He shakes his head.

“No. Someone else is your guardian angel.”

“Who?”

“I have no idea. But you’re right. If you work for me, you’ll never have to worry about the police again.”

“I told you I already have something to do.”

“You’re awfully altruistic all of a sudden. What happened to Stark the monster? I seem to remember a bit of a madman storming into my house.”

“I don’t know what altruistic is, but I’m pretty sure I’m not it. I just want to keep a few people I like from burning in a hellfire shitstorm.”

He looks away for a second and then back to me.

“You know there’s a rumor that you already have the Qomrama Om Ya. That you found Aelita and took it back.”

“I know. I heard about it today. Recognize this guy?”

I hold out my phone so Blackburn can see Moseley’s photo. He makes a sour face and looks away.

“Warn me if you’re ever going to show me anything like that again,” he says. “Not everyone is as used to mangled bodies as you.”

I forget that blood and dead eyes can be kind of gruesome to regular people. Something to add to the etiquette list I swear I’ll start tomorrow.

“Sorry.”

“Who was that?”

“The all-meat hood ornament on a city bus. He took a shot at me today after I told a buyer I didn’t have the 8 Ball.”

“Why do you think I might know the man?”

“I was hoping he might have been one of Aelita’s crew when she ran your security.”

Blackburn shakes his head.

“Aelita took care of the men herself and kept them at a distance from the household. I never got to know any of them personally.”

It was a long shot but I had to try.

“If you want my opinion,” says Blackburn, “you’re looking at this all wrong. You see the Qomrama and immediately think of Aelita. But what about a rival? If she doesn’t have it anymore—if she’s lost it or is hiding it—surely there are other people in L.A. who would like to get their hands on an object with that much power.”

“You included.”

Blackburn shakes his head.

“It’s tempting, but I don’t want anything to do with Aelita or anything she’s involved with.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“You might also be interested to know that someone in L.A. has put a magic object on the market recently. An object he claims is unrivaled in its importance. Sound familiar?”

“You think this asshole has the Qomrama?”

“It’s possible,” says Blackburn. “If I had something that powerful, I would only approach a few of the best-placed families. You don’t want something like that going to the wrong sort of people. However, this person might not realize what he or she has.”

“Then why would someone try to buy it from me and take a shot at me when I wouldn’t sell?”

“Because the buyer is hedging his bets. He’s probably made offers to both of you. The two people currently connected to the Qomrama.”

“That’s a lot of maybes.”

“True. But if you can find out who’s selling the object and who’s bid on it, maybe it would point you in the direction of what you’re really looking for.”

I want to poke holes in Blackburn’s idea, but I can’t, mainly because I have no ideas of my own. I’ve spent the last month chasing rumors and banging my head into stone walls and come up with nothing. At least Blackburn’s idea gives me something to do.

“So who’s selling Aladdin’s lamp?”

“I don’t know. The seller is shy and only goes through intermediaries.”

“What’s the intermediary’s name?”

“Brendan Garrett. A professional dealer in mystical exotica. I’ll write down his address.”

Now there’s one less maybe in the world.

“Garrett? The guy who tried to buy from me today was named Garrett.”

Blackburn finishes writing and hands me the piece of paper.

“That’s probably your answer right there. You’ve been pulled into the middle of a family squabble.”

“Right. One brother wants it and the other has a line to it but won’t cut the other brother in on the deal. I can see some Lifetime Channel drama in that.”

I look at the address. It’s a glitzy hotel and a room number.

“I’m glad I could be of help. Especially if it’s going to save the world. Even I have people I’d rather not see hurt in a celestial war.”

Blackburn stands, letting me know my time is up.

I get up, and when he extends his hand I shake it. I wonder if he’s looking into my future. I want to ask him what he sees, but I don’t. I’m not sure if I altogether believe in scrying, and what does it matter what he tells me? If I live or die it doesn’t change what I’m going to do: find the 8 Ball. And when I finally do die, I know I’m going back to Hell. That was easy. Now I’m a scryer too. All I need is a crystal ball and a pointy wizard hat. I can get a booth at the Renn Faire and make a mint.

On the way out a couple of Blackburn’s security goons get me by each arm and shove me up against the front door. I’m one deep breath shy of putting the idiots out of their misery, then marching back in and twisting Blackburn’s head off for lying to me. But another man in a suit strolls up. He’s almost a head shorter than me, with a fine-boned face and hands. His skin is so pale it’s almost white. Calm, blue, almond eyes set in a face so handsome it’s almost pretty.

“Oh, my ears and whiskers, is that little Audsley Ishii?” I say.

He gives me a lopsided grin. Not a nice grin. The kind a headsman gives you when he doesn’t like you and knows his ax is good and dull today.

“I’m not going to engage with you Stark, so don’t even try.”

“What’s the matter? Did you hear Blackburn and me talking inside? A little nervous about your job?”

Ishii gets close enough for me to smell his fresh and minty mouthwash.

He says, “I don’t want you showing up here again without an invitation.”

“What you want matters as much to me as the price of pinto beans on Mars.”

“I won’t warn you again.”

“Perfect. The next time your boys jump me, it’ll give me the perfect excuse to lop off your head.”

“Get out of here and don’t come back.”

The guys on my arms pull me away from the door and try to shove me outside. I plant my feet on the carpet and push back. I look at Audsley.

“I’m just curious. Did you know you were going to write a suicide note when you woke up this morning or did the urge just sneak up on you?”

Ishii walks way. Before I can say anything else stupid, I’m pushed out on the shitty street in front of the shitty hotel. A few of the other security hoods are standing around. They laugh when they see me get the bum’s rush. I stare at them, memorizing their faces. If everything goes wrong and fire comes down from the sky, I’m making an igloo out of their bodies and taking Candy inside with me. We’ll still die but I’ll get to listen to these idiots roast first.

I make like I’m walking over to them. They get serious. Hands move toward gun bulges under their jackets. Just before one of them faints or pops a shot off, I disappear into a shadow on the side of Blackburn’s building.

Teach your boys that trick, Ishii, you Napoleon-complex Snow White prick.

THE BEVERLY WILSHIRE Hotel is so posh it gives the Taj Mahal a hard-on. Almost four hundred rooms and a million more secrets. It’s strange seeing it in daylight instead of Hell’s perpetual twilight. Downtown, there’s another version of the Beverly Wilshire. The penthouse was my—Lucifer’s—private space in the infernal palace. Of course, there are other differences. Basement kennels full of the hellhounds. Gibbets out front for extra-naughty prisoners. Hell’s legions on guard. And as far as the eye can see, the wreckage of Pandemonium, Hell’s capital. The heady reek of blood tides and open sewers.

Up here, the Beverly Wilshire is where Blackburn’s crowd buy and sell small countries and bang their mistresses before hunkering down in gated communities with more guns than the Third Reich.