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“Of course I care, but you don’t have him,” I say. “Someone far more dangerous, but far more predictable does.” I glance at my datapad. Holiday has given the signal. Finally. The novelty was wearing off. Fidelity is confirmed. I have what I want.

“Bitch…” he hisses. “How are you in my head? What is this?”

“In part, this is me measuring the fidelity of your brain patterns and predictive behavior to help me develop an evolving technology. But more to the point, this is me killing time.”

His pretty eyes narrow. “For what?”

Finally, the lights go out. “The Goblin of Mars.”

“YOU HAVE TO PROTECT ME.” The Duke strains on his handcuffs. I’ll never get used to seeing the fear Sevro wakes in people. Deep down they know Darrow is operating on a framework of logic. No one, not even me, believes that Sevro is completely sane.

“How’s the saying go?” I ask the Duke. “That’s right. ‘The Reaper may go through you, but the Goblin stays for seven courses.’?”

“I’m a prisoner. I have rights. You can’t let him butcher me. I don’t have the little bastards! I’m a prisoner of the Republic. I have rights.”

“I’ll see if he agrees. Wait, please.”

I disappear out the door as the Duke shivers in terror.

With the power cut, the warehouse is dark but for the lights around the small camp outside the interrogation cube. Theodora and Holiday sit at the table sharing tea and quietly debating whether the white sand beaches of South Pacifica or coastal vineyards of Thessalonica are more pleasant. I join them and kick my feet up. “Obviously South Pacifica. Impossible to get the stench of the Valii-Rath out of Thessalonica. Could you please pour me a cup, Centurion?”

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“A little indulgence never hurt anyone,” Theodora says. I raise an eyebrow toward the screaming Duke in his cube. “Well, except for him.”

I sip the sugarless tea and scan the shadows, wondering if he’s already there. “Sevro, stop wanking off in the shadows and come down.” No response. “We have tea.”

A shadow parts from the darkness amongst the rafters and lands in the center of the floor. The short, plump figure wears light-absorbent tactical gear and a lupine helmet with a snarled snout and feminine ears. It is severely damaged and torn in several places. The helmet slithers back into its catch to reveal a round face with flushed cheeks. Pebble’s smile is awkward.

I tip my cup. “?’Lo, Mars.”

“?’Lo, Minerva.”

“How is Luna treating you these days?”

“Garbage detail, you know. Better than dead horses, I guess.”

“Is Sevro joining us for tea or just going to skulk up in the rafters?”

“Boss?” she calls up. “Think it’d be rude at this point not to—”

“I hate tea,” a synthesized voice growls from above. “It’s just coffee with piss instead of coffee.”

“He says—”

“He’ll like this kind. I brewed it for him.”

“She said you’ll like this kind. She brewed it for you.”

“Ask her what kind of tea it is.”

“He wants to know what kind of tea it is.”

“Wolfsbane, obviously.”

“She says it’s wolfsbane tea.”