Killing Pretty

IF KASABIAN WASN’T such a drama queen he’d remember that things weren’t so bad at the Beat Hotel. We stayed there a few weeks after an ill-­behaved zombie horde overran L.A. and trashed Max Overdrive early last year.

The hotel is near the glamorous strip mall and parking lot by the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Gower, and right across from the Museum of Death. The front of the hotel is painted a shade of green no one asks for, but just sort of happens. The place is a dump, but I love it. The rooms are reasonably sized and the decor is sort of a cross between seventies swinger and halfway house. The kitchens are the best rooms, explosions of reds, yellows, and glitter, like someone’s bell-­bottoms exploded on the way to a Ziggy Stardust concert.

Candy and I get settled into our room and Kasabian and Vincent settle into theirs. None of us are on the hotel’s register because we don’t know how long we’re going to have to crash here and we don’t want anyone knowing where we are. While I put away our clothes on the crooked wire hangers in the closet, Candy calls Julie back.

I can only hear one side of the conversation, but I can tell when Julie asks about the stakeout because Candy turns a little white and changes the subject.

“Max Overdrive was padlocked shut and the county put a spell on the place to keep ­people out. Be careful to take your work with you whenever you leave and back up everything else off-­site.”

There’s a pause as Candy listens. Then she says, “I’ll get you a report in the morning.”

Another pause and she says, “What? Are you sure?”

She goes to the little kitchen and opens her laptop on the plastic table, types in a URL.

“Oh shit.”

I sit down beside her.

“What’s wrong?”

She turns the laptop so I can see the screen.

“Julie just told me about it.”

It’s a headline on the New York Times site. Two ­people have died. A young boy in Tulsa and an old woman in São Paulo.

It’s starting.

The new Death is finally getting the hang of things. How soon will it be before he takes the thousands in comas all around the world? And then what does he want?

Candy cruises around the Web, looking at other sites to confirm the Times’s story. It’s all over the place, the first story on every news site on the planet. Naturally, my favorites are the lunatics. Fundamentalist Chris­tians claiming it’s the Tribulation. Other, even crazier groups claiming that somehow it’s the fault of gays and unwed mothers. Techno-­hippies recalculating the Mayan calendar to prove that the 2012ers got it all wrong. Conspiracy freaks linking the situation to everything from the Kennedy assassination to 9/11 to lizard-­men flying-­saucer bases in the center of the earth. And then there’s the hucksters, selling everything from magnetic prayer beads that cure your arthritis while mainlining your prayers to God to homeopathic cures for “the death virus released by global warming.” There’s even a black metal band in Norway that committed mass suicide so they can be the first group to play a concert together in Valhalla.

Humanity’s best and brightest step up to the plate again. You’ve got to love ’em.

An hour later, Kasabian and Vincent come in. Kasabian is in a wrinkled tracksuit and Vincent is in an ancient Resident Evil T-­shirt three sizes too big. Maybe I should have taken a little more time when I was grabbing clothes at Max Overdrive.

Kasabian drops onto the threadbare sofa and fires up the TV, scowling as he zips through the station listings.

He says, “I’d forgotten how much hotel on-­demand movies suck. It’s like we’re stuck in a mall in Iowa still showing Lethal Weapon 3.”

He wads up a Chinese-­restaurant menu on the table and throws it at me.

“You couldn’t have taken a few discs when you came out of the store?”

I toss the menu in the kitchen trash.

“ ‘Do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you, but rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings.’ ”

“What?” he says.

“It’s from the Bible. I read it in one of those Twenty Thousand Unbelievable Facts books I found in Lucifer’s toilet in Hell.”

“Want to end the world’s suffering? Give out HiDef boxes and decent surround sound systems.”

“You’re the thirteenth disciple, Kas.”

“No, I’m Job. Reduced to an analog picture, one shitty speaker, and a cheap remote the size of a car battery.”

“You’re just spoiled,” says Candy.

“Damn right. And proud of it. These primitives don’t even letterbox their movies.”

I shake my head.

“There’s a special place in Hell for whoever invented pan and scan.”

“I think it’s nice here,” says Vincent.

“So do I,” says Candy, I think less because she likes the hotel and more out of solidarity with Vincent.

Kasabian continues to angrily flip through TV stations.

“Turn on CNN,” I tell him.

He shoots me a look, but does it.

Vincent sits up when he sees the report on the dead boy and the old woman.

“I’m being replaced,” he says. “I no longer have a purpose.”

“Of course you do,” says Candy. “Whatever that thing in the Tenebrae is, it’s not Death. It’s a monster.”

“Monster or not, if it can transport the living to the land of the dead, then it’s the true Death and I’m nothing.”

“It’s done it twice. That’s not a great track record,” I say. “What we need to do isn’t get our feathers ruffled, but figure out a way to get you back home so you can kick that guy’s ass.”

From the kitchen, Candy says, “I think I found something.”

I go in and sit down with her again.

“What is it?”

“Remember how I was looking for Sigrun under ‘actresses’ and ‘singers’? Well, I started adding new search terms like ‘fascist,’ ‘death,’ and ‘magic.’ This is what came up.”

She pulls up a picture of a beautiful young blond woman. I swear I’ve seen the picture somewhere before, but I can’t place it.

Candy sees me trying to place her.

“Imagine her as a brunette,” she says.

I look again.

“Are you kidding me?”

“I found a ­couple of more like it. They all look like her.”

“When was the picture taken?”

“Sometime in the early twenties.”

“Fuck me.”

“Later. Should I call Julie?”

I go to the living room. Grab my coat and check for the Colt, the black blade, and na’at.

“Make the call if you want. I’m going out and I’m taking Vincent.”

“Are you going to do something stupid?”

“Probably. Want to come with us?”

She has to think about it for a minute. Finally she gets up.

“I’m only going along to keep you from being too stupid.”

“I’m never too stupid. I’m just stupid enough.”

“That right there is the kind of stupid that worries me.”

“What am I supposed to do?” says Kasabian.

I get the Chinese menu from the trash can.

“Order me some pork ribs in sauce and fried rice.”

“And egg rolls,” says Candy.

“I’ve never had Chinese food,” says Vincent. “Order me anything.”

Kasabian waves as we go out.

“Have a nice night. Fuck you all.”

VINCENT SITS IN the back and Candy rides shotgun. I drive us out to a West Hollywood club called Death Rides a Horse. Back when John Wayne still walked the earth, it was an upscale cowboy bar. Now it’s a cowboy bar, crossed with a rave and a fetish club, and populated mostly with dead ­people. If Death Rides a Horse was in a tourist brochure, it would say that the club is the biggest, baddest, and priciest vampire club in the city. And day and night, human groupies and suckers line up on the boulevard hoping to walk on the wild side and to taste a little bit of eternity.

I’ve been here before, so the bouncers all know me, which means they don’t like me.

I nod to the guy working the door. He’s bearded, balding, and a little pudgy for a vampire. That sometimes happens when you get bitten past a certain age. The ones who get bit young stay pretty forever, but get bitten past fifty and you’re probably going to carry your middle-­age gut and bad knees with you for the next billion years. Welcome to the glamorous world of bloodsuckers.

The doorman shakes his head when he sees me.

“Forget it, Stark. It’s a private party.”

“Not tonight.”

I put my boot into his solar plexus and he flies through the front door like a chunky torpedo.

Candy grabs one of Vincent’s arms and I grab the other. We shove and shoulder our way through the dancing, biting mob inside, all the way to the back, where there’s a roped-­off private table.

When a guard by the table tries to brace me, I break his jaw and toss him onto the dance floor.

The owner of Death Rides a Horse, the grande dame of all of So Cal’s vampires, looks us over with her tombstone eyes.

“Not tonight, Stark. Whatever it is.”

“Are you sure, Sigrun?”

Tykho’s brows come down and she pulls back her lips, reflexively showing her fangs.

“What did you call me?”

I put my arm around Vincent’s shoulder and pull him forward.

“Vincent, meet Tykho. Tykho, meet Vincent.”

Vincent looks at me, then her.

“Tykho Mond?” he says.

“Who are you?” says Tykho.

“We met once,” he says. “In Munich.”

“I don’t know you and I’ve never been to Munich.”

“Yes, you have. It’s where you escaped me.”

She turns her dead eyes back to me.

“I know you’ll cause a scene if I have you thrown out, so tell me what it is you want, Stark.”

“Nothing. I just wanted you two kids to meet. Sigrun, Tykho Mond, whatever the hell your real name is—­meet Vincent. Of course, Vincent is just what we call him around the store. What’s your real name, Vincent?”

“Death,” he says. And his voice carries the feeling of power and danger that I only heard from him once before.

“Very cute, Stark. Now go away or I’ll make your beating part of tonight’s entertainment.”

Vincent grabs the velvet rope surrounding Tykho’s table and starts babbling to her in German. Her eyes widen as he shouts.

One of Tykho’s bodyguards grabs me, and I split open his face with the black blade. It starts healing immediately, but the pain leaves him rolling around on the floor for the duration. Vincent has crashed his way through the velvet rope and is practically climbing across the table to Tykho. They’re still screaming at each other in German. Candy and I are dancing around with a dozen of the club’s bouncers. Candy has already gone Jade. Her eyes, red pinpoints in black ice. Her hands are claws. She rips into the guards with her needle-­sharp shark teeth. Hoping to settle things down, I manifest my Gladius, a flaming angelic sword, and hold it up high, where no one can miss it. Most of the bloodsuckers back off, but one of them grabs a fire axe and rushes me with it. Since it would be rude to kill him in his own club, I just cut off his arm. It goes spinning off across the room. The partiers all think it’s part of the act, and toss the arm around the room like a beach ball at a concert.

I turn just in time to see Vincent grab Tykho’s head so that they’re eye to eye. Tykho begins to scream. She screams for a long time. Long enough that the crowd finally understands this isn’t show biz. It’s a panic attack. The lights still crawl the walls and strobe wildly, but the music stops.

“Everybody out!” Tykho screams. “Now!”

Security, even the one missing an arm, swoop into the crowd, shoving the bloodsucking jet-­setters and immortal hipsters out onto the street, just like any bunch of punks and drunks getting the bum’s rush. When the goons come for us, Tykho waves them off.

“Leave them. Wait here. I’ll be in my office.”

She holds up a finger for silence. I put out the Gladius.

“Not a word here,” says Tykho. “Come with me.”

She looks at Vincent, grabs my arm.

“And keep that creature away from me.”

“Whatever you say, Sigrun. It’s your house.”

She walks away and we follow.

IF IT’S POSSIBLE for someone as pale as Tykho to turn white, that’s just how she looks when we reach her office.

The door is plush leather on the inside, but made of heavy-­gauge steel and secured with a keypad.

The room is Art Deco, polished wood in contrasting shades on the floor and walls forming elaborate patterns. The red leather chairs around the desk have rounded backs and arms, not quite shaped for human bodies. The wooden desk looks like something a Caesar would have, but constructed with graceful lines.

Tykho takes her seat behind the desk and the rest of us drop down into chairs around the room. Candy has her phone out, probably recording the conversation.

I say, “Tell us a story, Tykho.”

She pours and downs a glass of thick vampire booze, blood with red wine and sometimes a little cocaine. She ignores us, running a thumb around her lips and sucking the last of the wine off.

When she’s done she says, “First off, stop calling me ‘Teye-­ko’ all the time. My name is French. It’s pronounced ‘Tee-­ko.’ Fucking Americans.”

“But your last name, Mond, is German,” says Vincent.

“Yes. My mother was French, my father German. Not that it matters.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you cheated me. You cheated Heaven and Hell. You aren’t supposed to be in this world. Not for more than ninety years.”

She smiles.

“And here you are, Todesengel, powerless to do anything about it. I think that means I won.”

“I am not powerless. I’m not much of an angel these days, but I have an angel on my side.”

He holds out a hand indicating me.

“He, I believe, can finish what I couldn’t.”

She flashes me a look.

“You wouldn’t dare. Not on my own territory. You’d start a war.”

I take out a Malediction, light it. Take a long drag and tap ash onto her million-­dollar floor.

“Right now, Tee-­ko, all I want is a story. We know you were part of the ritual that bound Death to this body. How are you connected to a bunch of supernatural skinheads and what do they want?”

Tykho looks off into space. She doesn’t want to answer the question, so Candy jumps in.

“Why disguise yourself, Sigrun?” says Candy.

“Sure—­you can start with that.”

“Back in the day, a lot of us in the völkisch groups used noms de plume.”

I say, “What does your nom mean?”

“It’s the name of a Valkyrie.”

“So you were a Nazi.”

She shakes her head.

“I never cared about politics. I only cared about the real world that lay behind the veil we call the ordinary world.”

“How did you cheat me? What did you do?” says Vincent.

She looks through him like he’s not there.

“I’m a medium. I was. I lost most of my power when I gave up a mortal life. There were several of us in the groups with the gift back then.”

“What groups?” says Candy.

“The two in which I was involved were the Thule-­Gesellschaft and the Vril Society. There were two main mediums in those days. Myself and Maria. Maria Orsic. We worked with other women who claimed to have the gift. I don’t know if they were telling the truth, but what I do know is that one day I saw Death coming for me. So I did something about it.”

“You went out and found yourself a vampire,” I say.

She pours herself more wine.

“We knew many vampires in Munich. All the occult groups did. When I saw Death’s shadow, I wasn’t ready to go, so it was a simple matter to offer myself to a willing vampir.”

Vincent stands up.

“You unbalanced the universe by what you did. The whole line of life and death was disrupted. Innocent ­people died before their time because of you.”

“I don’t care,” she says. “I just knew that I wasn’t ready to go.”

“Tell us about the groups,” says Candy. “What did Thule and Vril do?”

“They were merely occult study groups. Very esoteric stuff. You wouldn’t be interested.”

“I am if it has to do with the Murphy Ranch ritual,” I say.

“What if I say no?”

“Then I’ll kill you. And you’ll be gone and this little empire you’ve built will fall apart because—­you’re right—­there will be a war. But not between shroud eaters and civilians. The bloodsucker factions will all want to take your place and all the world will have to do is sit back and let you rip each other apart. There won’t be enough left of your kind to knock over a taco stand.”

“You’re more right than you probably know,” she says. “All right—­I joined the Thule-­Gesellschaft in 1919, the Vril Society a year or two later.”

“Tell us about Thule,” says Candy.

“The Thule Society was simply an occult study group, looking into the origins of the Aryan race. The name Thule comes from a region far to the north. The top of the world. The capital of ancient Hyperborea. Many in the society believed that this was the origin of the Aryan ­people.”

Candy types furiously on her phone.

I say, “Bullshit. Thule was into all kinds of baleful magic. Demonology. Murder hexes. Possessions.”

Candy studies her phone.

“The Thule Society had a lot of connections to the early Nazi Party. How does that square with an innocent study group?”

“Baleful magic never interested me. I was curious about history. When I joined the group it was believed that the Hyperborean race was a peaceful, enlightened ­people of advanced philosophy and technology. As for the other point, sadly some in the group became involved in right-­wing politics. Like baleful magic, I found it all a bore.”

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “You weren’t into magic. You weren’t into politics. All you wanted to do was exercise your library card. Those must have been some short fucking meetings.”

Tykho sips her wine, ignoring the comment.

“What is Vril?” says Candy.

Tykho sets down her glass.

“Members of Thule and Vril had known each other for some time. When a handful of Vril members joined Thule, we formed an inner circle for more serious and intense study.”

“Studying what?”

Tykho takes her time getting a cigarette from a drawer, tapping it on the desk. I lean across and spark the smoke with Mason’s lighter.

“Studying what?”

Tykho takes a puff and blows smoke my way. I’m used to Maledictions, so her puny smog barely registers.

“There was a theory that some catastrophe destroyed Hyperborea and that the ancient Aryans took refuge underground. They lost most of their culture and technology in the disaster, but in their caverns they developed tremendous mental powers.”

“Like a ‘May the Force be with you’ kind of thing?”

“That’s how an idiot would describe it. Vril was and is believed to be a kind of mental energy that can be directed to create or destroy, sicken or heal, with a thought.”

“What does that have to do with the ritual that bound me to this body?” says Vincent.

“Let her talk,” I say. “I want to hear the whole tall tale. So, you’re trying to find a Nazi Obi-­Wan Kenobi at the center of the earth. What next? How does this hook you up with the White Light Legion?”

“When the more insufferably right-­wing members of the society turned our work increasingly into propaganda for the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, some of us broke away and formed a smaller study group. But things became harder for organizations like ours to function as the Nazis came to power. Hitler was always paranoid about the influence of the occult and all so-­called secret societies and began dissolving them.”

“Wait,” says Candy. “Did the ­people in your group know you’re a vampire?”

“Of course,” says Tykho. “That’s why it was easy to form our own study group. Many believed that my vampiric powers were a crude example of Vril energy.”

“What happened next?”

“Even before Hitler became chancellor, it was clear that the group could no longer function. Several high-­ranking members were arrested and thrown in prison. By 1934, many of us were emigrating to France and Switzerland.”

“Get to the White Lights,” I say.

“The White Light Legion wouldn’t exist for many years. Have you heard of William Dudley?”

“Yes,” Candy says. “Julie gave me some background on him. He was a California fascist back in the twenties. He had some kind of supernatural experience that convinced him he had super mental powers.”

“That sounds kind of like Vril,” I say.

Tykho smiles, puffs her smoke.

“And that’s why in 1935, when members of the society came to the States using forged French passports, they eventually came into contact with like-­minded members of the Pelley’s Silver Legion in New York. One of the Legion members they met was Edison Elijah McCarthy, the man who would go on to found the White Light Legion, based on the occult principles he learned at the feet of William Pelley.”

“How did you end up in California?” says Candy.

“The group wanted to meet Pelley and to get as far away from Europe and the stink of the continent as possible. So they went west.”

I say, “But you weren’t with them, were you?”

“No. They didn’t know that I’d made it to America. When the SA began attacking Lurkers right along with Jews and communists, I left the group and eventually Germany, wanting nothing to do with either ever again.”

“Where were you?”

“I was already in L.A. I ran all the way across America for the same reason they did. I’d been taking elocution lessons, trying to lose my accent and erase my past. I kept my distance from the local German expatriate community, but when I heard about a powerful occult group coming west, I knew who it was.”

“When did you meet them again?” I say.

She taps her cigarette ash into her wineglass. I keep dropping mine on the floor.

“It was in the summer of 1935. Shuna, another medium from back in the Thule-­Gesellschaft days, came with them. She sensed me nearby in the city. Back then, I had enough of my gift left that I sensed it when she found me, so I came out of hiding and contacted her.”

“What happened to them? Are they how you brought the vampire groups together?”

Tykho laughs.

“Hell no. I was done with their fascist nonsense. No, I met Shuna and the rest at the home of one of the Silver Legion’s inner circle.”

“Was it in Laurel Canyon?” I say.

She cocks her head.

“How did you guess? It’s a hell of a power spot. Of course, none of the other members of the group knew I was coming. I was to be a great surprise. A present from Shuna to the group. I suppose I was a surprise in the end. I came through an upstairs window instead of the door and slaughtered every single one of them.”

I crush out my cigarette on the bottom of my boot and drop it with the ashes, pull out Vincent’s knife, and bury it deep in the top of Tykho’s desk.

“Did you use this?”

She looks at it like she’s checking out an antique butter dish.

“Not that one in particular, but there was a knife. I mostly used my hands and teeth. That’s always more fun, isn’t it, dear?”

She looks at Candy. Candy doesn’t take the bait.

“What kind of knife is that?” Candy says.

“You haven’t figured it out?” Tykho says. “I’m disappointed.”

