to recycle you into Max Overdrive belt buckles, Tin Man.”

Kasabian is on a roll, though, showing off for his new lady love.

“Belt buckles. That’s a great idea. We need to get back into merchandising.”

“And what do you do, Mr. Kasabian?” says Marilyne.

“He runs my video store,” I say.

“Our video store,” he says.

“It’s mine because you’re technically dead.”

“So are you.”

“No. I’m just legally dead. Big difference.”

Kasabian shrugs.

“Maybe it’s really Chihiro’s store.”

“I can live with that.”

“I never quite imagined you as a shopkeeper, Stark,” says Marilyne.

“She’s being polite,” says Brigitte. “I told her all about you. The slightly tarnished white knight.”

“The schmuck who kills schmucks,” Kasabian says.

I glance at the bar. This is more talk about me than I like around strangers, even friends of Brigitte.

“I don’t do much of that these days. I’m just the monster who falls asleep at meetings.”

“Meetings?” says Marilyne. “From what Brigitte told me, I find that hard to believe. What kind of meetings?”

I glance at Brigitte.

“It’s all right, James. She’s not Sub Rosa, but she knows all about your world.”

“In school, my best friend and her family were Sub Rosa,” Marilyne says.

I try to get my brain around that for a second.

“You aren’t Sub Rosa, but you went to a Sub Rosa school?”

“No. In France, Sub Rosa children go to ordinary school like the rest of us. It’s not until collège that they’re separated from the other children.”

“It keeps them from being too insulated,” says Brigitte. “Is that the right word?”

“Insular,” says Kasabian. “But it sounds good however you say it.”

“How very sweet of you.”

I can’t stand watching Kasabian doing Cary Grant, so I say, “I need a drink. Anyone else need one?”

“I’m fine,” says Brigitte.

“No, thank you,” says Marilyne.

“Why don’t you fetch me something frosty, Jimmy?” says Kasabian. “I’ll keep the ladies company.”

I head to the bar to keep from shooting him.

Carlos already has a glass of Aqua Regia ready for me. I thank him.

“Can I get a beer for Rin Tin Tin, too?”

He looks past me at Kasabian making his moves.

“Any kind in particular?” he says.

“You have anything shitty in a can? Maybe you forgot it in your car on a hot day?”

“I know exactly what you want.”

He goes in the back and comes out with a foamy glass. It doesn’t look special to me.

“What is it?”

“Carbonated Alabama swill,” he says. “I keep it around for when the frat boys come in. They can’t tell the difference.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

“You better get over there before he eats one of them.”

I weave my way through the crowd and hand Kasabian his piss water. He takes a big gulp and doesn’t bat an eye.

“I like your bar,” says Marilyne. “I’ve never been anywhere like it.”

I look around the place for a second.

“There isn’t another place in the world like Bamboo House of Dolls. That’s why we take care of it. Right, Brigitte? The first time I found out who she really is was right here.”

Brigitte sighs.

“That’s right. We both fought monsters back then. I miss it.”

“You fought what?” says Marilyne.

Brigitte gives us both a coy look. I sip my drink, but she doesn’t say anything, so I ask, “You didn’t tell her?”

“I thought I’d introduce her to you first. After that, anything I said about myself would seem mundane in comparison.”

“Mundane is the last thing you are.”

“Děkuji,” she says.

“Brigitte, tell me. What’s your secret?” says Marilyne.

“Later,” she says. “I’ll need another drink first.”

“There’s Chihiro,” says Kasabian.

I look over at the door and she waves to me. She’s with Alessa. Grabs her by the hand and pulls her through the crowd.

It’s introductions all around when she gets there, then Candy says, “Have you told him about your movie yet?”

“I haven’t had a chance,” says Brigitte. “But it’s a lovely part in a big production. The biggest part I’ve had since coming here. That’s how I met Marilyne, through the producers. Pieter Ligotti and his partners.”

That name is familiar. It takes me a minute to come up with it, but finally I do. I was introduced to Pieter by Burgess and Sandoval when they dragged me out to the oil fields. That means Brigitte’s movie is being financed by Wormwood.

The angel, the shooting at the food truck, and now this? That’s too many coincidences too close together. Now I know that someone is fucking with me.

Candy comes over and puts an arm around me, but I barely notice. I don’t hear much of the rest of the conversation either. When I come back to Earth, Candy and Alessa are chatting with Brigitte, and Kasabian is laying on the charm with Marilyne. I go over and tell Candy I’m leaving.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I just need some air.”

I say good-bye to everyone, put the Mitchum face back on, and walk back to Max Overdrive. I’m too restless to sit around or watch a movie, so I haul the bike gear and a flashlight around the side of the shop and go to work modifying the Hellion hog. It’s done by the time Candy and Kasabian come home and I’ve worked off enough nervous energy when they get there that I can act like a human again. But in the back of my mind I know that working for Abbot or not, I’m going to have to start killing people and it’s probably going to be soon.

IN THE MORNING, I bring a cold twelve-pack of beer into Max Overdrive and set it on the counter. Not beer like last night’s sewage. This is good stuff. Candy is already at work. It’s just me and Kasabian.

“What’s the occasion?” he says.

“No occasion. We haven’t had a drink together in a while. I thought it was about time.”

“Okay,” he says, more than a little suspicion in his voice.

I open the pack and hand him a bottle.

He pops the top with his metal mitts, but he doesn’t drink. He hands me the bottle.

“You first, chief.”

“Why do you immediately assume I’m trying to poison you?”

“Because you’re you. Now drink.”

I hold it up and drain half the bottle. Put it back on the counter with a flourish.

Kasabian looks at me. Waves a hand in front of my eyes. I remain upright and extremely not poisoned.

Finally, he says, “Okay. But I’ll pick my own bottle.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

He takes one from the corner and opens it slowly, like it might be full of snakes on springs. He sniffs and takes a small sip. When his tongue doesn’t melt he takes a longer pull.

“Just because it’s not poisoned doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“I don’t blame you.”

I pick up my bottle and finish it. I’m not really much of a beer fan, but I can handle it if it’s the only thing around. Kasabian would get suspicious if I gave him beer and drank Aqua Regia. Kasabian, on the other hand, loves the stuff. He has four bottles by the time I finish two. I’m barely sipping my third when he cracks open his fifth. I can smell traces of alcohol in his sweat and his eyes tremble microscopically, too little for regular people to see, but I can pick it out fine. Kasabian isn’t smashed, but he’s officially DUI. Now I just have to keep him calm and focused.

“Do you mind if we talk about Hell for a minute?”

He sets down his beer and makes a face.

“Oh man. And I was just starting to feel good.”

“I don’t want a dissertation. Just a few questions.”

“I don’t like seeing down there, man. I just don’t.”

“Someone’s got to keep tabs on it.”

He picks up his beer again. Sips.

“Great. You do it.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Why am I always the lucky one when you want a weather report Downtown?”

“Because you’re the only one that has access to the Codex.”

“And you stuck that fucking peeper in my head. Don’t forget that. I don’t. The damn thing keeps me up at night.”

I sip my beer.

“Sorry.”

He drains his beer and opens another.

“First you leave me without a body, then you replace my eye with a Freddy Krueger marathon.”

“I’d trade you the eye anytime if I could use it.”

“Then do it.”

“I tried.”

“Try harder. You’re good at making up spells and stuff.”

He’s starting to slur his words. He’s nice and toasted.

“Maybe I can give you a break for a while.”

“What does that mean?”

I set down my bottle. At this point, he won’t notice if I stop drinking.

“Not a long break, you understand. Give me the eye back for a half hour. I want to try something where I might be able to see Downtown for a few minutes.”

“How?”

“I’m going to have to die a little.”

“Oh fuck,” he says. “You’re going to do that blood ritual again, aren’t you? Who’s going to clean up the mess? Not me. And what if Candy comes home early and finds you passed out. She doesn’t need to see you like that.”

The Metatron Cube ritual is one where I draw a mystical sigil on the floor, get down in it, and slice my wrists. It lets me talk to the recent dead, especially if they’re close by. This time, though, I want to try something else.

“The Cube is strictly a backup. I think I have a work-around.”

“What kind? If it hurts, I’m not doing it.”

“Relax. It’s just a potion called Dream Tea. I used it once when I worked with Ishiro Shonin last Christmas.”

“That four-hundred-year-old, walking, talking bag of bones you worked with at the Golden Vigil?”

Kasabian looks suspicious again.

“Wait—how is it you ended up with a Vigil potion?”

“What do you think? I stole it.”

“Oh good. You’re such a little Mary Sue these days I thought you might have paid for it. So, how does it work?”

“That’s the great part. You just drink it and meditate.”

“You can’t meditate.”

“Yeah, but I can have some Aqua Regia and relax into it. It worked last time.”

“And there’s no blood?”

“Not a drop. There’s only one weird part.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Here it comes.”

“The only time I used it was when I was following a dead man into the Tenebrae. This time I’ll be on my own.”

Kasabian finishes his beer and opens another.

“And you might not be able to make it back this time—I get it. You’re doing this upstairs. If something goes wrong, I don’t want your bony ass cluttering up my sales floor.”

“That’s fair.”

So I head upstairs and he follows me, a little wobbly on his feet. He bangs off the walls a couple of times, but makes it into the apartment without too much damage. He drops down onto the couch.

“So what do we do?”

I pour some water into a mug.

“Like I said, I haven’t done it this way before. But think of it like pizza delivery. I guarantee to have the peeper out and back in your head in thirty minutes or less.”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t want to have to pry my eye out of your dead body.”

“You won’t.”

He thinks creaky booze thoughts for a minute.

“I’m getting a bucket of water. If I think you’ve been gone too long, I’m dumping it on you.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“Wait here,” he says, and staggers downstairs. While he bangs around down there I get the Dream Tea out of an old suitcase full of other stolen goodies that I keep under the bed.

Kasabian comes in with the filthy bucket we use to clean up downstairs. He fills it at the kitchen sink and carries it back to the sofa.

I put the mug of water in the microwave for a minute. When it’s finished, I dump in some of the tea and let it brew or steep or whatever it is tea is supposed to do. When it looks done, I swallow the whole cup. It tastes like Swamp Thing’s bathwater.

“If you die, try not to piss yourself,” Kasabian says. “The smell is hard to get out.”

“Love you too,” I tell him, carrying a glass of clean water over to the sofa. “Now give me your eye.”

“I hate this part,” he says.

“You’ll get a lollipop if you’re a big boy.”

First, I whisper a little hoodoo, pluck out one of my eyes, and drop it in the glass. It floats there like a deflated egg. Carefully, I pop out Kasabian’s peeper and put it in my socket. Kas flinches a little when it comes out, but doesn’t whine, and I’m grateful for that at least.

With the eye in, I get up and walk around, trying to get it to settle into place. It doesn’t take long. As my vision grows clearer, I feel the familiar drunk sensation I had when I first used the tea. I stumble in the direction of the sofa, but don’t make it and have to sit on the kitchen floor with my back against the counter. Closing my eyes, I feel like I’m sinking into a bath of warm Jell-O.

When I open my eyes I’m on a wide plain of dry packed earth. I know that if I walk in one direction I’ll get to Tenebrae Station and the ruins of a kind of ghost L.A. where restless souls too afraid to even haunt the crumbling streets hang out. In the other direction is a range of low mountains. I stumble in their direction, and before I’m halfway there, a door opens in the rock face. This is the door to Hell. Souls get a choice at this point. They can go inside, to a freak show designed to torture and torment them for eternity, or they can stay out here in the Tenebrae, with nothing but their shell-shocked brains and other hungry ghosts for company. In their shoes, I’d go inside. I’d rather be someplace than nowhere at all. But that’s me.

I want to run for the door, get Downtown as soon as possible, and spend as much time as I can there, but my legs won’t cooperate. I feel like I’m drunk, and that didn’t happen last time. It might be the effect of coming through here with no one waiting on the other side. Whatever it is, I’m not feeling springtime fresh by the time I step through the door. I throw on another glamour as soon as I get inside. The last thing I want is for anyone to recognize Sandman Slim when he can barely stand and definitely can’t defend himself.

For this disguise, I choose a Hellion face. Some Hellions look pretty much human while others look like they just won an ugly-farm-animal contest. Some are more like human-size bugs—even other Hellions don’t like them. I go for middle ground and put on a bland, empty-eyed boar’s face, complete with cracked yellow tusks. It’s the little details that make the disguise. I don’t want to look like I got my mask from the bargain bin at Walmart.

It’s a shock being back Downtown. I haven’t been here in months and for the first few minutes the smell and sound of the place are hard to deal with. It’s all familiar, but drunk like I am, it’s hard to ease comfortably back into damnation.

When doomed souls walk through the front door into Hell, they’re funneled like cattle into veal pens, where they wait to be sorted. Who gets a holiday in lava? Who goes to the Butcher Valley or the Room of Knives. Me? I’m just another idiot Hellion out for a stroll, so I don’t expect any trouble getting past the guards. Turns out it’s no trouble at all.

And it’s not because I’m dressed like a local.

The new souls aren’t being led to the holding pens because they aren’t there anymore. Where there were cages is a collection of twisted metal bars and the crushed remains of cages in a shit-reeking mud swamp. I want to get a closer look, but I’m so light-headed I have a feeling that I’d end up flat on my face in the muck. Damned souls mill around the pens not sure what to do or where to go. There aren’t any Hellions left guarding them, much less telling them where to go. A few notice me and head in my direction, but I wave them off and head into the Hell’s capital, Pandemonium.

I don’t make it. I have to duck inside one of the abandoned guardhouses on the outskirts of the city, where I collapse on the floor. I’m drunk and the peepers are kicking in full force now. I can see everywhere, all of Hell at once, and it’s making me throw up in my skull.

You know how flies have those funny compound eyes that divide images into hundreds of little pieces? Now imagine one of those compound eyes where each of those hundreds of lenses sees something different. This is beyond information overload. It’s a flat-out Hellion acid trip.

I’m back at Lucifer’s palace in Downtown’s demonic Beverly Hills. I have a watery image of the palace lobby. The grounds outside. The kennels where the hellhounds are supposed to be. Even Lucifer’s endless library upstairs.

Ruins everywhere.

Everything trashed. The palace looks deserted. Out front, hundreds of Hellion legionnaires are camped in tents and in the backs of broken-down trucks. There are fires everywhere, fueled with Lucifer’s furniture and his books. Damned souls wander the streets—the ones that haven’t gone native and joined the roving legionnaire gangs raiding the last of the stores for food, Maledictions, ammo, and booze, that is. There are gang fights, executions, riots, and burning buildings all across the city. And I’m seeing this all at once, through one big sulfurous, spinning kaleidoscope.

I’m cold. I’m sweating. I can’t feel my legs. Then my legs come back and I can’t feel my arms. My heart bangs around my chest like my ribs are a mosh pit. I’m too dizzy to even get up and head back to the Tenebrae door. All I can do is lie here as drytts—Hellion sand fleas—trampoline over my face and hands.

I see south of the city, all the way to the golden walls around the fortress that opens into Heaven. Millions of Hellions and damned souls surround it. I expect rioting and fights here too, but it’s different. The crowd is barely moving at all. It’s just miles of hopeless, catatonic bodies, human and otherwise, in every direction. Months ago, God—Mr. Muninn—put out the word that Heaven was now open to everyone, human souls and fallen angels alike. Only the gates never opened. Over the walls of the fortress, I can see flashes of the angel war that’s raging to decide who gets into Heaven and who doesn’t.

It’s too much. I feel like someone parked an earthmover on my head. I can’t get enough stinking air breathing through my nose, but if I open my mouth, the sand fleas get inside. Even though I know I’m not bodily back in Hell, that I’m only here as a projection of my soul, everything hurts and everything is horrible and I roll over and throw up as the visions continue.

There are waves of Heavenly angels in the streets of Pandemonium. They’re carrying bottles in wooden crates like we use to haul wine bottles. The angels’ bottles are dark and whatever is in them swirls with a deeper darkness. I don’t need anyone to tell me that this is black milk because around the ones humping the bottles other angels are on guard, their Gladiuses out and ready to murder anything that gets in their way.

Somewhere in Downtown’s Hollywood, the leader of this angelic horde is talking to an old human soul, one I only met a couple of times, but one I’ll never forget. It’s Norris Quay. He’s laughing it up like him and the angel are all old Skull and Bones club buddies.

I don’t care about any of it anymore. I just want it to stop. For these bugs to get off me and the pounding in my head to stop.

But another vision comes swimming up through the rest. It’s Samael with some Hellion generals in the burning ruins of the old street market. They’re arguing. The generals close in on him. Fire up their Gladiuses. Samael doesn’t flinch. He fires up his twin swords and waits for them, a Zen warrior in a sea of monsters. I want to help him. I try to get up. Instead, I fall on my face back into the sensation of warm Jell-O that brought me here.

“FUCK!”

I open my eyes. I’m back in Max Overdrive, curled up in a fetal position on the kitchen floor. My arm is wet where I’ve drooled all over it. I wipe my mouth. Kasabian is on the couch with the dirty bucket by his foot and a beer on his knee.

