Page 117

It’s a long, stumbling walk up the drive. Each step feels like falling, a nauseating sensation. The hurricane blows down the hill, harder than it did on the flatlands. Off to my left lies L.A. Despite the storm, the backstage view of the city is bright and clear and beautiful. Between gusts, I can see all the way to the ocean. Between whitecaps, the water too dries up and is rebuilt by the insects.

Then the house comes into view. It’s a white Italian villa hugging a stone hillside. There are marble lions flanking the entrance. The villa seems more substantial than the fence, more solid than much of what I’ve seen tonight. The walls are translucent, but they stay in place and don’t crumble like so much of the architecture I’ve been seeing. I touch the front door. It stretches like a thin latex membrane. Pressing my face to the thin skin, I push. The wall membrane stretches, and curls, enveloping me. In a few seconds, it peels open and I’m through.

A step to the left, and the wind stops. The world goes back to normal.

I’m in the foyer. A checkered marble floor. Grand piano. Flashy paintings as memorable as motel art on the walls, but probably costing more than a black-­market kidney. A staircase to my left. The kitchen to my right.

I stay put, listening for anything that means ­people are awake.

From upstairs comes laughter. Several ­people. Men’s voices. I take out the Colt and head up the steps.

A few doors down the second floor is a large room. A desk and laptop to one side. Pricey chairs and sofa around a carved coffee table in the center of the room. Tamerlan sits on a leather recliner at one end of the group, his men scattered on the sofa and chairs. Six of them. I put the Colt away. If I could shadow-­walk, I could come through the dark patches on the walls and floor and take the men out. But I can’t figure out how sidestepping will help me do that. So, I go with a different, much dumber strategy. I put the Colt back under my coat and walk into the room unarmed.

Tamerlan sees me first. He holds up a forefinger like he was expecting me.

“That’s close enough,” he says.

His men turn in my direction, then scramble to pull out guns. They’re clearly Sub Rosa and able to throw hoodoo. The fact they went for their guns means they might use the same trick I do: dipping their bullets in Spiritus Dei, a rare and expensive potion

that when coated on a bullet will kill fucking anything. I’m not about to put up my hands for these pricks, but I hold them out at waist level so they can see I’m unarmed.

“Do you know who I am?”

Tamerlan nods. The room is full of smoke. Foreign cigars the size of brown burritos sit in crystal ashtrays. Tamerlan still holds his.

“Everyone knows who you are.”

“You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

Tamerlan shrugs. He’s wearing a dark red tracksuit with brown loafers and white socks. It’s a strange look. Part CEO of a software start-­up and part Russian gangster, but his voice doesn’t sound like either. More like an East River tugboat captain than a crooked Dr. Moriarty.

“I knew someone was going to show up, though not you in particular. Why’ve you been you harassing my business partners?”

“Partners? They hate your guts.”

­“People don’t need to be best buddies to do business.”

“No, but it makes for better New Year’s parties.”

“You missed the holidays. But Valentine’s Day is coming soon. I’ll buy you one of those boxes of chocolates shaped like a heart before I have my men kill you.”

“Speaking of hearts, I want to talk to you about the guy whose heart you had cut out.”

He puffs his cigar, blows smoke. It hangs blue over his head.

“How did you get in here?” he says.

“I walked through the wall.”

“Yeah. I heard you could do shit like that, but I wasn’t sure I believed it.”

He turns to his men.

“Shoot this asshole.”

Before he actually gets near the word asshole, I’ve dropped to my knees, pressed my hands to the dark wood floor. A shot tears out a piece of the doorframe over my head as I shout Hellion hoodoo. The rest of the shots go up into the ceiling as Tamerlan’s men fall where I made the floor disappear. I shout more hoodoo and the floor reappears. Tamerlan sits up straight in his chair. His is the only part of the floor I left untouched. He puts down his cigar, tries to play it cool and not show shock, but the microtremors in his hands give him away. I close the door and speak a little more hoodoo. The door and windows fade away and are replaced by a smooth surface of walls. Tamerlan looks around at his redecorated room.

“You know you’re going to die, right? I’m tight with the Augur, and Abbot takes care of important ­people.”