Then something else occurred to me: Hemandez's horrible nostrum might end up in the Devonshire toxic spell dump. Tasting the irony of that, I went back to my office and got on the phone.

The first constable I talked to was a fellow named Joaquin Garda. "Madre de Dios!" he burst out when I told him what I'd run into. Being of Aztecan descent, he had a culturally ingrained understanding of just how nasty a power Huitzilopochtii was. I knew it in my head; he felt it in his gut. He bumped me up to his superior, a sublegate called Higgins, and he must have given him an earful, too, because Higgins was the soul of cooperation.

"We'll get going on a warrant for this right away, Inspector Fisher," he promised. "Any time we get a chance to put one like that out of business, we leap on it."

He didn't argue when I said I wanted to go along, either; sometimes constables get stuffy about things like that. I added, "Better make sure your people are well warded, Sublegate: with one potion like that around, who knows what else Hemandez has in there with him?"

"We'll send out the Special Wizards and Thaumaturges team," Higgins said. "If they can't handle it, nobody this side ofD.StC. can. I'll call you back as soon as we have the warrant. Thanks for passing on the information."

"My pleasure," I told him. "I want this guy shut down at least as much as you do."

After I got off the ether with Higgins, I went back through my files and found the names and addresses of the other three apsychic lads born near the Devonshire dump in the past year. Then I checked in the phone grimoire; two of the families were tested. I called both those houses and, by luck, got an answer each time. What I wanted to know was whether the mothers had bought any potions from Cuauhtemoc Hemandez.

Both women I talked to answered no. I thanked them and added the data to my notes, then spent a while scratching my head. The curandero's nostrum was certainly vile enough to have caused Jesus Coidero to be born without a soul, but just because it could have didn't necessarily mean it had. I kicked myself for not doing a more thorough job around the Corderos' house, but I didn't kick too hard. When the microimps in your spellchecker start going berserk, you'd better pay attention to that More nearly routine stuff kept me busy the rest of the day.

When Bea walked by my office door in the middle of the afternoon and saw me there, she raised an eyebrow and said,

"I expected you'd be in the field now."

I'd hoped to get to Bakhtiar's Precision Burins myself, but it just wasn't working. I said, "I'll probably be out tomorrow or the next day," and explained what Manstein had found in the potion I'd brought back from Lupe Cordero's house.

"That's-revolting," she said. "You're right, we need to clamp down on that as hard as we can. With the enormous Aztecian population in Angels City, the last thing we need here is a large-scale flareup of Huitzilopochdism."

"It would make worries over Medvamps rather smaD potatoes, wouldn't it?" I said.

"I do admire your talent for understatement, David." Bea headed on down the hall.

Understatement was an understatement. If Huitzilopochdi got established in Angels City, it wouldn't be fruit trees drained dry, it would be people. I thought about hearts torn out on secret altars, necromancy, ritual cannibalism a lot less refined than the genteel Christian variety.

I also thought about all the other bloodthirsty Powers that would be drawn to the area. The act of human sacrifice is so powerful a magical instrument that it reverberates through the Other Side. All sorts of hungry Things would head this way, wanting their share: "When the gods smelled the sweet savor, they gathered like flies above the sacrifice." What Utnapishtim told Gilgamesh five thousand years ago remains true today.

They say that's how the horror happened in Alemania. But the Leader didn't try to throw the Powers out Oh, no. He welcomed them with open arms and fed them, I dare say, beyond their wildest dreams.

The whole world has seen what came of that. Not here, I thought Never ogam.

Courts in Angels City open at half past nine. At exactly 9:37 the next morning (I asked my watch afterwards), I got a call from Sublegate Higgins. "We have the warrant," he said. It was so fast, I wondered if he'd used Maximum Ruhollah. Maybe not; he operated out of the St. Ferdinand's Valley substation, and he'd be sure to have a local judge up there under his spell. He went on, "We're moving out at ten-thirty. If you're not here by then, you'll be late."

"I'll be there," I said, and got off the phone. Miserable cowboy, I thought: everything had to be his way. But I headed for my carpet as fast as I could; when you're dealing with people like that, you don't want to give them any excuse to mess you up.

Just as well I did, too - I made it to the substation with only about three minutes to spare. Traffic up through the pass was just ghastly Don't ask me how, but when a big longhaul transport carpet broke down and had to land, a unicorn got out of its cage. People on carpets and others riding pegasi were trying to herd it back to where it belonged, and weren't having much luck.

As my carpet crawled through the gawkers' block, I wondered if they'd have to go to a nunnery to find someone who could calm the beautiful beast. Given Angels City's reputation, they might have had a tough time finding a virgin outside of one. Catching the unicorn, thank God, was not my worry.

When I finally did get to the constabulary station, Higgins gave me a disapproving look so perfectly flinty he must have practiced it in the nun-or. He introduced me to the SWAT team, who looked more like combat soldiers than highly trained mages. I nodded to the thaumatech. "We've met before."

"So we have." It was Bomholm. "You came up to the Thomas Brothers fire."

"That's right. I still envy you your spellchecker."

"Enough chitchat," Higgins said. "Let's fly."

I'd never ridden on a black-and-white carpet before. Let me tell you, those things are hot. As we shot up the flyways to the curandero's place, I reflected that the sylphs in the constabulary carpet could have used a little discipline themselves. A couple of turns would have tossed me off on my ear if I hadn't been wearing my belt But we got there in a huny.

Hemandez's house was on O'Melveny, a couple of lots east of Van Nuys. I hadn't known whether he had a storefront for his death shop, but no, it was just a little old house with a hand-lettered skin - in green and red, as Lupe Cordero had told me - that said CURANDERO nailed onto the front porch.

Watching the SWAT team operate was something else, too. Police carpets aren't bound by the governing speBs that restrict ordinary vehicles to their flyways. The mages drew an aerial ward circle around Hemandez's establishment from above before anybody landed. Whatever he had in there, they weren't about to give him a chance to use it. Constables don't live to enjoy their grandchildren by taking risks they don't have to.

Sublegate Higgins used an insulated umbrella (same principle as the footbridge at the Devonshire dump, but applied upside down) to penetrate the circle. With him came four of the SWAT team wizards, Bomholm the thaumatech with her fancy spellchecker, and, bringing up the rear, yours truly. All the firepower that preceded me - the constables were armed for any sort of combat, physical as well as magical - made me wish I was one of the mild-mannered bureaucrats the public imagines all government workers to be; I wouldn't have minded falling asleep at my desk just then.

Bomholm said, "The spellcheckers already sniffing some thing nasty up ahead."

Higgins rapped on the door. Now the boys from the SWAT team stood on either side of him, ready to kick it down. But it opened. I don't know what I'd expected Cuauhtemoc Hemandez to look like, but an Aztecan version of your well-loved grandfather wasn't it He had white hair, spectacles, and, until he took in the crowd on his front porch, a very pleasant expression.