He takes a sip of the beer.

“I take it it worked?” he says.

I roll onto my back.

“You could say that. It was all jumbled together, but I saw plenty. As much as I needed to.”

“So, you’re okay.”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Kasabian says.

He walks over and dumps the bucket of water on my head.

I sit up sputtering and coughing.

“That’s for calling me Tin Man in front of Brigitte and Marilyne. Now give me my eye back.”

I pop it out and hand it to him. He pops it back into the socket, blinking to get it into place.

I sit up, drenched and cold.

“Would you hand me the glass?”

He gives me the glass with my eye floating on top. I pop it back in and gulp down the water.

Kasabian takes the bucket and goes back downstairs. I stagger to my feet and get some towels from the bathroom. While I wipe up the water I yell at Kasabian.

“I’m trying to save everybody’s soul, you know.”

“And we appreciate it,” he yells back. “But you’re still a dick.”

Honestly, I can’t argue with that.

ABBOT GIVES ME Geoff Burgess’s address in Beverly Hills and I drive the Hellion hog over as soon as it gets dark.

The place is a gated Tudor behemoth. Something an exiled dictator or a silent-movie star would have. I park down the street between a Land Rover and an Escalade. They’re big enough to hide me, but close enough that I can keep an eye on the place.

Around nine, the gate opens and a Bentley Mulsanne pulls out. It’s a gorgeous machine and I have to talk myself down from ramming it to avenge my Catalina. But I stay put until it passes. Pull out and get on its tail, keeping my light off until we’re out of Beverly Hills and back into normal traffic where Burgess won’t notice me.

He heads across town, then north up into the hills. I keep a respectable distance. The streets up here wind around each other and branch off in all directions, like veins and arteries. It would be easy to get lost and starve to death by a millionaire’s billion-dollar digs. The coyotes will drag you down into a ravine and the only thing they’ll find of you will be your bones. They’ll identify you by your dental work and joke about you around the morgue, calling you Coyote Bob or Susie Dog Food. If no one claims your carcass, you’ll be burned, and your dust and bone fragments will be buried in the L.A. County Crematorium Cemetery, a place that’s prettier than the Mojave Desert, but no less lonely.

The Bentley slows at a curve and pulls up to a gate where a uniformed flunky or maybe low-key security guard speaks to Burgess through the driver’s-side window. After a few seconds, the flunky punches a button on one of the brick gate supports and they swing open. The Bentley continues up the circular driveway and I pull a U-turn and park down the hill. Even if I pass by casually, whoever is on gate duty is sure to notice an oversize rat bike prowling somewhere it isn’t supposed to be. A Maserati goes through the gate next, then a Hennessey Venom. L.A. is a town that judges you by your car and the crowd tonight is pulling out all the stops. The only thing that’s going to top these last few heaps is a solid-gold submarine.

From where I am, all I can see is a twenty-foot wall around the mansion grounds. Maybe I could climb a tree, only what am I going to find up there but bats and squirrels with a taste for Dumpster caviar? I’m way too far away from the mansion to see inside. I should have brought binoculars, but unless they’re doing a human sacrifice on the lawn, I still don’t know that I’d be able to see anything. It’s probably just another cocktails-and-cheese mixer like I sat through on Abbot’s boat. I don’t need to waste one more evening on one of those. Besides, it’s Burgess I’m after and Burgess is behind the locked gates of Fort Sugar Daddy. Which means he’s not home and that’s good news for me.

I gun the bike and head down the hill, back to Beverly Hills.

Headlights in my eyes all the way, and while they don’t bring on a Trotsky headache, my head starts hurting after a while. I should have asked Allegra about the migraines. Bullets and knives I can handle, but these damned headaches are my Kryptonite. Like the one I had when I was Downtown this morning. That laid me out but good. I run through the images again as I drive, each time stopping at the same one: Samael facing off against six or eight Hellion generals. I’ve seen him fight with a Gladius, but not against a group like that. It feels stupid to hope that he’s not hurt. I just hope he’s not dead and vanished, one more victim in a cosmic brawl made worse by whatever Wormwood is up to.

In Beverly Hills, I roll the bike back between the Rover and the Escalade. Burgess’s place looks empty and quiet. I wonder if he’s the kind of guy to have a staff that spends the night? I get the feeling not. During the day, I can image the place being a busy little beehive. But at night, with what he’s into, I think he’d want some privacy. I watch the windows for a while. The lights don’t change and no shadows pass by.

It’s a thin reason to break into the place, but I’ll take it.

There’s a wall around Burgess’s palace, but it’s lower than the one back up on Mount Olympus. There’s a row of topiary bushes by the near side of the wall. They give me a nice pool of shadow, so I can climb over without being too obvious. When I land I do another glamour. This time I put on Burgess’s face. That should confuse any video cameras he has on the grounds.

My skin prickles from all the protective wards he has installed around the grounds. They make my heart race and my throat tighten. I whisper some Hellion hoodoo and my chest and throat loosen up as the wards lose their effectiveness. I’ve broken into a lot of houses here and Downtown, and the owners almost always go for the same lame protections. Once you figure out the pattern, you can find a way to work around them. The problem is that I can’t turn off the wards indefinitely. They’re going to start working again soon, so I have to do whatever I’m going to do fast.

That leaves me with one big question: Do I kick the front door in or maybe toss a potted plant through a window and poke around Burgess’s linen drawers? I decide against both. They’ll give away too much too soon. I want to be able to keep tailing him or come back here again, so I don’t want him getting paranoid, maybe doubling his wards and hiring armed guards to prowl the place at night. That means it’s just a recon mission. Prowl the grounds and see what I can see. Come back later and rip into the interesting stuff after coordinating with Abbot and whatever he’s up to.

There isn’t going to be anything interesting at the front of the house, so I head around the side.

Nothing but bushes over there. I can make out the frame of a gazebo at the rear of the place, so I head that way.

It’s awfully exciting around back—meaning it’s the same giant heated pool, lounge chairs, and tables you’ll find in every backyard in the goddamn neighborhood. If Burgess has any secrets stashed around here, they’re inside the house, exactly where I can’t go yet.

I’m looking over the house’s rear windows when my throat starts getting itchy. Maybe I should take off and come back another night when I’ve had a chance to prepare some better protection for myself. But as I’m moving back to the front of the house, something moves upstairs. In the far right window, the curtains part and a small face looks down at me.

It’s Nick, the kid Abbot is looking for.

I start for the rear door when my lungs decide to stop working. My throat tightens and my heart kicks into overdrive. I’m almost to the door, but I’m moving too slow.

Lights come on all over the mansion grounds. I’m pinned under floodlights beaming down from every direction. If the lights are on, it means someone else has been alerted. The cops or local private muscle. There’s no way I can break in, get Nick, and get out again. The kid waves at me. I wave back. Then head for the wall I climbed over to get in.

The moment I’m on the other side, my lungs open up and my heart slows down. I feel like shit and know a drink would help, but this isn’t the right time or place to administer medication. I run back to the hog as lights come on in other houses. Kicking the bike into gear, I haul ass out of blue-blood country, still wearing Burgess’s face. I don’t change back until I’m in Hollywood.

Across from the Whisky a Go Go, I pull the bike over and get out my phone. I dial Abbot’s number. He takes his sweet time answering.

“Stark? What’s going on? I’m in a meeting.”

“Fuck your meeting. I found your kid.”

“Nick?”

“No. The ghost of Jackie Coogan. Who do you think I mean?”

“All right. Calm down. Where did you find him? Are you with him now?”

“Burgess has him. Geoff goddamn Burgess. I saw him there not ten minutes ago, but I couldn’t get to him. Now the place is going to be crawling with cops.”

I can hear Abbot breathing at the other end of the line.

“All right, listen to me. Do nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing. Let me handle this.”

A cop car cruises slowly down Sunset Boulevard. I keep the phone up, blocking my face as it goes by.

“Stark, did you hear me?” says Abbot. “If you do something stupid, it could put Nick in jeopardy. Do you hear me?”

“Yes. I hear you. You know everything I just told you is worthless now, right? By the time you can do anything, they’ll have moved the kid.”

“Let me worry about that. You did a good job tonight. Let’s keep it that way. Go home. I’ll call you when I learn anything new.”

“You told me Nick was with his father in Long Beach. What the hell is going on here?”

“I don’t know. Sit tight and let me handle this.”

“Sure. You do that.”

I hang up and dial Julie.

“Stark. What time is it?” she says with a voice thick and slow. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“Well, wake up. That kid you’re looking for for Abbot? I found him. He’s in Beverly Hills, at the home of Geoffrey Burgess.”

“Burgess? Where do I know that name from?”

“He’s a heavyweight at a talent agency called Evermore Creatives Group. But trust me, he’s into worse stuff than boy bands.”

“Right. You went after them before I fired you. Why are you bothering Burgess now?”

“I told you. I found the kid there.”

“You were looking for the kid? Dammit, Stark. That’s not your case.”

“I wasn’t looking for anyone. I just found him, which means I solved your case, so do something about it. Burgess is into some weird shit and that kid shouldn’t be around it.”

“Listen. You stay out of this. After the stunt on Hollywood Boulevard the other night, no one wants to hear from you. I’ll call some contacts in LAPD and get them to look into it.”

“Look into it. Well, I feel better. I’m sure the kid’s parents will be thrilled to know you’re looking into it.”

“Calm down and go home right now. I’m sorry if I don’t sound eternally grateful, but you have a way of making any crisis worse.”

“Burgess is in bed with some pretty bad people. They probably have contacts in the police force.”

“So do I. Go home. I’ll have Chihiro call you later with any updates.”

The line goes dead.

I spend all of six seconds wondering if I should go home. Then I kick the bike on and head back to Beverly Hills.

Which is pointless. I can’t get within a block of Burgess’s house. LAPD and rent-a-cops are all over the neighborhood. It looks like D-Day with palm trees. For a minute, I consider throwing some hoodoo at one of the cars. Maybe set it on fire. But I can’t take those kinds of chances with a kid around. I can burn something later if Abbot or Julie’s cops don’t come through.

I turn the bike around and head back to Max Overdrive.

AT HOME, CANDY sits up with me, waiting for a call from Julie. She even left practice early on account of me. Around two, I carry her into the bedroom and cover her up. Back in the living room, I have a smoke and a drink.

Why am I so twitchy about a kid I don’t know or care about? The privileged sprog of some show-biz or corporate master of the universe. Maybe because I’ve seen what Wormwood and the Burgess family can do to innocents. Lucius Burgess, Geoff’s recently deceased father, used to run ghost bum fights in a warehouse off Sixth Street. Innocent idiots who’d signed blue sky contracts to keep their souls working on Earth were tortured and beaten in front of dogfight audiences. The place was run by a particularly lunatic bunch of Nazi fuckwits and all the profits went through Burgess to Wormwood.

What’s a bastard like that doing with a missing kid?

Or is there a slim chance I’m reading this all wrong? What if this isn’t sinister and is just some kind of Magnificent Ambersons family spat? The Burgess family are a bunch of bourgeois pricks, but even they must take breaks from being pure evil to have dinner. I mean, Nick didn’t look freaked out. He didn’t scream or pound the window. And he waved to me. I had on Geoff Burgess’s face and he acted like it was the most normal thing in the world to see him.

Goddammit, I hate this Mike Hammer stuff. Trying to figure out people’s dirty little secrets. It’s worse when they don’t have any good ones. I mean this is L.A., where everyone has a skeleton in the closet. But that doesn’t make them all Mr. Hyde. Most people are just idiots, getting bounced around like pinballs by bosses and lousy marriages. They’re quiet desperation types, not backyard cannibals cooking the Little League team over mesquite chips.

What if I’m wrong about Burgess? I’ve been known to make mistakes. I’ve always been best at hoodoo and hitting things, not at pondering the deep mysteries of life. Maybe I’m just on edge about what I saw Downtown. What if I dragged all that horror back home in my head?

Great. I’m going to end up a hermit like Howard Hughes, sealed up in the apartment with six-inch fingernails and my feet in Kleenex boxes, afraid of people, germs, and my own shadow.

I have another drink and another cigarette and wander downstairs.

Kasabian is counting the money in the till. The final credits for Until the End of the World are running on the store monitor, so I switch to the news.

A truck jackknifed on the 405. A gangbanger was shot in a drive-by near Compton. Before the show cuts to a commercial, the newscaster teases a story about an attempted kidnapping in Beverly Hills. I recognize the street. I recognize the tangle of cops and private security cars. I turn off the monitor and go back upstairs. Put on Them. James Arness fights giant ants in the L.A. sewer system with machine guns and flamethrowers.

Finally. Something I can identify with.

I fall asleep on the sofa.

I SPEND THE next day locked in the apartment waiting for a call from Abbot, Julie, or Candy. It’s a long wait for nothing at all. I watch movies. Alternate spaghetti westerns with old-school Japanese horror and science fiction. Death Rides a Horse, then Matango, Curse of the Mushroom People. The Great Silence, then Goke, Body Snatcher from Hell. No one calls. I drink Aqua Regia, smoke, and sleep all day. By the time I think about eating something, my stomach feels like it’s full of battery acid and eels.

In the afternoon, I wander downstairs when there are no customers in the store and ask Kasabian about borrowing the peeper again.

All he says is “Don’t make me get the bucket.”

I go back upstairs with Keoma and The Human Vapor under my arm.

Around seven, Candy calls.

“Have you been out of the apartment today?”

“What about the thing last night?” I say, ignoring her question.

“Julie says the kid is fine. She’s chasing down leads, trying to find out where he’s been and who knew about it.”

I take a sip of Aqua Regia.

“It’s just like when I worked for her. I solve her case and she’s still mad at me.”

“She’s not mad at you for finding Nick. And she wasn’t mad about you solving Vincent’s murder last winter. She gets upset about how you do things.”

“I solved the case.”

“You solved it your way, by breaking in, scaring the neighbors, and getting all of Beverly Hills up in arms about roving packs of baby snatchers. Julie was a U.S. marshal. She’s a bit more procedurally minded than you are.”

“And what about Abbot? I haven’t heard from him either.”

“I can’t help you there. Why don’t we do something tonight? Want to go to a movie?”

“I’m too antsy to sit through a movie where I can’t drink.”

“Want to drive to the beach?”

“I don’t have a car and we don’t have helmets. We’d make it about five blocks.”

“Fine. We’ll go somewhere you can walk to. Let’s meet at Bamboo House of Dolls in an hour.”

“I’ve been drinking all day.”

“I haven’t,” she says, “so I need to catch up.”

“That’s the most reasonable thing anyone has said to me in days.”

“See you there.”

“One hour.”

“Or sixty minutes, whichever is sooner.”

I hang up feeling vaguely better.

I put the Aqua Regia away, brush my teeth, and take a shower, scraping off the grit of this frustrating day.

I’ll give Abbot and Julie twenty-four hours to call me. After that, I think I’m going to have to do something really stupid.

VIDOCQ AND ALLEGRA are already at Bamboo House when we get there. Candy chats with them while I go to get drinks. On the jukebox, Frankie Carle is playing “Beyond the Reef.” Carlos uses one of the potions he’s been buying from Lurkers to spritz a civilian clown harassing a young Ludere. The guy’s skin turns a pale green when the potion hits him.

“So everybody can see your sorry ass from a mile away,” he says.

The harasser doesn’t need to be told to get out. He figures it out all on his own. As he hits the exit, half the bar is laughing at him. Usually I’d say the incident was the price civilians pay for playing on our turf without knowing the rules. But how dumb do you have to be to not know to back off when a woman—Lurker or civilian—is giving you the cold shoulder? Fuck him. Maybe Carlos grew the guy up a little tonight. If you go home from a bar looking like a jalapeño in Dockers, it’s time to reexamine your life choices.

I bring the drinks back and give Candy hers. The three of them are talking about music. Candy and Allegra get excited about their favorite guitarists. Vidocq has them both beat when he talks about seeing Django Reinhardt in New York in the midforties.

“That’s not even a little bit fair,” says Allegra. “You’ve been around too long to play this game.”

“Then I’ll remain silent,” he says.

“Besides, show-off, I know Jades who saw Jimi Hendrix at the Monterey Pop Festival,” says Candy.

“Alas, I wasn’t there,” Vidocq says. “But I did see him perform at Madison Square Garden, though I honestly don’t remember the evening very well. My friends and I had taken LSD before leaving home.”

“Goddammit,” says Candy. She looks at Allegra. “We missed everything cool.”

“It’s true. I never even got to try getting into Studio 54,” Allegra says. She holds a hand up to Vidocq. “And if you ever went, I do not want to hear about it.”

A small smile creeps across his face, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“Did you ever seen Robert Quine?” says Candy.

“No. That was more James’s type of music,” he says.

Candy looks at me. I shake my head.

“Quine was the New York scene. I’m an L.A. boy.”

“You haven’t seen enough,” she says to me. “And you’ve seen too much,” she says to Vidocq. “You’re both useless.”

“We’ve been put in our place,” says Vidocq.

