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“Are we ever going to do this?” he says.

“Okay,” Candy says. “Let’s go.”

Ray nods, then says, “Stark needs to wear this.”

He takes a length of rawhide with a pouch hanging from it and places it around my neck.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s just salt and gold dust.”

Brigitte takes a brush, dips it into a small bowl, and flicks something over me that smells like a dead whale’s backwash.

“I know it smells awful, but it’s necessary.”

When she’s done, she nods and says, “Good luck, Jimmy.”

I have a very bad feeling I know where this is heading and there’s nothing I can do about it. Rigor mortis has hit again, and I don’t have the energy to shake it off. All my limbs cramp and I can’t move.

“I guess we’re ready,” says Candy. “I don’t think he can walk there himself. Can someone help me?”

Everyone grabs a piece of me and carries me to the edge of the bonfire, close enough that I can vaguely feel the cling wrap harden and the adhesive on the duct tape begins to loosen and melt.

They set me down in a salt circle, pry open my mouth, and pour brine down my throat. I choke and sputter but keep most of it down.

As everyone stands back, Flicker pats me on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Stark. We made a good hexagram for you. Number thirty. Very powerful. Radiance. The phoenix.”

Fuck me.

Carlos squeezes my arms.

“Buena suerte.”

Candy gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“See you soon,” she says.

And pushes me into the fire.

I’ve used fire a lot in my fights, both in the arena and since returning to the world. I’ve been burned badly both places, but I’ve never been thrown into the equivalent of a furnace before, and a magic one at that. Let me describe how it feels.

It fucking hurts, which is so unfair. How long has it been since I’ve felt anything at all? And now my nerves are working again just in time for me to baste in my own filthy juices.

The cling wrap melts into my skin and the duct tape bursts into flame. My hair goes next. Then my clothes. I don’t want to tell you what happens to my eyes.

I feel my skin crisp, then bubble and swell. That part doesn’t last long. My fat begins to melt, which is extra fun because it’s flammable and I burn even hotter. I keep waiting to go unconscious. Hoping for it. I try to think of hoodoo that will knock me out. I’ve been knocking out assholes left and right for days, but when I need to remember the curse it’s gone. Maybe because my brain is boiling in its own juices. Maybe because these are magic flames and I’m supposed to be awake to enjoy every moment of the ride. Maybe it’s part of my punishment for Wormwood.

I don’t know how long it takes for the meat parts of me to cook away, but I’m happy when they do. Burning bones don’t hurt as much as skin. Not that it’s fun turning to ash. How hot does a fire have to be to destroy bones? Fourteen hundred, maybe fifteen hundred degrees? This is definitely a hoodoo fire. Nothing Kasabian was involved in could ever work this well.

And then there’s none of me left to burn. I’m gone. A bodiless consciousness floating into the air as black vapor and airborne ash. Finally, I have my wish.

I float into the sky and come down all over L.A. as wildfire debris, making people’s eyes water and throwing them into coughing fits.

That’s it, fuckers. I saved your dumb asses more than once. Let me choke you a little as I vanish into the sky.

I spread across the city, growing thinner as I go. I swirl around buildings, trapped by convection currents. I’m sucked into air-conditioning systems and blown out through giant vents on skyscraper rooftops. I mix with car exhaust and grill flames in food trucks. I drift into bars and churches, mixing with incense and the smell of candle wax. I envelop the hills like a fog, wrapping like Marilyn Monroe’s mink stole around the letters in the Hollywood sign.

Then the currents change and I’m drawn into a whirling tunnel of flame—a fire devil—that drags me back to the scalding center of the hexagram.