She plucks the knife from her desktop and removes a smaller one from her boot. Setting the big knife on its side, she scrapes away some of the tarry grit on the grip. Underneath is an eagle and an SS thunderbolt.

“It’s an SS officer’s dagger,” she says, “fitted with a witch’s athame blade, to create a National Socialist sacred object. Himmler loved these things. You could get a hell of a price for it on eBay.”

I snatch the knife out of her hand and point it at her.

“You cut up Vincent with this one and I bet you had another for the second body. Who the hell was it and why did you do it?”

Tykho pushes off from the desk and spins around in her office chair like a kid.

“Isn’t it clear by now? Who was the one man still alive with even more will and occult desire than William Pelley?”

She stops the chair and looks at us.

“And who now was old enough to fear death just like I did years ago in Munich? It was the head of the White Lights, Edison Elijah McCarthy. That’s who I killed at Murphy Ranch. McCarthy is the new Death.”

Vincent stares at her. I can’t read his expression. Is it shock and anger, wonder and loss, maybe a mix of all of them? What I know is if I don’t say something, he’ll go on staring at Tykho forever.

So I say, “Here’s what I don’t understand. You say you don’t like these Nazi fucks, or the White Lights, or any other occult bullshit artists, and yet there you were. Out in the sticks with a knife in your hand helping with the ceremony like Suzie Sauerkraut. Why would you do that?”

She looks straight at Vincent.

“What lady doesn’t want Death to owe her a favor?”

Vincent slumps in his chair, his hands clasped together, letting his hands drop between his knees.

“The fascist movement had some power in L.A. in the thirties and early forties, but we’re long past that,” says Candy. “How does the White Light Legion keep going?”

But I know the answer. “Like any other crooks, right, Tykho? Protection. Loans. Easy cash crimes. We know from Wonderland Avenue that they shake down ­people and kill the ones who can’t pay. But with this occult angle there has to be more to it than that.”

“There is,” she says. “A lot more.”

“Want to let us in on some of it?”

“Why should I? You bring me this husk and call him Death? Yes, he was a powerful angel, but look at him now. Why should I say anything more than I’ve already said?”

“Because I’m going to kill the new Death, and when I do, Vincent is getting his old job back. Maybe Edison Elijah McFuckall owes you, but Vincent doesn’t. You might be a vampire now, but even vampires die, and Vincent can wait a long time. Plan all kinds of special surprises for you.”

Tykho spins around once in her chair.

“Fine. Why not? If it will get you out of here for good.”

“No promises. Tell us something charming.”

“How about wild-­blue-­yonder contracts?”

“I know all about those. I’ve been offered one more than once.”

“But do you know where they come from?”

“Where?”

“Right here.”

She throws out her arms.

“Sunny California. You see, a group of necromancers developed the original method after World War One, when death was on everyone’s mind. They sold a few, just enough to finance their own studies and research into deeper, darker arts. Later, other, more ambitious magicians, seeing the potential of the contracts, began working with the necromancers as brokers. This being L.A., they went to where the money and power lay. Hollywood. They started selling them to celebrities, who brought in other celebrities. And the money rolled in. Who do you think runs the blue-­yonder racket now?”

“The White Light Legion,” says Candy.

Tykho nods.

“Through some of the more open-­minded talent agencies around town.”

“Like Evermore Creatives?” I say.

“They’re one of the biggest,” says Tykho. “There’s one more thing I’ll tell you and then you have to go.”

“Make it something good.”

“The ­people you say you saw killed on Wonderland, and others who’ve died in the canyon, what do you think happens to them?”

“The nonfamous blue-­yonders? They become flunkies for the big-­name ghosts. Valets and butlers.”

“Not as many as you might think,” Tykho says. “Think bigger. There’s no profit in maid ser­vice for ghosts.”

I look at Candy and Vincent, but get nothing from them.

“I’m sick of smelling your shit wine. It reminds me of Hell and I don’t need that tonight. What else do the White Lights do with the dead?”

“Entertainment. Spectacle,” she says. “In a show-­business town, the big money is in show business. What can ordinary ­people, with no singing or acting talent, no name and/or status do when they’re dead?”

“Ask me a lot of stupid questions?”

Tykho leans across the desk and speaks quietly.

“Did you hear of an online phenomenon years ago on the Web? It was called bum fights.”

Candy says, “Sure. Frat-­boy assholes would pay homeless ­people to fight. They’d video it and put it online and charge to watch it.”

“Well, imagine what dead souls can do to each other in a dog pit,” Tykho says. “It’s quite a thing to see.”

I say, “Where? I want to see for myself. How do we get in?”

She opens a drawer and tosses an envelope on the desk.

“Here are some passes. They were supposed to be a raffle prize tonight, but you spoiled the party, so you might as well take them.”

I take the envelope and put it in my pocket with Vincent’s knife.

For a minute, I think very hard about killing Tykho. Candy puts a hand on mine.

“Let’s go home. Tykho is more useful with her head on her shoulders,” she says.

“Yes. I really am.”

I have to give it to Candy for keeping her cool. I was two seconds away from putting my Gladius through Tykho’s throat. But like she said, the new Death owes her a favor. How would killing her now hurt her?

I say, “Is there anything else you haven’t told us?”

“Lots,” says Tykho. “But that’s all you get now. You ruined my party and it will take days cleaning and ass-­kissing to fix it. Go now and play save the world like you always do. But when you go to the fights and see the slaughter, remember that those ­people asked to be there. They volunteered their souls.”

“I doubt that,” I say. “No one is going to buy into something like that.”

“You’ve been to Hell. What horrors do you think ordinary ­people will endure on Earth so that they don’t have to go into the Abyss? Go see the fights. Educate yourself.”

We leave Tykho’s office. Candy and I have our guns out, but none of the guards bother us. Vincent doesn’t say a word. Not on the drive back to the Beat Hotel or when we drop him off at his room.

“Good night,” Candy says.

He just stares at her with the thousand-­yard stare of someone who’s been through Hell and knows that whatever happens, he’s never going home again.

CANDY CALLS JULIE and tells her what we found out at Tykho’s club, without going into details of how we got it. I think. I can only hear Candy’s side of the conversation, so I guess it depends on what questions Julie asks. Not much I can do about it either way. Candy tells her we’re going to check out the bum fights and asks if she wants to come with us. We could use the backup. While they’re talking, Candy looks at me and shakes her head. The last thing she says to Julie is “Okay. We’ll call when we get back. Be careful.”

I’m drinking coffee spiked with Aqua Regia.

“Be careful about what?”

“She says there was a car parked across the street all day, and when she left the office, it followed her.”

I hand Candy a nonspiked coffee.

“Should we go after her?”

“She says she’s got it under control. She took a ­couple of turns to lose the tail, then got behind the car. Now she’s following them.”

“Good for her. I hope she doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“So says the man who went into Death Rides a Horse like it was Omaha Beach. I might be able to cover you on what happened outside of Evermore Creatives, but the club? That’s going to be all over town.”

“It was a lot of noise, but no one got hurt.”

“You cut a guy’s arm off.”

“He’s a vampire. It’ll grow back. And we got a lot of useful information. Plus these.” I hold up the tickets.

“I agree. All I’m saying is that Julie might question the approach.”

“I’ll send Tykho roses and a pint of O negative. She’ll get over it.”

Candy blows on her coffee, sips it.

“Do you think it’s a good idea for us to use those fight tickets without backup?”

“Probably. But that’s half the fun.”

“Seriously, what are we going to do?”

“Vidocq and Allegra looked bored last time I saw them. Maybe they’d like a night out.”

“Goody. I’ll call them.”

“Tell Vidocq to bring some potions. I don’t know what the crowd is going to be like tonight. We might need to leave quickly.”

“No arm cutting, please.”

“I’m on my best behavior.”

“Be better than best. Be super best.”

“I’m going to need another drink for that.”

I PICK ALLEGRA and Vidocq up and we head out to the address on the tickets.

Turns out the space is in the old Warehouse District, which L.A. now insists on calling the Art District. I’ve never seen any art this way, but it makes perfect sense that the city would shove whatever artists it has left out to the land of hauling companies, cold-­storage facilities, and train depots.

The address is a two-­story warehouse with several outbuildings off Sixth Street, across the L.A. River, near the viaduct on South Mission Road. There are railroad tracks on one side and a wasteland of faceless storage companies and trucks on the other. If there are any artists around, they’re keeping a low profile—­like subterranean.

The warehouse has a large parking lot, but cars spill out all up and down the length of Mission Road. The cars are a mix of old numbers like the Crown Vic and spit-­and-­polished Caddys and Porsches. There’s even a Rolls-­Royce Silver Cloud, being babysat by a chauffeur with a bulge under his jacket like he’s got a grenade launcher in there.

Outside the warehouse is a mix of methed-­up bikers and street punks with L.A.’s young, beautiful, and stupidly wealthy. The kind of ­people who open Fair Trade cupcake shops and art galleries with names like Paradigm. There are Sub Rosas in both the biker and artisanal asshole groups. I keep my head down and don’t meet anyone’s eye. Last thing I want tonight is to be recognized before I even get inside.

My instincts were right about one thing: it was smart to leave my weapons in the trunk of the Crown Vic. Everyone going into the warehouse gets a pat-­down. A guy with tattoos on his face and a graying jarhead crew cut frisks Vidocq. When he hears something clink, he opens the Frenchman’s coat. Sewn inside are dozens of small pockets for the potions he always carries.

“What the hell are those?” says the crew cut.

“I have allergies,” Vidocq says.

Crew Cut gives him a look, grabs a bottle at random, and sniffs it. He makes a face like a baboon just shit in his mouth.

“What is that stuff?” he says.

“Cobra bile,” says Vidocq. “Very good for digestion.”

The crew cut gives him back the bottle and waves him through, saying, “You want to use that stuff tonight, you take it outside.”

“Of course,” Vidocq says.

Crew Cut has a good time giving Candy and Allegra a thorough going-­over. They deal with his bullshit without a word, but it’s obvious they’d like to pull out the guy’s guts with a boathook. I keep my eyes away from his while he gives me the once-­over. The fucker reminds me of someone, but I can’t quite place him. On the wall above the door is the White Light Legion sigil. The crew cut isn’t in uniform, but he has the Legion’s tattoo on his right arm. It makes sense. Hold the fights at the Legion’s compound. Let them work security and keep all the cash in-­house. They’ll skim from the profits, but letting them handle the muscle work leaves Evermore Creatives to deal with the talent and the public.

It’s stiflingly hot inside. I don’t think the warehouse’s old air-­conditioning unit was meant to deal with a crowd this size. We’re on the top floor. There’s a walkway all around that looks down onto a large ring in the center. Down there, close to the ring action, the crowd is really packed in. There are good seats, up front, close to the ring, and cheaper ones behind, separated from each other by a tall barbed-­wire fence. Uniformed Legion members patrol the area. They keep the peace just by staring ­people down.

They’re packed two deep against the guardrails up here. It’s hard to see anything, so we go around the walkway to check if we can get a better view. There’s a bar in the corner where the well-­heeled smart set can rub elbows with colorful ruffians and share a glass of watered-­down Jack. It’s a real meeting of the minds in here. The UN if it was run by sadistic morons.

I get next to Vidocq and say, “What do you think?”

“I don’t think they’re observing the fire codes,” he says.

“Anything else? Come on. You’ve been around and seen some shit.”

“We had places like this in Paris in the old days. There were dog fights. Men would fight. Even women. I once saw an exhibition where a disreputable sideshow impresario set his charges against one another. Men with no legs fighting men with no arms. Bearded ladies and . . . what’s the word? Pinheads? It seemed like a vision from Hell.”

“Did you do anything about it? Tell the cops?”

“Who do you think kept the peace during the exhibitions?”

Allegra stays close to Vidocq, her arms wrapped around one of his. When we find an open spot along the rail, I let Candy get in front.

There are three ghosts in the ring downstairs. Two of them are working over a third. I recognize the duo act from some old books. Manny King and Joey Franco. A ­couple of enforcers back when Bugsy Siegel was still big man on campus in the forties. They’re going at the other guy with heavy wrenches and baseball bats. I suppose it could be worse. One side of the ring is like a murder wholesale house. It’s full of heavy tools like you’d find in a garage—­chains, crowbars, and even some torches. Kitchen knives and cleavers in another area. Old weapons like something from the Crusades. Swords, morningstars, bell hooks behind them. With all the blood in the ring, it’s hard to remember that all three of these guys are already dead. Yeah, ghosts have a kind of ectoplasmic blood. You cut them just right and they gush like anyone alive. They can even die. Blip out of existence like they were never even here.

It seems like the fight has been going on for a while. The crowd is getting restless. The guy on the floor won’t die and the two bully boys can’t or won’t finish him. The loser is flat on his stomach. Manny, with the pipe wrench, stands over the guy’s back with the weapon over his head, going for a kill shot. Before he makes him move, the guy on the floor finds a small cleaver and swings it back into Manny’s leg. Manny lets go of the wrench and falls over. Now he’s the one screaming. Joey laughs at him and kicks the guy on the floor over on his back.

It’s Dash, Maria the witch’s lost ghost. His face is a pulpy mess, but I still recognize him. So does Candy. She grabs my hand, pulls it down to her side so that no one will see her reacting.

I still dream about the arena Downtown, though not as much as I used to. But I don’t go for more than a day or two without recovering some tasty bit of memory in which I’m either slaughtering or being slaughtered. Unfortunately, it’s usually the second thing. I don’t twitch and punch the air like I used to, but I remember what every blow felt like. That kind of thing never leaves you. But I made it out alive and sane, more or less.

I don’t give Dash such good odds.

The kid has shed more than a few pints of ectoplasm all over the ring. His eyes are almost swollen shut and one of his legs is bent like something that would look better on a flamingo. He punches and grabs at Joey’s legs as he stands above him. But the blows are marshmallows. Joey lets him punch himself out. When Dash gets so tired he can’t lift his arms anymore, he drops them. He doesn’t move or make a sound. He’s a man who’s seen the future and can’t wait for it to come. Joey doesn’t make him wait long.

He lifts the bat over his head and brings it down hard. It only takes one shot from the Louisville Slugger to crack Dash’s skull. They crowd goes wild. They can’t get enough of this shit. I’m not sure even Hellions enjoyed watching us beat each other bloody as much as these assholes.

Joey raises the bloody bat in the ring—­King Arthur pulling the sword out of some poor slob’s brains. He does a turn while Manny struggles to his feet. Him stumbling around gets big laughs, but the big cheers go to Dash as his spirit goes transparent and fades away, like an image on a dying TV set. A lot of cash changes hands when he’s gone. Joey helps Manny to his feet. There are necromantic physicians backstage who’ll patch him up so he can do it all again tonight or tomorrow, whenever Evermore Creatives and the White Lights want to see those particular monkeys dance again.

I won’t be telling Maria the witch about any of this. She doesn’t seem the type to take it well. Honesty can be very overrated, while a good lie can give someone peace of mind when there isn’t a goddamn thing they can do about the awful shit at the center of the truth.

“What did you bring us to, Stark?” says Allegra.

“I told you what it was.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think it would be so . . . this.”

“Neither did I. How do you feel about being in the field again?”

“I’d be more comfortable going after Drifters, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”

“No, they can’t. Did I tell you that Julie’s building has a downstairs no one is using?”

She looks at me.

“Really? Do you think she’d rent it out?”

“It wouldn’t be too bad an idea, a PI firm with a clinic right downstairs to take care of paper cuts and stubbed toes. Maybe Candy can ask her for you.”

“Why Candy?”

“Because she’ll listen to me,” says Candy. “If Stark recommends you, she’ll think you’re running bootleg organs or a cut-­rate asylum.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll ask her when we report in.”

Down in the ring, a ghost cleanup crew is swabbing the ectoplasm off the floor and putting the weapons back. I recognize a game-­show host and a one-­hit-­wonder singer in the cleanup crew. I guess even show-­biz ghosts can end up on the broom if enough ­people forget about them. They should have read the fine print.

When the ring is clean again, a pretty ring girl in a bikini made of less material than a cocktail napkin comes out. She waves to the crowd, blows kisses. They love her. She must be a regular at the scene, Miss Texas Chain Saw Massacre, beauty queen of the cannibal set. Soon she waves the crowd to quiet down and someone hands her a microphone. When she speaks it’s with a full-­on Texas twang.

“I want to thank y’all for coming out tonight. And, as always, we’d like to thank the White Light Legion for their hospitality and lovely facilities.”

That gets a polite round of applause and whistles.

“And, of course, Evermore Creatives for the super-­exciting ring action. Remember their motto, ‘Death is no reason to lie down and die.’ ”

That gets big laughs. The beauty queen eats it up.

“Anyone who wants information on wild-­blue-­yonder contracts, there are some lovely young ladies circulating through the crowd with brochures and preregistration forms.”

She manages to split the word forms into two syllables.

“And now we have an announcement from the Evermore itself, Mr. Lucius Burgess.”

Burgess gets some serious noise. The crowd knows the guy. He must be the Burgess David Moore talked about before he took a runner. The beauty queen hands him the mic.

“Thank you all for coming. Good evening to our first-­timers and to our longtime fans. A few of you veterans for our friendly neighborhood fight club have probably noticed a lot of old faces coming through the ring lately. I want to thank you for putting up with that. With no new dead to bring into the stable, I know there have been a lot of reruns lately. But I have good news. Many of you have heard about the boy in Tulsa and the woman in Brazil who finally shuffled off this mortal coil? Well, you’ll be happy to know that six more ­people have passed over today alone. And we expect that number to increase every day from now on, so very soon we should see a lot of new talent coming through the door. Thanks again for indulging us during these reruns, and here’s to the good times to come.”

Between the screaming and brain-­dead yahoos stamping their idiot feet, the walkway sways under us a little.

Vidocq says something to me, but I can’t hear it over the shouting. He points to the other side of the walkway. I look, and who’s there but Brigitte Bardo and an older guy with a suit sharp enough to cut your throat. The older guy chatters away. Brigitte smiles and nods at his patter, but the smiles look forced and tense. She glances away from him for a moment and our eyes lock. Without missing a beat she turns back to the guy in the suit. When he shuts up long enough to catch his breath, Brigitte leans over and says something him, then kisses him on the cheek. He scurries away like a rat to the bar. I push through the crowd, trying to get to her before Hugo Boss comes back with their drinks.

She turns when she sees me.

“What are you doing here?” she says.

“Why the fuck are you here?”

“I hate this place, but I can’t talk now.”

She looks past me in the direction her date went, then across the way to nod to Candy and the others.

“We’re going to Bamboo House of Dolls. Meet us there later,” I say.

“I can’t just leave.”

“Tell Daddy Warbucks you have a toothache, whatever, just get there.”

“I’ll try. Now you have to go.”

I shove my way back into the crowd and go all the way around the walkway to hook back up with the others.

“Everyone seen enough?” I say.

“Much too much,” says Vidocq. Candy and Allegra agree.

We leave the same way we came. I keep my head down on the way out.

Cars come and go from the parking lot and the sides of the road. When I see the chauffeur with the gun under his jacket, I whisper some Hellion hoodoo. A trash can nearby explodes in flames. When he runs over to investigate, I key the Rolls-­Royce.

CANDY CALLS JULIE in the car. She makes it to Bamboo House an hour after we do. The four of us have been doing more drinking than talking.

The funny thing about the ghost killing was that you couldn’t smell anything until the fight was over. Then we all got a stinging whiff of ozone as Dash’s spectral body dissolved into nothing. The smells of the arena downtown were intense and maybe that’s why I can’t get the warehouse scene out of my head. It feels like a scene from Hell, not a recent memory but one that’s been sitting in the back of my brain so that the details start to fray. Like the lack of smell. It makes the fight feel more real, like I’m down there, part of it. With each drink, the sensation lets up a little. But I know I won’t be sleeping much tonight.