I nod.

“I’m humbled. Do you feel humbled? I feel humbled.”

I think just to change the topic, Allegra says, “Have you learned anything new about black milk?”

“Don’t talk about that here,” I tell her. “And no. I’m still working on it.”

“I’d love to have more of it to test.”

“As would I,” says Vidocq.

I look around the room.

“I never want to see the stuff again.”

The crowd mills and flows through the bar. No one is paying any attention to us, even after Allegra mentioned black milk. I haven’t been this jumpy since planning my escape from Downtown. I assume everyone is listening, that every kid with a fake ID nursing a whiskey sour is a master spy. I need to stop looking over my shoulder all the time and deal with real things in the real world.

“Have I mentioned that Candy’s boss still hates me?”

Candy makes a face.

“She doesn’t hate you. She just gets . . . concerned.”

“But I’m not invited to her birthday party, am I?”

“Be quiet and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Tell her not to worry about me. I’m going back to the Sub Rosa council like a good boy and staying off the streets.”

“Really?”

“Not right away. I mean, eventually. Probably.”

“How about I don’t mention you at all?”

“That might be even better.”

Allegra looks past us.

“I think Brigitte came in. Who’s her friend?”

I look over. All I see is what might be the backs of their heads.

“Probably Marilyne,” says Candy.

The two of them head to a table with a couple of young guys in sharp suits. Film producers probably. They’re all smiles and air kisses. If they’re the ones financing Brigitte’s new movie, are they Wormwood or just show-biz schmucks? Either way, I don’t think Brigitte would appreciate me busting up her meeting, so I stay put.

“Marilyne is French,” says Candy. “When they’re done with the civilians maybe we can get them over and you can compare bouillabaisse recipes.”

“Not every Frenchman is a chef,” says Vidocq.

“It’s sad but true,” says Allegra. “He’s better at raising the dead than making breakfast.”

“Alchemists do not raise the dead.”

“And you can’t fry a damned egg.”

“Je suis désolé.”

They go on like that for a while. Friends having a drink and talking nonsense. I try to listen, but I can’t. I keep flashing on angels with crates of black milk and Samael being cut to pieces.

Allegra says, “Looks like they’re coming over.”

Brigitte and Marilyne head in our direction. Vidocq is telling Candy about buying King Oliver a drink in Chicago in the twenties.

“Hello, you lovely people,” says Brigitte.

“Bonsoir,” says Marilyne happily. I think she’s a little drunk.

At the sound of her voice, Vidocq stops talking and turns. His face goes slack.

“Liliane?” he says.

Marilyne turns white.

“Eugène?”

Everyone just stands there for a minute, not sure what the hell just happened.

“It is you,” he says.

“And you,” Marilyne says.

He takes a step toward her, holds out a hand. Lets it drop. Holds it out again.

“You’re dead,” he says. “Long ago.”

“Not so dead after all,” she says.

He looks her up and down.

“Your hair was different.”

She looks him over.

“So was yours. You look better without those curls and whiskers.”

He nods.

“It is you.”

“So it is,” she says.

He grabs her and they hug for a long time. Too long. I watch Allegra, but can’t quite read the look on her face. She’s as shocked as the rest of us and also a little uncomfortable watching Vidocq and this stranger stuck to each other like barnacles. Finally, they break the clinch.

He takes the woman’s hand.

“Everyone, this is Liliane. A friend from long, long ago.”

“She’s like you, you mean?” says Candy. “I thought there was only one of you.”

“Apparently, immortality isn’t quite so rare as I thought,” he says.

Liliane puts her hand on Brigitte’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry I never told you my secret, but then you only told me yours recently.”

Brigitte shakes her head, as stumped as the rest of us.

Quietly, she says, “It’s all right.”

“So you’re two hundred years old?” says Candy.

“I’m afraid so,” Liliane says.

“Holy shit.”

Allegra puts out her hand.

“Hi. I’m Allegra. Another friend of Eugène’s,” she says a little stiffly.

Vidocq drops Liliane’s hand and takes Allegra’s.

“Remember, dear? I told you about Liliane.”

“I remember. I also remember you said you killed someone because she died. Only it looks like she didn’t.”

That shuts everyone up. Vidocq’s shoulders sag. Liliane takes hold of his sleeve. She says something to him in rapid French. He answers her the same way and they keep on like that for a couple of intense minutes. The conversation goes from grim whispers to quiet shouts, then back down again to smiles and awkward laughs.

Liliane touches Vidocq’s face.

Finally, he turns back to us.

“Liliane and I knew each other back in Paris. She worked with me as I delved into the alchemical arts.”

“Kind of like you and Allegra now,” says Candy, I think trying to remind him who he came with tonight.

The look Allegra gives her is as hard as the six inches of steel I imagine she’s imagining sticking in Vidocq’s back right now.

He speaks French with Liliane, gesturing at Allegra. She crosses her arms. Shifts her weight. I know she must have picked up some French over the last year, but there’s no way she’s keeping up with Vidocq and Liliane’s pillow talk.

I say the only useful thing I can think of.

“You want a drink?”

She nods. “That would be very nice.”

“You stay here with her,” I tell Candy.

She gives me a look somewhere between abject fear and fuck you.

Brigitte follows me to the bar.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispers. “I had no idea. Really.”

“I believe you. I’m more worried about Allegra.”

“The poor thing. Her lover pining for another woman for two centuries and here she is. What can she be thinking?”

“She’s wondering if it’s cheaper to buy two caskets or one big one.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Should I do something? Drag Vidocq outside by his baguette?”

She sighs.

“It’s too late for that. The damage is done. None of them will be getting much sleep tonight, I think.”

“If he doesn’t keep his hands off Marie Antoinette, he might never get to sleep again.”

Carlos gives me an Aqua Regia and a shot of whiskey for Allegra, but Brigitte gulps it down, so I order another.

“I feel so guilty,” she says.

“Relax. Everyone has exes. They’ll work it out.”

“Allegra said that Eugène killed a man. Do you know if it’s true?”

“A long time ago, he told me he killed someone over a woman. I’m guessing this is her.”

Brigitte stares.

“It’s all so impossible. How can something like this happen?”

Now it’s my turn to gulp my drink.

“The of-all-the-gin-joints-in-all-the-world part? It can’t. Someone set this up.”

“Who?” she says.

I shrug.

“I got mugged by an angel the other night. It’s been a weird week.”

“But why Liliane?”

“I hate to say it, but this might be more about me than them. Wormwood has been playing a lot of games with me lately.”

Brigitte pats me on the arm.

“Dear Jimmy, you know I love you, but not everything in Los Angeles revolves around you.”

I look over at the three of them. Right this minute, Vidocq, Allegra, and Liliane look pretty far from me and my stupid obsessions.

“Maybe you’re right. I’m seeing conspiracies in my cornflakes. But you have to admit, this is fucking strange.”

“Maybe it was inevitable. Whatever impulse drew Eugène to Los Angeles, could it have drawn the only other immortal possibly in the world?”

“If you’re not coming to L.A. to get famous, this is an easy place to blend in, no matter how weird your past.”

“And we do all have pasts here,” she says.

“We’ve been through a couple of things.”

“Come. Let’s get Allegra her drink.”

I hand Brigitte the shot glass.

“You should give it to her. I don’t think she wants favors from a guy right now.”

We go back through the crowd to our friends’ international psychodrama. Vidocq and Liliane alternate between English and French. It doesn’t take a genius to see that Allegra doesn’t appreciate the parts of the conversation she can’t understand.

Brigitte hands her the drink.

“Thank you,” she says, and drinks half, looking like she might be saving the other half to throw at someone.

After a few more brutally uncomfortable minutes, Brigitte tells Allegra that she’s leaving. Candy tells her the same thing. She’s not stupid. I’m sorry to abandon Allegra, but there’s no way we’re staying alone with this situation.

Outside, we say good-bye to Brigitte and head home.

Neither of us says anything. As Candy and I walk, I wonder what’s a stranger life, fighting monsters or trying to figure out how people work? One is a lot more dangerous than the other and it sure as hell isn’t monsters.

AFTER YESTERDAY’S DRINKING, I don’t wake up until the crack of whatever-the-hell o’clock. All I know is that I hear people downstairs and Apocalypse Now cranked up loud. It’s our special alternate-universe version with Harvey Keitel instead of Martin Sheen. It’s crack to our kind of customers.

I check my phone and find a message from Abbot. I don’t bother listening to it, just sit on the sofa with coffee and call him back.

“Stark. Did you get my message?”

“Yes. But I didn’t listen. What was it?”

“Why do you have voice mail if you don’t use it?”

“I don’t like talking to machines and I figure that if it’s important people will call me back.”

“That’s actually a more rational explanation than I expected.”

“I’m full of surprises. I once ate a salad.”

“That’s more the answer I was expecting. What I called you about was Nick.”

“What about him?”

“He’s all right. From all reports, he’s back at home with his mother.”

I take out a Malediction. Stick it behind my ear for later.

“Did you find out why Burgess had him in the first place?”

“It was a family situation that got out of hand. Apparently, the father was making demands and everyone thought it would be better if Nick spent some time away from home.”

“That’s very tidy. Do you believe any of it?”

“As far as I can trust my source—which I do—yes.”

“I don’t know. Burgess doesn’t do anything without an angle.”

“But what proof do you have? You’re obsessed with the Burgess family because Lucius was involved with the ghost-abuse situation last year.”

“For good reason. But that’s another thing that bugs me. The Golden Vigil shuts the thing down, but it never goes public. Then daddy Burgess has a heart attack and Geoff takes over the family business.”

Abbot doesn’t say anything for a second.

“Are you actually accusing Geoffrey of killing his father?”

“Not necessarily. I’m just saying I think he’s capable of anything.”

“Listen to me. You need to leave the Burgess family alone. I appreciate you finding Nick, but that’s enough for now. I want you to come back to council meetings for a while. At least until we can think of a new course of action.”

I get up and walk the room.

“I’ll do it, but I want one more night.”

“To do what?”

“Charlie Anpu. I want to follow him again.”

“In the current climate, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Maybe you’re right about Burgess and I’m out of my mind. But Anpu had one of the angel boxes. That proves he’s up to some nefarious shit.”

“Nefarious isn’t good enough. We have to link it back to Wormwood.”

“So, give me the night.”

“Is there any way I can trust you to do this quietly?”

“I’m quiet as a butterfly pissing in whipped cream.”

I can hear him sigh.

“See, when you talk like that it gives me pause.”

“I promise. No break-ins. No cops. No street fights or explosions.”

“One night. And you won’t get near him personally.”

“He’s hot lava. No tocar.”

“All right. But call me tonight, no matter how late.”

“It’s a date.”

I hang up and go to the window for a smoke.

I hope I can keep my word to Abbot. I’ll do my best. Move softly-softly. But if an angel shows up, I don’t care if we’re on the teacup ride at Disneyland.

I’m killing it.

OF COURSE, CHARLIE lives in a gated community all the way out in fucking Brentwood. Faux–Southern California charm meets Narnia with storm troopers on the parapets. If someone could bottle artisanal air, the residents of Brentwood wouldn’t permit ordinary peasant breezes to ruffle the blades of grass on their emerald lawns.

I should have stolen at least a Lexus to come out here. It isn’t easy being inconspicuous on a bike in this burg. Just as I’m about to head out to liberate luxury wheels, a silver Rolls Phantom cruises out of the gates. I recognize the license plate as Charlie’s and take off after him. It’s just like the other night at the Burgess place. Keep a safe distance. No lights until we’re back in the land of the living.

He heads into Hollywood. I wonder if he’s going back to Musso’s for another supervillain rendezvous when he turns on Highland Avenue and the only thing up that way is the Hollywood Bowl. Finally, some good news from this guy.

For a minute, I think I’m in trouble when he heads in the direction of valet parking, but like so many Scrooge McDucks, he’s cheap when it comes to the small things. He leaves the Rolls across two spaces in the peons’ lot. I cruise by him and the blonde from the other night like I’m looking for parking. There are a lot of suits and evening gowns in the crowd. Either it’s some kind of symphony show or the blue bloods are expecting a starship to take them to the promised land and they want to look good.

I leave the bike in a space at the back of the lot. Stroll casually back to the Rolls. I get out the black blade and jam it into the driver’s-side lock. The knife will open anything, even a snooty wagon like this. Naturally, I take a lot of guff from the bumpkin crowd when they see me pulling out of two spaces, but what’s a guy to do? We aristocrats are used to a certain level of asshole luxury. I give them the finger and speed away before someone starts asking why a con is piloting a four-wheel Learjet.

Privacy is the first thing I need for my next move. If I can’t break into Charlie’s mansion, I can sure as hell spend some quality time pawing through his glove compartment or whatever kind of steamer trunk they use in a Rolls.

I drive across town to Sixth Street, back to the warehouse where Burgess’s dad used to run his spook-bum fights. We’re far enough from civilization that even winos don’t hang around here. It’s just us rats by the railroad tracks tonight.

The warehouse is still deserted. There’s ragged crime-scene tape and cop KEEP OUT signs stapled to the doors, but I’m not going inside. I pull the Rolls around the back.

I pop the glove compartment and start digging. Which yields nothing but the registration, an insurance card, a pen, and some of his lady love’s makeup. I check under the seats, but they’re cleaner than a surgery. Charlie might cheap out on parking, but he pays for a good cleaning service, which really pisses me off. Couldn’t the scrub and vacuum crew leave me one bullet casing or the guest list for a Black Mass?

I check between the seat cushions in the front and back. The leather padding the Rolls is soft as angel food cake. For a second, I consider keeping the heap for a day or two. Candy and I could mess the interior of this thing pretty nicely. But that’s not an option in this invisible man operation.

Outside, I check the spotless wheel wells for hidden keys and, again, come up with nothing. Finally, I go around to the trunk, jam the blade in the lock, and open it up.

You could move a family of four in here and have room left over for a kiddie pool. I know that the trunk is going to be pristine and, honestly, I’m just going through the motions at this point. There won’t be anything in the back of this idiot’s ride but the smell of soap and money. But I keep at it.

Check the sides of the trunk for hollow places where he might be smuggling out-of-state fruit. Take out the tire and shake it to see if there’s anything inside but air. It’s just one more disappointment. There’s more padding under the wheel because, of course, we can’t let the poor tire ride in less luxury than the driver. How else will you impress the tow-truck drivers and car thieves?

I pull up the floor mat and my heart does a samba. There’s a compartment cut into the metal body of the car. The cuts are ragged at points and there are small gaps between the lid and the body. No car dealer did this. It’s as crooked as a Capone aftermarket mod. I hook a finger in a hole on the compartment lid and pull.

Oh, Charlie, my Charlie. What have you been up to?

The first thing that grabs my jaded gaze are the piles of neatly bundled hundred-dollar bills. I pull out a few. Then a few more. The compartment is deeper than I thought at first. There must be half a million in cash back here. As hard as it is, I put the money back and move on to the other goodies. Bags and bags of pills. I recognize a few. Civilian stuff. Pharmaceutical-quality amphetamines. Vicodin. Dilaudid. Some muscle relaxants and a fistful of blue Viagra tabs. Then there are the Sub Rosa goodies. Akira. Dixie Wishbone. Even some Red Sonja, a combination of dried blood and pituitary glands. Only vampires and their flunkies use that stuff, proof Charlie has been cheating on his Sub Rosa friends with bad kids from the other side of the tracks. There’s even a Glock 17 with six loaded clips. But it’s what’s in the secret compartment under the secret compartment that makes my night.

It’s an angel box. Maybe the one he had the other night, maybe another. Who cares? I take it out, then put it back in its padded cubbyhole. If Charlie is carrying it, the car is going someplace and I don’t want him to notice it’s missing. Instead of stealing the whole box, I open it and take the vial of black milk. Let him explain that to whoever the box is for.

The only other thing in the compartment is a complete mystery. It’s kind of, well, dildo-shaped, but made of a dark, heavy metal. There’s a thumb-size recess on the thing’s blunt end. When I push it, the body of the dildo retracts, exposing a thin, sawtooth-ended tube. I relax my thumb and the thing snaps back into its original shape. Is it something new that an angel gave him? If it’s important, why didn’t my angel give me one? I bet if I got Charlie high enough on his Dilaudid and some Dom Pérignon, he’d come around, but Abbot doesn’t want me to have that kind of fun.

I’ll have to console myself with stealing it instead.

I stuff it in my pocket with the black milk and put everything else back where it was. I even wipe the dirt off the tire from where I set it on the ground. Last thing, I wipe my prints from every flat surface.

Back in the driver’s seat, I give the dildo one more look-over, and it confirms my instincts. There’s a maker’s mark by the thumb recess. I can’t read it well, but I know the look. The thing was made by a Tick Tock Man.

I start the engine and ever so gently drive the car back into the city. Park it in the lot of a twenty-four-hour Denny’s on Sunset and wipe down the interior. Just as I step out of the Rolls, a couple of L.A.’s finest walk out of the Denny’s to their cruiser on the other side of the lot. The only thing more conspicuous than my ugly face next to this high-end car would be my ugly face running away from it. So, I just stand there and light a Malediction, like I do it every night.

