She holds out her hands and spins.

“I’m Lamia. I breathe death and spit vengeance.”

She drops her arms and sits in the dirt. She rubs her eyes, suddenly a tired, dirty little girl.

“I’m sleepy. I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Are you going to kill more people?”

She curls up on the ground in her party dress.

“Oh yes. Lots. The sky will be all sorts of funny colors.”

Along the edge of the crater are the gangs of murdered kids. They’re cut up but they’re not scared of Lamia. Whatever happened to them, she didn’t do it.

Cherry is waiting when I climb back up to the street. She runs over and grabs my arm. I keep walking.

“You didn’t kill her. Why not?”

“I’m not ready. I know a part of what’s going on but not enough. Until I do, I’m not killing the only thing that might be able to give me answers.”

“And what about us? What happens when she comes for us?”

“Has she ever attacked you personally?”

“No.”

“Then you’re safe.”

“How do you know?”

“ ’Cause ghosts like you aren’t on her hit list and it’ll be a while before you are. Long enough for you to wise up and move on.”

“How do you know?”

“Drop it.”

Cherry gets in my way.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re not one of His, which means you’re one of mine. That means you’re definitely damned. And she’s not after the damned yet.”

Cherry takes a couple of steps back. Puts a hand over her mouth.

“You bastard.”

“You don’t have to wait around for her. Get out of here and save yourself.”

She leans against the ruins of the Chinatown arch, resting her ridiculous cartoon face in her hands.

“Go away, James. You let me down again. You’re no better than Parker.”

“Take care of yourself. Think about what I said.”

I head back to Tenebrae Station. The crowd follows me to the stairs but none of them follows me down.

“Any of you can leave too. You don’t have to live like this.”

I climb down into the tunnel and walk back into the dark.

And open my eyes, flat on my back in my room in the Chateau. Kasabian limps away from the circle with my shirt in his hand. There’s a smeared spot on the tile where he broke the bloody circle.

I sit up. There are clots of blood on my arms and in my hair. I stink from sweat. But there’s one nice surprise. The wound the Imp gave me is completely closed. There isn’t even a scar.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day,” he says. “Now here’s some for you. The rope and poison industries are way up in Hell. Suicide looks like the new thing with the cool kids. Those demonic sad sacks don’t need back into Heaven. They need a teddy bear, a warm glass of milk, and some Prozac.”

I take a hot shower and go back to the living room. Kasabian has the news on with the sound turned down. The shots are fast and jittery, like whoever has the camera is running.

“Do you know about the Mile High Club?”

He doesn’t look up from the big plate of fried shrimp he’s shoving into his face.

“Sure. Mason talked about them sometimes.”

I’m so out of the goddamn loop.

He points to the flat-screen with a shrimp in one of his metal doggie hands.

“Did you see when you came in? Big Bill Wheaton is dead. Laid low by the crazy little ghost not five minutes ago at a press conference he called to—you’ll love this—announce a special serial-killer task force. Is that fucking funny or what?”

He eats half the shrimp in one bite.

“They sure it wasn’t a volcano or dinosaur?”

“Nah. That stuff seems to have calmed down some.”

If that’s your doing, Patty, thanks.

“If you know something about that stuff, keep it to yourself. I’m working on some serious denial over here,” says Kasabian.

I button another of Samael’s dark shirts over the armor.

“A while back you said that spending all that time alone at Max Overdrive, you’d developed some nefarious computer skills.”

“Yeah. You looking for missile-launch codes now?”

“No. Child murders. Maybe ritual killings. Not beaten or abused, just cut up. See if you can find anything.”

He frowns.

“What, the mayor getting murdered by a ghost isn’t interesting enough for you?”

Big Bill’s bloody mug fills the TV screen. One clean slash across his throat. A long defensive wound across both arms. The cuts are deep red valleys in his skin. They almost look fake, the way violent death often does. The camera stays on Bill for a long time. Somewhere in L.A., a news director thinks he’s going to win an Emmy but all he’s really going to get are bad dreams.

“You think the dead kids have something to do with the Spirograph sky and the girl?”

“Look for possessed children too. The village murdered the Imp because she was a monster. Maybe there are other monster tots.”

“This shit’s depressing, man.”

“Try to squeeze it in between looking for Brigitte’s videos. Pretty please with shut-the-fuck-up on top.”

Ain’t this the funniest thing since corn beef hash? Here I am looking for big bad King Cairo and scary Aelita, and Captain Beige has been running the girl all along. I’m still going to kill the other two but now I have to pay Teddy a visit and make him tell me his deepest darkest secrets. It’s great timing. I really need to hit someone.

Hell looks better and better the longer I’m here. I knew there was no one to trust and no one I could count on besides Wild Bill. One guy in a land of billions. I bragged to Saint James about people who’d watch my back in L.A. but who’s that now? Allegra and Vidocq won’t be inviting me over for whist anytime soon. Candy is Switzerland. Neutral territory between hostile nations. Kasabian is a half-broken whiner. Maybe I should have sucked up my pride and merged or whatever it is I was supposed to do with Saint James. At least I’d have the Key. Then I’d be able to walk away from this veil of shit. But I had to shoot my mouth off. And Saint James is right. I’m usually the one backing us into corners. He was the smart one who got us out. I got us out too sometimes but mostly by shooting out the windows, jumping, and hoping there was something besides dead air on the other side. If he shows up again and doesn’t want me to grovel, maybe I’ll give merging a shot. What I’m doing now isn’t doing me any good.

My phone rings. This time I check the caller ID.

“Father. Nice to hear from you but this is a bad time. Can we talk after I beat the holy hell out of someone?”

“We really should talk now. I think what’s happening is bigger than a ghost and a few murders.”

“A lot of murders. The girl. The Imp. She’s the center of it. Someone is controlling her.”

“How do you know?”

“I went to the land of the dead and asked her.”

“You can’t stay away from dark places, can you? Please. We really need to talk.”

“I’m on my way to Malibu.”

“Good. I’ll drive you. We can talk in the car.”

“Okay. Come to the Chateau Marmont and call me from out front. If anyone gives you trouble, tell them you’re here for Mr. Macheath.”

“Like Mack the Knife Macheath?”

“Yeah. If you’re good, I’ll do my Bobby Darin for you. Call me when you get here.”

I’m checking my guns when someone pounds on the other side of the grandfather clock. Suddenly I’m in Grand Central fucking Station. The knocking gets louder.

“Hey, Old Yeller, can you get off your fat ass and let whoever that is in? I’m trying to get dangerous.”

I hear Kasabian grumbling and thumping across the living room and opening the door. He says a few words to someone and thumps back.

“Hey, you.”

I swing around.

“Candy? What are you doing here?”

She looks a little pale and worn. She still has on her torn shirt. Underneath it are fresh bandages stained with Betadine. She has a Cowboy Bebop backpack slung over one shoulder. Comes into the bedroom, where I have all my guns laid out. She drops the backpack on the floor. Winces as she sits down.