“I followed the car out to a warehouse off Sixth. There was a party or some kind of gathering going on inside. I got photos of some of the guests. Not a savory crowd,” Julie says.

“That’s hysterical. That’s a goddamn Hallmark card,” I say. “We were inside. We probably just missed each other.”

“Too bad. I wish I’d been able to get in there.”

“You’re better off using your imagination. You don’t need that shit in your head for the rest of your life.”

Julie quietly grunts, not convinced.

Candy says, “It’s the White Light Legion’s headquarters. There was a show going on. A kind of fight club, only it wasn’t ­people fighting. It was ghosts.”

“Those were the tickets Tykho gave you?”

“Yes.”

Julie takes a sip of her martini. On the jukebox, Esquivel is doing “Limehouse Blues.”

“Did it occur to you that if Tykho is mixed up with these ­people, she might have called ahead and had God knows what waiting for you? And your friends.”

Candy looks at me, then at Allegra and Vidocq.

“No. It didn’t occur to us.”

“Tykho is smart and doesn’t let things slide,” I say. “If she didn’t sell us out, it was for a reason.”

“What?” says Julie.

“Maybe she’s as sick of the White Lights as I am. What are they into? Money crimes to keep their white-­power playpen stocked. Maybe they’re into Tykho for something. Like protection money? Aiming us at them might have been her way of trying to get them off her back.”

“The Legion does have a reputation for extortion. Tell me what else you saw and heard.”

We run down the whole thing. The crowd. The fight. The bets. Mr. Burgess talking about new deaths and promising fresh blood soon.

Julie turns her glass around with the tips of her fingers.

“Burgess was telling the truth. There are reports coming in of deaths all over the world. It was up well over a hundred by the time I got here. It’s causing as much chaos in Washington as when the deaths stopped. ­People at the top still think it’s all terrorism related. The craziness is even hitting the world stock markets.”

“Wall Street doesn’t like a mess,” says Allegra.

­“People in power never do. They feel insecure. It reminds them of their own mortality,” Vidocq says.

Julie sighs.

­“People exhaust me sometimes.”

I finish the Aqua Regia and wave my glass at Carlos for another round. He gives me a thumbs-­up.

“Does Evermore Creatives have overseas offices?” I say.

“Yes,” Julie says. “Europe. Russia. Asia. What’s your point?”

“There could be fight clubs all over the world. Tykho says this thing has been going on since World War One. Get out your calculators and count how many disappearances, John Does, Black Dahlias, and gangster hits there have been since then. That just covers the D-­list ghosts. What about the ones like Dash tonight? Now throw in every high-­profile disappearance and murder. Look at a guy like Bugsy Siegel. Technically, he was killed because of how he handled the Mob’s money in Vegas. But what happened to him afterward? He’d be a headline act. Tickets would go for a fortune if he was part of the show. Or Johnny Stomp. He and Lana Turner’s daughter could replay his murder every night. How many blue-­yonder contracts have been sold since the war? Between crooks like Eddie Nash, who set up the original Wonderland murders, and psychos like Manson and the Hillside Strangler, you’ve got a ghost factory ready-­made for pricks like Mr. Burgess.”

“Consider also that seeing what happens to errant citizens would help keep discipline among the White Light Legion’s members,” says Vidocq.

“You think that’s why they chose Townsend for the ritual? He wanted out of the group, so they used him for a sacrifice?” Julie says.

“It makes sense.”

“I wonder if his spirit is in their murder stable?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I say. “He was probably the last guy on the planet to die before Vincent lost his job.”

“I keep coming back to one thing,” Julie says. “What does the White Light Legion want with Death? Yes, he’s a powerful entity and you could use him as your own personal killer, but that seems like a lot of work when they were killing ­people so efficiently before.”

Candy says, “There’s something missing. Something we haven’t figured out yet.”

Allegra stares at her drink, then blurts out, “I thought I’d seen enough blood and violence at the clinic, but this is on a whole new scale.”

Everyone looks at her. She shrugs and looks at Julie.

“Stark told me about your new office.”

“Yes, it’s coming together slowly, but nicely.”

“I heard you have a downstairs you’re not using.”

Julie nods.

“For now. I might rent it out to help with the mortgage.”

“Why not rent it to a new clinic? I could give you a good rate on any medical ser­vices you need.”

Allegra gives Julie her brightest smile.

“Allegra would be a great choice,” says Candy so that I don’t say anything and maybe jinx the deal.

Candy continues. “She’s worked on humans and Lurkers. She can fix anything.”

Julie gets up to get another drink.

“I’ll give it serious consideration,” she says.

“Thank you,” says Allegra.

As Julie walks to the bar, Brigitte comes in. Julie sees her and points her in the direction of our table.

Brigitte comes over and sits down, still decked out in the evening dress she had on at the fights.

“Good evening for the second time,” she says.

No one says anything. I lean across the table at her.

“What the fuck were you doing tonight? Have you been to that slaughterhouse before?”

She shakes her head.

“No. And I hope to never go again.”

“Who was that guy and how did he talk you into going?”

“Someone from the old country. A producer acquaintance wanted me to show him the sights. It sounded like fun. I haven’t been home in a year. I don’t often get to speak my own language.”

“How did you end up at the fight?” says Candy.

“He knew about them. He’d been to something like it in Vienna.”

“Did he tell you what you were going to see?” I say.

“No.”

“Why didn’t you just leave when you saw what was going on?”

“He’s a financier of some kind. A powerful man with powerful friends. He could make trouble for me with my visa if I didn’t stay with him.”

“He said that? He flat-­out threatened you?”

“He didn’t even say it as a threat. It was a game to him. He wanted me to sleep with him, but I left. You have to draw a line somewhere, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” says Allegra.

Candy says, “Damn straight.”

“Give me his name and hotel and I’ll have him on the first plane out of town tomorrow,” I say.

“Don’t bother,” says Brigitte. “There was another reason he took me to see the fight.”

“What?”

“Do you remember Simon Ritchie? The friend who helped me come to America last year?”

“Yeah, you were supposed to be in his Lucifer movie.”

“Yes. That’s him. He did something else for me. He said that all of his wealthy friends had done it. That it was common practice in Los Angeles.”

“Shit. Please don’t tell me.”

She wipes a finger under her nose, stifling tears.

“Yes. I have a wild-­blue-­yonder contract. That man tonight. He wanted to show me where I’d end up if I didn’t let him do what he wanted to me.”

“Okay, then. He’s dead. Tell me where he is. I’ll go right now.”

“I left him at the fight.”

Candy squeezes my hand, trying to calm me down. It doesn’t work.

“Are you going somewhere, Stark?” says Julie, coming back. She heard my tone and her question has the ring of a warning. I stay put.

“I was thinking about it,” I say.

She sets a glass of Aqua Regia in front of me and sips a new martini.

“Don’t,” Julie says. “Have your drink and stay with us for a while.”

I take a gulp of my drink.

“Sure. Why not?”

We drink in silence for a ­couple of minutes, then Vidocq says, “You should let him go. There are things that can only be settled a certain way.”

“I have a better idea of what to do about the Legion,” says Julie.

“We weren’t really talking about the White Lights, but what is your idea?”

“If not the case, what were you talking about?”

“A tourist. I’m going to show him Hollywood Forever cemetery.”

If Julie gets what I mean, she doesn’t show it.

“That can wait,” she says. “I have an idea of what to do about the White Lights and the fight club.”

“What?”

“I owe friends in the Vigil a favor. Shutting down the Legion and getting proof about what they and Burgess have been doing would be quite a feather in their cap.”

“A raid? Tell them I’ll go along.”

Julie laughs.

“Yes, they’d love that. No. They’re done with you.”

“They’ve seen what I can do. They need me.”

“They don’t need trouble, and that’s what you always bring with you. Forget about it.”

“I promise to play nice.”

“It’s not going to happen.”

“If you say so, boss.”

She starts to say something, but gives it up.

“Do you really think there’s a way out of my contract?” says Brigitte.

“There’s a way out of anything,” I say. “Let us handle it.”

I look at Julie.

“When do you think the Vigil can move?”

“They don’t like to waste time. If there’s another fight tomorrow night, they’ll probably go then.”

“Okay.”

“Stark, I’m telling you to stay away from this.”

“I understand. I won’t interfere with the Vigil or the raid.”

“Thank you.”

“Who wants another drink?”

“You haven’t finished that one,” says Allegra.

I swallow the rest. Odds are I can drink these lightweights under the table, go back to the club, and peel the skin off one sharp-­dressed dead man.

IT TAKES NINETY minutes, but ­people start fading, one by one. Brigitte is the first to go, looking exhausted after her lousy evening. Allegra and Vidocq are next. Arms around each other, they head outside to find a cab. Julie is the last holdout. I don’t think she wants to leave because she knows I’m going to do something she won’t approve of. But even she succumbs after half a dozen martinis. Candy and I pour her into a taxi and walk home.

I put Candy to bed, go the kitchen, and drink some coffee. By the second cup, I’m wide-­awake. No one figured it out, not even Candy, but once it was my turn to pick up a round of drinks, I’d gotten Carlos to water down my Aqua Regia. My hands are steady enough to do surgery. Maybe that’s what I’ll do to Brigitte’s pal. A heart bypass. Or his head staked out on a parking meter.

I drive back out to the warehouse, park, and try to blend into the crowd milling around outside. I can’t just stroll back in through the front door. Crew Cut already took our tickets. So I go around the back of the warehouse like I’m looking for somewhere to piss.

It’s like old times for a second. Around back, I head straight for a shadow. I can’t walk through it, but it’s a good place to launch from. I step right and enter the hurricane. Then back around front, I squeeze past the shit heels with their tickets, past the crew cut, and back into the crowd, where no one is going to notice me as I step left.

And I’m back in the steam room heat and humidity of the fight club. The crowd whoops and cheers as some stupid son of a bitch pummels another stupid son of a bitch. The sounds of meat slamming into meat is old and familiar, but I don’t bother looking at the fight. There’s nothing I can do about it, and considering what I’m here for, it’s an unnecessary distraction.

Keeping to the edges of the place, I make a circuit of the second floor walkway where I first saw Brigitte and her friend, but I don’t see him. Downstairs, I wade into the tightly packed crowd. No way a guy in a sharp suit like his would allow himself to be steam-­pressed by these troglodytes, so I push my way up front to the barbed-­wire fence separating the good seats from the cheap. I spend several minutes up there, scanning the crowd. The bettors. The touts. A body hits the floor. I look at the fight long enough to see an old MTV reality-­show contestant with a machete bearing down on a D-­list game-­show host swinging a motorcycle chain. Neither is long dead, but they’re both already forgotten enough to end up as ghost chum.

I give the killing floor one more look. Forget it. If Brigitte’s friend is with the crowd past the barbed wire, I can’t see him.

Back upstairs, I take one more look around. Nothing. I head for the bar in the corner and order a whiskey. The bartender pours something brown from a plastic bottle and I taste it. It’s quite memorable. Like someone melted a G.I. Joe into a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I drink half to be polite and toss the rest in a trash can held together with “Caution” tape.

Just past the bar is a curtained room. A White Light in uniform takes money from men and women and lets them inside one or two at a time.

I head over and get in line. When I make it to the front, I fake it.

“This the special show?”

The White Light grunts either yes or no. Who can tell?

“I lost my ticket.”

He shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s an extra fifty to get in.”

I reach in my pocket for some of Julie’s advance money, peel off three twenties. The White Light gives me change and stamps the back of my right hand with the number eighty-­eight. I’ve seen it before. It’s not a head count. It’s skinhead shorthand for Heil Hitler. I nod and push through the curtain.

A White Light on the other side opens a heavy door. When I get through, he closes it and the whooping from the front of the club disappears. The room is soundproofed.

It’s as silent as a library back here, and dark. The only lights are focused on whatever is happening down below us. The air is thick with cigarette and weed smoke. Moans here and there as ­couples play grab ass and guys on their own hold a joint in one hand and the crotch of their jeans in the other. A ­couple move away, deeper into the dark, and I slip up to where they were standing. The scene below is awful, but it isn’t surprising.

There’s a ­couple on a dais, both ghosts. The man is tied to a chair bolted to the floor and the woman is strung up on a set of bare metal box springs. The man is bleeding ectoplasm onto the floor. One of his hands is missing. Two assholes, also ghosts, in crude homemade devil masks are behind him. Devil one is sawing off the guy’s other hand while devil two is browning the guy’s first hand on a hibachi. I recognize these fucking freaks. I bet they’ve been having fun in town a long time.

Back in the early 1900s, way before Bugsy and his bunch rolled into town, one of the first L.A. crime syndicates was run by the Matranga family, big shots in the New Orleans Mob. When word got back to the Big Easy about the sweet pickings in sunny Southern California, it brought out more gangsters and even a few semilegit business types. It also attracted some of Louisiana’s more colorful swamp crazies, including Les Enfants du Diable. Take a shot of backwoods Catholicism, a twisted, survivalist version of Santeria, add a dash of good old-­fashioned inbred devil worship, and you get Les Enfants. Their cannibalism was a sacrament. Even their shit was sacred, considered the temporary resting point before their victims’ souls eventually joined them in Hell. I guess it’s easier hiding a lifetime’s worth of shit in a swamp, but it’s harder in a city, even one as rural as turn-­of-­the-­century L.A. The smell gave them away and street justice did the rest. But here the clan is, star of their own variety spectacular.

It makes sense that lowlifes like the White Lights would end up running snuff shows. Bread and circuses keep the money flowing, but when the crowd gets tired of the slap and tickle show in the front room, some of them are going to look for a rougher scene. And the White Lights wouldn’t consider any of the victims in their cannibal melodrama clean enough, pure enough, lily white enough, or simply strong enough to care about, so why not make some coin?

None of what’s happening onstage particularly shocks me. There’s isn’t much left regular ­people can do to make me think less of them. Plus, I’ve seen similar scenes Downtown. What I can’t get out of my head is an image of Cherry Moon. I know she’s back safe at Lollipop Dolls. She never had a blue-­yonder contract, maybe the one smart thing she ever did in her ridiculous life. The thing is, I know there’s someone like her here. Just as dumb and desperate and afraid of death as she was. Someone as pretty. Someone who’d put on a hell of a show for these blood-­hungry corpse fuckers. I don’t want to kill them. I want to slash their hamstrings and set the place on fire. Let them be the meat on Les Enfants’ grill. But none of that is why I’m here, and if Julie is right, I won’t have to lift a pinkie because the Vigil is going to ride in on white stallions and carry all these theater lovers off to Jesus jail, hallelujah.

Now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark room, I look around again. But I get the feeling Brigitte’s friend is long gone. I’m wasting my time and I don’t even know if I should tell Julie about the snuff since she didn’t want me coming back here. Still, I’ll have to chance it. Who knows what the Vigil is into these days? They might need prodding to go after the White Lights. This should do it.

Before I split, I take one last quick look at the scene. Over in the corner of the room, smoking a spliff and looking slightly bored, is the crew-­cut doorman. I was so busy trying not to be seen when I first came in that I never got a real look at him. He has tattoos all over his face, including curving devil horns where his eyebrows should be. What did Vincent say about one of the men at the ritual? That he had horns. And a number in a circle.

I edge around the room, moving to where I can see the other side of Crew Cut’s face. The crowd gets restless as the action onstage builds. It’s a good thing humans can’t smell ghost smoke, or the stink of cooking human flesh would have this bunch knee-­deep in their own puke by now.

As the crowd creeps in closer to the action, so does the crew cut. As he edges in close enough, I can see it. A circle of letters that reads PROPERTY OF SAN QUENTIN. Inside the circle is a number fourteen, skinhead code for “We must secure the existence of our ­people and the future of white children.”

The crew cut is so wrapped up in the action onstage that he doesn’t feel me come up behind him until I have the Colt against his back. He starts to say something, but I pull him back into the dark and sidestep.

Here’s the funny thing. I have no idea if I can sidestep with another person. For all I know, I’m going to kill this cheesesteak instantly or leave half of him back in the regular world. Lucky for me, Hermann Göring comes along just fine. The hurricane kind of surprises him. He doesn’t fight or try to run away. He falls right down on his ass and stays there, looking around like a lost dog instead of getting up. Some ­people just don’t like surprise parties. I pull him to his feet and shove him into the storm. It feels like a ­couple of hundred years trudging from the club back to the Crown Vic. My Nazi new best friend can’t wrap his brain around what’s happening. He keeps reaching out to touch the barely moving ­people around us. I have to swat his hand like a kid trying to steal cookies before dinner.

Finally, we make it to the car. I step left, bringing us back into the regular world, and slam my knee into the crew cut’s lower spine. He collapses beautifully, falling headfirst into the Crown Vic’s spacious trunk. I slam the top down and get behind the wheel. He doesn’t make a sound the whole drive.

BEFORE RETURNING TO the Beat Hotel, I stop at a bodega and buy a roll of duct tape.

The asshole is waiting for me when I open the trunk, but being an asshole myself, I’m waiting for him.

When the trunk is half open, he kicks out with both boots, aiming for my head. He’s fast, I’ll give him that. So fast he doesn’t see the black blade in my hand. I step back as he kicks and stick the knife through the sole of his right boot until he can feel it, but not so far it cripples him. He howls and thrashes around like a wolf on acid, so I pop him on the chin to bring his temperature down. While he’s lying there stunned, I wrap duct tape around his head, from nose to scalp. Ball up my fist and make like I’m going to punch him again, and he doesn’t flinch, so I know he’s blindfolded enough to take inside. While he’s still loopy, I flip him over and tape his wrists together behind his back. Before finally hauling his ass out of the trunk, I wrap more tape around his mouth. Give him a ­couple of slaps and all he can do is mmmm and rrrrr through the gag. One more loop of tape goes around the foot I stabbed so he won’t bleed all over all the hotel’s theoretically clean carpets. I wrap Crew Cut in my coat, toss him over my shoulder like a sack of Nazi potatoes, and head inside to our room fast. Even at the Beat Hotel, which is used to some weird sights, ­people might think twice about me carrying a body inside.

Vincent and Kasabian are in their room, so I head straight in and dump Crew Cut on the floor. Candy wanders out of the kitchen. When she sees the lump on the floor, she mouths a silent What the fuck?

I put a finger to my lips to let her know to stay quiet. Lean in and say, “He was with Tykho at the Murphy Ranch ritual. You go Jade and I’ll ask questions.”

She grins and does it, her eyes going black, her teeth going to points.

I rip Himmler’s gag off, taking some skin off with it. He blurts “Shit!” and tries to get up. I grab him and plant his ass in a chair.

“You’re dead,” he says. “Do you fucking know who I am? My ­people, they’re going to find you, cut you up, and feed your soul to those crazy French cannibals.”

“You’re really that important?” I say.

He smiles big and wide. One of his canine teeth is gold.

“I’m core, man. Inner circle. You made a big mistake.”

“You’re one of the White Light’s magic men? Use your Vril power and Pelley superbrain tricks to deal with the dead?”

He nods.

“That’s right, fuck heel. I know the teachings. I’ve seen the sights. I’m fucking Gandalf, motherfucker. What are you? Some little bitch thinks he’s going to get a ransom?”

“Well, Gandalf, just how good is your kung fu if you can get snatched by a little bitch?”

“Fuck you. I’m going to kill you myself.”

“We’ll get back to that later. Right now tell me more about your magical, mystical tricks. You a necromancer? You Sub Rosa?”

