A pause followed my greeting. Then, “We’re watching you,” whispered the voice on

the other end.

“Yeah? Did you see what I did with my keys?”

Silence. Then dial tone.

These younger demons. So easily discouraged.

Not discouraged enough, though, I had to admit half an hour later as I negotiated my

way into the river of cars flooding the I-210. I got my cell phone out and dialed Guy

Snowden’s number.

No answer.

Was the man ever home? I left a message, flipped shut the cell, and returned my

attention to insinuating my way into the fast lane.

The good news was that they apparently only had the shop number. The bad news was

that, regardless of what Guy believed, the minions of evil were still way too interested in my

corner of the cosmos.

Why?

I merged onto the C-118, considering this objectively.

* * * * *

Down in the valley, the valley so low, lights glittered in the blackness like jewels in a

pirate’s chest. The Odyssey offers a spectacular view of the San Fernando Valley at night if

you can get a table by a window. The councilman could and did.

“Glad you could make it, Adrien,” he said gruffly, giving me another of those

industrial-sized handshakes. His eyes bored into me under the shaggy eyebrows.

I batted something inane back, and we settled into our game.

Over drinks we discussed cars, gas prices, traffic, California’s economy, and scotch

versus whiskey. Or maybe it was whiskey versus scotch. Bill was drinking Johnny Walker

Black Label, which apparently wasn’t up to scratch. I stuck to Chivas Regal, and apparently

that was also for the tourists. He promised me the life-altering experience of a “wee dram” of

Laphroaig at Christmas. I declared myself ready and willing, and wondered if there was any

chance in hell of avoiding a full-scale family Christmas with “the troops,” as Bill referred to

his harem.

Classical music and the murmur of voices from other tables filled the silences, which

fortunately weren’t many.

We ordered, both opting for seafood, for which the Odyssey is justly famous. Over our

meals, Bill filled me in on what a city councilman actually does. I wasn’t sure I was getting

my tax money’s worth.

The soft lights, sweet music, and gallons of alcohol began to have their effect. Bill’s

keen eye grew less keen, his voice went deep and resonant with emotion.

“When Eleanor, my first wife, died, I believed that I would never remarry, never find

anyone who could begin to fill that void. I’ve known and admired Lisa – your mother – for

many years, but I never dreamed…”

I nodded – not so much in encouragement as indicating that he need say no more.

He went on to tell me that obviously no one would have to tell me how beautiful and

delightful and charming and intelligent and warm and wonderful Lisa was, and I agreed and

kept agreeing, but he seemed to be on a roll. He assured me that Lisa would never have to

want for aught. But since she didn’t now, I only managed a few polite sounds. He said he

realized that he didn’t need to ask my permission to marry my mother, but that it meant a lot

to both of them if I would give my blessing.

He seemed perfectly sincere. I figured that he might be a throwback, but he certainly

did have nice old-fashioned manners.

“If this is what Lisa wants,” I said by way of blessing.

He nodded. We had more drinks and finished our dinner. See, that wasn’t so bad, I

reassured myself, as Bill appropriated the bill.

But I was kidding myself if I thought the male bonding was over for the night. Bill

offered port and a Cuban cigar by the fire pit out on the patio.

I accepted the port and declined the cigar.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was forgetting. You have a heart condition, I understand.”

“Very mild.”

He nodded politely – Lisa had likely convinced him I would never see forty.

Thanks to a freak bout with rheumatic fever when I was sixteen, the valves of my heart

were damaged. As long as I didn’t do anything too stupid, it wasn’t usually a problem,

although maybe it gave me a different perspective from most guys my age. Getting involved

in a couple of murder investigations had reinforced my conviction that life was short and

happiness pretty damn fragile.

Bill and I drank in silence that was not exactly companionable, but not unfriendly. The

scent of cigar mingled with the fire and the hint of sage from the surrounding hills.

Dauten tapped cigar ashes over the railing, said gruffly, with the air of a bull who

knows damn well it’s in a china shop, “I know that you live a…uh…an alternative lifestyle,

Adrien. I don’t want you to feel that any of us would judge…would feel… We want you to

be comfortable, and of course, any friend of yours would naturally be welcome in our home

at any time.”

I went cold. Had Lisa told him about Jake? Had she named names? Was there any

likelihood that Dauten would bump into Jake in the normal course of either of their jobs?

“Thank you,” I got out.

“You’re one of the family now.”

Talk about cults. “I…yes.”

He held his brandy snifter out, we clinked glasses ever so carefully.

* * * * *

Velvet departed for an early break on Tuesday, Lord of the Rings lunchbox in hand –

what is it with girls and that elf, by the way?

Not long after she’d left, two young females sauntered in. Although there is really no

typical bookstore customer, this pair looked like they would be more at home in a mall in

Hades.

One was tall and blonde. She looked familiar. In fact, she looked a lot like one of my

new sisters tricked out for Halloween – though I assumed she would have mentioned if we

were destined to share ceremonial turkey in the near future. She wore leather jeans and a

black lace T-shirt, through which I saw her scarlet bra. A silver pentagram gleamed on a

chain around her neck (so much for secret signs). The feathery tips of her hair were tinted

black. Her lipstick, eye makeup, and fingernails were all painted a macabre and sooty shade

more suited to a charnel house than a house of fashion.

Her mohawked companion was small, buff. She was dressed in a floor-length black