The cops glance at me and keep walking. They get in the cruiser, head around the corner onto Gower, and disappear. I start breathing again. The only thing worse than punching Charlie Anpu I could have done tonight is punch a couple of cops. The fact they ignored me makes me wonder if I just got lucky or if Abbot pulled strings with LAPD like he said he would. Whatever it was, I’ll take it.

I take a drag off the Malediction. The Denny’s is just a block from Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles, where Candy and I first went out together. If it wasn’t so late I’d call her for a midnight rendezvous. But she’s probably still rehearsing with Alessa and I’m not going to get in the way of her music. Besides, I have plenty left to do myself, so I let the thought go.

I walk deeper into Hollywood, where I’ll have a better chance of finding a cab. I still need to get back to the Hollywood Bowl and pick up the bike. While I walk I call Abbot and tell him what I found.

But I leave out the part where I stole Charlie’s car.

A TICK TOCK Man is halfway between a garage mechanic and a true hoodoo artist. He makes mechanical familiars for rich Sub Rosas. Some use them for abracadabra purposes and others just keep them around for show. Manimal Mike is a Tick Tock Man, and a good one. He lives over the hill in the San Fernando Valley. It’s a bit of a drive after going all the way to the warehouse, but with luck it will be worth it.

I pull up outside the small auto repair place he runs in Chatsworth. Not that he actually repairs cars. He just keeps a few junkers around for show so that no one will guess what he’s really doing inside.

It’s late and Manimal Mike has locked the metal sliding gate to the garage. I bang on it and shout until someone opens the door to the back room. All I can see is a silhouette lit from behind, but I can tell it’s a big man with an even bigger wrench in his massive mitt. He heads for the gate and I take a step back into the light outside the garage where he can see me. The mobile-home-size silhouette stops for a second and cocks its head. I hold out my arms and give him a stupid little wave.

“Stark!” he says through a Russian accent thick enough that you could chisel it into bowling pins. “How are you?”

“Great, Pavel. Is Mike home?”

“Of course. Of course,” he says, tugging at a ring of keys attached to his belt by a thin chain. A second later, he pushes the gate aside and lets me in. Gets me in a big bear hug when I come through. Pavel is one of Manimal Mike’s cousins. It’s not that Pavel loves me so much. He treats everybody he likes this way. He and his little brother, Ilya, are Vucaris. Russian beast men. Imagine a wolf or bear in human skin. They’re nice to have on your side in a fight, but if they’re not on your side, you’ll want to make sure your life insurance is paid up.

Pavel leads me into the back, where Manimal Mike has his workshop. The place is full of half-constructed mechanical animals. Everything from squirrels to Bengal tigers. It’s a beautiful place in its way, part zoo and part mad scientist’s lair. Pavel calls to him and Mike looks up. He puts down his tools and comes over.

“Stark. How are you doing?” he says, and we shake hands.

“Just fine, Mike. It looks like you’re getting along all right.”

It’s true. The first time I was in Mike’s workshop, not only was it a chaotic grease pit, but he was playing Billy Flinch, a kind of one-person William Tell game where you try to shoot a glass off your head with a ricochet. Aim wrong and you’ll blow a hole in the wall. Aim wronger and you’ll blow your brains to Fresno. But Mike isn’t into that anymore. He’s not in the very top tier of L.A. Tick Tock Men, but he’s on his way. All he needs are a few more of the right customers.

“Things are going pretty well,” he says. “Did you know I’m making a Persian cat for Tuatha Fortune?”

“That’s great news. A couple of more clients like her and you’ll be setting up shop in Beverly Hills.”

He wipes machine oil off his hands with a rag.

“That’s why I have to make this cat perfect. Want to see it?”

“Another time. This isn’t actually a social call.”

He nods. “This time of night, I had a feeling.”

I take the dildo from my pocket and hand it to him.

“Any idea what that is?”

He turns it around in his hands. Looks at it from all angles. When he finds the recessed button, he pushes it. The thing slides open and he lets it close again.

“Beautiful work,” he says. “Did you notice there was no sound? That’s some ace engineering.”

“Yeah, wonderful. But what is it?”

He takes it to his workbench and examines it under the big magnifier attached to an adjustable metal arm.

“The metal is cold iron,” he says. “High quality. Beautiful workmanship. The teeth at the end of the boring mechanism are in perfect alignment.”

“Boring? So, it’s some kind of drill.”

“It could be,” he says, and brings the dildo back to me. Opens it up and points to small clips inside the body.

“They hold something. My guess is it’s for seating small mechanical parts in a larger mechanism.”

“Any idea what?”

He shakes his head. “It could be anything.”

“Maybe a box? Could you use it to make a small box? Something with delicate metal parts?”

“Definitely. If you want to leave it with me for a while, I can play with it and tell you exactly how it works.”

I take it out of his hands.

“Can’t do it. I liberated it from the car of one of our betters, so you don’t want to be caught with it.”

“No, I do not,” he says, walking back to his workbench.

I follow him over and show him the bottom of the drill.

“What’s this?”

“It looks like a maker’s mark,” he says.

He puts it back under the magnifier and shines a light on it.

In a minute he says, “Damn.”

“What?”

He hands it back to me.

“Whatever that is, it cost someone a fortune. Atticus Rose made it.”

There’s a familiar name. Rose was one of the most famous Tick Tock Men in L.A. At least until me, Candy, and Brigitte busted up his workshop. No one has heard much about him since, but it looks like he’s far from retired.

“Do you have any idea where he might be? Any rumors in the Tick Tock world?”

Mike picks up a tiny saw. Plays with it while he talks. I don’t need to see his eyes or hear his heart to know he’s nervous.

“Nothing. Personally, I think if he’s still around—and it sure looks like he is—he’s got one full-time private client.”

I put the drill back in my pocket.

“Thanks a lot, Mike. I owe you for this.”

“If you want to pay me back, forget you were here. I don’t need trouble right now.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going and I won’t.”

“Cool,” he says. Then quietly, “Still, I’d love to see the workshop that came out of. Rose always had the best of everything.”

“It would take someone with heavy money to set him up, I bet.”

Mike’s eyes widen a little.

“The kind of work he does, just his equipment is going to run four or five million dollars. That doesn’t include the workshop itself, materials, and maybe an assistant.”

“I’ve got the picture. Thanks again.”

“How’s the arm skin working out for you?” he says, touching his left arm.

I flex the fingers on my Kissi arm.

“I’m not wearing it now, but it’s really come in handy.”

“That’s great to hear. Let me know if you need more.”

“You’re a prince, Mike.”

I wave to his cousins as I head for the door. Pavel follows me out and locks the gate behind me.

“Do svidaniya, Pavel.”

He laughs. I put my hand to my heart, wounded.

“I didn’t say it right, did I?”

“You say it right for parrot or little sister’s talking doll.”

“Take it easy, Pavel.”

He waves a hand and goes back into the shop repeating “do svidaniya” to himself, adding little bird squawks every now and then.

I get on the Hellion hog and head home.

So, someone in town has a pet Tick Tock Man on the payroll, maybe turning out more angel boxes. But who are they for? It has to be Wormwood and some of their lackeys. How much black milk is there floating in L.A.? My guess is not too much. If we were rolling in the stuff, Karael would have mentioned it to me when he gave me the sample. And that psycho angel wouldn’t have had to carve me up like an Easter ham. That means whoever has Rose on the payroll is getting ready for more of the black stuff to hit town. That’s one problem.

The other is that I still don’t know what the hell they’d use it for. Allegra put one tiny drop too many on the slide and it wiped out her swimming meat. No one is getting high off the stuff, that’s for sure. And unless someone is doing a magic act teaching pork chops the flying trapeze, no one is using it to reanimate dead things.

So forget the milk for now. What about the drill? If I can figure out who’s got Rose on the payroll, I’m sure it will get me the rest of the information. Good-time Charlie is the logical suspect. He’s got the money and he had the drill. But Abbot is right. I can’t touch him for now. If I’m wrong, going for Charlie will send whoever has Rose underground, and that’s the last thing I want.

Shit. This means I have to think and be patient, my two least favorite things.

When I get home, Candy is curled up in bed. I go in and kiss her and she wraps an arm around me.

“You should hear me play now,” she says sleepily. “I’m goddamn Rick Derringer.”

“You always were, baby.”

“Fucking A. I’m the king of the wild frontier.”

A second later, she’s back asleep.

Elvis has left the building.

CANDY IS BACK at work when I get a call from Vidocq asking me to come over. After the cops’ giving me a pass last night, I’m feeling better about riding the Hellion hog and wearing my real face during daylight hours. Glamours are easy, but if you do them too much they get itchy. But it might be time to switch out the license plate on the bike. The owner has probably reported it missing. It’s harder finding expensive motorcycles to steal because their owners don’t like to leave them on the street. I have a policy of only stealing pricy vehicles because I know the owners will have good insurance. It’s like what my mom said: “Only bums steal from bums.” I might be a killer, an Abomination, and a thief, but I’m not a bum.

Traffic is light and I make it to Vidocq’s in good time.

“James,” he says, and hugs me, pulling me inside. I can smell the booze on him from out in the hall. I pick up a bottle of expensive-looking red wine from the coffee table.

“Are we celebrating something?”

He puts an arm on my shoulder.

“The light. The air. The fact we have been through so much and lived to talk about it.”

From the kitchen, Liliane says, “We are all little miracles, right Eugène?”

I missed her when I came in. She’s as tanked as Vidocq. I hold up the wine bottle.

“Hey there. Nice stuff you brought.”

She comes into the living room.

“Oh. You know wine?”

“No. I was just being polite.”

She and Vidocq laugh a little too much at that. Liliane takes the bottle from my hand and pours me a glass. I hold it up to them both and take a sip. It’s nice. A good excuse to get hammered with your ex while your current girlfriend is at work. I look at Liliane.

“I’ll admit I was a little confused at Bamboo House the other night. What should I call you now?”

“For safety’s sake, you should probably continue to use ‘Marilyne’ in public,” says Vidocq. “Liliane is only a name for private moments.”

“It’s true,” she says. “In Los Angeles on this day, in this year, I’m Marilyne. The name cost me quite a lot of money. I need to get my money’s worth.”

Vidocq takes a big swig of wine and settles on the sofa. Liliane sits down next to him. I take the chair across from them.

“We’ve both had many names over the years. I’ve lost count of how many,” Vidocq says.

“And it gets harder every year. A century ago, with a few pieces of paper you could be anyone you wanted to be. Travel the world and come home again. These days, it’s all fingerprints and computer chips in your passport.”

Vidocq sighs, drinks.

“It’s one of the many reasons I’ve never returned to Paris. I’ve simply waited too long.”

“It’s why I’m applying for citizenship,” says Liliane. “Travel is difficult for people like us. It will be even harder in the future. Soon, just staying alive and anonymous will be a nightmare.”

Vidocq puts his hand on hers. Gives it a squeeze.

“We will get by. There’s always a way. Right, James?”

He points his glass in my direction and mock-whispers to Liliane, “Young James here is legally dead, yet he walks the streets and runs a business. Together, we will all survive.”

“Together,” says Liliane.

They look at me.

“Together,” I say, and finish my wine.

Vidocq pours me another. I look around the place. There are books open and lab equipment scattered across his worktable.

“So, what have you kids been up to today?”

Vidocq sits up, looking excited in that way only drunk people can.

“Liliane carried on my work after my apparent death all those years ago. She became a noted alchemist in Europe.”

“Perhaps not noted, but noticed,” she says. “It’s why I work, and enjoy working, in laboratories now. It feels like home.”

“I’ve been showing her my tools and research materials. It’s lovely to have a fellow worker of the way to share things with.”

I lean back and cross my legs.

“Like they say, sharing is caring.”

They’re drunk enough to find that funny too.

“Excuse me for a moment,” says Liliane, and she heads for the bathroom.

When she’s gone I look at Vidocq. He grins like a lovestruck twelve-year-old.

I say, “What’s going on here, man? Did you invite me over to show me some work or to be your alibi?”

He frowns. Starts to pour me more wine. I put my hand over the glass and he sets down the bottle.

“James, believe me. Nothing untoward has happened.”

“Yet.”

He turns the glass around in his hands.

“I was hoping that you’d better comprehend the thrill I feel being with Liliane. We have a common bond experienced by no one else. Eternal life. Yes, I’ve spent time with ancient vampires and alchemists who have extended their lives, but those are not the same things as immortality,” he says. Then, “Think of it this way. Imagine if you met another person, man or woman, with whom you shared the experience of Hell. Wouldn’t you be drawn to that person? The moments of trauma. The moments of beauty. I know you understand what I’m talking about.”

He’s right, of course. All those years I spent alive Downtown. And then there’s the nephilim thing. There’s no one in the universe like me, but I never really thought of it that way before. I’ve always known I was a freak, so it never occurred to me what it might be like to meet someone who’d been through the same shit, someone I could talk to about it. My old girlfriend, Alice, was dead when I came back to L.A., so I never got a chance to talk to her about anything. Even Candy, with as much as she’s been though, still has a community. There are thousands of Jades in the world. Plenty of monsters too, but only one of me.

But there’s only one Allegra too and Vidocq better remember that or I’ll remind him. Hard.

“I get your point. I’d like to have a war buddy too. But just reel it in a little. Okay?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he says. “I’ve been overcome since meeting her. You know how much I love Allegra, but until I met Liliane again, I never knew how truly lonely I was.”

“Then see a shrink. Until then, cool it with the prom-night stuff.”

“You have a point.”

Liliane comes back into the room.

“What have you gentlemen been discussing while I was gone?”

I reach into my pocket and take out the vial of black milk.

“This.”

“You found more,” says Vidocq, a little more focused than before.

“What is it?” says Liliane.

“We’re not sure yet,” Vidocq says. “It’s a substance James calls black milk. Believe it or not, it was a gift from a—”

“A friend from out of town. Neither of us was supposed to have it and she never got the chance to tell me what it’s for.”

“May I see it?” Liliane says.

Vidocq gives her the vial and she holds it up to the light. Shakes it a little.

“It is dangerous,” he says.

“Is it all right to open?”

I politely take it back from her and set it on the table.

“You might want to hold off while you have a belly full of wine.”

She gives me a loose-necked shake of her head.

“I work with a lot of odd chemicals in my lab all the time. Some of them don’t smell like roses either, but I manage.”

“I wasn’t calling you a lightweight.”

“Good, because you should have seen some of the things that were in Eugène’s little dungeon in Paris. The most god-awful smells you can imagine.”

“What was it you used to call it?”

“Your perfumed abattoir.”

He chuckles lightly.

“That’s it. I once experimented with a Hand of Glory, subjecting it to an array of chemicals, potions, even electrical stimulation. All in hopes of reviving it.”

I look at him.

“You tried to bring a hand back to life? What the hell for?”

He shrugs.

“To see if I could. I was more reckless and ambitious in those days. We all were. They were exciting times.”

Liliane nudges him with her shoulder.

“They certainly were.”

He gives me a sheepish smile.

Liliane turns to me.

“Speaking of hands, James, what’s wrong with yours? If you don’t mind me asking?”

I give Vidocq a look. He nods.

“It’s all right. She’s seen much in two hundred years. She can handle it.”

I shrug off my coat and glove. Roll up my shirtsleeve, giving her a full-frontal look at my biomechanical flipper.

Her eyes widen. Liliane puts a hand to her mouth. She looks at me, then Vidocq.

She says, “Would it be all right if I touched it?”

“Sure. I suppose so.”

She comes around the table and runs her fingers down the length of my arm, from shoulder to fingertip. She examines my wrist and flexes my elbow, watching the weird gearlike growths and the flat gray-black bands that do the job of muscles.

“Thank you,” she says. She goes back and sits near Vidocq. “Wherever did you get it?”

I roll down my sleeve and put on my coat.

“Another out-of-town friend.”

“You get so many interesting visitors.”

“That he does,” says Vidocq.

I get an idea, and take the drill out of my pocket and hold it up to them.

“You’ve both been around a lot of weird gear. You ever see something like that before?”

They take the drill and look it over together. Liliane finds the button on the end and pushes it. Both smile when the mechanism retracts and closes again.

Vidocq shrugs and Liliane shakes her head.

“No. I’m sorry,” she says.

“Neither have I. Do you have any idea what it’s for?” says Vidocq.

“A friend who knows about these things thinks it’s some kind of precision drill for making delicate objects. Or maybe it belongs to a high-rent Tick Tock Man.”

“A Tick Tock Man?” says Liliane.

“They make expensive windup toys for people burdened by too much money.”

“That’s a burden I wouldn’t mind trying.”

“You and me both.”

Liliane looks at her watch and makes a face.

“Look at the time. I have to get back to work.”

She and Vidocq stand. They say something French to each other and both laugh. She kisses him on both cheeks and comes around to my side of the table. Everyone else is standing, so I do too. She gives me a couple of quick air kisses and says, “It was lovely spending more time with you, James. I hope we get to do it again sometime.”

