My head pounds from all the Aqua Regia last night. I let the pulsing pain behind my eyes take over, an old arena trick. Dropping down into the center of the pain means I don’t have to think, and not thinking means I don’t have to find answers, and not needing answers means I might be able to get through the day without homicide.

I don’t feel one bit bad about killing those leggers last night. But I don’t know how it happened or how that thing got in my pocket. Down here in the pain, I don’t have to know. I just note the question and move on. Answers are rare and come in their own time but hangovers are reliable and never in short supply.

After a while the pulse of the pain syncs with my heartbeat. Some old Greek philosopher said there’s nothing but atoms and empty space. My head is one very big empty space right now. I take the bottle of Aqua Regia from the nightstand and swallow a short gulp. Hair of the dog. Got to balance the humors. Hippocrates said so. Blame him.

I open my eyes and look out the window. It’s around four o’clock. Clouds tumbleweed across a bruised sky. A few fires have flared up again south of the city. The backlight looks like a slow-motion nuclear blast. My Golgotha L.A. has never looked more beautiful.

I don’t hear from Brimborion all day. I wonder if he got someone to sew the finger back on. I don’t even know if they do that kind of thing down here. Probably they think if you’re dumb enough to lose a finger, you deserve for it to stay lost.

Vetis comes by to check on me later.

“You were burned in effigy in the market last night, lord.”

“I heard. And don’t call me ‘lord.’ ”

“I’ve doubled your personal security and stationed more legion troops downstairs.”

Ms. 45 pokes her head around the door. Vetis takes a step back. She waits a couple of beats and moves down the hall.

“Thanks. I’m feeling pretty well protected these days.”

It’s the middle of the night when the bedroom phone rings. It’s never done that before. I’ve never used it. I pick up the receiver on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Still alive and kicking, I see.”

“Who is this?”

“Puddin’ ’n’ Tain. Ask me again and I’ll tell you the same.”

“Fuck you. I’m hanging up.”

As I put down the receiver the voice comes again.

“You’re always so serious. So linear. You’ve got to get into the spirit of things.”

I almost recognize the voice but not quite.

“What spirit is that?”

“That you’re nothing. You’ve been flailing at the universe your whole life, and where has it gotten you? You’re not really the Devil. You’re not Sandman Slim. You’re not a man and you’re not an angel. Some people live in gray areas but, friend, you are a gray area.”

“Am I supposed to understand any of that?”

“You could always kill yourself now and save us the trouble.”

“What would that solve? I’d just end up right back here. Did Brimborion put you up to this?”

“What do you think?”

“I think he’s hiding somewhere nursing his hand with whiskey and a Valium chaser.”

“There you are.”

“Am I supposed to be spooked by this? You sound like someone’s dad hard selling Girl Scout cookies.”

“You’re not the only one with peepers, you know. Don’t think because you watch the world, the world doesn’t watch you back.”

“I’m going to find you, you know.”

“I’m counting on it.”

There’s a click and the line goes dead.

Crank calls? Is this how things work from here? This isn’t Hell. It’s junior high.

I wake up hurting. The hangover is gone and now I can feel every bit of the beating I took last night. My jaw aches and my ribs are bruised. Every time I move, the armor presses on them and makes me wince.

Something shatters down the hall. Glass and metal. Something heavy hits the floor, like a car falling through the ceiling. I grab my knife and run toward the sound.

Ms. 45 is lying on her side by one of the big picture windows in the front room. The glass dome holding her brain is smashed. Pink meat and spinal fluid leak onto the tile floor. I stand by the body listening. Ready for whoever got to her to come for me.

I don’t hear a thing. It doesn’t make sense that someone could get in here but they did. The peeper by the hall is gone, so I can’t play back whatever happened.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to ditch the Glock.

Making a pass through the rest of the penthouse, I don’t see anything out of place. I need to get someone to clean up the hound before it stinks in here like Mason’s lab. There’s a phone in the bedroom. I get the Glock from the library and head there.

A shadow flickers across the bedroom.

Looks like Brimborion has a second passkey after all. Good. First I find out what he’s looking for in my room and then I get to kill him.

But the moment the thought forms, I know it’s wrong. Brimborion isn’t the creeping-around-smashing-hellhounds type. Especially not when he just lost a finger. Whoever’s in the bedroom has much bigger balls and a lot fewer brain cells than him. But he’ll know who’s after me and he’s going to give me a name if I have to repaper the hallway with his skin.

With the Glock in a two-hand TV-cop grip, I shoulder open the bedroom door. No one in sight. I go inside, sweeping the room with the gun. The closet door is open, the space empty. If Mr. Soon to Be Dead is in toddler freak-out mode, he might be under the bed. More than likely he’s in the bathroom trying to squeeze himself down the shower drain.

I start across the room but only make it to the end of the bed.

Behind me, the door creaks open the rest of the way.

“Here are your fucking messages.”

No question about the voice. It’s Brimborion.

I turn around. He sees the Glock in my hand and in an inspiring display of self-preservation lurches back, cracks his head on the door, and falls onto his knees. I grab his shoulder and pull him to his feet.

“How did you get in here?”

He looks at me like I’ve gone insane and stupid all at the same time.

“The door was open.”

“Not the goddamn bedroom. My apartment.”

His eyes go to the gun and then back to me.

“I have another key. Are you going to kill me for doing my job?”

Glass breaks in the bathroom. Something hits the wall. Over and over. Someone is going nuts in there.

I shove Brimborion over to the corner of the room. He’s not going anywhere until I know if contestant number two is someone he sent. If he’s looking for some payback because of his finger, he’s going to be disappointed.

The bathroom door swings open slowly and a Hellion walks out. You could mistake the guy for human if his arms and legs weren’t half again as long as they should be. And if his skin wasn’t the color of a dead fish on the ocean floor. He’s wet too. I hear running water. Sounds like he ripped the sink out of the wall.

“Lahash?” says Brimborion. “What are you doing here?”

Lahash takes a couple of uncertain steps out of the bathroom. He looks up but barely registers us. I’m liking Lahash less and less. The guy is on some major drugs or some heavy hoodoo. The bedroom is huge by normal non–Lord of the Underworld standards, but if it was the size of a zeppelin hangar, I still wouldn’t want to be in it with this guy.

“Lahash. I’m talking to you,” says Brimborion. “How did you get in here?”

I shove Brimborion back against the wall.

“Shut up. There’s something wrong with him.”

Lahash stiffens. Turns his milky-white eyes in my direction. He recognizes my voice. No point in playing church mouse now.

“Who sent you here, Lahash? Are you looking for me or something in here?”

He swings his head to the other side of the room like he’s trying to remember where he is. There’s a brain working somewhere in his skull but it looks like the wiring is a little frayed.