“Hell no, I’m not one of those Sub Rosa faggots. And I’m not any goddamn Dead Head. I’m a lightning rod. A strange attractor. The mystic loves my shiny ass.”

“I get it. You’re a channel. Like a human wand. A necromancer or whoever can use you to concentrate their hoodoo in one spot.”

He leans back a little.

“How come you know so much about it?” he says.

“I’m one of those Sub Rosa faggots.”

“Bullshit. Sub Rosa would have hexed my ass on the spot, not thrown me in the trunk like his bitch laundry.”

Candy goes back to human.

“Stop saying that,” she says.

“Who the fuck is that?” says Crew Cut, craning his head around trying to zero in on her voice.

“Never mind,” Candy yells. “Stop saying it.”

“Saying what?”

I say, “I think she wants you to stop saying ‘bitch’ all the time.”

“Fuck you,” says Crew Cut. “Fuck both you bitches. I’ll say ‘bitch’ anytime I want, bitch.”

Candy goes Jade again. Curls one of her claws under the edge of Crew Cut’s blindfold and rips it off.

He blinks a ­couple of times before getting Candy in focus.

“Fuck me. What the fuck are you?” he says.

“Say ‘bitch’ again,” I say. “I double dog dare you.”

Crew Cut looks at me and back to Candy. Her lips are pulled back from her razor teeth.

“Shit,” he says.

“Good. Now that that’s settled, let’s get to work. You’re not a Dead Head, but you work with them for the Legion. You ever work with a vampire?”

“What do you fucking care . . . ?”

He’s about to say “bitch” again, but catches himself.

“What was the necromancer’s name?”

Crew Cut squirms around on the chair.

“I don’t know. What do I care about Dead Heads and vampires? I don’t know nothing about them.”

“Really? Because I hear a necromancer, a vampire, and a dumb fuck who looks a lot like you had a party in the woods not too long ago.”

He shakes his head.

“Don’t know anything about that.”

“You sure?”

He plants his feet on the floor and looks at me.

“Why don’t you untie me and we’ll work this out like men, okay?”

“Two minutes ago I was your bitch. What’s changed?”

He struggles with the tape on his wrists long enough to figure out it’s not coming off.

Candy moves around behind him and runs her claws up his arms, his neck, and over his face. He freezes while she plays with him.

“You know a place called Murphy Ranch?” I say.

“Nope,” says Crew Cut.

Candy flicks a claw against his cheek. Draws blood.

“Fuck,” he says, and tries to shake her hands off his shoulders.

I go over and whisper to Candy. She turns human again and goes next door.

“I’m tired,” I say. “And you’re boring. I’ve dealt with shit sacks like you my whole life. Tinhorn tough guys afraid their daddy has a bigger dick than them, so you prove you’re a man by taking your bullshit out on the world. Now, your particular flavor of bullshit is this white-­power game. First you invent an enemy, which gives you and your little friends an excuse to get together and stomp ­people. Then, because you wrapped it all up in a political bow, you’re not a bunch of zero-­future losers, you’re big-­balled soldiers saving the Fatherland from the godless hordes. Am I getting close, Chuck? Am I in the ballpark?”

“You don’t know shit about shit, bitch,” he says, drawing out the last syllable nice and long so I’m sure not to miss it.

Candy comes back in just as he’s running out of steam. She’s not alone.

“Okay, so we’ve established that you and some of your friends used your Wonder Twins Vril powers to help out a Dead Head ritual.”

Crew Cut laughs.

“We haven’t established shit, motherfucker.”

“What was the ritual for?”

“Don’t know. Wasn’t there.”

“You and your friends have a real hard-­on for death magic, don’t you?”

He shrugs.

“The warehouse shows?” he says. “Pays more than meth and it’s easier than whores. Dead ­people aren’t whining all the time about rough trade and who came where.”

“Did you know any dead ­people in particular?”

“Why should I? I told you. It’s business.”

I go behind him and pull Candy’s companion over into the light. Vincent has no idea what’s going on. He looks as blank as a person can be and remain upright. I shove him in front of Crew Cut.

“Do you remember this dead guy?”

When Crew Cut lays eyes on Vincent, I’m a contented man. The look on his face is like Christmas all over again. He kicks out with the foot I stabbed. I pull Vincent out of the way and slap Crew Cut’s injured foot. He curses and tries to get up, but Candy holds him in the chair.

“Keep that fuck away from me,” Crew Cut yells.

“So, you do know him.”

“No. Goddammit. I don’t. Just . . . fucking keep him back.”

“Is it because you’re afraid of Eric Townsend or because you’re afraid of what’s inside him?”

“Fuck you. I don’t know shit about shit.”

I get the SS dagger out of my coat and put it in Vincent’s hand.

“Cut him,” I say.

“What? I can’t do that,” says Vincent.

“He’s one of the assholes who ripped your heart out. He owes you.”

Vincent looks at the knife, at me, then shakes his head.

“I can’t.”

I grab the dagger out of his hand.

“If you won’t take his heart, I will.”

I slice the front of Crew Cut’s shirt. He pushes back on his heels, but Candy wraps her arms around him and holds him tight.

I hold the tip of the blade to his chest, just hard enough to draw a bead of blood. The way he looks at me, the dope thinks I might really do it.

“What are you doing?” he says.

“Any last words, Gandalf?”

Crew Cut looks past me at Vincent.

He says, “How is he up and walking around?”

“How is who?” I say. “Tell me his name.”

“Death,” says Crew Cut. “How is he alive?”

“What does it matter? He is. We know you were at the Murphy Ranch ritual with Tykho and at least one necromancer—­”

“Three,” he says. “It took three to get it right.”

“Get what right?”

“To bind him in that body.”

“What happened to the other body you killed? Where is it?”

Crew Cut’s eyes move to meet mine.

“Somewhere safe. A place of reverence.”

“Hell, with you geniuses, that could be a mayonnaise jar next to the chunk-­style Skippy.”

“What does it matter where his body lies in state? He’s the real Death now. Not this prick. Yesterday’s garbage.”

I lean on the dagger a little to remind him to be polite.

“We know Edison Elijah McCarthy has replaced Death. I guess he didn’t read the handbook before he went over. It’s taking him a while to figure out the job.”

“But he’s doing it,” says Crew Cut. “More ­people are dying all the time. Soon it’s going to be a tsunami. All the mongrels and mud ­people, faggots and assholes like you.”

“Is that it? You went to all this trouble for a hit man? You could have gone to any of the old Sub Rosa families still practicing baleful magic and cut a deal with them.”

“I told you,” he says. “We’re men. White human men. We don’t cut deals with pixies and fairies.”

“Owning Death, you can reach out and kill anyone you like anywhere in the world.”

“Goddamn right,” he says.

“You won’t even need blue-­yonder contracts after that, will you? Death’s the one who takes the souls away. He can hand the choice ones over to you.”

Crew Cut smiles.

“Maybe. Let me go and I’ll tell you.”

“I’d rather cut you up.”

He laughs.

“Go ahead, asshole. Do it. I dare you. Edison’ll reach down and pluck your bitch soul like a daisy and blow you away.”

“I’ve been dead before.”

“Not like this you haven’t.”

Candy reaches over Crew Cut and uses a fingernail to draw a Valentine around the swastika tattoo over his heart. He can’t take his eyes off her hand as she works, like she’s tattooing him with a blowtorch.

“None of this’ll matter come tomorrow anyway,” he says, trying to sound like feral women sketch on him every day. “A few hours and it’s all over. We’ll own Death, the whole soul trade, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

“What’s tomorrow?” I say.

“That’s when you suck my dick and pray for mercy.”

He’s so fucking dumb I want to hurt him, but that’s even dumber. I can’t kill this idiot no matter how much of my time he wastes because he knows something I don’t.

“It’s a new moon,” says Candy.

She’s holding Crew Cut with one hand and thumbing her phone with the other. Holds it up to show me an app with the phases of the moon. Tomorrow is going to be a dark night.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” I say. “So, what happens tomorrow?”

“Nothing. That’s the beauty of it. That’s why I’m Gandalf and you’re an ant. Ain’t nothing is going to stop what’s coming. The sun rises tomorrow. The sun sets. And when it comes up the next day, we own the whole fucking afterlife. Who dies and when you die is up to us. How much will you pay for that kind of protection? How much you willing to pay for Death to even let your soul pass on to Heaven or Hell and not end up doing shows for us? How much?”

I look at Candy.

“We’ve got what we need.”

I look at Crew Cut.

“You know, as soon as we stop your plan, your friends are going to wonder what happened and they’re going to look at you. The one who disappeared and came back slapped around and cut up. It won’t take them long to figure out that you’re the one who talked. Ask me nicely and I’ll kill you quick before your friends deliver you to a pissed-­off McCarthy.”

For a ­couple of seconds I think he actually considers it. He’s smart enough to know I’m right about him getting blamed, but stupid enough to think that when the time comes, he’ll be able to talk his way out of it.

“I’m not asking you anything,” he says.

I get out the duct tape, blindfold and gag him again.

“Let’s take a ride,” I say.

CANDY HELPS ME manhandle him back into the trunk. We get in the car and drive north on the 101 to the 5 and over the steep five-­mile grade of the Grapevine. Along a dark stretch of road between nowhere and nothing, we dump Crew Cut into a ditch. Maybe a trucker will find him. Maybe the coyotes. Who cares which?

It’s an hour back to L.A. Plenty of time to smoke and think.

“Is this all there is?”

“Isn’t it enough?” says Candy.

“I mean, for these White Light knuckleheads to come up with a plan like this. To put all the pieces together. They had help from someone. I swear, there’s something we’re missing.”

“Worry about that later, Sherlock. We have to figure out what’s happening tomorrow night.”

“I know who can help us.”

“Who are we kidnapping next?”

“No one. I’m talking about civilized ­people.”

Candy doesn’t say anything for a while.

“What am I suppose to tell Julie about tonight? I want to be like her, but . . .”

“But you keep ending up more like me?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe that’s more my fault than yours. I keep bringing you into these things.”

“And I keep letting you. I’m a big girl. I make my own choices.”

“It won’t always be like this.”

“How do you know it won’t be like this again? How many knives are you carrying these days? Plus a gun and a na’at.”

“This case is kind of a big deal. Later, we’ll probably do a lot of divorces and guard celebrities when they go kale shopping.”

“Just drive. I need to think.”

IN THE END, Candy stays home. No need for her to get caught up in more trouble if things go sideways for me.

I drive to West Hollywood and dump the car, walking the last few blocks to Death Rides a Horse.

The usual eager, desperate crowd is waiting outside, dressed to the nines, tens, and elevens.

When the doorman sees me he takes a step back. I hold up my hands to show him I’m in friendly mode. He looks me over, not quite convinced. He’s a slight guy in a dark suit and white shirt. Hasidic payot curls hang down near his ears.

“What do you want, Stark?” he says.

“Tell Tykho I’m here, and for the last time.”

He stares for a second more, then says something into his walkie. Touches his earpiece like he’s having trouble hearing over the street noise. He nods.

“Wait here,” he says.

While I wait, he checks IDs and looks over the crowd, deciding who’s worthy enough to get inside the club. A ­couple of minutes go by, long enough that I’m rethinking my peace and love approach to the situation. I don’t want to ambush Tykho by sidestepping into her office, but I’m not standing here all night while apple-­cheeked tourists and drunk bachelorettes get past the velvet rope.

About the time I’m thinking of getting physical, the doorman waves me over.

“Go in,” he says. “But wait for your escort.”

The music hits me when I open the door, the bass like a Munchkin beating on my solar plexus with a rolling pin. A phalanx of bruisers rolls up before I can take two steps inside. Big beefy boys with necks as big as manhole covers. Do vampires need some kind of fang extensions to drain a few drops from guys like this? Before I can ask, they surround me and hustle me through the packed crowd like a troop of bulldozers plowing through a field of bunnies.

When we reach Tykho’s office, the lead bulldozer opens her door and the rest shove me through. The door closes behind me. Tykho is behind her desk, making a big show of not looking up. She’s signing papers with a gold Montblanc pen.

She says, “I’m only seeing you because you said it was for the last time. Can I hold you to that?”

“If you tell me the truth.”

“About what?”

“What happens at the new moon?”

She stops writing, puts down the pen, and holds a hand out to a chair for me to sit down. I do it and pull the chair up close to her desk.

She thinks for a minute and says, “Do you know a book called Germania? It’s sometimes called the Codex Aesinas.”

“Never heard of it.”

Tykho puts her hands flat on the desk.

“On the surface it’s nothing. Just a brief Roman account of the history and customs of ancient Germanic tribes they encountered while they were busy trying to rule the world.”

“What’s the big deal about it?”

“There have been a few slightly differing translations of Germania over the years. We had several in the Thule group. Himmler was mad for the thing. He, and some in his circle, saw the book as final proof of the superiority of a pure German Aryan race.”

“Like you fucking Nazis needed more propaganda.”

“I told you. I wasn’t political.”

“Yeah. You said. What does a fascist tourist brochure have to do with what went down at Murphy Ranch?”

“I told you there were several translations, but the thing is, none of them was complete.”

“What was missing?”

She picks up the Montblanc and doodles something on a pad. I can’t quite see it.

“Why, the chapter on ancient Aryan magic, of course. That’s why Himmler wanted any of the few surviving complete manuscripts. He sent a whole squad of his pretty SS boys to a villa in Italy for it. He missed that one, but the Ahnenerbe eventually found another.”

“What kind of hoodoo are we talking about?”

“How to become the Lord of Death.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“If those übermensches running around the woods had that kind of power, how is it the Romans kicked their asses?”

“The Romans didn’t conquer all the tribes, but your basic point is right. They never did make proper use of the power.”

“Why not?”

She pushes the pad across the table to me. It’s covered with alchemical symbols and runes. I wish I’d brought Vidocq along.

“Because back then they couldn’t put all the pieces together,” says Tykho. “The magic described in the book called for certain kinds of metals and potions, things they couldn’t produce at the right purity, so they could never complete the death ceremony.”

“And maybe they needed a nonpolitical vampire for the ceremony?”

“Maybe. The point is that it took the believers two thousand years to create everything the ritual required.”

“But they haven’t finished it, have they?”

“That’s right. Until the new Death reigns through a new moon, the ritual isn’t complete.”

“How do we stop them?”

She takes the pad and sits back in her chair.

“Why should I tell you? You keep showing up uninvited. What’s in it for me if I tell you anything?”

I lean my elbows on her desk.

“Let me ask you something: Why did you help me the last time I was here? Why did you hand us those tickets? You wanted me pissed off, didn’t you? You want us to take down the White Lights. What do they have on you?”

“I don’t like ­people knowing about my past. It makes them feel like they have power over me and they’re prone to take liberties.”

“What kind?”

“Some things are private, even from you.”

“I know about your past now. You coming after me next?”

She makes a face at that.

“Please. Everyone knows you’re insane. Tell them I’m Sigrun. Tell them I’m Catherine the Great or Wonder Woman. No one is going to believe you.”

She has a point.

“How do I stop the ritual?”

“Don’t be so dense, Stark. When we cut Townsend open, what did we take?”

“His heart.”

“Right. Restore the body. Put the heart back where it belongs.”

“And that will kill McCarthy?”

“No. But he’ll be weak enough that he can be destroyed. Of course, you’ll have to go to the Tenebrae to do it.”

“How the hell do I get to the Tenebrae? And more important, how do I get back?”

She picks up her pen.

“I’ve given you enough. You’re on your own from here. Run along, little angel.”

“Where’s the heart?”

“In a canopic jar in the Gruppenführer’s office in the Legion’s warehouse. It’s on a high shelf, next to lovely framed photo of Adolf and Eva and some other party nonsense.”

“Where’s the office?”

“You found the special room upstairs?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Straight through there.”

“Just one more thing: Is Burgess in on this?”

“I have no idea.”

“What about Wormwood?”

“Wormwood Investments? It wouldn’t surprise me. They have their fingers in a lot of interesting pies.”

“What does a bank have to do with Death?”

“Good-­bye, Stark. You know the way out.”

Tykho’s door doesn’t budge when I push it. I have to bang on it a ­couple of times before it swings open. The bruisers crowd the way out, looking over one another’s shoulders, checking on their boss, and keeping an eye on me. As soon as Tykho nods the all clear to them, they do their bulldozer thing again, and shove me out the front door without slowing down. I almost trip on the pavement, Charlie Chaplin with a gun. The meat puppets in line get a nice chuckle out of that.

The guy with payot is still working the door. For a second I’m tempted to go over and tell him who his boss is. But she was right. I might as well say she’s Hello Kitty. He’d believe me about as much.

I get in the Crown Vic and head home.

MY BRAIN SPINS in circles as I drive.

Bugsy Siegel first came to California in ’33, the same year Hitler became chancellor of Germany and William Pelley formed the Silver Legion. When Bugsy settled in Beverly Hills in ’37 he looked up his old pal, movie star George Raft, best known for his roles as gangsters and tough guys. Both men were sharp dressers and there were a lot of arguments around town over whether Bugsy was copying George or it was the other way around.

Hollywood has always loved a good crook and Bugsy palled around with big-­name actors, studio heads, and millionaires. Any L.A. luminary who wanted to get a whiff of the wild side. The closest thing America had left to Wild West outlaws, Jesse James or Cole Younger.

Here’s the funny thing: Bugsy was a hood and a creep, but he hated Nazis. In ’38, the lovely Countess Dorothy Dendice Taylor DiFrasso took him to Europe and introduced him to Göring and Goebbels. Bugsy couldn’t fucking stand them. He even offered to put a hit out on them, but that went nowhere fast.

Which brings me all the way back to Murphy Ranch. If he’d won the war, would Hitler have loved that concrete Eagle’s Nest? And would Hollywood have embraced Europe’s wild man the way they did Bugsy? Der Führer was a vegetarian who loved animals, so two points in his favor right there. And he had a hard-­on for art. He was also a painter, though a lousy one. Of course, that sure never stopped any Hollywood celebrities who liked to dabble in watercolors from getting shows in tony L.A. galleries looking to make a splash off the star’s name. With the right connections, would Hitler have eventually hung next to Hollywood art-­world luminaries like Sylvester Stallone and Stevie Nicks?

Part of me feels very far from home. I’m sure as hell a long way from where this case started. From Vincent finding me at Bamboo House of Dolls, I’ve skated from Laurel Canyon to the world of old-­school mobsters right into a necromancer dead end. All the way to Himmler’s book club and séance rooms in twenties Munich, then back further to pelt-­wearing Teutonic horsemen, all the way to the Thule group’s Hyperborea. But the thing is, throughout this weird ramble, I never really left Hollywood. Once I make it through all the craziness, where do I track the source of and solution to this whole mess? To a fucking playhouse off Sixth Street where entrepreneurial Nazi shitheads are staging nightly pageants, like Andy Hardy and Betsy Booth doing a musical in a barn.

This might be the end of the world as we know it, but it’s still show biz.

SAMAEL IS WAITING for me outside the Beat Hotel eating a Pink’s chili dog. If anyone ever wondered if he used to be the Devil, all they’d have to do is watch him down that dog. The sloppiest food in the known universe, and he devours it without dropping so much as a molecule of grease or chili on his suit. That’s hoodoo of the highest order. When he’s done, he wads up the foil wrapper and tosses it into the gutter. I point to it as I come over.

“You’re messing up my city. Would you dirty up Hell like that?”

“Of course,” he says. “I invented littering. Before I was thrown out, the streets of Heaven were strewn with ambrosia containers and empty six-­packs of divine mineral water.”

“You must have been an annoying kid.”

“No worse than you.”

“I’m not a litterbug.”