“Sure. Sometime.”

Vidocq shows her to the door, then drops back down onto the sofa.

He looks at me.

“Are you going to continue your lecture? If so, I’m going to need more wine.”

I hold up my hands.

“No more lectures. Just this: if you break Allegra’s heart, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“And I would deserve it.”

“I’m glad you understand. Now—what the hell is the story with you two? What happened back in Paris?”

He sighs and picks up his wineglass, settling against the back of the sofa, looking exhausted.

“I don’t think I have the energy for a long tale right now.”

“Then give me the TV-pitch version.”

He smiles, but he still looks tired. Not tired. More like deflated. He was high on Liliane and the past and now they’re both gone.

“She murdered me,” he says finally. “In the spring of—if memory serves—1857.”

I look at him, waiting for him to go on. But he doesn’t.

“That’s it? She murdered you and now you’re best friends. What the hell happened back then?”

“It’s not something I’m proud of,” he says. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“I’ve killed pretty much everything in this world and the next that can be killed. I’m all out of judgment.”

He sits up with a wan smile on his face.

“Liliane and I lived and worked together for many years and were happy. But in the end, she suspected me of an infidelity.”

“Was she right?”

He nods.

“With the wife of a police official. She was lovely. And I didn’t much care for the police of that time. You must understand that.”

“I do. So, what happened?”

“I was old. I felt the years acutely. People died early and often badly back then. There were dozens of patent medicines at the time that promised revivification. But they were all frauds. I experimented with mesmerism. Electricity was all the rage. I experimented with animals. Old ones. Sick ones. To see if I could reenergize them. I experimented on myself with repeated shocks of different voltages to different parts of my body.”

“Did any of it help?”

“A few things. In small ways and not for very long. Finally I came across a formula in an obscure British pamphlet on folk medicine. I recognized some of the formulae as coming from ancient alchemical texts. They had been disguised to appear as simple nostrums. One in particular caught my eye. I’d never seen anything like it before, but I recognized most of the ingredients and thought it might make the basis of what I was looking for.”

“And here you are. I guess it worked.”

He wags a finger at me.

“No. It didn’t. But I kept working with it. Modifying it to increase its potency. One particular batch demonstrated a dramatic effect. Overnight, the spots on my hands disappeared. My vision improved and I felt my old strength restored. But, as with my other successes, the effects wore off quickly.”

“Something like that could drive a person a little crazy.”

“It did. I think that’s what prompted my affair. The fear of death. The scent of the grave.”

“But you obviously came up with something that worked.”

“Never. I was a complete failure. Nothing I tried worked for more than a few hours. A day at most. I was despondent. And the more despondent I became, the more the affair intensified.”

“So, who figured out the secret?”

“Liliane. Just before she poisoned me.”

He leaves that floating in the air while he pours more wine.

“I had prepared a new potion from my most promising experiments. But it wasn’t a fast process. The potion had to age for a few days in a cool, darkened cabinet. I believe it was during those few days that Liliane learned of the affair.”

I try to picture him old and dying. I don’t like it.

“She spiked your formula, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” he says. “And created a miracle. I died. Or seemed to. I was immobile for two days. In one stroke of luck, Liliane regretted what she’d done and kept my body at home, not telling anyone what had happened. But I remained dead. Or so it seemed. Finally, on the third day—and this part of the story she just told me today—she wrote a note confessing what she had done and took the potion herself.”

“At which point you woke up.”

“Exactement. And I found her dead. I was heartbroken. But I was also young again. Well, as young as you see me now. My hair was still gray. The lines around my eyes remained. I was no spring chicken, but I felt strong and alive. I was also frightened and my mind remained fogged for a long time. I was afraid people would think that I had killed Liliane in revenge. And if they didn’t, what would they make of my transformation? We were long past the legal persecution of witches, but ordinary people had never lost their fear of the unexplained. So, I packed a few bags and disappeared.”

“What happened to Liliane?”

“Like me, she woke up. In her case, during her funeral preparations. Her revival caused the exact uproar I had avoided. The police were called. François Grillet, the police official with whose wife I had conducted my affair, arrived first at poor Liliane’s resurrection. Unfortunately, he knew about the affair by this time and recognized Liliane as the lover of his greatest enemy. So, he took this woman who shouldn’t have been alive and stabbed her in the heart.”

“And because she’d popped out of the casket, he could claim anything he wanted.”

“You understand these monstrosities so well, James,” he says before settling back against the sofa. “Well, after that, no respectable mortician would have anything to do with Liliane’s apparently dead body. She was taken to a paupers’ cemetery to be interred in a mass grave with the lost and forgotten. But, like me, on the third day she awoke before she could be put into the ground. She understood what had happened and knew that she could never live in normal Parisian society again. She escaped and crossed the continent for decades, using the alchemical techniques she learned from me to pay her way. In fact, she only went back to France as a refugee when Herr Hitler breathed his last. She’s been living there ever since.”

I flex my Kissi hand, feeling the sheer strangeness of it for the first time in a year.

“It’s a nice story, but you’re leaving out something.”

“Am I?”

“The part where you kill François Grillet.”

He laughs.

“See? You do understand.”

He takes a long breath.

“The story of la femme revenante was everywhere. When I heard about what Grillet had done to Liliane, I surmised what had really happened. So, one night while the gentleman was in bed, I crept in and cut his throat. When I was recognized and men came for me, I killed them too. I’d seen the grave once, thought that I had lost my great love to it, and was not about to be sent to the next world by such curs.”

I watch him, sprawled on the sofa, half drunk and with tears in his eyes.

“You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

“Who can say?” he mumbles.

“I do. You’re in love with the woman who murdered you.”

“It sounds strange when you say it like that. But it was so long ago. Time has healed so much of what happened between us.”

I shake my head.

“This is all very sweet. Very Romeo and Juliet. Just be careful, man. Don’t do something stupid that’s going to get you poisoned again.”

He sits back up.

“I’m not foolish enough to make that mistake again.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Vidocq pushes back his hair and wipes the tears from his eyes.

“Thank you. I’ve never been able to tell anyone the whole story before. It’s good to get it out.”

“Are you going to tell Allegra?”

“No,” he says. “Even after all this time, one remains ashamed of the mistakes of one’s past. I hope, James, that you will take pity on a very old fool and keep my secret.”

He looks at me until I nod.

“Just don’t do anything fucking stupid. You’re a big boy, so I’m just going to worry about Allegra.”

“And bruising my ass.”

“Yep.”

“Understood,” he says.

I look around the room.

“We’ve all got skeletons in the closet, I suppose. Did I ever tell you about how I helped fake the moon landing?”

He laughs, not so drunk this time.

“No. You must enlighten me sometime.”

I’m about to say something dumb when the door opens and Allegra comes in. She looks at Vidocq, then at me, then at all the wine on the table.

“I see you two have had a productive afternoon.”

“Your old man was telling me alchemy stories. Tell her how you invented water.”

She puts down her coat and bag and sits down next to Vidocq. He puts an arm around her.

“That was you?” she says. She looks at him. “Are you keeping secrets from me?”

“Never, my dear. Never.”

I get up, feeling a little uncomfortable seeing her where Liliane was a few minutes earlier. Allegra spots the bottle of black milk and picks it up.

“You brought it back,” she says.

“Actually, that’s a new bottle.”

Vidocq sits up at that.

“James, since you now have two bottles, might we keep this one for a while?”

“I want to say no, but I also want to know more about the stuff. Keep it, but don’t let anyone know you have it.”

Allegra makes a motion at her lips like turning a key.

“Tick a lock,” she says.

We say our good-byes and I take the industrial elevator down to the Hellion hog.

Isn’t life one big bowl of what-the-fuck? I was surprised upstairs when Vidocq all but admitted that he was still in love with his killer. At that moment, I didn’t understand how he could do it. By the time I get to the bike, I know exactly. Alice and I were together for years. It wasn’t until she was dead and I met her ghost that she showed me the skeleton hanging in her closet. She’d been sent to spy on me by the Sub Rosa council. Alice was my Mata Hari, passing on our pillow talk to paranoid magicians convinced I was making murder potions with my chemistry set. But in the end, she loved me, and when I saw her after missing her all those years, it took me all of ten seconds to forgive her. I don’t know if that makes any more sense than what Vidocq said went down between him and Liliane. What I do know is that a famous dead guy once said, “Life is a bucket of shit with a barbed-wire handle.” Maybe that’s all any of this love crap comes down to. Finding someone to carry your load of shit with, even when your hands get raw and bloody. No one’s ever going to turn that into a love song, but if some lunatic did, I’d be first in line to buy a copy for Candy.

SHE GETS HOME around six, taking the night off from work and guitar lessons.

“We’re going to start getting the whole band together soon. Alessa and I have worked out a bunch of guitar parts and they’ll sound great with bass and drums.”

“I’m sure Fairuza and Cindil will be happy to hear you haven’t forgotten them.”

“I’ve been talking to both of them. They know we’re working some things out and they’re cool with it.”

“I can’t wait to hear the new songs.”

“Me too,” she says.

She seems a little preoccupied, but with her rehearsals and a full-time job, she gets tired early. Working on the council doesn’t take that many hours a week, and Kasabian hates having me in the store, so normally I have nothing but time. The big skeleton in my closet is that sometimes I pray for maniac angels and bastards like Wormwood to come after me. I think I’m a crisis junkie. Between holocausts, I watch movies, listen to music, and work a few hours downstairs. I have no idea what the hell else I’m supposed to do the rest of the time. I’m like a college pothead slacker, zoned out on the sofa, then panicking because I have to write a book report on Silas Marner. Candy thinks it’s all PTSD blowback. Maybe she’s right. I don’t know what I’d do right now if I didn’t have clowns like Charlie and Burgess to go after. My nightmares have gone away and even the headaches are better. Maybe my best bet for staying sane is to get Jason Voorhees to chase me with a machete the rest of my life.

We order Thai food and listen to some of the records Candy and Alessa have been learning songs from. After we’re done eating, Candy settles down against me for a while. I tell her about meeting with Liliane and Vidocq about black milk and the drill, but I don’t go into anything of them mooning over each other. It’s just too weird and it feels like gossip. Besides, if Vidocq pulls his shit together it won’t mean anything in the long run. Candy asks to see the drill. I get it and she plays with it for a few minutes before losing interest and setting it on the table.

“Abbot’s got you running around all over the place. I’m glad you could make a few minutes for me,” she says.

“Excuse me, ma’am. You’re the one who’s been missing in action. I’m out chasing international jewel thieves and you’re playing bongos with your beatnik friends.”

“You know it, daddy-o,” she says. Then, “Hey, that thing with Nick and Geoffrey Burgess. That was a big coincidence you being there, right?”

“Yeah. The kid was the last thing I was looking for. Why?”

“It’s nothing. I just wondered if it had anything to do with Elsabeth.”

“Who’s that?”

“She’s Burgess’s wife.”

“Why would I care about her?”

“Abbot told you about Nick. I thought he might have heard about it from his sister.”

I look at her.

“You’re sure about that?”

“Julie stumbled across it and had me double-check. Elsabeth Abbot has been Mrs. Elsabeth Burgess for three years now.”

Fucking Abbot. What kind of games has he been playing with me? I knew I should never trust that blue-blood fuck.

“I need to go out.”

I start to get up, but Candy grabs my arm.

“Don’t go running off yet. Please. I shouldn’t have said anything about Abbot. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I was putting off something else.”

I sit back down.

“What have you been putting off?”

She sits back, wrapping her arms around her knees.

“You remember a while back, you got mad when I talked to Julie about you maybe having PTSD?”

“Yeah.”

“And then you asked if I was upset about Rinko coming by.”

Candy and Rinko got together when I was stranded Downtown last year and everyone thought I was dead. She’s never forgiven me because, after an ultimatum, Candy decided to stay with me.

“I remember.”

“You asked if I still wanted to go out with Rinko, and I said no. But I also said that I sometimes miss dating women.”

“Did you change your mind about Rinko? I told you to do what you wanted. I’m not going to lock the doors or tell you how to live your life.”

“It has nothing to do with Rinko,” she says.

No, of course it wouldn’t. Would it? I’m such an idiot.

“It’s Alessa, isn’t it? She’s who you’re talking about.”

She bobs her head once and looks at me.

“Are you mad? Do you hate me?”

“I’m not mad and I’m never going to hate you.”

“Yes, but how do you feel? What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. “I’m not playing games. I just don’t know.”

Candy turns around so she’s facing me. She puts a hand on my shoulder.

“You can tell me no, you know. Say it and I’ll never mention it again.”

I blink a couple of times. Scratch the bridge of my nose.

“You know I’m not going to tell you no. Listen, I barely know what to do with myself most of the time. Without a crisis, I don’t have much to offer anyone.”

She bites her lip. “We haven’t done anything,” she says.

“It’s okay. I know that.”

“Is that all? You can say whatever you want.”

I shake my head.

“If you’re looking for a way out, I’m not Rinko. I don’t do ultimatums.”

“And that’s one of the things I like best about you. You don’t play games.”

“But let me ask you something: Have you told Alessa who you really are?”

“Of course not,” she says.

“Then she only knows you as Chihiro.”

“Right.”

“How are you going to handle that?”

“What do you mean? I’m not going to say anything about Candy.”

“Which means most of what she knows about you is a lie. It’s the cover story we made up after Candy ‘died.’”

Her eyes go blank for a minute. I think she’s getting so used to thinking of herself as both Chihiro and Candy at the same time, she didn’t consider how that would affect someone who didn’t know her before.

“I never thought of that.”

“You can’t tell her about Candy. Or that you’re a Jade. Not yet anyway. And if you do go for this, you better think about what that means for anything long term.”

She sits back against the sofa. Frowns a little.

“This advice thing you’re doing right now, are you just trying to avoid talking about what you’re really feeling?”

“Probably. But listen, I know you’ve had other girlfriends. I’m not going to be the guy who tells you you have to live half your life.”

She looks at me for a long time, like she’s trying to dig her way into my skull.

“Then, if I do this, you’re not going to break up with me and throw me out?”

“Only if after all this you still suck at guitar. Then all bets are off.”

She puts her arms around me. Puts her head into my neck. I think she might be crying a little.

“Thank you for not hating me for asking.”

“You can tell me anything.”

“And I’m not going anywhere, you know.”

“Me neither.”

She moves her head around and kisses me.

“And thank you for trusting me,” she says.

“Thanks for being up front with me.”

She sits back against the couch. My arm is around her and she holds my hand.

“I’d kill anyone who hurt you, you know,” says Candy.

“I know.”

“That’s why I never want to do it. I’d have to kick my own ass.”

“That would be something to see.”

“Wouldn’t it, though?”

She takes my hand and pulls me into the bedroom.

In the morning, I carry down bits and pieces of the broken side tables and bed frame to the Dumpster. They’re going to cost money, but I think the mattress is still salvageable.

I DON’T KNOW what to think about anything as I have coffee and get dressed. The one thing I’m sure of is that I’m a lot more pissed about Abbot than upset about Candy. She’s still someone I can trust. Abbot is someone I can’t. He’s played me for a fool and it’s time to do something about that. I get out my phone and text him.

I’m coming over. Be there or I’m burning your boat.

I grab the Hellion hog and hit the freeway as fast as I can, lane-splitting at eighty all the way to Marina del Rey.

When I get to the boatyard, I park the bike facing the street, in case things go weird and I have to get out of there fast. I head through the security gate and down the pier. Lucky me. Willem and a couple of Abbot’s security guys are waiting for me at the boat. I brace for trouble, but Willem steps back and ushers me onto the deck.

“Good to see you, Mr. Stark. Right this way.”

I stop on the boat’s gangway.

“What’s that mean?”

“The augur is waiting for you.”

“He better be.”

I start onto the boat when Willem calls.

“Audsley Ishii sends his regards. He says he’s sorry about your friend’s car. He’ll be more careful next time.”

I point at Willem and his cop mustache.

“You’re on the list, Willem.”

“What list?”

“The haunting list. If Audsley kills me it’s going to be moaning and rattling chains every night for you. And I don’t take weekends or holidays off.”

He looks to his men, then back at me.

“I’ll just get an exorcist.”

“Then I’ll haunt your car. I’ll haunt your man cave on the boat here. Hell, I’ll haunt your shoes. There aren’t enough exorcists in L.A. to keep up with me.”

“Big talker, all you cons.”

“I have friends in low places, Willem. You have no idea the shit I can get up to.”

“Are you two done?”

I look around. Abbot is on the deck in chinos and a sporty shirt. He doesn’t look happy. Good.

“Come inside, Stark,” he says.

I follow him into the living room area. He offers me a chair. I shake my head. He goes to a table and picks up a drink.

“So, what’s this about burning my boat?”

“Elsabeth Burgess. That name ring a bell?”

He looks at his drink for a minute and sits down.

“Who do you think has been getting me all the information about Wormwood?”

“Thanks, but I figured that part out. What I want to know is why you didn’t tell me you were connected to Wormwood? And don’t fucking lie to me because I’ll know it.”

