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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 l

ike 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.”