“No. You just run around shanghaiing innocent citizens.”

“There aren’t any innocent citizens in L.A., especially the ones I grab.”

He smiles.

“It’s always good to be back, Jimmy. Seen any good movies lately? Anything to recommend?”

“A few, though the thing is, we’re kind of out of the movie business at the moment. The county padlocked the store.”

“Why don’t you unpadlock it?”

I take out a Malediction, offer him one. He waves me off. I light mine.

“Because it might bring down more trouble than we need right now, what with this strange case I’m helping with.”

“Look at you, a responsible civilian. Restrained and refined. The Jimmy I knew a year ago would have torn the doors off City Hall and driven a police car through the mayor’s office.”

“You have no idea how strange this feels, thinking things through before I do them. But I’m sort of responsible for other ­people these days. Don’t want them getting hit with the shit I kick up.”

“I know what you mean,” he says. “Working as father’s right-­hand man, it gives me pause. Father wants to make peace with the angels denying humans entry into Heaven, while I think the whole thing could be solved by cutting off a few heads.”

I take a pull on the cigarette.

“When did things get so complicated?”

“They didn’t. We did. Men like us, with intemperate natures, we’re not supposed to consider our actions. We just do and clean up the mess later.”

“In other words, thinking hurts.”

“You hit the nail on the head.”

We stroll down Hollywood Boulevard, past the Museum of Death.

“I’ve never been in,” he says. “Is it worth it?”

“You’d love it. It’s like a mortuary textbook crossed with an old Hollywood scandal sheet.”

“Sold. The next time you’re taking friends, count me in.”

“Sure thing. I guess things aren’t going so well up in Heaven.”

“Not especially.”

We walked in silence for a bit. Finally, I say, “I’ve learned a few things about the new Death. Who he is. What he wants.”

“Will any of it kill him?”

“Maybe. Someone gave me a clue. I think I can trust her, but I’m not a hundred percent sure.”

“These aren’t one hundred percent times. Go with your gut, I say.”

“Might as well. My brain isn’t helping.”

“How is your guest doing?”

“It’s hard to tell with him. He went through his pain pills pretty fast and he wants more, but I don’t think it’s for the pain.”

“Give an angel a body and they go mad, each and every one.”

I nod.

“Hey, you know anything about breaking a blue-­yonder contract?”

He shakes his head.

“It can’t be done. They’re as binding as mine were.”

“So, back in the day you wouldn’t ever give someone a break? Not even a friend?”

“Well,” he says.

We walk a little farther, past empty clubs and car lots.

“There are exceptions to everything,” he says.

“So, it could be done.”

“You’d have to make a deal with Death and I have the feeling this particular one isn’t in a dealing mood.”

“Shit.”

“Yes.”

“Someone told me that if I could get to the Tenebrae in the next twenty-­four hours, I might be able to take out McCarthy.”

“Who?”

“The new Death.”

“What an evocative name for Death. ‘What happened to old Frank?’ ‘It looks like he’s McCarthyed.’ ”

“Hilarious. I keep saying you should do stand-­up.”

“And I keep telling you that you’re the comedian, not me.”

“I’m not feeling so funny right now. I can’t shadow-­walk anymore, so I don’t know how to get to the Tenebrae.”

Samael looks at me.

“Is that what’s bothering you?”

He reaches into his pocket and drops a small, gnarled red thing in my hand.

“What the hell is this?”

“Do you remember the story of Persephone?” he says.

“Not really.”

“I forgot. You’re illiterate. Just eat the pomegranate seed and it will take you to the Tenebrae.”

“You walk around with a pomegranate seed in your pocket?”

“It brings back old times.”

I put it in my coat.

“Thanks. Just one more thing.”

“You want to know how you’re getting back.”

“That would be swell.”

“Getting you back is trickier than sending you. Do you still have the key to the Room of Thirteen Doors in your chest?”

“I can’t use the Room.”

“No, but if you can make it back to Tenebrae Station, I’m sure the key will let me bring you the rest of the way home.”

“Sure? You’ve done something like this before, right?”

“Of course.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m being reassuring.”

I stop and head back toward the hotel. It takes him a second to catch up.

I say, “You’re not supposed to admit it when you’re telling someone a comforting lie. You’re the Prince of Lies. You should know these things.”

“I can bring you back with one hand tied behind my back. We can even stop for ice cream if you’re a good boy.”

“That’s better.”

“Well,” he says. “I should be getting back. I’ll look for you tomorrow in the Tenebrae.”

“I’ll wear a rose in my lapel so you know it’s me.”

A Lincoln limo pulls up and a chauffeur opens the door for him.

“A rose? Funny, I always pictured you as a prickly-­pear man.”

“I’m whatever will get me rescued.”

He waves and steps into the car. It takes off, disappears around the corner. The worst thing about knowing I might be stuck forever in the land of the dead tomorrow? Now I want a hot dog, but Pink’s is all the way across town and I’m goddamn exhausted. I head inside. Maybe we’ll order pizza for a last meal.

CANDY IS WATCHING Girls und Panzer and eating tamales when I come in.

“Where did you get those?”

“I went to Bamboo House of Dolls. Carlos gave me a plate.”

“Did you leave any for me?”

“You don’t get to eat yet. Julie wants you to call her.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“When aren’t you?”

“Did you tell her the car was dented?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“She wasn’t happy, but at least you hadn’t totaled it.”

I go into the kitchen, where the rest of the tamales are on the table, wrapped in foil. The hotel keeps garage-­sale-­grade plates and forks in the cupboards. I grab a plate, pile on a ­couple of tamales, and go back to the living room. Candy has turned down the sound on the show. When I set my plate on the table, Candy pushes it away.

“Bad dog. No food for you until you call Julie.”

“I’ll call her after.”

“Your tamales are getting colder by the second.”

“I hate having a job.”

“You had a job before.”

“Running Max Overdrive wasn’t the same. I was boss.”

“Really? Tell that to Kasabian.”

“I’d rather argue with Julie.”

“Now would be a perfect time.”

I get out my phone and hit Julie’s number.

She picks up on the second ring. She’s been waiting.

“Stark, Candy called and told me that you have new information about the Legion and their plans. I’m not even going to ask how you found it out because I don’t imagine I want to know.”

“Probably not. But I have something else.”

Julie sighs.

“No. It’s okay,” I say. “We just talked. Tykho told me where Vincent’s heart is hidden. If we get it, I think we can put him back the way he was.”

“Where is it?”

“At the White Lights warehouse.”

“Good. The Vigil raid is set for tomorrow night. They’ll take possession and keep it safe.”

“You want to give the heart to the feds? We need it right away. Before dawn, or Vincent is fucked.”

“I’ll speak to my contacts. We’ll get it in time.”

“And you trust the fucking feds to just hand it over? How many forms do we need to get notarized?”

“We’ll make it work. Where’s the heart?”

“They’re going to screw this up, and if you complain they’ll make it your fault and there goes your agency.”

“Stark, where is the heart?”

One room over, Vincent is watching TV with Kasabian. If things go wrong, that’s all he’s ever going to do until Townsend’s body wears out and he floats off to where McCarthy is waiting for him.

“Beneath the fight ring on the main floor. Buried under the floorboards.”

“Good. I’ll pass that along.”

“I want to go in with the raid.”

“You know that’s not possible. I want you staking out the necromancers working with Tamerlan. Something you should have been doing all along, I might add.”

“More busywork.”

“Not if you do it right. We still want to know which necromancers helped at the Murphy Ranch ritual.”

“The Vigil will get that from those clowns ten minutes after they arrest them.”

“Candy has the list of necromancers you’re to check out.”

I look at Candy and she holds up a sheet torn from the hotel memo pad.

“Remember our deal,” says Julie.

“I know I owe you, but you’re playing this all wrong.”

“It’s the way it has to be.”

“Okay, then. Is there anything else?”

“Stay home. Eat something. Go to bed and get an early start in the morning. We’ll meet with the Vigil after the raid and go from there.”

“Sure. Good night.”

“Good night.”

I put down the phone and Candy turns up the sound on the TV. I reach across her and retrieve my tamales.

“What does she have you doing tomorrow?”

“Same as you,” says Candy. “Babysitting Dead Heads. We divvied the list in half.”

“You know she’s making a big mistake.”

“Maybe. But I don’t want to go to jail, so she calls the shots.”

“She wouldn’t rat you out.”

“I don’t think she would either, but I just want to be an employee with a job who does what she’s told for a while, you know?”

“Yeah. I know.”

“So, do what you’re told. We can talk on the phone. If you’re lucky, I’ll get bored and sext you.”

“Just as long as you don’t mind Kasabian getting a copy. He can hack my phone.”

“I’m the only one with a laptop. He’ll have to make do with hotel spanktrovision.”

I take a bite of my tamale. It’s great. I used to mooch off Carlos’s kitchen all the time. I might have to start again.

I say, “Life is funny, isn’t it? Look at us. We’re private dicks.”

“It’s not where I thought I’d end up. But it’s not bad.”

“We’re going to have to do something about getting the store back.”

“I kind of like the place, but we can’t live here forever,” she says.

“We can’t afford it.”

“Yeah.”

We eat our tamales and Candy brings the rest out of the kitchen. We gnaw on a ­couple more while Candy turns on the news. Crew Cut was right. More ­people are dying all over the world. It’s still just a few at a time, but more than a hundred have checked out in the last twenty-­four hours. Vincent needs to get back in the saddle.

I look at Candy.

“That thing you said the other day, about missing women. I meant it when I said I’m not getting in the way of anyone you want to be with.”

“Not now. I’m busy eating.”

“Okay. I just wanted you to know.”

She sits for a minute.

“I miss the Jades sometimes. Rinko came by with a message that one of the Ommahs is coming to town. I should go see her. And the rest of the girls.”

“The Ommahs are kind of your den mothers, right? The matriarchs?”

“That’s right.”

“Going sounds like a good idea.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You do that.”

Candy turns back to the other channel. Cowboy Bebop is on. She hums along with the closing theme music, sounding almost happy. Like maybe she hadn’t hooked up with a complete idiot after all.

IN THE MORNING, she leaves first. Julie loaned Candy her Prius and she wants to get to her Dead Head’s place before opening, but without rushing. No scratches on the boss’s wheels.

I’m supposed to keep an eye on a guy named Sabbath Wakefield. He runs his necromancer office out of a shop on Venice Beach. He doesn’t have a necromancer sign in the front window or anything. He’s set up as a fortune-­teller. Cards. Palm reading. Crap for the tourist trade. It says in the file Julie texted me that he makes sure the local authorities know it’s all in good fun, and he greases the palms of the local cops so they spend their time hassling boardwalk weed vendors and leave him alone.

He runs the actual necromancy trade out of a back room, like a speakeasy. Only the right customers with the right passwords get past the counter to the inner sanctum. In other words, he’s utterly boring. If he conjured Fatty Arbuckle and sent him down the beach on a mammoth’s back, he’d still be boring.

I get there a few minutes before he opens, when I can get a parking space with a decent view of the shop. The camera Julie gave us to work with is pretty idiot proof, so I get some shots of him opening up. Checking out a few lady joggers who run by. Feeding a piece of his morning donut to a local mutt who trots away to hustle other handouts. I write it all down in my notebook. Julie is going to get a record of every person who goes in, every tarot reading, every pigeon who shits on his awning. It will all end up in my report.

Ten ­people wander in and then quickly out of Wakefield’s shop in the first hour. I take photos of all of them. The mailman comes by. I get a shot of him. In another hour, six more ­people go in and out of the place. I get shots. Wakefield comes out for a smoke. Click. Click. Click.

Two hours in and I can’t stand it anymore. I dial Candy, but she doesn’t answer and the call goes to voice mail. Even with the windows down, it starts getting hot in the Crown Vic. I smoke a Malediction, then another. Wonder if I could sneak away to get a cup of coffee, and curse myself for not buying a cup on the way over.

Around one Wakefield locks up and wanders down the boardwalk to a burrito place and has one with a beer. I get some discreet shots of him with his mouth full. Sexy stuff. Helmut Newton would be jealous.

Another dozen ­people go in and out of his shop. No one stays very long. Either his business is on its last legs, or he charges enough for the stuff he does in the back that he doesn’t need much tourist trade and he just likes being at the beach. My guess is it’s the second. He looks like a man who truly does not give one single fuck.

It’s a sunny January day in L.A., but still technically winter. The sun starts going down around five. By five thirty, the sky is dark and Wakefield hasn’t had a customer in an hour.

At six thirty on the dot, Tamerlan Radescu and his crew arrive at the shop. Wakefield meets them outside and ushers them in. I put the camera on infrared and snap away.

Tamerlan is inside for all of twenty minutes. Then he’s out again. He and Wakefield shake hands warmly at the door. Tamerlan’s men scan the crowd like nervous meerkats in case a vicious skateboarder or some bikini girls decide to race up wearing dynamite vests.

After Tamerlan and his men leave, Wakefield starts to lock up. Faced with a choice between watching Wakefield have another cigarette or following Tamerlan, I go for door number two.

Just as I pull out of the parking lot, my phone goes off. It’s Candy.

“How was your day?” she says.

“I longed for Gojira to rise from the sea and put me out of my misery. But things are looking up. Tamerlan Radescu just showed up and I’m following him.”

“Aren’t you supposed to stay with the other guy?”

“He’s a stiff and Tamerlan was in and out of his place real quick. Just long enough for a shakedown. I want to see if he hits any other Dead Head shops.”

“I guess that’s a good idea. You should call Julie.”

“Why don’t you call her for me? I don’t want to lose him.”

“Don’t spook him. Stay cool.”

“Don’t worry about my cool. I’m Steve McQueen riding a polar bear.”

“Okay. I’ll call Julie.”

“How was your guy?”

“Boring too. He went to a bar down the street like ten times during the day. I kind of felt sorry for him after a while.”

“Weren’t you going to send me smut if you were bored?”

“Yeah, but I got depressed watching him. I’ll mail you dirty pictures from the kitchen when I get home.”

“Then I’ll make this quick.”

“You do that.”

I hang up and concentrate on Tamerlan’s limo. It heads onto the San Diego Freeway, then over to the 10. The fucker gets off in Boyle Heights and I have the strangest feeling I know what’s going on. The limo pulls over, one of Tamerlan’s men ducks into a coffee shop and comes out with a whole tray of cups. They head back on Whittier Boulevard, then turn north, straight toward the Sixth Street viaduct and the goddamn White Light Legion.

I let Tamerlan go on ahead of me. The street at the railroad yard near the Sixth Street bridge is dark, so that’s where I park the Crown Vic. The dirt by the side of the road is loose and easy to pick up. I use it to draw a protective ward—­a mean one—­on the car’s roof. Anyone who comes calling will go home sad, but wiser.

Over on Mission Road, I hunker down behind a lamppost and wait. I’ve been waiting all day. What’s a little more wasted time between friends?

It’s seven thirty when I sit down with a Malediction. It’s nine when I spot the first Golden Vigil vans and Humvees coming across the bridge. I even have a cigarette left. That has to be a good omen.

There’s a slight breeze blowing down off the river channel. It smells like exhaust and ashes. A ­couple of rats run ahead of me down the road. I’m still a football field away from the warehouse, but don’t want to be seen by White Light shitheads or the Vigil, so I take a step to the right, into the hurricane, and make the walk backstage the whole way.

The smell coming off the river is more intense in the storm wind. Strange tattered things blow by, grab at my legs. The walk down the road feels like I’m climbing a mountain with a pickup truck on my back. I swear the hurricane is stronger out here, maybe because of all the baleful magic at the warehouse. By the time I get to the White Light’s parking lot, I’m exhausted. My chest hurts and it’s hard to breathe. But I still have a long way to go.

It took me longer than I thought to get up the road. The first Vigil cops are already in the fight club and more pour in ultra–slow motion from the vans, moving like ants in liquid amber. Civilians sprint out of the club—­­couples, bikers, mean-­eyed blue bloods. They scramble out the door, frozen in place like snapshots of pants-­wetting fear. Getting inside the club is like swimming upstream through human-­size salmon, all going the other way.

Guns are going off all over the place. Skinheads pop off shots at the Vigil; each muzzle flash is an orchid of fire. The Vigil’s nonlethal rounds move almost imperceptibly. Flashbang grenades explode like glacial fireworks. Beanbag rounds hang in the air, turning slowly like fat fist-­size wasps. Looking over at the fight ring, I wonder if the ghosts can see me. The current bout features two men with barbed-­wire-­wrapped ax handles. Both ghosts are covered in bloody ectoplasm. One of the fighters wears a Lucha Libre mask. I swear his eyes follow me as I move around the frozen patrons.

The stairs are completely blocked by more White Light bully boys and panicked civilians. It’s too packed to push through them. I have to climb on the outside of the stairs, holding on to the handrail, moving up one toehold at a time. It feels like forever getting up there. My legs shake and I’m sweating more than I should be. This backstage world feels like it’s getting harder on me each time I enter it. Maybe I should have hung back and let the Vigil do the heavy lifting. But I can’t risk them stumbling across Vincent’s heart. It won’t take them long to figure out that I lied about its location, but by then I’ll be long gone.

When I make it up the stairs, I climb over the railing and head into the snuff room. I’m not careful with ­people anymore. I shove goddamn civilians and White Lights out of my way. Their legs tangle and heads butt against each other, or they will eventually. They fall and smash into each other a millimeter at a time.

The scene on the killing floor is the usual horror. A muscled guy in tighty whities I recognize from a series of forgettable straight-­to-­video martial-­arts movies is running with a chain saw aimed at the head of a singer I can’t quite recall. From his hair and clothes, he might be a one-­hit-­wonder hippie from the sixties who sang a song about flying horses. Maybe. They’re both ghosts and I can’t move them around like I can the civilians, but I can change the fight. The chair the singer is tied to is real enough, so I drag it a few feet to the side. If Mr. Martial Arts isn’t hexed into staying on the fighting floor, he might just stumble out of the ring and into the crowd. I’m not exactly looking for him to saw anyone’s head off, just maybe give a few patrons a taste of what they’ve been getting off on.

I go around the room testing the curtains that cover the walls, looking for the Gruppenführer’s office. The curtain fabric feels both stiff and gelatinous. My hand finally lands on a doorknob. I push the curtain aside and try to go in, but the door is locked. I get out the na’at and extend it into a sword, slice the lock off the door. When I kick the pieces out of the way they hang in the air like slow confetti.

The light is on inside the office. Cheap, dark paneling, like the inside of a trailer. A gray metal desk. An enormous Nazi flag that covers one wall, with a bookcase right across from it. There’s a glass-­front gun cabinet against one wall. I’ll have to inspect that before leaving. I’m feeling pretty nauseous now. I close the office door and step left, coming out of the hurricane.

Tykho was right. There’s a canopic jar covered in Nordic runes on a top shelf of the bookcase right next to a shot of their mustached dear leader and his squeeze. Another photo sits right below them. A battered, faded photo of Sigrun back in her Thule Society prime. Young blond Aryan perfection. Is this what Tykho was talking about? Is this trailer-­park Colonel Klink trying to muscle her into some kind of liaison? Blackmailing a vampire is a questionable move, but blackmailing Tykho seems like an idea sure to get you drawn and quartered. I guess having Death on your side gave the Nazi fuck giraffe-­size balls. I smash the frame and take out Tykho’s photo, stuff it in my pocket. I also grab a Luger with an ivory grip off another shelf and a Bowie knife, stuff them all in my pockets too.

Another wave of nausea hits. I need to sit down, so I set the jar on the desk and drop in the Gruppenführer’s chair. And start going through his drawers. Jackpot in the first one. I stuff more baubles in my pockets.

