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“Is there a red carpet? Will we know who they’re wearing?”

Willem ignores me.

THE GATHERING IS exactly what I was afraid of. A CIA torture session of wine, cheese, and tony chitchat. Maybe eating Brie just makes people stupid. I never trusted the stuff myself. Soft cheese is a reminder that all cheese is just milk that crawled into a ditch to die, then some lunatic came along, spread the corpse on a saltine, and invented hors d’oeuvres. Now people pay heroin prices for stuff they could make themselves if they only had the guts to strap a pint of whole milk to their engine block for a few days. Sure it might come out a little greasy, but that’ll just shoot the stuff through your system faster. No need to absorb any actual calories. This is L.A., where the food is prettier than the movie stars and twice as untouchable.

I look at Willem.

“How do you sit here like this without committing ritual suicide?”

He adjusts a camera angle.

“It’s my job.”

“Do you like it?”

“Of course. It’s an honor to work for the augur.”

I can’t see his eyes, so I can’t tell if he’s lying.

“Sitting in a stuffy room pushing buttons. I get it. I used to talk that way the last time I worked for a bigwig.”

He does a sarcastic little snort laugh.

“When did you ever work for someone respectable?”

“Respectable? Never. I used to work for Azazel, one of Lucifer’s generals. I guess I didn’t really ‘work’ for him. I was more of a slave. Anyway, I talked the way you do all the time. ‘What a great boss. What a great gig. I’m the luckiest boy in Candy Land.’”

He looks at me and says, “Bullshit,” but he takes his time about it. Savoring the moment.

I lean into the glow of the monitors to light up my face.

“You think I got these scars playing Jenga?”

“I’ve seen a hundred cons with faces like yours. You’re nothing special.”

That’s the second time in a couple of days someone said I look like a con. One more time and I’m getting a haircut.

I take the pause in the heartbreaking verbal abuse to look over the guests. A lot of old faces from the council meetings. I can’t remember most of their names, but I could find them in a crowd if I had to. A lot of new faces too.

Beautiful people. Perfect clothes. Teeth like CG snowscapes. Breasts lifted. Jowls tightened. You can tell the Sub Rosa men from the civilians because the civilians have

hair plugs, while the balding Sub Rosa have hoodoo and self-loathing. I know I’m supposed to be listening for Wormwood giveaways, but I’d rather machine-gun the entire room than listen to any more chatter about private jets, vacation homes, or Arabian horses. I’d do it too. Wipe out the whole party, but Wormwood probably has bets on it and a mass slaughter would line someone’s pockets, so, for now, everyone is safe. As for why Abbot called me here, I haven’t heard one out-of-place word all evening.

“I’d say this whole thing is pretty much a bust. How ’bout you, Willem? Picking up any supervillain vibes from this bunch?”

“That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What are you here for?”

“To operate the equipment and to keep an eye on you.”

“I have been falling asleep at meetings recently. Do you ever have sleeping problems, Willem? I do. Nightmares and migraines. I found a cure, but I’m not sure it’s healthy. Not a keeper. What do you do to relax, Willem?”

He takes his hands from the console and wraps them together like he’s praying or wants to keep from punching me.

“Stop saying my name all the time.”

“Have I been? How rude. Say, Abbot said we could have stuff sent down here. What do you say to a couple of aperitifs?”