"This is funny. The whole time we've known each other, I don't remember you staying more than a few weeks anywhere. It's hard to picture you here as a rent-and-electric-bill guy."

"Don't insult me. I wouldn't pay a penny for this hovel. I used an old gypsy potion, a vin de memoire manquee. I painted the walls, the windows, floor and ceiling, et voila! Your home no longer exists. It is not seen or remembered, except, of course, by our funny sort of people. The Sub Rosa."

The Sub Rosa. I haven't thought about the Sub Rosa in a long time.

Vidocq is Sub Rosa. So are Kasabian, Mason, and the rest of the Circle. I'm Sub Rosa, too, though back in the day I never thought of myself that way, even though there are maybe a few thousand of us walking around Southern California.

Sub Rosas are the secret people who look just like you, but are different. They bank where you bank. They stand behind you in line at the coffee shop. They panhandle you for the money that you suddenly and inexplicably have to drop into their grimy hands. Some of us also talk to the dead. Some see the future, trade souls like baseball cards, or bribe angels for a peek at God's to-do list. Mostly, Sub Rosas are the people regular people aren't supposed to know about. It's not that we don't like you; it's that you have a habit of burning us at the stake when you notice us.

Vidocq's alchemical supplies and burglary gear cover nearly every surface-racks of potions, books and scrolls in Latin and Greek, alembics, test tubes, and grinding stones. On a table in a corner are the baubles he's stolen on commission-netsukes, loose diamonds spilling from courier envelopes, passports, and computer discs. It was one of his less successful experiments that turned him immortal. He's spent the last hundred and fifty years stealing things to fund his research for a cure.

"Thanks for watching the place. I'm glad you have it," I tell him. "I couldn't live here without Alice."

He nods solemnly.

"Where will you live?"

"I'm crashing at a friend's place. There's a bathroom, a comfy bed, and all the movies you can eat. You should come by and see it."

"It sounds charming."

"I'm back here to kill some people, you know." I blurt it out, trying to get the words out fast. "I'm going to take out the whole magic circle."

"I knew that when you walked in. And I understand. I won't even try to talk you out of it, but there are things you should know before you start."

I can tell this is going to be a Real Talk. I light a cigarette as Vidocq pours more wine.

"I did something much like what you're doing, many years ago. Long before you or your grandparents were born. Revenge is never what you think it's going to be. There's no pleasure and glory, and when it's done your grief remains. Once a man does the things you're talking about, he will never be the same, and he can never go back to who he was before. Worst of all, no matter how many enemies you kill, you are never satisfied. There is always one more who deserves it. When it becomes too easy to kill, it never ends."

"You stopped."

"The desire is still there, even though all the men are dead, the ones I killed and the ones who passed away during the many years I restrained myself. Worse, when it was over I had to leave Paris, get on a ship, and come here to the land of cheeseburgers and cowboys. You are starting down a bad road, my friend."

"I appreciate the advice. Don't worry. I'm not here to ask for help."

"Don't be stupid. Of course I'll help you. We must always look after our friends, even when they are foolish. Especially when they are foolish."

"Thank you, old man."

"Salut," he says, and holds out his glass. I clink mine into his.

When I finish the cigarette, I take out the knife I used on Kasabian and pry up some boards under the coffee table. The oilcloth wrap containing my father's guns is still there. I pull out the bundle and set the guns on the table, one by one. A good copy of an 1861 Navy Colt revolver, modified for modern .44 caliber shells. A heavy Civil War-era LeMat pistol. A Browning .45 semiauto my granddad used on D-day. And a Benelli M3 shotgun. They all need a good cleaning before I can use them.

Something flashes through Vidocq's mind. I only catch a fragment of it before he pushes it away. Seeing it feels like a migraine coming on, a knife behind my eyes.

"What's wrong?" asks Vidocq.

"There's something funny going on with my head. I keep feeling and hearing things I shouldn't. Like right now you're sweating and your heartbeat is going up. Like maybe you're a little afraid."

"You're back here from Hell, talking about murder, and you're pulling guns from under my floor. Shouldn't I be a little frightened for both of us?"

"There's other things, too. I've turned kind of death-proof. I can get shot, ripped apart, dropped in a Cuisinart, and I just get up and walk away. I don't understand what's happening to me."

"You fall into the Abyss a young magician and you emerge as Superman. How is that possible?"

"You're the one with the all the books. You tell me."

"Perhaps, like me, you were cursed with an inability to die."

"What happened to you wasn't a curse. You just decided it was. Besides, if anything, those Downtown de-monfuckers would make me easier to kill so I'd get back there quicker."

"Perhaps it's simple biology. You're the first living man to have entered Hell. Your condition might be a natural biological response. A side effect of having been in that awful place. Perhaps you should be grateful that you have this new gift to accentuate your natural magical abilities."

"I don't trust it. It means something I can't figure out. Or it's a setup. Nothing that happened down there was for my benefit."

"We'll know in time, then. Your friends in Hell will be after you soon, I suppose?"

"Eventually, but not now. There's a war going on down there. It's fucking chaos."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky me."

I get a dish towel from the kitchen, bring it back to the living room, and use it to wipe the dust from each gun. Even though I had them in the oil wrap, I can see traces of rust. I'll have to clean them for real later.

"So, what was it like in Hell? Did you try to escape? You were always such a clever magician."

"Clever magic doesn't get you much down there. Even when I got stronger, I couldn't cast the simplest hex until I started learning Hellion magic."

"Is that how you got away?"

"No. I was the property of Azazel, one of Lucifer's generals. He made me his designated hitman. He said that Alice would be all right, as long as I played along."

"And then she wasn't all right."

"I don't know how I knew, but I did. It's like these new things I can hear and feel." I gulped some wine. "Before I left, I cut out Azazel's heart and left it on his altar."

"How did you get out?"

"A key. A key to anywhere in the universe I want to go."

"Do you have it with you?"

"It's right here," I say, putting my hand on my chest like I'm about to say the Pledge of Allegiance. "Over my heart. I took his knife, cut myself open, and put the key inside. Now I can walk through shadows to the Room of Thirteen Doors. Go anywhere I want, anytime I want. Back to Hell. Maybe Heaven, too. I don't know. I haven't opened all thirteen doors."

"You put the key inside you? And it was made with Hellion magic? It will poison you."

"Everything that happened to me for eleven years poisoned me. You think one little key is going to make a difference now?"

"This isn't good, Jimmy."

"Please don't call me that. I don't have that name anymore."

"So, you are still afraid of them. Afraid they can find you through your name?"

"Not if no one uses it."

"Your name is who you are. It's your family. It connects you to this world. You can't give it away so easily." He took a long gulp of wine and said, "Wild Bill."