I take a bronze bust of Adolf’s head from his desk and toss it through the front of the gun cabinet. Push away the glass and start piling weapons on the desk.

The door slams open and shut behind me. I turn around and lock eyes with a guy in a bloody White Light uniform. It isn’t like the others I’ve seen. His is cut better and has some kind of insignia on the shoulders and breast pocket. We stare at each other for a second, Colonel Klink is as surprised to see me as I am to see him. He sees the guns and the canopic jar on the desk and pulls a pistol from its holster.

I don’t have time to go for the Colt, so I grab a Benelli shotgun from the pile of guns on the desk and hope it’s loaded.

It is. The sound of the gun going off in such a small space is like getting whacked with hammers on both sides of your head. But I miss and it only stops Klink for a second. He blasts away with his 9mm and a shot catches my upper right arm. My right side goes instantly numb, but I fire away as another slug grazes my leg. I fall back against the wall as Klink’s chest explodes, a ­couple of loads of double-­ought buckshot catching him just below his throat.

I lean against the wall and slide down, leaving a red streak behind me. Nausea mixes with the numbness, trying to convince my body to lie down and not move for a ­couple of weeks. But my brain is on high alert. There’s a better than even chance someone outside heard the shots. I don’t want the Vigil catching me here, especially with a ventilated Nazi and my pockets stuffed with his bric-­a-­brac. I get up and step right.

The hurricane hits and blows my dumb ass down again. Getting hold of the desk, I pull myself up. The canopic jar goes under my good arm. I look at the pile of guns. What a waste. Some stupid feds are going to get most of them when they’d look so much nicer decorating my hotel room. I try to pick up a few with my injured arm, but it refuses to work right. Using my left arm and a lot of wiggling, I get the Benelli’s sling over my shoulders so I can haul it out without holding it.

Strange light shines through the shot-­up Nazi flag. I go over and look through the holes. And can see the river and railroad yard. I put down the jar and pull the flag down. There’s a door in the wall, Klink’s private emergency exit. It’s probably what he was going for when he came in. I can’t quite swing the Benelli around, so I bark some Hellion hoodoo. Part of the door explodes, splinters and metal spinning away languidly into the dark.

Getting down the stairs with a jar, a shotgun, a bad arm, and a goddamn bleeding leg isn’t easy, but it’s better than navigating the rat trap back in the club.

When I get around the front of the warehouse, more Vigil vans have pulled up. It’s D-­Day over here. Have a fun night, boys and girls. Bust everyone and don’t be too mad when you don’t find anything under the fight ring. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that I don’t trust anything you say or do. I’d rather be shot up with the heart under my arm than Schwarzenegger-­perfect beefcake without it.

The walk back to the Crown Vic is longer than it took to build the Pyramids. I stop at one point, lean against a stalled Mercedes and tear off part of my shirt, wrap it around my bleeding leg. That takes another century since I’m working with one good arm and another that’s as numb as bologna. When I start off again, I’m no longer leaving a trail of blood behind me so the Vigil can follow, maybe get some DNA samples. With luck, all the traffic tearing along the road will rub out most of the blood I already left behind.

When I make it to the car, I’m shaking, ready to puke up the entire menu of the Last Supper. The tightness in my chest is back, but at least something interesting happened. There’s a nice scorch mark around the Crown Vic where someone tried to break in and got a hotfoot for their trouble. That puts a smile on my face.

Stepping left, I come out of the hurricane. And almost fall over again.

I get the Crown Vic’s passenger door open and wrap the canopic jar in a seat belt. Don’t want Vincent’s heart slip-­sliding around the car if we hit any red lights. I wrestle my coat off and toss it on top of the shotgun in the backseat. Then I drag my ass behind the wheel of the car.

Usually getting shot doesn’t take this much out of me. I don’t ever want to go backstage with a bullet in my arm again. I have to start the car with my left hand and mostly drive home to Hollywood that way. I take surface streets. It’s longer getting back, but there’s less chance of me taking a gimpy turn and driving off an overpass.

There’s a parking space near the Museum of Death, so I take it. It’s a metered spot, but all my change is in my right pocket. Looks like Julie is going to get a parking ticket in the mail. Fuck it. Let her take it out of my next paycheck.

I hump the jar and the rest of the loot, still wrapped in my coat, across to the hotel. I can’t reach my keys, so I kick the door to our room a few times. Candy opens up and turns sideways. Or maybe it’s me turning sideways. Someone is definitely moving at a funny angle. I decide it’s me when something slams into my nose and I get a faceful of hotel carpet. I want to explain what happened, but when I open my mouth, all that comes out is “Who was the guy who sang the flying horse song?”

WHEN I COME to, I’m in bed and everyone is staring at me strangely, like I’m the Fiji mermaid in spats.

My right arm and leg are wrapped in fresh bandages. I can smell one of Allegra’s healing potions through the bandages. She’s taking my pulse. Vidocq is behind her. Kasabian and Vincent are behind him and Candy is at the foot of the bed.

“I had the strangest dream,” I say. “And you and you and you were there.”

“Shut up, Dorothy,” says Candy. “You weren’t supposed to get shot tonight. You were supposed to watch Tamerlan and come home.”

“I was watching him. Then some crazy Nazi started shooting at me.”

“No wonder, with all the junk we found in your pockets. What, you couldn’t fit his refrigerator in there?”

“Did you find the present I got you? Brass knuckles.”

“Did you look at them? The knuckles have swastikas on them. I don’t want them.”

“Damn. I missed that.”

“What’s in that big jar?”

I look around for Vincent. He’s next to Kasabian.

“I found your heart.”

“You did? You mean Townsend’s heart.”

“It doesn’t matter whose heart it is. It’s how they bound you. If we put it back, you’ll be your old self again.”

“How do we put it back?”

“How did they take it out?”

“Oh,” he says.

“You can’t be serious,” says Allegra. “You can’t just cut him open and start shoving organs inside.”

“I can’t. But you can.”

“Forget it.”

“Listen, if we don’t get rid of McCarthy by dawn, the White Lights will own death. They’ll decide who lives and who dies and when. It’s the ultimate racket.”

“Are you sure about this?” says Vidocq.

“Yes. We don’t have long to fix things. What time is it?”

“A little after three,” says Candy.

“Dawn is only a few hours off. We can’t fuck around arguing. Vincent, are you ready for this?”

He has a hand on his chest.

“Yes. I want to go back.”

Allegra shakes her head.

“This is ridiculous. I won’t do it.”

I sit up. The room spins, but I don’t fall over. I’m pretty hard to kill, and heal quicker than a civilian. I test my right arm. It straightens out about three-­quarters of the way. It hurts, but I don’t pass out. I try raising it and get it as far as my shoulder.

I say, “If you won’t do it, I will. Come on, Vincent. This is probably going to be messy. Why don’t you get in the bathtub?”

He sighs.

“All right. Will it hurt?”

“The bathtub? No. It’ll be cold.”

“No. The cutting.”

“Did it hurt when you woke up with your heart gone?”

“No. I simply felt . . . disembodied. As if I was in Townsend and somewhere else at the same time.”

“There you go. This is going to be a breeze.”

“Stop it. Both of you,” says Allegra.

She looks at Vincent.

“You can’t let this idiot hack you open.”

She turns to me.

“And you can’t just slice ­people up like an Easter ham.”

“Then who’s going to do it?”

She looks at Vidocq. He leans down and they whisper to each other. Allegra looks back at me.

“I’ll do it,” she says. “But you should stay in bed and heal.”

“I’ll heal later. Just give me something that will get me through the night so Vincent and I can finish this.”

“Wait. What happens after you put Vincent’s heart back?” says Candy. “I thought you said he’d be Death again.”

“He will. But that means there will be two Deaths. We have to kill the other.”

“Why do you have to go with him?”

“In case something goes wrong. Because something always goes wrong.”

“I don’t want you to go,” she says.

“I don’t have any choice.”

I look at the others.

“Are you going to go? Or you? Or you? No. I’m the only one who’s faced anything like this.”

“You’re a wreck. Please don’t do this,” Candy says.

“You said it yourself, ­people always get hurt around me. That includes me. I made it back from Hell twice. The second time just to see you. I can make it back from this. Besides, Vincent will look out for me. Right?”

He nods.

“Right,” he says in the least reassuring tone possible.

Candy shakes her head.

“Fine. And when Julie calls to get our reports I’ll tell her she can’t have yours because you took our client to the land of the dead.”

“You can tell her I’m solving the fucking case. That’s what she wants.”

“She doesn’t want you dead.”

“Maybe not, but let’s be honest. What she really wants is the credit for saving Death. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Candy doesn’t say anything.

“Let’s get going,” I say. “Vincent, you strip and get in the tub. Allegra will get her tools and I’ll get the heart.”

Candy might be mad at me, but she looks more like I’m on my way to the gallows. She helps me up and I have to lean on her for support until I get my balance. I look at Vidocq.

“What do you have for a man who needs to keep moving no matter what for a few hours?”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small clear bottle full of a red liquid.

“Malefic baneberry. It doesn’t taste good, but one teaspoon and a skeleton would dance a jig.”

He takes out the cork and hands me the bottle.

“To the Führer’s mustache,” I say, and down it all.

Malefic is a nice word for what it tastes like. I want to spit it out, but it feels like my mouth and throat have sealed shut. The room spins. I sway. Candy grabs my good shoulder. Then I’m enveloped in warmth and the room stops moving. My mouth works and I can breathe again. I feel great, ready to run a marathon and wrestle Rodan.

“How do you feel?”

I lean over and kiss Candy.

“Not bad at all.”

Candy pushes me away and spits.

“It tastes like you gargled vinegar and ammonia.”

“Sorry. I just feel good.”

“You better pray you come back, and when you do, hit the toothpaste before you get near me.”

I look at Vincent.

“You ready?”

He’s standing in the middle of the room naked. Turns and heads for the bathroom. Allegra gets her medical bag and I get the jar. Everyone follows us.

Vincent lies down in the tub as Allegra lays out her surgical tools. She swabs Vincent’s chest with antiseptic, running her hand over the ugly scar where his heart was cut out. She selects a small scalpel from her kit.

“Are you ready?” she says to Vincent.

He nods.

She takes out a potion and rubs it on his chest.

“This will numb the area. You won’t feel anything,” Allegra says.

He nods. She gives me a dirty look.

“You better be right about all this.”

“I am.”

She turns back to Vincent and makes a straight incision across the scar.

“Does that hurt?” she says.

“I barely feel it,” says Vincent.

Her medical kit used to belong to Doc Kinski, an archangel. It isn’t exactly a regular kit. I don’t recognize half the instruments. She uses things that look like knitting needles and an astrolabe to open Vincent’s chest and hold it open.

And there it is. The same broken ribs and his sternum over the deep red hole. Vincent cranes his head down to see the opening. He doesn’t like what he sees and lies back in the tub.

“You have my heart?” he says.

I open the jar. Until this moment, it hasn’t occurred to me to make sure it’s inside. I reach in and touch something wet. Pull out a big fistful of long, thin leaves. Graveyard tree, a common poison in old Eastern European Sub Rosa families. I peel back the leaves to reveal a thick mass of gray muscle. Townsend’s heart does not look in tip-­top shape. While I peel off the rest of the leaves, Vincent sings quietly. “Mack the Knife” from The Threepenny Opera. Kasabian hums along.

“I don’t exactly know what’s going to happen when I do this. You ready?” I say.

He nods, still singing.

I lean over his open chest with the heart.

“Stark,” says Allegra.

“Yeah?”

“You’re putting it in backward.”

I turn the heart around.

“Thanks.”

With one hand on the edge of the tub, I push Townsend’s gray, dead heart into Vincent’s chest.

Instantly, it begins to beat. Blood vessels, arteries, and ventricles stretch to meet each other. Blood begins to flow. The heart turns red. Vincent doesn’t move.

“How do you feel?” I say.

Vincent turns to look at me. The whites of his eyes gradually fill with blood, turning a burning red.

“Fine,” he says. “Better by the second.”

His voice is different. Lower. It sort of ripples, deep and slow, like he’s speaking through heavy sluggish water.

Allegra looks at me like she’s saying, Is that normal?

I shrug.

Vincent sits up in the tub, pulls Allegra’s tools off. The skin on his chest knits itself shut.

“Thank you,” he says. “All of you.”

“You okay to travel?” I say.

He stands.

“Can we go now?”

“Give me a minute.”

I find my coat and go through the pockets.

Back with Vincent, I pop the pomegranate seed in my mouth. I nod. Vincent, still naked, starts to fade away. Candy comes over and hugs me. I put my good arm around her. Then bite down on the seed.

My vision shifts like someone jerked my head all the way around. I’m in L.A., but it’s a junked, almost nuked place. Trash and burned-­out cars in the streets. Empty storefronts. The dead city just beyond Tenebrae Station. Vincent is waiting for me.

“This way,” says.

We walk through the pagoda-­like Chinatown gate, go a few blocks through town and across the twisted, useless metro line tracks. In regular L.A., this would be the Los Angeles State Historic Park. Here, it’s the beginning of the desert. The real land of the dead. Tenebrae city is for the spirits that don’t want to pass over. A literal ghost town. The desert is where the other souls are divided up and sent—­let’s face it—­mainly to Hell.

A half mile across the dry, cracked plain, a dust devil reaches into the sky. I stop for a minute, but Vincent keeps walking. I have to trot a few steps to catch up.

“You ready for this?”

He doesn’t say anything for a full minute.

“This Death has taken my place, but he has no idea what he’s doing,” Vincent says.

“What do you mean?”

“He handles souls like a butcher handling sausages. You don’t pull them from life. You escort them, giving them their dignity and easing their fears.”

“I don’t think dignity and good vibes are high on McCarthy’s agenda.”

Vincent looks at me like he’s never seen me before.

“Yes” is all he says.

As we get closer, I see what he means about manhandling the dead. Souls hang in the sky. Row upon row of them, as far as I can see, a whole nation of uncollected spirits. The dust devil sends out whirling tendrils to the souls, yanks them out of the sky, and drops them, like a drunk picking apples. The stunned souls wake up on the ground having no idea what’s going on. With no one to guide them, most of them probably don’t even know they’re dead. There are thousands of them, wandering the desert. Fucking McCarthy has figured out how to get the dead out of their comas, but not what to do with them yet. He’s just collecting them like porcelain thimbles.

The dust devil plucks a few more souls from the sky and drops them. Then it stops moving. It just swirls, kicking up the dry Tenebrae soil high into the sky. I have a feeling it knows we’re here. I look at Vincent.

“He’ll move soon. Get ready.”

He looks at the whirlwind.

A moment later he says, “I’ve never had a fight.”

He turns to me.

“I’ve argued, but in all the universes I’ve lived through, I’ve never had to fight anyone.”

“It’s easy. You just make a fist and put it in the other guy’s face as fast as you can before he can do it to you.”

He looks at me like I’m suddenly speaking Urdu.

“I don’t know how. This was a mistake. I’m useless.”

“Calm down, man.”

The dust devil lurches and the sky fades to moonless dark. It whirls faster and skims across the desert in our direction. Lightning flashes. I swear I can see the vague outline of Edison Elijah McCarthy’s stupid face in the flashes.

Vincent says, “I don’t know what to do.”

I move my right arm, testing my right shoulder. It’s stiff but moves.

“That’s okay. I do.”

I take the black blade from my boot, start cutting a magic circle in the dusty plain. The vacant souls have seen us and are following the dust devil as it skims forward.

I work fast, cutting runes, spells, and sigils into the ground.

The dust devil bears down on us, a Mack truck of whirling crystal dust that will cut skin—­my skin in this case—­to beef jerky. When it’s still fifty yards away I pull Vincent into the circle and shout Hellion hoodoo as loud as I can.

The dust devil convulses, like I kneed it in the balls. Lightning goes mad, cuts across the sky, explodes into the ground. Panicked souls scatter. The dust devil recovers, whirls in place, puffing itself up bigger than ever, and heads for us again.

Vincent takes a step back.

“What do we do?”

“First off, we don’t step outside the circle.”

Vincent quickly gets back inside the circle.

“What else?”

“We’ll figure that out as we go along.”

He sings quietly to himself, but the wind is too loud for me to make out what the tune is.

I bark more hoodoo, a mix of hexes I learned Downtown, and shit, I’m just improvising.

A wall of fire explodes before the whirlwind. It stops and shrinks back. Lightning smashes up the ground. Cuts deep black gashes in the desert floor until the bolts plunge into the fire itself. And sucks them up like a goddamn thousand-­foot-­tall shop vac. The flames swirl inside the dust devil. It glows like neon, and this time there’s no question. It illuminates McCarthy’s face.

The bastard is smiling.

He throws lightning bolts down at us. They explode around the edges of the circle, turning the air to ozone and making my skin tingle. Vincent flinches. He isn’t singing anymore.

McCarthy rushes across the desert floor, moving over and around and completely surrounding us in his whirling, choking body. Desert dust clogs my nose and burns my eyes. Vincent has his hands over his face. He turns in a circle like he wants to run, but doesn’t know where to go. He stumbles and falls. I pull him to his feet.

“Don’t let this guy get to you,” I say. “You’re Death and you’re as powerful as he is and you’ve been around longer. You know more tricks than him.”

“I still don’t know how to fight.”

“Everybody knows how to fight. It’s called survival instinct. I have it and so do you or you would have given up by now.”

Vincent looks up at the whirlwind that engulfs us, not impressed with my pep talk.

“Go get him,” I say. “This is all tricks. You’re the real Death. Reach up and pull his fucking heart out.”

Vincent wipes dirt from his eyes and walks to the edge of the circle.

“I am Death,” he says in a booming voice I never knew he had inside him. “Leave this place and these souls, liar. Usurper. You belong here as just another ordinary soul, nothing more.”

Vincent reaches into the whirlwind. And gets thrown backward like a crash-­test dummy. I try to catch him, but we both land in a heap.

He looks up at me.

“I’m sorry.”

I help him up.

“It’s okay.”

“I know I can do more, but I can’t remember how. My powers feel like they’ve been gone for a million years. This flesh has me trapped.”

“Let me do this,” I say, and take off running.

I manifest my Gladius and run to the edge of the circle, plunge it into the dust devil. The blowing sand feels like I shoved my hand into a garbage disposal. My skin feels like it’s peeling off in layers. Lightning bursts above my head. But McCarthy roils and convulses. Parts of the whirlwind shear off, man-­size whirlwinds that blow across the plain and scatter to dust. The wind howls, like a man screaming in pain. I pull out the Gladius and shove it into the wind again, deeper. In a second, I feel McCarthy begin to pull back. The whirlwind shrinks around the circle and moves away in a slow retreat. I keep the Gladius buried deep in its gut, feeling good, knowing I have McCarthy on the ropes.

Until I realize that the situation is the exact opposite.

A gust of wind and dust hits me. I look down. McCarthy retreated and I took the bait. Moved straight out of the circle. I’m ten feet into the open desert. Lightning flashes and I catch a glimpse of McCarthy’s face. I’ve used the Gladius to kill humans, Hellbeasts, and angels, but even an idiot like me knows that a burning sword isn’t going to take out Death.

A swirling coil of wind reaches down and knocks me over the packed earth. When I get up I feel something scraping in my injured shoulder. I run for the circle. McCarthy reaches down again, but I see him coming and shout some hoodoo, shattering the coil with an air burst of fire. McCarthy bellows and I keep running.

I don’t know if he’s playing games or if I get almost lucky, but I’m right on the edge of the circle when he comes at me again, throwing down a bolt of lightning that knocks me over. Then a cone of wind settles over me, crushing me into the desert floor. I can’t get up. Can’t breathe or see. All I can do is lie there while McCarthy grinds me down to my bones.