That sends Abbot’s blood pressure up a little because he knows I’m telling the truth.

He sets down the drink. Opens his hands and closes them again.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t work with me if you knew I had family in Wormwood.”

“Good guess.”

He looks out a window, then back at me.

“Anyway, while I’m confessing my sins, I’ll tell you something else.”

“What?”

“I was using you a little. See, I was hoping that you’d kill Geoff Burgess.”

I take a step forward and stare down at him. He looks uncomfortable.

“I’d feel much better if you sat down.”

“I’m fine where I am.”

He raps his knuckles nervously on his knee a couple of times.“Understand, Elsa was taking a big risk feeding me information about Geoffrey and the others. I think you’re a good person underneath this image you put out to people, but you do have a habit of . . .”

“Of what?”

“Flying off the handle. I couldn’t risk my sister’s safety.”

“You’d have left me out there with all Wormwood after me. You fed me just enough information to hang myself.”

“No. I would never have done that.”

I check his eyes. What do you know? It looks like he’s telling the truth.

He says, “I’m not just the augur, remember. I’m a seer. I saw all this coming. I knew you’d find out. Don’t you think I could have done something about today if I knew that you’d be coming to me in this frame of mind?”

“You think you know my frame of mind?”

“You said you were going to burn my boat.”

“I suppose I did.”

I sit down opposite him.

“If you’re such a hot seer why didn’t you know where Nick was? Or did you know and waited for me to find him?”

“No. I didn’t know about Nick. When I scry I often see multiple outcomes. With Nick it could have gone different ways. There were several outcomes where he ended up dead. And I never saw Geoffrey’s involvement. I think Wormwood is being protected against people like me.”

“They’re working with Hellions and angels. They have a lot of protection.”

He makes a fist.

“That’s why we need each other. You know that world and I know this. I still want to bring Wormwood down. I understand if you don’t believe me. That’s one of the outcomes I saw. But I hope you’ll stay and see this through with me.”

I run everything he said backward and forward in my mind. I’ve watched his eyes and listened to his heart this whole time and he didn’t show any traces of lying. But if Burgess and his crowd are protected from hoodoo, maybe Abbot is too. I don’t have a lot of choices here. I have to pick one.

“I’ll try it,” I tell him. “But don’t ever lie to me again.”

“Or you’ll burn my boat. I know.”

“No. I’ll kill you. Then I’ll burn your boat.”

He picks up his glass and takes a drink.

“You’ll be interested to know that in every way I saw this conversation, it always ended with that statement.”

“Then you know it’s true.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then we understand each other. So, what happens next?”

Abbot pushes a boyish lock of hair out of his face.

He says, “There’s another child missing.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Elsa just found out about it.”

“But it was after Nick was found.”

“It seems so.”

“That means the whole story about daddy in Long Beach is bullshit.”

“Probably.”

“Definitely. Someone had a kid, then lost it. Now they have another kid. Why?”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know.”

“Whose kid is it?”

“They’re Sub Rosa. You never heard of them—they’re not an important family.”

“Maybe they want to be.”

He looks at me.

“You think someone would give up their child to advance their family position?”

“Some of these families would smother the baby Jesus in the manger if they thought it would get them good seats at the opera.”

“I don’t want to think about things like that.”

“I know. That’s why you have me. Don’t ask me to take this to Julie. She’s going to make a thing out of another lost kid. Bring in the cops right away. It might make whoever has him . . . her?”

“Her.”

“It might make whoever has her do something stupid. You’re going to have to handle this. Rattle some cages. You’re the goddamn augur. Scare some people.”

“What will you be doing?”

“I’m working on the black milk. If we know what it is, we might figure out what’s really going on. That reminds me.”

I take the drill from my pocket.

“Do you know what this is?”

Abbot looks it over.

“No. Sorry. Is that the thing you called a dildo you took from Charles’s car?”

“The same. I think it might belong to a Tick Tock Man. I’m going to look for him. You can help with that. See if anyone has any new, expensive familiars.”

“I’ll do that.”

I get up.

“Unless you have something else, I think we’re done for now.”

He stands.

“Nothing for the moment. Thank you for coming, and thank you for understanding the situation.”

I take out a Malediction.

“Things get funny with family.”

“They do.”

“Tell me something. Are you married?”

He looks at me funny, says, “No.”

“Got some kind of significant other?”

“Of course.”

“It gets complicated. Doesn’t it?”

“Sometimes. But if you’re honest with each other, it simplifies things.”

I get out my lighter.

“Yeah. Honesty. Like you and me now. Right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. I’ll call you when I know something.”

“I’ll do the same.”

“Oh. And tell Willem not to threaten me again,” I tell him as I walk to the deck. “You I’d have to think about hurting. But him?”

I snap my fingers.

“I’ll have a word,” says Abbot.

“Thanks.”

Willem and his boys are still on the dock when I get off the boat.

I give them a little salute as I go by.

“I’ll see you shrimp at the fish fry.”

“What does that mean?” Willem says.

“Your boss wants to see you.”

I walk away and get on the bike.

Sometimes it’s fun taking names when the teacher is out of the room. Willem will complain to Ishii that I ratted him out. Ishii will laugh in his face. Sometimes it’s the little things that keep you going.

WHEN I GET back to Max Overdrive, I call Vidocq. The phone rings a few times and goes to voice mail. I’m not in the mood to talk to a device, so I dial Allegra.

“Hi. Sorry to bug you. I’m trying to get ahold of Vidocq. Do you know where he is?”

“Is it about the black milk? Eugène is right here in the clinic working on it with Madame Bovary.”

“She’s there?”

“In her best little black dress,” says Allegra. Her voice is quiet and tense.

“If you don’t want her there, throw her out.”

“I can’t,” she says. “Eugène wasn’t getting anywhere with his equipment at home, so they’re here using some of Kinski’s old things.”

Allegra doesn’t say anything for a minute. I can hear her walking, then closing a door.

“Marilyne or whatever she wants to be called might be a high-tone bitch, but she seems to know her chemistry.”

“I’m sorry. They’re working on it for me. It’s important.”

“I know. You don’t have to apologize for them.”

“Still.”

“Thanks,” she says. “Hey. You want to get a cup of coffee soon?”

“Sure.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I can come by the clinic around noon.”

“I’m impressed. That’s early for you.”

“That’s why I’ll need the coffee.”

CANDY HAS PRACTICE again in the evening. She gives me an extra-big kiss as she leaves. It’s nice to see her happy after last night. She really thought I might end things right there over nothing more than words. I know words count for a lot, but we’re solid enough that I’m not afraid of much. Even Alessa.

Still . . .

Still I feel the ground shifting beneath my feet. Candy needs something I can never give her. Vidocq is acting like a school kid, reliving fairy tales of gay Paree. And Abbot is a liar. Maybe he had good reasons, but he’s still a liar and I’m going to watch my back with him. If it comes down to a choice between me and his sister or being the augur, I know which way it’s going to go. Willem and the Backstreet Boys would be happy to do the job for him. Or maybe they’d leave it to Audsley. Then everyone who matters could walk away with clean hands.

Frank Perry’s Doc, a good western, is playing but I can’t look at it anymore. The light is too much. I close my eyes and just listen for a while. But the pain gets worse. I can feel Trotsky inside my head, trying to tunnel out with his ice ax. He’s doing a sloppy job of it too. Bone fragments and raw meat pile up behind my eyes, making them ache. I take a couple of aspirin and wash them down with Aqua Regia, but it doesn’t help.

When I look up again, the movie is over. I never even heard the closing credits. I turn it off and sit in the dark for a while, but all that does is let Hell back in. Marching angels. Norris Quay’s ridiculous face. The barely conscious mob outside Heaven’s gates. And Samael, getting sliced and diced. I put on an old pair of sunglasses I find in the dresser and go downstairs. With the shades on I can stand the bright lights.

Kasabian takes one look at me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Link Wray, back from the dead.”

He has the news on.

Some politician at City Hall tried texting his cock to an intern and it ended up on Facebook. An old club in Chinatown is closing down. It was the first place I ever saw Skull Valley Sheep Kill. They arrested some high school students in Malibu out at Teddy Osterberg’s place. Before he died, Teddy collected old cemeteries like some guys collect model trains. The difference is that Teddy was a ghoul. He dug up and ate a lot of his collection. It looks like maybe ghoulishness is catching. A handful of the kids were eating one of their friends.

The camera pans across the kids’ bloody faces. Most are blurred, but they miss one. A handsome jock in a letter jacket. I recognize the look in his eyes. Someone in the group was using Dixie Wishbone. It’s a funny drug. It gets the user high, but has a habit of driving anyone around them into a twitching meth-head rage. So, some rich kids go out looking to party at Teddy’s abandoned digs. Then one of them drops Dixie. I’ll lay you ten-to-one it was the kid being eaten. Now we’re left with only one question.

How did these prom kings and queens end up with the stuff in the first place? You don’t buy it like weed from Kenny behind the 7-Eleven. These days, you can’t even get it in L.A., yet these nobodies got some. And they used it at Teddy’s. Teddy wanted to eat me. I saw Teddy die. I’m connected to the place. I get a hollow feeling in my stomach that this is more Wormwood hijinks. Maybe someone figured out that it was me at Burgess’s place or with Charlie’s car. Maybe this is payback.

Trotsky is really going at it behind my eyes.

Kasabian says something and laughs. I can’t hear him. I go upstairs and get my coat. Go out and gun the bike into traffic. It isn’t Trotsky anymore. It feels like Death rattling around in my skull. I keep the shades on. It’s the only way I can stand the lights.

I don’t think. I just point the bike and head across town.

IT DOESN’T TAKE long to get back to the high school. The bouncer at the gym door recognizes me and lets me straight in.

I’m late. The empty pool is surrounded by shirtless, sweating men showing bruises and a few cuts. I don’t waste time watching the fight going on in the pit. The bench at the far end of the place is clear. I take off my shirt and boots and head for the other fighters.

The yellow-toothed pit boss intercepts me on the way over.

“It’s good to see you back, friend. I thought we’d lost you.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Good. Idle hands and all that. Have you thought more about what we talked about? The offer stands. I can get you a paying fight tomorrow night.”

“Like I said, it’s a busy time. I haven’t had time to think about it.”

He pats my arm.

“No worries. We’ll talk after.”

“Sure.”

“Have a good time.”

“I plan to.”

The current fight ends with a broken nose and a few teeth scattered on the bottom of the pool. The fighters bro-hug it out before climbing from the pit. The pit boss whistles at me and points down. I climb the ladder onto the killing floor.

The guy who comes down with me is a mess. He’s almost as scarred as me. Not a big guy. He’s more like one of those grim, wiry fucks you see in small-time southern pro wrestling circuits. Mean street fighters and carny brawlers who’ll take on all comers. They’re not big on technique because they fight like rabid wolves, flat out the whole time.

This could be fun.

We stare at each other from across the ring. When the pit boss gives us the signal to fight, Wolf Man runs straight at me. I sidestep him and he practically slams into the pool wall. It doesn’t bother him in the least. He pushes off and comes at me again, this time ducking at the last minute, going for my legs. I get a knee up and he cracks his skull on it. The men around the pool cheer. The Wolf Man rocks back, but shakes it off. He rushes me again and this time I let him grab me around the waist. Thirty seconds into the fight and he’s sweating like a pig doing wind sprints. The sweat smells funny too. He’s high on something. Angel dust to cut the pain? Maybe this fight will be interesting after all.

I throw a couple of medium-hard punches to the back of his neck. He doesn’t even notice. He still has his arms around me, trying to throw off my balance and get me onto the floor. His head is pressed against my belly, exposing one side of his face. I throw a medium, then hard punch into his temple. That loosens his grip. I push him back and give a love tap on the jaw. It staggers him, but doesn’t do any real damage. Just pisses him off even more. He comes at me, throwing batshit fists and elbows at my head. I take it all, letting him punch Trotsky right out of my skull.

When it gets boring, I throw two hard shots low into his ribs, doubling him over. Shove him upright and stick a heel kick into his sternum, not hard enough to break bones, but enough to hurt. Then I move in. I was hoping for André the Giant and got a hillbilly tweaker. I don’t know what the pit boss was thinking. Fuck them both.

I bounce the Wolf Man off the wall a couple of times and he goes down flat on his back. I stand there a minute; he doesn’t move. Stupid me, I think the fight is over. I turn my back on him and head for the ladder, pissed at everyone for setting me up with such a shit fight.

Then my head explodes.

The Wolf Man was playing possum, waiting for me to do exactly what I did. When I turned my back, he grabbed a chunk of broken concrete from the edge of the pool and got me on the back of the head. How do I know? Because he comes around in front so I can see him swing the concrete again. I try to move, but he hits me on the cheek, opening up a nice gash. I feel the blood gush down my chin and onto my chest. He comes at me again and I spit in his face. That stops him long enough for me to get back on my feet.

The damned concrete block is almost as big as his head. When he uses it, it pulls him off balance. I let him swing one more time, and while he’s off center I hammer his face. It’s a beautiful sensation when I feel the bone around his left eye crack.

He drops the concrete and grabs the side of his head, banshee-screaming. Slipping behind him, I wrap an arm around his neck, squeezing his throat and carotid artery like a two-dollar accordion.

I almost have him unconscious, but he’s sweating so hard it’s difficult to hold on properly. He moves his head enough to ease the pressure on his neck, then grabs my left arm and bites down. It doesn’t hurt, the prosthetic never hurts, but I feel something rip. A funny sound travels around the crowd above us and I get a bad feeling. With a handful of the Wolf Man’s hair, I smash his head into the side of the pool until he falls over. He’s breathing, but this time he’s not getting up.

There are no cheers. No boos. It’s dead silence. I look down at my left arm and it’s exactly what I was afraid of. The Wolf Man’s teeth ripped half the skin off my Kissi prosthetic. There’s nothing else to do now. I tear the rest of the skin off and shove it into the Wolf Man’s mouth. When I climb out of the pool, everybody backs off. The only one who moves is the pit boss. He comes over, his face wrenched in disgust, like he found his darling daughter banging Gregor Samsa.

“I don’t know who or what the fuck you are, but get out of here and never come back.”

I reach behind my head, come back with a handful of blood, and toss it on the floor. The pit boss jumps back. Everybody does. It might be radioactive.

I go to the bench and get dressed. No one follows me, but I make sure everyone sees me putting the Colt revolver into the waistband of my jeans.

Quietly, I push through the door, outside into the warm spring dark.

The bouncer says, “Calling it early tonight?”

“You could say that.”

I reach into my pocket and take out the sunglasses. Hold them up.

“You want these? I won’t need them anymore.”

He takes the shades and looks them over. Nods.

“Thanks.”

I hold up a hand and walk to the bike.

“You know you’re bleeding, right?” he shouts.

“Sometimes you deserve to. You know?”

“I know,” he says. Then, “Keep it real, man. See you soon.”

“Not likely. Enjoy the glasses.”

I cruise into the street and head home.

Well, there it is. An hour ago I was feeling superior to Vidocq and Abbot’s bullshit and then I went out and broke my promise to Candy. There’s no way I can hide these cuts and bruises from her. I’m not going to try. I deserve whatever happens. Candy was so worried about me leaving her last night. Now I’m the one worried about what she’s going to do when she sees me.

At least one thing worked out. My headache is gone.

SHE COMES HOME late. I’ve showered and the cuts are already healing, but I still look like I shaved with a wheat thresher. Candy stops in the doorway. Comes over and takes my face in her hands.

“What happened to you?”

“I’m okay.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I look down at her.

“What happened is that I have no idea what’s wrong with me. Without action I fall apart. Maybe you’re right about the PTSD thing.”

“I am and you know it.”

“I’m seeing Allegra tomorrow. I’ll talk to her about it.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

She looks at me hard.

“Is this about me and Alessa?”

“No. It’s me and my shit strictly.”

“You better tell me if it’s anything else.”

“I will.”

She lets go of me.

“I’m pretty pissed at you right now.”

“You should be.”

She crosses her arms.

“If it wasn’t about last night, what set it off?”

“There’s such a shit storm in my head. Vidocq might be in love with Liliane. Abbot’s a liar. I’m a liar. Oh yeah, and some kids ate another kid alive tonight and it might be my fault.”

She leads me to the sofa.

“Tell me everything and I mean everything.”

So, I do.

And she doesn’t leave me.

At the end of it, she leans back and says, “Poor kids. Poor Allegra.”

“Yeah.”

She takes my hand, still hanging on to the barbed-wire bucket of shit with me. If I came back from Hell for anything, it was for this. Fuck the world. If the whole planet was on fire, I’d stay on this sofa with Candy and let it burn.

“We’re in it till the wheels come off, you know,” she says.

“Till the wheels come off.”

We sit there together like that until she falls asleep against me.

WHEN I GET to the clinic, Allegra is waiting for me outside.

She gives me a quick hug and leads me to a café around the corner. When I was dragged Downtown, Silver Lake was still thrift shops, dingy little corner groceries, working-class bars, people cooking on hot plates in garages, and low-level dope dealers. Now it’s Wi-Fi-enabled omelets and gluten-free Vespas.

