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I sit up, drenched and cold.

“Would you hand me the glass?”

He gives me the glass with my eye floating on top. I pop it back in and gulp down the water.

Kasabian takes the bucket and goes back downstairs. I stagger to my feet and get some towels from the bathroom. While I wipe up the water I yell at Kasabian.

“I’m trying to save everybody’s soul, you know.”

“And we appreciate it,” he yells back. “But you’re still a dick.”

Honestly, I can’t argue with that.

ABBOT GIVES ME Geoff Burgess’s address in Beverly Hills and I drive the Hellion hog over as soon as it gets dark.

The place is a gated Tudor behemoth. Something an exiled dictator or a silent-movie star would have. I park down the street between a Land Rover and an Escalade. They’re big enough to hide me, but close enough that I can keep an eye on the place.

Around nine, the gate opens and a Bentley Mulsanne pulls out. It’s a gorgeous machine and I have to talk myself down from ramming it to avenge my Catalina. But I stay put until it passes. Pull out and get on its tail, keeping my light off until we’re out of Beverly Hills and back into normal traffic where Burges

s won’t notice me.

He heads across town, then north up into the hills. I keep a respectable distance. The streets up here wind around each other and branch off in all directions, like veins and arteries. It would be easy to get lost and starve to death by a millionaire’s billion-dollar digs. The coyotes will drag you down into a ravine and the only thing they’ll find of you will be your bones. They’ll identify you by your dental work and joke about you around the morgue, calling you Coyote Bob or Susie Dog Food. If no one claims your carcass, you’ll be burned, and your dust and bone fragments will be buried in the L.A. County Crematorium Cemetery, a place that’s prettier than the Mojave Desert, but no less lonely.

The Bentley slows at a curve and pulls up to a gate where a uniformed flunky or maybe low-key security guard speaks to Burgess through the driver’s-side window. After a few seconds, the flunky punches a button on one of the brick gate supports and they swing open. The Bentley continues up the circular driveway and I pull a U-turn and park down the hill. Even if I pass by casually, whoever is on gate duty is sure to notice an oversize rat bike prowling somewhere it isn’t supposed to be. A Maserati goes through the gate next, then a Hennessey Venom. L.A. is a town that judges you by your car and the crowd tonight is pulling out all the stops. The only thing that’s going to top these last few heaps is a solid-gold submarine.

From where I am, all I can see is a twenty-foot wall around the mansion grounds. Maybe I could climb a tree, only what am I going to find up there but bats and squirrels with a taste for Dumpster caviar? I’m way too far away from the mansion to see inside. I should have brought binoculars, but unless they’re doing a human sacrifice on the lawn, I still don’t know that I’d be able to see anything. It’s probably just another cocktails-and-cheese mixer like I sat through on Abbot’s boat. I don’t need to waste one more evening on one of those. Besides, it’s Burgess I’m after and Burgess is behind the locked gates of Fort Sugar Daddy. Which means he’s not home and that’s good news for me.

I gun the bike and head down the hill, back to Beverly Hills.

Headlights in my eyes all the way, and while they don’t bring on a Trotsky headache, my head starts hurting after a while. I should have asked Allegra about the migraines. Bullets and knives I can handle, but these damned headaches are my Kryptonite. Like the one I had when I was Downtown this morning. That laid me out but good. I run through the images again as I drive, each time stopping at the same one: Samael facing off against six or eight Hellion generals. I’ve seen him fight with a Gladius, but not against a group like that. It feels stupid to hope that he’s not hurt. I just hope he’s not dead and vanished, one more victim in a cosmic brawl made worse by whatever Wormwood is up to.

In Beverly Hills, I roll the bike back between the Rover and the Escalade. Burgess’s place looks empty and quiet. I wonder if he’s the kind of guy to have a staff that spends the night? I get the feeling not. During the day, I can image the place being a busy little beehive. But at night, with what he’s into, I think he’d want some privacy. I watch the windows for a while. The lights don’t change and no shadows pass by.

It’s a thin reason to break into the place, but I’ll take it.

There’s a wall around Burgess’s palace, but it’s lower than the one back up on Mount Olympus. There’s a row of topiary bushes by the near side of the wall. They give me a nice pool of shadow, so I can climb over without being too obvious. When I land I do another glamour. This time I put on Burgess’s face. That should confuse any video cameras he has on the grounds.

My skin prickles from all the protective wards he has installed around the grounds. They make my heart race and my throat tighten. I whisper some Hellion hoodoo and my chest and throat loosen up as the wards lose their effectiveness. I’ve broken into a lot of houses here and Downtown, and the owners almost always go for the same lame protections. Once you figure out the pattern, you can find a way to work around them. The problem is that I can’t turn off the wards indefinitely. They’re going to start working again soon, so I have to do whatever I’m going to do fast.

That leaves me with one big question: Do I kick the front door in or maybe toss a potted plant through a window and poke around Burgess’s linen drawers? I decide against both. They’ll give away too much too soon. I want to be able to keep tailing him or come back here again, so I don’t want him getting paranoid, maybe doubling his wards and hiring armed guards to prowl the place at night. That means it’s just a recon mission. Prowl the grounds and see what I can see. Come back later and rip into the interesting stuff after coordinating with Abbot and whatever he’s up to.

There isn’t going to be anything interesting at the front of the house, so I head around the side.

Nothing but bushes over there. I can make out the frame of a gazebo at the rear of the place, so I head that way.

It’s awfully exciting around back—meaning it’s the same giant heated pool, lounge chairs, and tables you’ll find in every backyard in the goddamn neighborhood. If Burgess has any secrets stashed around here, they’re inside the house, exactly where I can’t go yet.

I’m looking over the house’s rear windows when my throat starts getting itchy. Maybe I should take off and come back another night when I’ve had a chance to prepare some better protection for myself. But as I’m moving back to the front of the house, something moves upstairs. In the far right window, the curtains part and a small face looks down at me.

It’s Nick, the kid Abbot is looking for.

I start for the rear door when my lungs decide to stop working. My throat tightens and my heart kicks into overdrive. I’m almost to the door, but I’m moving too slow.

Lights come on all over the mansion grounds. I’m pinned under floodlights beaming down from every direction. If the lights are on, it means someone else has been alerted. The cops or local private muscle. There’s no way I can break in, get Nick, and get out again. The kid waves at me. I wave back. Then head for the wall I climbed over to get in.

The moment I’m on the other side, my lungs open up and my heart slows down. I feel like shit and know a drink would help, but this isn’t the right time or place to administer medication. I run back to the hog as lights come on in other houses. Kicking the bike into gear, I haul ass out of blue-blood country, still wearing Burgess’s face. I don’t change back until I’m in Hollywood.

Across from the Whisky a Go Go, I pull the bike over and get out my phone. I dial Abbot’s number. He takes his sweet time answering.