Then I’m moving again, dragged across the packed ground. The wind lets up enough for me to open my mouth and shout a stream of black Hellion magic at the sky. Old arena stuff, each phrase a killing curse.

I don’t know which one did it, but McCarthy rears a little. I open my eyes and see Vincent, covered in grime, his skin cut and bleeding from the blowing desert grit. He’s pulled me back into the edge of the circle.

He helps me up and there’s blood on his hands. I turn him around, checking for where he’s hurt.

“It’s not my blood,” he says. “It’s yours.”

I look down at myself.

Yeah, it’s mine all right. My plugged shoulder has opened up, along with a thousand little cuts on my arms and face. Fuck it. I want to tell Vincent it’s all right, that I’ve bled before, but he’s too scared to listen. He’s never had someone else’s blood on his hands before. The poor slob is getting hit with a whole lot of firsts these days, but I can’t exactly buy him a drink and talk it over. McCarthy has surrounded the circle again and we can’t stay like this forever. I manifest my Gladius, figuring that if I sliced off a little piece of his form before, maybe I can take off enough to hurt him. I start back to the edge of the circle when Vincent runs around in front of me.

“You’ll die if he pulls you out there again.”

“Me? I’m fine. I was just playing possum.”

“You’re lying. Help me fight him.”

“How?”

He holds up his bloody hands.

“I can’t do anything. You gave me my heart, but I’m still trapped in this flesh.”

“What do you want me to do about that?”

“Free me from this body. Kill me.”

“How do you know that won’t destroy you?”

“Neither one of us has a choice. You can’t go back out there and I can’t fight him like this. Please. I can’t watch you die and I can’t live like this.”

“This could be a really bad idea.”

“What alternative is there?”

I look up. The sky is bottom-­of-­the-­ocean black. When McCarthy sends out lightning bolts, the thousands of dead in the sky glow like ornaments on a Hellion Christmas tree. Vincent is right. We might be in the land of the dead, but the two of us are still meat. McCarthy can starve us and stomp us if we try to leave.

“What if this doesn’t work?” I say.

“Then no one is worse off than they were before. McCarthy already controls life and death. I’m the only thing that can stop him, but not like this.”

I picture Alice, the girlfriend I came back from Hell to avenge. Cindil, the donut-­shop girl who was murdered to teach me a lesson. Father Traven, who died saving our lives in Kill City. All the ­people who, one way or another, died for me or who I let die. Even Johnny Thunders, the sweetest zombie you could ever hope to meet. I got revenge for some of them and did what I could for the others, but they still went through hell because of me. Am I going to add one more name to the list?

“Stark, we need to act. Don’t die to protect someone who isn’t afraid to die because he is Death. Free me.”

I look at Vincent one last time.

“Vincent, I don’t say this very often, but you’re an okay guy for an angel.”

“Don’t worry about me. We’ll see each other again someday.”

“Not for a while, I hope.”

“So do I.”

Vincent closes his eyes.

I swing high and fast so maybe he won’t feel it, and catch him at the base of the throat. Vincent’s head rolls away across the packed ground. His body falls. There’s no blood. The Gladius cauterized the wound. He’s just in two dead pieces of useless skin. It’s as simple as that. I let the Gladius go out.

The wind pauses for a second, as if McCarthy is trying to figure out what he just saw. When the gusts pick up again, moving even faster and wilder than before, I swear I can hear the fucker laughing over the din.

I sit down on the hard ground, lie back, and stare up into the sky. The earth is warm against my back. My shoulder hurts and I’m starting to lose energy. Guess the fight took a little more out of me than I thought. I wish Vidocq had left me more of that baneberry juice. That or a line of coke. I could use a pick-­me-­up right now.

The wind blows and there’s nothing else.

I get the black blade out of my boot and crawl to the edge of the circle, cutting into the ground, repairing the place where Vincent dragged me back inside. I wonder how long I can keep this up. The wind wears away the perimeter of the circle and I repair it. In theory I can stay safe and cozy in my dust pied-­à-­terre indefinitely. But I’m going to fall asleep sometime. Soon probably. How much damage will it take for McCarthy to snake an arm through a crack in the circle and drag me back into the open desert? Doesn’t really matter. There’s nothing else I can do. Vincent is gone. There’s no one to spell me. I look over at his corpse. There’s nothing left of him. It’s just Townsend’s dead meat now. The worthless skin of a Nazi coward who thought he could buy his way out of the party with a blue yonder and got trapped like everybody else.

So long, Vincent.

As I lie down again, a roar thunders down at me. The kind of sound you feel in your bones as much as hear. McCarthy is still perched above me, but the perfect cone of his body begins to distort. It stretches and pulls thin around the middle.

He howls again as a hand the size of a Sherman tank punches through the stretched spot. As it pulls out, it rips some of McCarthy’s swirling body out with it.

The dust devil shoots away from me, out into the open desert. McCarthy isn’t alone now. Vincent is there too. He’s almost as tall as McCarthy, his head scraping the bottoms of the black, rolling clouds. His eyes are blood and silver. His body is a bluish white, like polished stone. His arms are buried deep in McCarthy’s whirling body, and he rears back, ripping out pieces of it. They fall, tiny tornadoes that skid across the ground and fall to dust. McCarthy howls and Vincent rips him apart.

Lightning flashes into Vincent’s eyes. He stumbles back, blinded. McCarthy lunges for him, tearing away chunks of his skin. Vincent’s bones glow from the open places, but he charges back into the storm, ripping at McCarthy’s face. The storm returns the favor, slashing at Vincent’s belly, ripping him open. His glowing blue flesh blows away like sheets of burning canvas into the distance.

It goes on and on like that. Two Deaths slicing each other apart. They fly to pieces. Small tornadoes skittering across the sand. Huge sheets of angel flesh lifted into the air and disappearing.

They begin to shrink. No longer as high as the sky. They drop below the clouds. Then the mountains. Wind and flesh fly in every direction. Roars like thunder shake the ground.

Vincent and McCarthy lose form faster and faster. Become transparent. A thin wisp of swirling sand and a glowing collection of bones, shredded skin, and muscles. They beat and howl until all at once they stop.

Neither moves for a few seconds. McCarthy comes apart first. The big bag of wind blows away like dust on the breeze, scattering to nothing. The black sky begins to clear to a purple twilight.

Vincent’s glow fades. His torn body takes a few painful steps backward. He goes dark and falls to his knees. His body sways, then falls, shattering like glass. And it’s dead quiet for a long time. I sit on the ground and look at what I’ve done.

We’ve gone from two Deaths to exactly zero.

The souls hanging in the sky are going to hang there forever. How many million more will join them because I couldn’t think of anything better to do than kill my friend?

After a while I drag myself to my feet and start walking. I need a drink and a smoke and a shave and a three-­hour shower to get this grit off me.

I’m moving slow. It takes maybe an hour to get back to the city, then another half hour through it to get to Tenebrae Station. I sit on the edge of the platform and wait. Soon I lie back and go to sleep.

I wake with a sharp pain in my side. I open my eyes and see Samael. He’s poking me with a stick.

“Oh good. You’re alive,” he says.

“What’s with the stick?”

“You’re a bit . . . well, filthy and as bloody a mess as I’ve ever seen you—­and I’ve seen you in bad shape.”

“You here to take me home?”

“That was the deal.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Yes. So does Father. He’s not happy.”

“If he was so concerned, why didn’t he do anything about it?”

“You know how he is. Standing up for noninterventionist deities everywhere. Hip hip hooray.”

“So, what happens now?”

“I have no idea. We’ve never been without a Death before. I guess we’ll play it by ear.”

“That’s a great idea. I’m sure all those semidead ­people won’t mind while you get your shit together.”

“Don’t get snippy with me. I’m not the one who broke the universe . . . Again.”

I nod.

“Can you take me home?”

“Of course.”

“Great. I have more good news for you.”

He tosses the stick away onto the tracks.

“And what’s that?”

“I don’t think I can walk. You’re going to have to carry me.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“You’re going to ruin my suit.”

“I’ll get you a new one.”

“You can’t afford my tailor.”

“I’ll buy him off with a bottle of Aqua Regia.”

“What makes you think he’ll accept it?”

“It’s all I have. Unless he wants a set of Nazi brass knuckles.”

Samael looks down at me.

“No. I don’t think that’s quite his style. Can you at least get on your feet?”

I struggle up onto my knees and Samael pulls me the rest of the way.

“You’re sure you can’t walk? I love this suit.”

“Sorry.”

Samael isn’t a huge man, but he picks me up like I’m a toddler and walks like I weigh nothing at all. I guess even ex-­devils have secrets.

“Don’t ever tell anyone I agreed to this.”

“My lips are sealed.”

It’s a long walk down the tracks and through the station.

“What kind of aftershave is that?” I say.

“What? I don’t wear aftershave.”

“You smell nice.”

He stops for a second.

“Say that again and I’ll throw you in a ditch.”

“Some ­people can’t take a compliment.”

I have him leave me off in front of the hotel. As usual, one of his endless number of limos appears from nowhere and a driver opens the door for him.

“I assume you can make it the vast expanse of twenty feet from here?” he says.

“Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”

He goes to the car. Takes his dirty jacket off, folds it, and hands it to the limo driver.

Before he gets in he says, “This is going to end badly, you know. There not being an Angel of Death and all.”

“Any ideas what kind of bad?”

“Yes, but nothing I can talk about now. I’ll be in touch.”

“Take it easy.”

He smiles.

“You might want to consider the same.”

“That’s the plan.”

I go across the parking lot and knock on our door.

It opens and everyone else is still there. I look at Candy.

“Is that pizza I smell?”

“Kasabian got hungry,” she says.

“I got hungry,” says Kasabian.

Candy pulls me inside and I drop down onto the couch. I must look bad. Candy is the only one who wants to get near me.

“You’re bleeding, you bastard,” she says.

“I missed you too.”

“What happened over there?”

What the hell can I say to them?

“McCarthy is dead.”

“Did you kill him or Vincent?”

“Vincent.”

“Good for him.”

“Yeah. Good for him.”

Allegra dive-­bombs for my bleeding arm. I get her to hold off on the Dr. Kildare scene until after I take a shower.

The sun is coming up outside and I wish I could say that everything is right with the world, but it isn’t. It severely isn’t. But I’m not about to tell anyone. They’ll just freak out and I won’t get any pizza.

I SLEEP MOST of the next day, waking only for the occasional Malediction and shot of Aqua Regia—­soothing Hellion Bactine for all your wounds.

In the afternoon, I turn on the TV for a few minutes. It comes on to CNN. No surprise that the lead story is how ­people have stopped dying again. The fucked part is that a lot of usually solid citizens are taking it worse than before. Riots. A stock-­market dive. Prime ministers, potentates, and other assorted high-­and-­mighties deposed. It’s an old story. Taking ­people’s candy away is always worse than there being no candy at all.

Julie calls around four. Wants to know what’s going on, if Vincent won the rumble in the desert. I tell her that, after being trapped in a body, Vincent is still getting his sea legs back. I’ll have to come up with a better excuse soon, but right now I can’t think of anything else and, really, I just want to go back to sleep.

Allegra comes by in the evening, changes my bandages, and gives me lovely, mind-­numbing drugs. I can see how Vincent might fall in love with his pills. If Aqua Regia didn’t burn so good going down, I might get a crush on the stuff too.

Vincent. What the fuck happened there? McCarthy was stronger than either of us thought. Or maybe it’s just the nature of Death itself. Like the difference between big-­name whiskey and some of the better no-­name stuff. The off-­brand might not taste quite as good, but it will fuck you up just as well as the expensive. McCarthy might not have been Angel’s Envy or Gentleman Jack, but he was high enough proof to stand up to an angel. Best-­case scenario, my lie isn’t such a lie after all. Maybe Vincent really is hurt and just lying low until he’s his old self again. Yeah. Let’s go with that for now.

Candy takes pity on me. Brings me more tamales and donuts. Of course, Kasabian, nervous little fuck that he is, comes over and gobbles most of the grub, then heads back to his room to see if he can break the hotel’s pay-­per-­view codes.

I fall asleep soon after that. I’m healing slower than usual from a ­couple of lousy gunshots. Normally, I’d be up and walking by now, but I still feel like shit. I should check the slugs in the Luger. Maybe Colonel Klink spiked his shells with poison, the clever little fuck.

When I wake up the next morning Candy is gone, but I actually feel a little better. My right arm is still stiff as hell, but my leg is mostly healed. I shuffle into the kitchen and turn on the coffeemaker, then go back to the other room to get dressed for the first time since I got back from the Tenebrae.

There’s something white across the room. I go over and find an envelope someone shoved under the door. It’s addressed to Mr. James Stark in fancy, florid handwriting, so it’s not a kick-­out notice from the hotel. I open the envelope. Inside is an invitation about the size of an index card.

It’s from Wormwood Investments. There’s no address or phone number, just a message scrawled in the same ornate hand.

The presence of Mr. James Stark is requested at

3 P.M. today at the La Cienega oil field. This invitation

does not come with a plus-­one. Come alone. Lunch will

be provided.

Regards,

Geoffrey Burgess

Just like the Augur’s invitation, the card feels like it was written on the kind of paper you’d print million-­dollar bills with. Rich ­people sure love their precious invites. Maybe it’s to disguise the fuck-­you nature of the so-­called request. Like someone wouldn’t show up to drag my ass out to La Cienega if I didn’t show? Is this Burgess part of the talent-­agency family? It would be a big coincidence if he wasn’t. And his first name. Jeffrey spelled Geoffrey. Never trust a Geoffrey. Either they’re pretentious pricks or bitter that the family spelled their name funny.

This has trouble written all over it.

I check the clock. It’s already after two. In my current shape, I’m not driving anywhere fast. It takes a ­couple of minutes of struggling to get my coat on. I leave the SS dagger on the table. Don’t want that on me if someone digs up my body in a few weeks. But I keep the Colt, the black blade, and my na’at. I’m tempted to take the Benelli, but they might consider that rude and I’m not sure I want to start out on the wrong foot with the kind of ­people I’ll probably be meeting today.

As I’m locking up, Kasabian comes out of his room with an ice bucket.

“Where are you going? You look like shit,” he says.

“Just making a run to Donut Universe.”

He looks me up and down.

“You always go out strapped to buy fritters?”

“You never know. I might have to wrestle someone’s granny for the last one.”

“Okay. You told your lie and we got that out of the way. Where are you really going?”

For a minute I consider telling him.

“I can’t say. But if I’m not back by six, have Chihiro give this to Julie.”

I hand Kasabian the envelope. I sealed it, which was pointless. Kasabian will steam it open the moment I’m out of sight. But at this point, I can’t worry about that.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, but if you expect me to give Candy your suicide note, fuck you.”

“I don’t know what’s going on either. I’m just trying to cover all the bases.”

“You’re going off to get killed and leaving me and Chihiro to fend for ourselves. We don’t even have the store to go back to.”

I head across the parking lot.

“I’ll try to be back by dark. Just give her the note if I’m not.”

The Crown Vic is still parked by the Museum of Death. I forgot I left it in a metered spot. There are about fifty tickets and a tow-­away notice on the windshield. I throw them all in the gutter.

My right arm is still pretty useless, so I have to lean over and start the car with my left. I didn’t take any of Allegra’s pills because they’d make me too loopy to drive, which already makes me dislike Wormwood goddamn Investments.

I drive south, left-­handed all the way. Am I nervous or just on autopilot? The oil fields seemed to appear out of nowhere just a few minutes after I left the hotel, but I know I’ve been driving for at least half an hour.

I turn on Stocker Street and see an open gate to the fields. I’m not that stupid. I park on the shoulder of the road around the corner and go through the gate on foot.

Inside are a few sheet-­metal buildings, a ­couple of trailer offices, breaker boxes, and a scattering of porta-­potties. All around me, the oil pumps rise and fall like those stupid drinking-­bird toys. ­People don’t think of L.A. as an oil town, but they’ve been sucking crude out of the ground for over a hundred years. More ­people have died for these fields than in all the gangland gunfights and hits in L.A. The Mob tried briefly to make a move on them. Oil was the only money game that managed to completely and utterly shut them out. That’s how much muscle petroleum has always had in this town.

I come around a corner and into a scene I’d expect only Samael could pull off.

Food trucks are lined up in a semicircle. Mexican, Korean, southern, and a few others. At the end of the line are a ­couple of trucks that look like they’re handing out desserts.

In the middle of the semicircle, on the packed dirt ground, is a long dining table set with crystal glasses, and expensive-­looking china and cutlery. Eight ­people, four men and four women, move between the trucks and the table. They’re in suits and evening gowns. They all stare at me when I come around the corner.

A bald man with his jacket off and sleeves rolled up heads in my direction. Right behind him is a dark-­skinned woman pretty enough to make Salma Hayek blush. It’s all plastic surgery, of course. The tightness of her face is a dead giveaway. The man has had work too. When he smiles, enough of his face doesn’t move that I bet he has his own in-­house Botox Dr. Feelgood. Still, this is no time to get judgmental. With my limp, gimpy arm and dirty boots, what do I look like to them? A Victorian street urchin with his nose pressed against the window, hoping for some scraps of their Christmas goose.

“Stark,” says the man, extending his hand. “Thanks for coming. I’m Geoff Burgess. And this is Eva Sandoval.”

He’s not the same Burgess I saw at the fight club, but there’s a decent enough resemblance. I shake both of their hands and look around.

“This is quite a spread. You always eat like this?”

“Not at all,” says Burgess.

“Geoffrey is just showing off because we’re having such an important guest,” says Sandoval. She takes my good arm and walks me over to the food trucks. I wonder if Sandoval got on my left out of old-­world charm or to make sure I can’t reach the Colt. Burgess walks on my right. I’m surrounded. Politely, but still surrounded.

“I hope you’re hungry,” says Sandoval.

“What do you recommend?”

She smiles at me.

“I hear you’ve developed a taste for Japanese. Maybe some sushi?”

A Chihiro joke. Great. We’re already starting with the veiled threats. Or was that just a little rich-­­people humor to remind me that no one has secrets from shits with enough money?

I look over at the southern truck.

“How’s the fried chicken?”

Burgess says, “Outstanding. That’s what I had. Beer batter with enough cayenne to wake you up, but not send you to the emergency room.”

“That’s for me, then.”

Burgess raises a hand, and when we get to the truck a leg and thigh are waiting for me in a paper tray. I take it and some napkins and follow my hosts to the far end of the dining table. Before I can sit down, the other lunch guests get to their feet and applaud something. I look around and realize it’s me. The applause doesn’t last long, but it’s still unnerving. The last time anyone gave me a standing ovation was in the arena in Hell.

“Don’t mind them,” says Sandoval. “They want you to know how happy we all are to finally meet you.”

I nod, spread out a napkin on my lap.

“About that. You said something about me being an important guest. You want to explain that?”

“Try the chicken first,” Sandoval says.

“You’re a whiskey man, right?” says Burgess. He goes to one of the trucks and comes back with a ­couple of glasses of amber liquid. I sniff mine.

“Don’t bother,” Burgess says. “You won’t recognize it. We have our own distillery and bottle it ourselves. Just for family and friends, you understand. Let me know what you think.”

I take a sip.

Holy shit.

“How did you come up with this recipe?”

“Why do you ask?”

“This is the best thing I’ve tasted next to Aqua Regia and I’ve never met anyone up here who even knows about the stuff.”

“I suppose that means we’re not just anyone,” says Burgess.

“I suppose so.”

“Try the chicken and then ask your questions,” says Sandoval. “I suspect that you have a few.”

I take a bite of the bird.