The café Allegra takes me to has all kinds of local handicrafts on the walls. Handblown glass sculptures. Elaborate ponchos and serapes. Artsy photos of shadows and empty parking lots. In another life I would have pegged the stuff as hippie junk, but the prices are aimed strictly at people who’ll pay hundreds for vintage Chuck Taylors and ironic children’s watches.

“Not a word,” says Allegra when she sees me looking around. “This place has good coffee and these people are my neighbors. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I’m not saying anything. I was just admiring the hundred-dollar doilies. They’d look charming in my gun drawer.”

She looks at me.

“What are you drinking, Stark? I’m buying.”

“Coffee. Black.”

“I’ll get you an espresso. You can play with the little cup when you’re done.”

“I’ll get us a table.”

I find one by the window and settle down. Check my reflection in the glass. The bruises are fading and the gash on my cheek is healing fast. Still, you’d have to be on the space station to miss it. The knot on the back of my head from the concrete throbs, but Trotsky is nowhere to be found. I’ll take a few bruises for that.

Allegra brings our coffee and sits down, smiling at me.

“What?” I say.

“Are you going to tell me about your face or am I going to have to play twenty questions?”

“It’s nothing. I was in a fight I could have avoided, and got what I deserved.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she says. “No trouble at home, then?”

“Home is fine. What about you?”

She picks up a packet of brown sugar and pours it into her latte.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Eugène is playing like nothing is going on with his lady love, but I’m not stupid. It might not be so bad if they didn’t spend half their time speaking French like they don’t want me to know what they’re saying.”

“I’m sure it’s not that. Vidocq just misses jabbering like when he was in France. He’ll get over it in a couple of days.”

“He better. I’m about to throw him and Madame Defarge out of the clinic.”

“They’re there now?”

She nods.

“Fairuza is keeping an eye on them for me.”

I taste my espresso. It’s good. Dammit. How am I supposed to hate people if they make good coffee?

“You can’t keep doing this. I know you’re trying to be all reasonable, but if they’re bugging you this much, you need to say something.”

“I know. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you. Will you come with me when I tell Her Majesty to hit the road?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.”

We both drink our coffee. I clear my throat.

“Listen. This PTSD bullshit everyone wants to talk to me about. Hell. I don’t know.”

“Chihiro told me about your headaches.”

“What did she say?”

She sips her coffee like she’s thinking.

“Have you ever considered that they’re psychosomatic? One of your PTSD symptoms?”

I look around the café, hating it more all of a sudden.

“Even my headaches are crazy? That’s fucking beautiful. So what’s next? Electroshock. Candy’s hoping you can fix me.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Can you? I’m as tired of this as she is.”

Allegra looks surprised, but tries to hide it.

“I know a couple of Lurker-friendly psychiatrists I could recommend.”

I lean my arms on the table.

“No shrinks. No yoga or positive visualization. I need something that will actually help.”

“There are some medications we could try.”

I drop my head onto my arms for a second.

“I was afraid you would say that. Will that stuff even work on a half angel?”

She shrugs.

“Sometimes with psych meds it’s like whacking the side of a radio. You have to keep hitting it until something works.”

“Or breaks.”

“That tells you something too.”

I look around the café. It feels stuffy all of a sudden.

“Fuck. I’m like some kid who can’t sit still without his Ritalin.”

“Ritalin and some other drugs actually help people. Look, if civilian medications don’t work, I have some Sub Rosa things we can try.”

“I like the sound of that. Let’s try the Sub Rosa stuff first.”

“You’re willing to try then?”

I finish my coffee.

“Yeah. I’ll try.”

She wipes her lips with a napkin.

“Okay, then. Let’s go get you stoned.”

“You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“I’m usually pulling bullets out of your backside, so, yes, prescribing medication is a welcome change.”

We get up.

“Okay, Dr. Frankenstein. Let’s go. And we’ll give Edith Piaf the boot too.”

“I’m more than ready for that,” Allegra says.

We go around the corner to the clinic. Fairuza gives me a look when I come in.

“Nice look, Stark. Did Candy whack you with a rolled-up newspaper for not picking up your socks?”

“Go play your drums, young lady. You’re not good at comedy.”

“I’m playing my drums tonight. The whole band is getting together. You should come by.”

“Maybe I will.”

Allegra looks at Fairuza and cocks her head at the exam room door.

“They still in there?”

Fairuza rolls her eyes.

“Madame Curie asked me to leave. I was cramping their research.”

“Fuck that,” says Allegra, and heads for the door. I have to trot to keep up.

We go through and she shuts it again. Vidocq and Liliane turn around. Vidocq grins when he sees me.

“James. I have things to show you,” he says.

“Yes. We’ve learned a lot in the last day,” says Liliane.

“Great,” says Allegra. “Eugène can tell him about it. You, I want out of here.”

Vidocq and Liliane look at each other.

“Allegra. I don’t understand,” he says.

“No, you don’t and we’re going to have a serious talk about that when Miss Thing leaves.”

Liliane sets down the forceps she was holding. She says, “I’m sorry if I offended you in any way. That was never my intention.”

“I don’t care about your intentions. I’d just like you to leave.”

“But we’ve made discoveries together,” says Vidocq. “We know so much more about the black milk.”

“After she leaves,” says Allegra.

Liliane puts her hands together.

“Before I go, may I please show you all one thing?”

“No.”

“It has to do with James,” she says.

“What do you mean?” says Vidocq, looking surprised.

“Please. Let me show you.”

Vidocq looks at Allegra.

“Fine,” she says. “But then she goes.”

“Of course,” says Liliane. To me she says, “May I see the drill for a moment?”

I bring it over to her. She takes it and opens the mechanism.

“Stay here so you can see,” she tells me.

I look at her working. She puts the top on the vial of black milk and holds it up for me to see.

I nod.

“Now what?”

“Watch.”

She takes the vial and snaps it into place inside the drill.

“It’s a syringe?” says Vidocq.

“Yes,” she says. Then lunges at my arm.

I back up, too fast for her reach.

Vidocq shoves her against the counter.

“Liliane. What is this?”

“Shut up, you oaf,” she says, and stabs the syringe into his throat. “Die like you should have died in Paris.”

Vidocq collapses, his face turning blue. Allegra screams. While I’m looking at him Liliane comes at me again. I grab her arm and toss her across the room back toward the door. She lands close to Allegra. Liliane swings the syringe at her, but Allegra sees it coming and ducks. She grabs a scalpel off the counter and jams it full force into Liliane’s chest.

The syringe hits the floor and Liliane goes down with it. She’s hurt, but pulls out the scalpel and throws it away. A stab in the heart didn’t stop her before. Liliane throws herself at the syringe, but Allegra steps on her hand. Grabs the syringe and slams it into the side of Liliane’s neck. She rolls away, gasps, and pulls the syringe out. But it’s too late. She’s turning as blue as Vidocq.

“Eugène!” Allegra shouts.

I grab him from the floor and put him on the exam table. His face has gone from blue to black.

I look at Allegra.

“What do we do?”

She scrambles to the cabinets, throwing bottles and boxes onto the floor until she finds what she’s looking for. It’s a bottle full of a pale liquid. With trembling hands, she takes a long heart syringe and sticks it through the top, drawing out a large portion of the liquid. I tear open Vidocq’s shirt and she slams the needle into his chest, hitting the plunger when it’s inside. He convulses a couple of times. Breathes once and falls back onto the table. Allegra is crying.

I grab her arm.

“What was that?”

It takes her a second to get it out.

“I put him in the Winter Garden.”

The Garden is a kind of hoodoo coma. It stops all activity in a body pretty much indefinitely. It’s good for poison and zombie bites. Anything where you don’t have a handy antidote in your pocket.

I check Vidocq’s eyes. They’re all pupil.

“Is the Garden going to work?”

“How the hell do I know?” she says. “I couldn’t think of anything else.”

I go over and put an arm around her. Allegra holds on to my coat.

The door opens up and Fairuza sticks her head in.

“Your two o’clock is here.”

She takes one look at Liliane on the floor, skin turning black and blood on her chest, and almost screams. I grab her and pull her into the room.

When Fairuza can look up from the floor, she sees Vidocq laid out.

“What happened to Eugène?”

I hold her by the shoulders.

“We can talk about that later. Right now you need to be very cool. Go out there and tell the two o’clock they have to reschedule. Can you do that?”

She nods and I look at her hard.

“And try to look a little less like you just saw Darby Crash’s ghost. Got me?”

She nods again. Takes a couple of deep breaths.

“I’m okay.”

“Good. Go out there, tell them the story, and stay there until I come out for you.”

“Okay.”

I open the door and push her through.

Allegra is still by Vidocq with her hand on his chest, which is crisscrossed with blackened blood vessels.

Allegra isn’t crying anymore. She looks at me. Her voice is raspy when she speaks.

“What the hell just happened?”

“I’m so fucking stupid. Liliane is with Wormwood.”

“How do you know?”

“She knew the thing wasn’t a drill. Only one way she’d know that.”

Allegra looks puzzled.

“They sent her to kill Eugène?”

“No. Me. But Vidocq was the way in. She could get to me and use him to find out what we knew about black milk.”

She strokes Vidocq’s brow.

“She was always going to kill him, wasn’t she?”

“She came here for me.”

“Then she just did Eugène for fun.”

I nod.

“Yeah. A two-hundred-year-old grudge.”

Allegra’s hands shake. I look at her.

“She would have done you too, you know.”

She ignores me.

“I just killed someone,” she whispers.

“You saved both of us. Liliane wasn’t going to stop.”

She looks up at me.

“What do I do? Call the police?”

I go over to her.

“No. Too many cops are on the take. Let me handle the body. You stay with Vidocq.”

She looks down at him.

I put the syringe in my pocket. Straighten Liliane’s body, then grab some paper towels to wipe her blood off the floor. I pile them on her chest and look back at Allegra.

“I’m going to need some garbage bags and duct tape. Also, your car. Mine is still dead.”

She goes to her purse and hands me the keys. I pocket them.

Fairuza knocks on the door. Opens it a crack and sticks her head in.

“Everyone is gone,” she says.

She looks at the bodies.

“Can I go too?”

“Of course,” Allegra says.

Before she can go, I take her arm.

“No one gets to know about this. You’ll put yourself in danger. Understand?”

“Yes,” she says.

“I want you to go straight home. You’re going to freak out in a while. That’s okay as long as you don’t tell anyone about this.”

She nods.

“Normally, I’d say call me, but I’m going to be busy. You can talk to Candy.”

“We’re supposed to rehearse tonight.”

“Rehearsal is off. I’m going upstairs to get her.”

I leave them in the exam room and go up to Julie’s office. Give Candy a quick rundown of what happened.

“Tell Julie you have a family emergency or something and come downstairs.”

“Right.”

I go back to the clinic. I don’t want to leave Allegra or Fairuza alone with a body for too long.

Fairuza is standing with Allegra by Vidocq when I get back. She’s pale and looks like she wants to throw up, but she’s keeping it together.

Candy comes in a couple of minutes later. I go to her.

“Fairuza is in no shape to drive. You’re her friend. You should probably take her home. I’ll stay with Allegra and Vidocq.”

Candy tells Fairuza she’s taking her home. Fairuza hugs Allegra before she goes. Then it’s just the three of us.

“What happens now?” Allegra says.

“We wait until dark. Then I can move the body.”

She laughs a little. “‘Move the body.’ You’re moving a body for me.” She looks at me. “Hell of a coffee date, huh?”

“It’s going to be a hell of a night too. You ready for that?”

“Guess I have to be.”

“I’m going to fix this. We’re going to get him back.”

“How?”

I go over and put a hand on Vidocq’s shoulder. It’s rock hard, like rigor mortis.

“We don’t know exactly how black milk works, but my guess is regular drugs aren’t going to affect it.”

“What will?”

“Angel blood. It’s the only thing I can think of with those kind of healing powers.”

“Can we use yours?”

“I’m just a nephilim My blood might make things worse.”

“What are we going to do, then?”

I bring a chair to Vidocq’s body so Allegra can sit down.

“I’m going to find an angel. They’re going to give me their blood or I’m going to take it.”

“It’s that simple, is it?” she says, shaking her head. “What’s going to happen with Wormwood?”

“You let me worry about that.”

“Are you going to hurt someone?”

“I’m going to do a lot worse than that.”

She looks at me.

“Good.”

Candy comes back an hour later. She sits with Allegra.

It’s a long wait for sundown.

THE LA BREA Tar Pits are on Curson Avenue between Sixth Street and Wilshire.

I wait until three thirty in the morning before taking Liliane to Allegra’s Prius, where I dump the body in the hatchback and drive across town. I stop for all red lights. I drive the prevailing speed of the other traffic. I’m as solid a citizen as L.A. has ever seen.

I stop the Prius at Curson and Wilshire, out of sight of the streetlights and any security cams at the Tar Pits. After I whisper some Hellion hoodoo, the lights along the whole stretch of Curson blow out. I pop the hatch and grab Liliane’s body. The Prius I leave on Wilshire. There’s enough traffic on the street that the car won’t look too funny if cops come by.

With the body over my shoulder, I sprint to the Tar Pits. She’s heavy. There are a couple of stolen cinder blocks in the garbage bags with Liliane’s body.

The fence around the pits is about eight feet high. I toss the body over and climb in. The problem with tar is that bodies sink slowly. You have to toss them far enough out that they won’t get stuck on shallow ground and so they’ll look as inconspicuous as possible until they disappear.

I spin around like a discus thrower and toss Liliane into the middle of the pit. Before I left the clinic, I sliced a few holes in the garbage bags to let the tar in so the bundle would sink faster. I wait behind a palm tree until only the feet are left showing, then climb the fence and head back to the car. This isn’t the first time I’ve dumped bodies at the Tar Pits, but I hope it’s the last. I wish I could have had a few more minutes with Liliane to talk things over. Maybe I could have followed her into the Tenebrae if I had some Dream Tea, but I didn’t and I thought all the blood from the Metatron Cube ritual wouldn’t be good for Allegra to see. Anyway, I know where I can find more information and it will be more fun to get it that way.

BACK AT THE clinic, Candy and I go upstairs to the detective agency office. I have her run Charlie Anpu’s license plate. When I have the address, she goes back down to stay with Allegra.

“How is she doing?”

Candy takes a long breath.

“As well as you think. We can’t leave Vidocq here. We have to move him so they can be at home.”

“Kasabian can help. He won’t like it, but tell him I wasn’t asking politely.”

“What if I ask politely? He can be sweet if you talk to him right.”

“I’m not sure if we’re talking about the same guy, but do whatever you have to. Have you spoken to Fairuza?”

“She called a couple of times, but I got her to take some tranquilizers, so she’s out cold.”

“What did you tell the rest of the band?”

“I told them that Fairuza and I were both sick. They believed me.” She half smiles. “Alessa wanted to bring me chicken soup, but I told her it wasn’t a good time.”

“Smart. I have a lot of running around to do before sunup, so I’m going.”

Candy kisses me.

“Be careful.”

“See you soon.”

AT BURGESS’S PLACE in Beverly Hills, I throw some Hellion hoodoo and all the cars on one of the streets explode into flames. The concussion sets off the alarms in all the cars across the street. The security Burgess hired to walk the grounds rush the front of the place. That lets me get around the back. I whisper some Hellion hoodoo to get me through the wards and open the door with the black blade. After looking out the windows for security, I head upstairs.

At least one thing goes right for me today. When I get upstairs to where Geoff is looking out the window, Elsabeth isn’t there.

Burgess freezes when he sees me in the room. I point the Colt at him.

“Where’s the missus?”

“Gone. I sent her away after the other night. I had a feeling it was you.”

“But you weren’t sure? Who else did you think it might be?”

“That’s none of your business.”

I take a couple of steps toward hm. He’s too scared or too dumb to move.

“Is everything okay in Wormwood land? No one is looking for a way out, are they? Or maybe a change in management?”

“You’re way out of your depth here,” he says.

“I usually am. Sit down.”

He does.

“What’s black milk?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“It got into a friend of mine, so it does.”

“Undiluted? My condolences.”

I put the Colt away. I was never going to use it. Too noisy. I take out the na’at, my favorite weapon back when I fought in the arena Downtown. Burgess sits back, not sure what to make of it. I extend the na’at into a whip shape. Snap it a couple of times.

“What’s black milk?”

Burgess gets a funny look on his face.

“Are you going to kill me? Torture me?”

“The second thing, then the first.”

“My security team will be checking on me soon.”

“They’re not going to like what they find.”

He says, “You know that every second you’re here, we’re making a profit, right? Just you breaking in here triggers all sorts of wonderfully complex financial and celestial mechanisms.”

“Is it all just money with you people?”

“Of course not. It’s power. It’s eternity. It’s fun. In this world and the next.”

I snap the na’at at his head. He twitches back from it.

“You’ve had a good time poking me with a stick lately, haven’t you? All the weird shit that’s been going on.”

