Page 30

This is going to take some time.

It takes most of the night, but I finish all of the movies and half of the bourbon, and make a pretty good dent in the yule log. I have a vague dream where Samael talks about an angel named Zadkiel or something and how I have a week to save the world, like I’m Superman and the Pinkertons all rolled into one.

When Abbot calls, I’m hungover and in the middle of a massive sugar crash. It’s like the little plastic Santa and reindeer from the log crawled into my head and are now bashing the inside of my skull with sledgehammers trying to get out.

I grumble something into the phone when I pick it up.

“You’re still in bed?” says Abbot. “It sounds like you had a rough night.”

“I did. Want to hear about my love life?”

“I’d rather be eaten by wolves.”

“That’s an option I hadn’t considered. I’m guessing from the call that you need me after all.”

“That’s right. Come by at five.”

“What time is it now?”

“Noon.”

“No promises.”

“This is serious, Stark, so don’t be late.”

I practically crawl into the kitchen. Drink a glass of water and a shot of bourbon. Finish it all with a not-quite-stale Bavarian cream.

I sleep a little before cleaning up. The neat-freak elves or whoever will eventually do it for me, but I want most of this stuff out of here now. Between Janet, Candy, and Brigitte’s situation, last night was too much of a mess and I don’t want it hanging around.

When it hits four thirty I shove some papers into the pocket of my coat and get on the Hellion Hog. It would be faster to get to Abbot through a shadow, but a ride will clear my head.

Since his boat sank a while back, Abbot has moved into a storage shed on a vacant lot in Westwood. Sub Rosa aesthetics are funny that way. Regular blue bloods like to show off their money with giant estates and palm trees that reach the sky. Sub Rosa are the opposite. The more their place looks like a hovel, the classier they are. Abbot’s place looks like a shack fucked an outhouse and they had an ugly baby. I park the Hog on the grassless lot and go inside the shed.

That’s where the shakedown begins. Abbot, being the Augur of all the California Sub Rosa, has a security detail as thorough and humorless as a black ops hit squad. We’re doing fine until they try to take my weapons.

“That’s not going to happen,” I tell the head of the detail, a solid chunk of muscled beef in a business suit.

“Then you can’t come in,” he says.

I shrug.

“Fine. Tell your boss I was here—and early. When he fires you, I’m sure you’ll find a lucrative career in grocery store security.”

I head for the door but before I leave I shout, “Bye, Abbot,” at the top of my lungs.

Outside, I don’t even bother starting the bike. I light a Malediction and about two seconds later, three of the security kielbasas come out.

The tall one says, “The Augur would like you to come to the meeting.”

“And I get to keep my stuff?”

“He says that you may keep your weapons.”

“Can I finish my cigarette first?”

“He’d prefer it if you came right now.”

“Are you sure? Because this brand is really hard to find.”