“What do you think?”

“It’s as good as the whiskey.”

“It is, isn’t it?” she says. “Now, what’s the first thing you’d like to know?”

“What are you ­people? What’s Wormwood? Some kind of bank?”

Burgess nods.

“To some ­people. But really we’re an overall investment entity.”

“What kind of investments?”

“Money, of course. That’s what most freshman investors with us want.”

Sandoval sips her whiskey, then says, “For more discriminating clients, we handle specialized products. Physical commodities. Oil, obviously. Land too. In more exotic departments, human organs. ­People.”

Burgess wipes away a water ring on the table with his thumb.

“And there are our ephemeral departments. They handle items such as souls. Damnation. Salvation. Those are some of our biggest markets.”

I wipe the chicken grease off my fingers and push it away.

“I don’t understand a single thing you just said. How do you invest in damnation?”

“Let me explain it to you,” Sandoval says.

“In as small words as possible.”

“Of course. When we said you were an important person, we were being quite sincere. Our investments in afterlife products were minuscule until you came along.”

“Try this,” says Burgess. “You’re a profit center for us. We’ve backed a lot of your exploits.”

“Through direct investments and working the margins,” says Sandoval.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even have a checking account.”

“Simply put,” says Burgess, “everything you’ve done since escaping from Hell has generated profits for us, both tangible and intangible. And everything you do in the future will continue to generate profits.”

I look at the two of them, then the others.

“The White Lights didn’t want Death,” I say. “You did.”

Burgess brightens.

“Well, the Legion wanted Death for their reason and we wanted him for our own. Their blackmail operation was going to bring in some revenue, but we had bigger things in mind.”

Sandoval says, “Death can kill, but he can choose not to kill too. That was our first concern. We planned to live forever. We still do.”

“With Death on our side, we could nudge the ephemeral division in any direction we wanted,” Burgess says. “Some chaos is all right. Even useful. But too much randomness is bad for business. Unregulated deaths are too wet and messy. But with Death on our side, we can manipulate markets on Earth, as well as our Heaven and Hell departments.”

“Are we talking about money?” I say.

“Money, sure. But it’s more than that. Those Cold Case merchants you dislike so much? Where do you think they get the majority of their souls? We collect all kinds of collateral and forfeited assets.”

“In the end, it’s not about wealth, but about power,” says Sandoval.

“Why do you want that kind of power?”

“Only ­people with no power ever ask that question.”

“Have you ever read Nineteen Eighty-­Four?” says Burgess.

“I haven’t even seen the movie.”

“There’s a passage in there, a small monologue by a character named O’Brien. I’ll try to paraphrase it for you. Wormwood isn’t interested in the good or even bad of others. We don’t have a political ideology. We’re interested in power, pure power, because the object of power is more power.”

“For what?”

“It doesn’t matter. For whatever we want,” says Sandoval. “Here or in other places of existence.”

Burgess chuckles.

“You know, we lost a lot of money in the damnation market when you convinced God to allow damned souls access to Heaven. I’ll admit it. We didn’t see that coming.”

“But we made it back when the angels barred the souls from entering,” Sandoval says.

“Exactly,” says Burgess.

“You see? In the end, anything you do enriches us.”

She looks at my plate.

“Your chicken is getting cold.”

“Fuck my chicken. Is Abbot, the Augur, part of Wormwood?”

They both laugh.

“No,” says Sandoval. “Wormwood is only for important ­people.”

I remember a man I once met. They said he was the richest man in California.

“I bet Norris Quay was part.”

Burgess picks up his whiskey and sniffs it.

“He still is. Our man in Hell, scouting for new investment opportunities.”

I copy Burgess and finish the rest of my drink.

“So, all the White Lights killing ­people, Vincent and McCarthy, Tykho’s crazy Nazi past, the battle for death, all those poor semidead slobs caught in limbo, all the ghosts destroyed in the club—­all that meant nothing?”

Sandoval picks pieces off my chicken with her fingernails. Swallows them.

“Not nothing,” she says. “They were each a factor in an investment decision. Think of it this way. There is war in the Middle East and there are pirates in Somali that seize oil tankers. They both affect the price of oil, but that’s all. There’s always been war and there will always be pirates. No one particular thing is special. But if you understand the markets, there’s always profit and power to be had no matter who wins.”

“The simple point is, Stark, there’s nothing you can do or not do that won’t benefit us,” says Burgess. “Live. Die. Fight for truth, justice, and the American way, put down a zombie hullabaloo, or drown in a bottle. Your actions since your return have made you an investment factor. Even showing up here today made me a few shekels. Kominsky over there thought we’d have to send a riot squad after you.”

Burgess shouts to someone down the table.

“Here he is, Pieter. Don’t forget to pay up.”

Pieter, a fat young man in a Caesar haircut, looks up.

“Don’t bother me. I’m eating.”

The crowd laughs quietly. I don’t.

I say, “But Vincent killed McCarthy. You’re not going to live forever.”

“Please,” says Sandoval. “We’re not naive. We hedged the hell out of that fight and came out fine.”

“Because we always do,” say Burgess. “And there are other roads to immortality that we’re exploring.”

“Why are you telling me all these things? Did you bring me out here to kill me?”

“Of course not. You’re much too valuable. We just thought it was time for you to know who you’ve really been working for all this time.”

“You’re not part of the Golden Vigil, are you?”

“Who knows?” he says.

“No. You’d tell me if you were. You’re fucking with me to see what will happen.”

“We just want you motivated and interesting.”

“Did you have anything to do with Mason killing Alice or sending me to Hell?”

“I wish we’d seen that one coming.”

“When you lived . . . well, it’s our job to spot a good investment,” says Sandoval. “We’ve had our eyes on you for almost twelve years now. Your exploits in the arena did well for us.”

Burgess says, “Of course, we had to adjust our strategy when you kept winning.”

“I hope you don’t mind that we rigged a few of your fights. I mean, you had to lose sometimes to keep ­people betting. But don’t be too mad. We were the ones who suggested to Azazel that he give you the key to the Room of Thirteen Doors. You weren’t his first choice.”

“So really, you owe us,” Burgess says.

“You sicced the county on us, didn’t you? The fucking eminent domain.”

Burgess holds up his hands.

“Guilty as charged.”

“You were getting too comfortable. The market was slumping,” says Sandoval.

“And we’re the ones rescinding county’s order, so calm down. You did enough for us getting Vincent and McCarthy together.”

“Rescind Julie’s order too.”

“Of course.”

My head hurts. I wonder for a second if they put something in my drink. No. They said they weren’t out to get me, and as insane as they are, what profit would there be for them?

“Do either of you have an aspirin?”

Burgess calls down the table, “Does anyone have an aspirin?”

Lots of shrugs and shaking heads.

“Sorry,” he says. “We don’t really get sick.”

Sandoval says, “Technically, we do. But we have ­people who do it for us.”

“A sort of Dorian Gray situation,” says Burgess. “Surely you know that story.”

“That’s a movie I’ve seen.”

“Excellent.”

I look around at Geoffrey Burgess and Eva Sandoval, at their friends, the food, and oil pumps. All the miserable trappings of their astonishing power and wealth. I haven’t eaten much today. The whiskey is dancing around in my stomach.

“Thanks for lunch. Can I go now?”

“Of course. No one is keeping you here,” says Sandoval.

“Okay. Then I’m going.”

I get up and start walking.

“Safe driving,” she calls.

“Yes. Remember to take your vitamins,” Burgess yells. “We want you bright-­eyed and bushy-­tailed.”

Before I go around the first set of oil pumps, I turn and give them all the finger. More laughter and applause.

Black smoke coils up into the sky and blows down Stocker Street. I walk to the shoulder of the road.

The Crown Vic is on fire. Fully engulfed. Don’t bother calling an ambulance. The patient cannot be resuscitated. I stare at it for a ­couple of minutes.

It’s a mild day. In the midsixties. My head and my arm hurt. I wish I’d brought some of Allegra’s pills along. I start walking to Hollywood.

I’m not more than a few hundred feet down the road when some genius starts honking at me. I flip him off and keep walking. He honks again. I reach under my coat. Maybe I can scare him away with the Colt.

I turn and sitting a few feet away in a red 1960 Ferrari 250 GT is Thomas Abbot. He’s as young and handsome and posh as ever. I want to hate him, but I’m too tired.

He rolls down his window.

“Need a lift?”

“How did you know where I’d be?”

“Wormwood isn’t the only one keeping tabs on you. Get in.”

I consider it and decide that if Abbot wanted me dead too, he could have just run me over.

I go around to the passenger side of the Ferrari and get in.

“Nice wheels.”

“Awesome wheels,” he says.

He rolls up his window and hits the accelerator. The car takes off like a rocket and he pilots it like someone who’s been doing it for a while.

“Did you burn my car so you could give me a ride back?”

“No. But I saw who did it.”

“Who?”

“Audsley Isshii.”

Some ­people seriously need to get a new hobby.

“I wonder why he didn’t wait till I was in the car before he lit it up.”

“Because I told him I’d be upset if he did that.”

“Thanks. Why?”

“You did a good job with Death.”

“You think?”

“Of course. ­People have started dying in droves. They estimate almost a hundred thousand since last night.”

“I haven’t watched the news since yesterday.”

“You ought to.”

“That’s what my boss says.”

“Speaking of bosses, have you had a chance to reconsider my job offer?”

“Honestly, no. It’s been an eventful few days.”

“I can match and beat any offer anyone else makes you.”

“Why do you want me so much?”

“I just told you. You handled the Death case so deftly.”

“And because Wormwood is so hot for me.”

“That too.”

I think about it as we drive.

“How’s Tamerlan Radescu doing?” I say.

Abbot glances at me.

“All right, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

“What I mean is, is Radescu on your payroll?”

“No. He came around offering his ser­vices, but I don’t have any use for a Dead Head. How did you know about that?”

“He was heading to your boat when I was leaving.”

“Ah, right. He and my father were close, but we’re not. He’s turned into a mean old bastard. I don’t need that around.”

I nod, wishing I could see his eyes so it would be easier to tell if he was lying.

My arm throbs.

“If you were right there, why did you let Isshii burn my car?”

“I wouldn’t have if you’d been one of my employees. It would have been my obligation to step in.”

We drive for a while longer.

“Do you have any aspirin?”

“In the glove compartment.”

I find the bottle and dry-­swallow four pills.

“Give me twenty-­four hours,” I say.

“That’s fair. Where should I drop you?”

“My boss’s place so I can tell her about the car. It’s in Silver Lake.”

“Let’s go.”

I spend the rest of the drive wondering who’s started killing ­people again.

ABBOT DROPS ME outside of Julie’s building and heads off to do important Augur stuff, like sipping drinks on his yacht.

I head upstairs. Julie must have the security cams on because Candy meets me at the top of the stairs.

“You look terrible. What are you doing out of bed?” she says.

“I’m fine. I just need to sit down.”

She pulls a chair over by Julie’s desk and I drop down into it.

Julie pushes her coffee my way. I drink some and nod thanks.

“She’s right, Stark. You don’t look good. What do you need that we couldn’t talk about on the phone?”

I take the keys to the Crown Vic out of my pocket and slide them across the desk.

“Here are your keys. You’ll probably be getting a notice from city impound. Maybe a junkyard.”

She takes the keys and drops them in a drawer.

“Where’s the car?”

“What’s left of it is out on La Cienega. I had to get a ride back with a friend.”

“Who?” says Candy.

“Thomas Abbot.”

That gets Julie’s attention. She writes something down on a yellow legal pad.

“I’m torn here, Stark. Despite all the time you didn’t listen to my orders and went off on your own, you did a lot of the heavy lifting when it came to solving this case. You handled some very dangerous ­people and helped reinstate Death to his rightful place. And your information helped to shut down the White Light Legion. Congratulations. You really put the agency on the map.”

Candy reaches over and squeezes my hand.

“Thanks. Just happy to be part of the team, boss.”

“With that in mind, I have a ­couple of announcements. First, Chihiro isn’t an intern anymore. I’m hiring her full-­time.”

I look over at Candy. She’s practically beaming.

“That’s great news, babe. You deserve it.”

“Also, Stark, you’re fired.”

“What?” says Candy. “Why?”

“For all the reasons I listed before. You never listen to anybody. You lost me a perfectly good car. You lied about where Vincent’s heart was and you interfered with a Vigil raid. Plus, I’m sure there are a dozen other things I don’t know about.”

“At least a dozen,” I say. “Two things, though. First, what did you think was going to happen when you saddled me with a cop car? Second, don’t take any of this out on Allegra. If you give her a chance, she’ll be a great tenant.”

“It’s all right,” says Candy.

“Yes, we talked the other day while you were out,” says Julie. “She’s moving in at the end of the month.”

I get up and take out a Malediction.

“By the way, I got your eminent domain called off.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I walk to the stairs, turn back to her.

“There’s just one more thing.”

“What?” says Julie.

“Vincent is dead.”

“Then who’s Death?”

“I have no idea. See you around.”

WE SPEND THE night at the Beat Hotel and move back into Max Overdrive the next morning. I’m still walking wounded for a ­couple more days, so we schedule the reopening and Candy’s new-­job party for the weekend.

Carlos gets there first and sets up a sound system. I thought he was just bringing a boom box with some Martin Denny and Les Baxter. Candy is thrilled. I’m happy she’s happy, but plan to spend a fair amount of time outside smoking.

A little after six, Allegra and Vidocq are the next to arrive. They have Brigitte with them.

“Let me see your arm,” says Allegra.

I flex a few times as she pokes, prods, and does generally uncomfortable doctor stuff to me. After a few minutes she seems satisfied.

“You’re almost back to your old self. I’m just concerned about you healing so slowly. Have you taken any drugs? Eaten anything different? Changed any habits?”

I think about the chicken and whiskey with Wormwood, but that can’t be it. I was already fucked up when I got there.

“The week is up. I can’t sidestep anymore. Maybe that’s it?”

“I’m glad it’s gone,” says Candy.

She yanks a hair out of my scalp, shows it to Allegra. It’s gray. She looks at me.

“Piss Alley always charges you more than you think it will. I think sidestepping was eating my life force or something. Anyway, it’s over now.”

“Good thing too,” says Allegra.

“I just missed shadow walking so much. I guess it’s really gone for good.”

“You’re stuck here with us groundlings.”

“Sounds like it.”

“You realize what this means?” says Candy. “We’re going to have to get a car. You can’t steal them forever and I have a respectable job these days.”

“You stick to the respectable stuff. As long as I have the black blade, I can get any car I want. Besides, how are we going to register a car? We don’t exist.”

“Maybe the Augur can help?”

“Why would the Augur help you?” says Vidocq.

“You didn’t tell them?” Candy says.

“I was going to do it tonight.”

“Tell us what?” says Brigitte.

“Stark is respectable too, whether he likes it or not,” says Candy. “He’s going to work for Thomas Abbot.”

“It’s not like I’m going to be shining his shoes. I’ll just be on the Sub Rosa advisory council.”

“Congratulations,” says Vidocq.

He and Allegra hug me. Brigitte does too, but laughs while she does it.

“Oh, Jimmy, don’t become too housebroken.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Candy says. “He used my computer to find Audsley Isshii’s license plate and drove his car off a pier.”

“He’s insured, so fuck him.”

A few of our regular customers come by. Courtney, the Lyph, and her boyfriend. Cindil and Fairuza arrive together. Turns out that Cindil is apprenticing to Allegra at the clinic. Manimal Mike, the Tick Tock Man, pulls me aside and slips me something. I thank him and put it in my pocket.

I watch Candy talking excitedly with Fairuza about getting their band back together. Technically it will be a new band. Candy is gone, so it will be Chihiro on guitar. She pulls Cindil over.

“Can you play bass?” she says.

“No. I used to play clarinet in the school band.”

“Perfect. We only know three chords. You’re our new bass player.”

“Cool,” says Cindil.

I go outside with a cigarette and an Aqua Regia.

Guess this is how things are going to be for a while. Me stuck in the dirt not shadow walking and Candy pretending to be someone else. We can handle it. Other ­people deal with worse, right? And as long as Wormwood doesn’t get directly in my face, I can handle that too. Besides, maybe me and the Augur together can do something about them. I know I’m lying to myself, of course. Things like Wormwood don’t go away. With their wealth and power they’re dug too deep into L.A.’s hide. Maybe going respectable is my one way of beating them. If you can’t murder them your only option might be to bore them to death. Maybe I’ll get a car after all. A used brown Volvo. Let them try to figure that one out.

Samael comes in around seven. He has a flunky with him, carrying a chilled bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket. The flunky leaves it on the front counter and excuses himself. I don’t bother looking at the bottle’s label. I won’t recognize the name and Samael will probably tell me how he snatched it from the pope’s private reserve.

He pours us each a glass and we head outside, where it’s quieter.

“You look a lot better than the last time we saw each other.”

“Yeah. I’m about back together.”

“The tailor was able to save my suit, so all you owe me is the cleaning bill.”

“Good. Send it to me.”

“It might be a bit more than you’re expecting.”

“I’d be disappointed if it wasn’t.”

I try the champagne. It’s not my favorite poison, but this stuff is better than most I’ve had.

“You heard?” I say. ­“People are dying again.”

“Of course.”

“You know who’s responsible?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

He nods, stares into his drink.

“Father appointed me a few days ago. He says I should consider it a great honor to be the Angel of Death. I don’t know. I’m not used to being in the same guise, doing the same thing day after day.”

“Wait. If you’re Death, how can you be here? Shouldn’t you be off collecting souls?”

“I am. Death, like Santa Claus, can be many places at once. Me, I’m here with you. I’m also in Detroit, Nairobi, Vienna, Buenos Aires. Everywhere.”

“Doesn’t that get a little confusing?”

“It takes some getting used to, yes. I was constantly dizzy for the first ­couple of days. But it’s getting better.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do a bang-­up job.”

“What about you? You’re almost as acquainted with Death as I am. Would you like the job? It’s a great honor. You’re loved and feared around the world.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass. Besides, I already have a new job.”

“How about one of your friends? The Frenchman seems like a smart fellow. How do you think he would do?”

“No. No one I know wants the job. We’re all irresponsible and we all drink too much.”

“I wish I could still drink too much.”

“Since you’ve got the inside story, let me ask you something. One of my friends was stupid enough to get a wild-­blue-­yonder contract. What’s going to happen to her now?”

“May I have one of your cigarettes?” he says.

I hand him a Malediction and light it for him. He blows out a long, satisfied stream of smoke.

“What about Brigitte?” I say.

“Don’t worry about lovely Ms. Bardo. When the two previous Deaths died, all blue-­yonder contracts became null and void. She’s like the rest of you now. Someday she’ll see me again and we’ll take a final walk together.”

“What about Tykho? Is she on the menu?”

“Tykho. Yes. She is a special case, isn’t she? Maybe I should pay her a visit while I’m here. Let her know there’s a new sheriff in town.”

“Take me along if you do.”

He takes another puff of the cigarette.

“No. I won’t be seeing her on this trip. But she’s on my naughty list.”

He looks over my shoulder into the store.

“What’s that music? It’s lovely.”

“It’s Martin Denny. Carlos can tell you more than you ever wanted to know about him. I’ll introduce you.”

“Please do.”

“But don’t tell him you’re an angel, especially not the Angel of Death. I don’t have that many friends. I need to keep them all.”

“Of course.”

I go inside. Candy has her red Danelectro guitar out and is showing it to Cindil. They’re plotting how to get her a bass cheap.

Candy spots me across the room and I signal for her to come over. She hands the guitar to Fairuza and heads over my way.

“Cool party, huh?” she says.

“The coolest. I have something for you.”