He brightens.

“You actually watch the news? Good. We had a bet about that too.”

“I’m talking about the massacre at the fried-chicken truck.”

He laughs briefly.

“Yes, that was us. I wasn’t sure you’d recognize the truck. You were so preoccupied last time you saw it.”

“And the kids in Malibu?”

“Of course. Teddy Osterberg wasn’t one of us, but he wanted to be. This was our way of bringing him into the fold.”

“Where did they get the Dixie?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Charlie Anpu?”

He eases back into the chair. Crosses his legs.

“Charles does enjoy his pills.”

“What’s black milk?”

He ticks it off on his fingers.

“Two parts gin. One part vermouth. A dash of bitters.”

This is a waste of time.

I flick the na’at once more, putting it straight through Burgess’s skull. Leave him dead in his chair and head downstairs.

Part of the security team is already back by the pool, sweeping the grounds.

I go to the front window. Get out the Colt and fire four shots through the glass. The pool guards sprint around the side of the house. The ones in the front burst in through the front door. I’m already headed out the back, not climbing the sidewall this time, but the one in the rear.

I drop into a neighbor’s yard and climb out a street over. If they see anything out the window, all it will be is Geoff Burgess strolling across their backyard in the middle of the night.

I keep the glamour on while I circle back to where I parked my bike. I should have known Burgess wouldn’t come around. But I know someone who I think will. I gun the hog and head to Brentwood.

BY THE GATES of Anpu’s walled community, I wish for the millionth time in a month that I had the Room of Thirteen Doors back. Now I have to do things the hard way.

These gated communities used to have guards at the gate. Now it’s all key cards and surveillance. I blow that out with some hoodoo and knock one of the gates loose enough to squeeze through.

Anpu’s place is on a cul-de-sac a couple of blocks up from the entrance. I could break in, but instead I ring the front door. And keep ringing it.

A couple of minutes later a voice comes through an intercom.

“Who the hell is it?”

“It’s me.”

“Who the hell is that?”

There’s a camera lens on the intercom. I step in front of it so Charlie can get a good look at Burgess’s face.

“Geoff? What’s wrong? Come in.”

The door buzzes and I go inside.

I wait in the foyer, and a minute later, Charlie comes stumbling down the stairs in a bathrobe.

“My God, Geoff. You look awful. Why are you dressed like that?”

“It’s a long story. Let’s go to your office.”

“All right,” Charlie says, and I follow him into a room off the front hall. Inside, he closes the door and turns to me.

“Now. What’s the emergency?”

I let the glamour fade. It takes Charlie’s sleepy eyes a few seconds to catch on to what’s happening.

“Oh, dear God.”

“God’s got his hands full, Charlie. It’s just you and me.”

I push him into a chair. He stays put.

I put my hands in my pockets.

“Geoff Burgess is dead. I killed him about an hour ago.”

“Oh God.”

“Stop saying that and pay attention.”

“Yes. Of course. What is it you want?”

I sit on the edge of the desk.

“What’s black milk? And be careful. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Charlie squints, like the question hurts.

“Youth. Freedom from disease and time. Immortality.”

This garbage again.

“I know immortals, Charlie. None of them are happy about it.”

“They aren’t us, are they? We have plenty to do and we’ll have all the time in the world to do it.”

“Because of black milk?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

I take out the syringe. Charlie holds on to the arms of his chair like it’s a lifeboat. I bring it over to him.

“Don’t ask where I got it. It’s from your car, shithead.”

I don’t even think he hears me.

“Is that undiluted?” he says.

“Very.”

His eyes are wide. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone this scared since catching my reflection in a dentist’s mirror.

“Please keep it away,” he says. “It’s poison.”

“I know. What makes it not poison?”

He looks at his lap.

“I can’t tell you.”

“’Cause Wormwood will kill you?”

“Something like that.”

“What do you think I’m going to do to you?”

He seems stumped at that.

“Besides,” I continue, “what do you care? You people are always bragging about your branch office Downtown. Maybe death will be great. Puppies and candy and you on Santa’s knee forever.”

He looks at me. “It’s not death. It’s other . . . things.”

“They’ll go rough on you.”

“Worse than you can imagine.”

“Worse than when I get bored and stick you with the needle?”

He stares across the room. I follow his gaze and see a liquor cabinet.

“Want a drink, Charlie?”

“Very much.”

I take out my flask of Aqua Regia.

“Try mine.”

He looks terrified. I unscrew the top.

“It’s not poison. See?”

I take a big gulp. Hold the flask out to him.

“You don’t have a choice, Charlie.”

He takes a sip. Gags. Tries to spit it out.

I put my hand over his mouth until he swallows. That sends him into a coughing fit.

I get down close to his face.

“Good?”

His wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his robe.

“You drink that?”

“Everyone drinks it Downtown. How’s damnation looking to you now?”

“No one is afraid of damnation anymore. You fixed that.”

“Well, yes and no. There’s still some dispute over the matter.”

“Yes. The angelic war,” he says. “We know everything that happens down there. Whether Heaven opens or not, we’ll be fine.”

“What does that mean?”

He wipes his mouth again. I slap his arm down.

“I asked you a question.”

“I’ve already said too much.”

“What makes you think I won’t torture it out of you?”

He shakes is head.

“I’ve seen your prospectus. Torture isn’t on your list of major assets.”

“Maybe you’re right. But I can be damned clumsy.”

I take out the na’at, extend it into a spike, and let it go. It drops through his foot, pinning it to the floor. He tries not to scream.

“Oops.”

I pull out the na’at. Wipe the blood on his robe and put it away.

“You’re right. That wasn’t as much fun as it should have been. You know anything about PTSD, Charlie?”

“No.”

“Apparently, I have it. A doctor friend is going to give me pills.”

“Congratulations,” he says, folding onto his foot.

I pull a cloth off a nearby table, knocking a Tiffany lamp and some other expensive junk onto the floor. Toss the cloth to Charlie. He wraps it around his oozing foot.

“What’s the magic word, Charlie?”

He squints again.

“Thank you.”

“Good boy.”

He rocks back and forth in his chair. His heartbeat sounds like Tommy Ramone with a hot poker up his ass.

I take another hit of Aqua Regia and put it away.

“Speaking of pills, what do you know about Dixie Wishbone? As your attorney, I advise you not to lie.”

“If you’ve been in my car, you know the answer to that.”

“Yes, but what do you know about it? Its effects.”

“I know it can unbalance some people.”

“‘Unbalance’ is a nice word. Did you unbalance those kids in Malibu?”

He rocks harder in the chair.

“It wasn’t me.”

“Who was it? Burgess?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I just gave them the pills. It was Eva’s idea.”

“Eva Sandoval?”

“Yes. The witch.”

“Was going after me a power play? Is she trying to knock Burgess off his throne?”

He looks up at me.

“Who knows what goes on in that woman’s head?”

“But you gave her the pills.”

“I already said so.”

“Just trying to be clear.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Count on it.”

He looks around the office, then back at me.

“Don’t and I’ll tell you everything. I’m your inside man.”

“Great. How do you make black milk not poison?”

He does the pained squint again.

“I’ll answer everything but that.”

I flick his foot with a finger. He groans.

“I don’t have to torture you. I can tie you to that chair and set fire to your palatial estate.”

“Go ahead. Anything you can do pales compared to what happens if I tell you more about black milk.”

I look at him hard. Charlie gets uncomfortable and looks at the floor.

I crouch so I can see his eyes.

“I think I got it, Charlie. Wormwood’s not going to torture you. They’re going to kick you out. And when you get to Hell, you’ll be just another sucker up to your eyeballs in shit.”

His nod is almost imperceptible. I stand again.

“Then I’m not going to get much more out of you, am I?”

That does it. He breaks down crying. Big wet sobs and snot running down his face. Things weren’t supposed to go like this for a sharp guy with the inside line on eternity.

“Has anyone set odds for me killing all of you?”

He looks up at me with wet red eyes.

“Y-yes.”

“Are they good?”

He shakes his head.

“There are too many of us. You don’t know all—” He doesn’t finish the sentence because I slash his throat with the black blade.

“I could have killed you quick, Charlie. But you’re responsible for those kids in Malibu and I want you to have some time to think about that.”

He holds his throat with one hand and the armrest of the chair with the other. It’s not going to help. He won’t stay upright much longer.

I close the office door on the way out. His keys are in a crystal candy dish on a table in the hall. I have to try several keys before finding the one for the office. Jam it in the lock and break it off. Then go to the garage and get into the Rolls Phantom. The garage-door remote is on the dashboard. I push the button and drive the Rolls gently out of the cul-de-sac. I’ll sneak back in for the bike later.

Repairmen and a couple of rent-a-cops are by the broken gate when I get there. The one working gate is open. The cops wave the Rolls carrying Charles Anpu straight through. I wear his face all the way home.

The Rolls I leave on Sunset so the authorities won’t have any trouble finding it. Before I get out, I think about all that cash in the trunk. Half a million would buy an awful lot of tamales. But it’s Charlie’s money and that makes it Wormwood’s money.

I go across the street and bark some Hellion hoodoo. The Rolls explodes into a million-dollar ball of fire.

It takes a while to get a cab back to the clinic. I want to say that I feel totally righteous and beatific about what I did tonight. But the sad truth is, a little part of me thinks about the money all the way down Sunset.

TURNS OUT CANDY and Allegra never got hold of Kasabian last night. It’s probably for the best. His idea of a crisis is when a customer is a day late returning a video.

Just before dawn, Allegra and I roll Vidocq to her Prius in a wheelchair she had in the back of the clinic. I move him into the backseat, then back into the chair when we get him home.

Allegra and I lay him out in bed. She stays with him while I help Candy make coffee. It’s a good way to give them some alone time. We hang around in the kitchen waiting for the water to boil.

“Did you find out anything last night?” says Candy.

“A lot, but nothing that’s going to cure Vidocq.”

“Is there anyone else you can talk to?”

“Again, a lot, but after what Charlie Anpu told me, I don’t think anyone in Wormwood is going to come clean.”

She picks up two jars of ground coffee.

“Would Allegra want French roast or Colombian?”

“I don’t think she wants anything French right now.”

“Shit,” says Candy. Then, “What are we going to do?”

“I need to find an angel.”

“How are you going to do that?”

I don’t answer her right away. I wish the goddamn water would boil.

“Stark? How are you going to do that?”

“I wish I knew how to get back the angel that attacked me at Musso’s.”

“Let’s assume you can’t. What then?”

The kettle whistles and Candy turns off the flame.

I brush some bread crumbs off the counter.

“If the angels won’t come to me, I’ll have to go to the angels.”

“You mean Hell. How are you planning on getting there?”

“I have no idea.”

She scoops the Colombian into a coffeemaker and pours in water. Hits the on button. I don’t know if she’s mad at me for bringing up Hell or for making her think of ways to talk me out of it.

She looks at me.

“I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t even know if I can get there. And you got sick the one time you went.”

“A lot of that was shock and being scared out of my mind. I’m over that now.”

“I don’t know.”

“The last time you went down there alone you didn’t come back for a hundred days. I thought you were dead. I swear, if you do that to me again, I won’t be here when you get back.”

I don’t need any tricks to know she’s telling the truth.

“Like I said, I don’t know if I can even do it.”

“Yes, you do. You always figure out these things. Take me with you or I’m gone. I don’t like ultimatums any more than you do and I’ll never give you another, but I mean this one.”

I touch the gash on the side of my face. It’s almost gone, but it’s going to add another scar to my collection.

“All right. But you do what I say down there, including leaving me and getting out if things go wrong. That’s my ultimatum for you.”

She looks at me hard, hating me right then.

“Okay. I’ll leave if you say so, but don’t say it to be heroic. Only if there’s no alternative.”

“Deal.”

“How long will it take to get ready?”

“We could do it tonight if I knew how to get there. I have the guns. I have Spiritus Dei to prep the bullets. You can wear some of my old body armor. That’s nonnegotiable.”

“Don’t worry. I like the sound of body armor.”

“Then all I have to do is figure out a way.”

The coffee machine burbles in the background.

She says, “What about Allegra and Vidocq? We can’t leave them alone.”

“Brigitte can help with that.”

“She’s making a movie.”

“Then she can come by between takes. Is there anyone else you trust who can handle themselves in a fight?”

Candy frowns.

“You think there might be trouble?”

“I doubt it. After last night, they’ll be after me. But we need a killer in place on the off chance I’m wrong.”

“I’ll call her if you want.”

“Tell her anything you want. Just make sure she brings her gun.”

Coffee drips from the maker into the pot below.

“I guess this isn’t a good time to ask if you talked to Allegra about the other thing.”

“You can say it. PTSD. And yes, I did. She said she had some pills that might help. But I’m not sure this is the time for me to get too reasonable.”

“You’re probably right,” she says. Comes over and hugs me. “We need monster you a little longer.”

It’s a relief to hear. The idea of Allegra’s drugs scares me more than anything I faced in the arena. I’ve had my mind messed with before. Doing it voluntarily is not something I’m looking forward to.

“What are you going to tell Alessa?”

“The same thing I told Julie. A family emergency.”

“You think Fairuza can keep her mouth shut?”

She blinks.

“I don’t know.”

“I think she’s going to talk sooner or later.”

“What do we do about that?” she says.

“Vidocq has potions that might make her forget.”

“No. I don’t want to do that to her.”

“The good thing is that she doesn’t trust the cops any more than we do. That means she’s going blab to a friend. Who are her friends?”

“A couple of other Luderes. Kasabian. Cindil. She and Alessa have gotten close too.”

I lean against the counter.

“Cindil owes me for getting her out of Hell, so she won’t talk. The Luderes worry me, so we need to let her blow off steam somewhere else.”

The coffeepot is full. Candy fills three cups.

“Maybe she can talk to Kasabian,” she says.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

Candy hands me a cup. I take a gulp. It’s too hot, but I’m grateful for a caffeine fix after a long day and night.

I look at her.

“I’m worried about Alessa too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Even if Fairuza talks to Kasabian, if she, Cindil, and you know about this, someone is going to let something slip during a band rehearsal or something.”

“What can we do about that?”

I stand there for a minute running the options over in my head. They’re all rotten.

“Maybe you need to talk to her.”

She puts down her coffee.

“You really think so?”

“Tell her about yourself. Not that you’re Candy or a Jade. But enough to let her know that Chihiro is deep in the Sub Rosa world. And that it’s sometimes dangerous.”

Candy doesn’t say anything.

“Can you do that?”

“If you think it’s a good idea.”

“I do.”

She looks at the clock on the wall.

“I wonder if it’s too early to call Brigitte.”

“It’s probably too late. She’ll be on the set already.”

“Maybe you should call her. I’ll talk to Kasabian.”

“Right.”

We bring coffee into the bedroom. Allegra smiles at it, but sets the cup on the bedside table without drinking any.

Candy stays with her while I leave a message for Brigitte.

“Call me as soon as you get this. And make sure to load your gun.”

That should get her attention.

I go in with Allegra while Candy calls Kasabian.

She sighs and looks at me. Lifts her hands. Lets them drop again.

I sit on the end of the bed.

“We’re going to fix this, Candy and me.”

“I know you’ll try.”

“You take care of us. Now we’re going to take care of you.”

She reaches over and squeezes my hand.

“Thank you.”

“It might take a couple of days. Will he keep that long?”

She bites her lip.

“I don’t know. In theory.”

“Then that’s the one we’ll go with.”

“You’re still planning on finding an angel?”

“Yes.”

“How are you going to do that?”

I look at the bedside table.

“Your coffee is getting cold.”

She picks up the mug and takes a sip.

I look at Vidocq.

“Candy and I have a plan. Don’t worry.”

“Then I won’t. Just do it quickly.”

“With luck, we’ll be moving tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.”

I get up.

“You won’t be alone. Brigitte will be with you.”

She nods.

“I’m glad Liliane is dead, you know. I keep trying to feel guilty about what I did, but I’m just numb.”

“You had no choice.”

“Is this how it is for you? You look at yourself killing someone and it’s not you. It’s you watching a movie of yourself.”

“I have my bad nights, but the kind of people I kill, I’m okay with.”

“But you do have bad nights.”

“Here and there.”

“I want to have bad nights. I don’t want to be like that.”

“Like me? Don’t worry. You’re not.”

She takes another sip of coffee.

“What are you going to do?”

“First I’m going to buy some groceries. Then, when the sun goes down, I’m going to take a long drive.”

“Do what you have to.”

Candy comes back in.

“I spoke to Kasabian. He’ll do it.”

I look at the bedside clock.

“The stores won’t be open yet. There’s nothing we can do right now. I’m going to lie down. That all right with you?”

Allegra nods without looking up.

Candy follows me out into the living room. We take some pillows off the sofa and lie down. It’s a tight fit, but it doesn’t matter. Even with the caffeine in my system, I’m asleep in a couple of minutes.

This is where I’m meant to be. I’m Heaven’s Abomination. I’m a monster. I’m going to Hell. And I’m completely at peace. My sleep is deep and comforting. No more nightmares for me.