“I don’t really know this Jane of yours, Simon,” Mina said, throwing a skillet down on the stove and drizzling olive oil into it, “but don’t you think her reaction to having a gorgeous woman like me here was a little . . . odd?”

“How so?” I asked, looking up at her as something in my chest tightened up.

“Well, first of all, you were looking a little guilty when you were not so suavely trying to cover up why I’m really here. Maybe Jane knew you’re hiding something . . . maybe the past you’ve had with me, or maybe she thinks we’re hooking up. But maybe she doesn’t really care. She didn’t seem angry enough. Maybe because she has something of her own to hide.”

Mina’s words set something off in me. What if she had a point? What if Jane was really the guilty party here? That would explain all the QT with Wesker, and I definitely didn’t put it past Wesker to try it on. My heart raced as I really started to give it serious consideration, until I realized I was taking relationship advice from a seriously screwed-up mind like Mina’s.

“Jesus,” I said. “Don’t put stuff like that in my head. I’ve got barely enough hamsters in their wheels up there to handle my regular level of paranoia.”

“Something to eat?” Mina asked. Gone was the threatening bitch from before, replaced by this younger, hipper, but equally mentally unbalanced Rachael Ray.

I ignored her question and headed off to the back of my apartment toward my bedroom.

“Clean up after yourself,” I said. “There are blankets and a pillow in the bottom of the closet in the bathroom. Enjoy the guest room and try not to kill me in my sleep.”

As I left her, I thought about my performance appraisal again. Didn’t die. Felt like I wanted to, though. Part of me would have loved nothing better. But I didn’t. And, lucky me, tomorrow was another day.

Once Mina left the next morning, I headed up to the Javits Center. After fighting my way across the convention floor through a line of either dark elves or Smurfs—I wasn’t sure what look they were going for—I made my way back to our D.E.A. booth. Connor was nowhere to be seen, but the Inspectre was already busy arranging the piles of brochures and aptitude tests.

“Anyone try to kill you yet today, my boy?” the Inspectre asked with cheer in his voice.

“Not unless you count crosstown traffic,” I said, “but I don’t think I can blame that on cultists.”

We were interrupted by a short, balding man in a hideous tweed suit approaching our booth. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said with a flourish of his arm and a deep bow. I figured him to be dressed as a character from Doctor Who.

“Pamphlet?” I offered, holding up a copy of Ask Not What Your Country Can Do for Ghoul.

The man shook his head. “Perhaps another time. We, like you, are fellow vendors.”

I wondered who this “we” he referred to was, as he was standing there alone. I looked down at his color-coded badge and saw it was the same jaundiced yellow as ours. I put the pamphlet down.

Short & Balding had an accent that hinted at Middle American mixed with something exotic. Whatever it was, it was enough to confuse me.

“I trust you are having a good show so far?” he asked, the model of politeness.

The Inspectre nodded, but didn’t say anything. I kept my mouth shut, taking his lead.

“Excellent, excellent,” he said, sounding a little like a pitchman. I suspected he was here to set up some kind of vendor exchange, which was popular among so many of the non-paranormal vendors here.

“I’m Marten Heron,” he continued with another, more formal bow. Was this guy for real? He looked like he’d be more at home chatting it up back at the Lovecraft Café than here. “Of the Brothers Heron, Booth 1601-A. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

There was a twinkle of expectancy in his eye.

“You’re one of the Heron Brothers?” I said. “Julius is your brother? We rented the Oubliette from you yesterday. You know, the Oubliette that tried to kill me?”

The twinkle burned out in his eyes, but was back in a flash. “Yes, unfortunately,” he said. He wrung his hands together. “Julius told me about that. Rest assured, we’re looking into what happened.” He paused, then lowered his voice. “You didn’t happen to notice anything particularly unusual around here today, did you?”

“Unusual how?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. “Nothing’s tried to kill me today, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

Marten paused, his hands clenched together like he might burst into a choral number any second.

“Oh, nothing in particular, really,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure the show is going well for you, after the Oubliette and all.”

I went to speak, but I felt the Inspectre’s foot come to rest on mine and stopped. Instead, the Inspectre extended his hand and spoke up.

“Argyle Quimbley,” he said. “A pleasure. I’ve only met your brother.”

Marten Heron grabbed his hand and pumped it with great enthusiasm.

“Ah, yes, Julius. There is a third brother as well, Lanford, but he hasn’t had much time away from the booth. Not one for the socialization, you see.”

Marten continued shaking hands. This went on for several moments before the Inspectre broke it off.

“If I’m not mistaken,” the Inspectre said, “you’re one of the Romnichal, are you not?”

“Romni-what?” I said, unable to contain myself. This time the Inspectre slammed his heel down on my foot, and I stifled a cry of pain.

“Romnichal, actually,” Marten corrected, smiling. “We’re Romany, from Downers Grove. You have a good ear.”

“It was your last name that tipped me off, actually,” the Inspectre said. “Fairly common among the nomadic tribes in America.”

“I’ve never met any gypsies before,” I piped in. “Downers Grove sounds very exotic.”

Marten shrugged. “If you consider Illinois exotic, sure.”

I scrunched my face. “Illinois gypsies?”

“For part of the year anyway,” he said. “But as your friend so astutely points out, we are nomadic, so my brothers and I do get around.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of business cards, and started sorting through them. Halfway through the pile, he stopped and pulled one free.

“If you hear of anything out of the ordinary happening at the show, please, give me a call,” he said, trying to hand it to me. I kept my hands at my side, not wanting to explain my gloves. The Inspectre reached for it instead.

I read the card over the Inspectre’s shoulder.

The Brothers Heron

Purveyors of Modern Miracles, Cure-Alls, and All Manner of Items Fantastical

Marten Heron

I noticed there was no address, but it did list a phone number.

As if he anticipated my thoughts, Marten pulled a cell phone from his pocket and waved it at me like it was doing a little dance.

“It makes being nomadic a little easier,” he said. He checked the clock on the face of his cell phone. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to be returning to my brothers now. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Come on by if you’re looking for anything special—charms, potions, whatnot.” He started to turn, then spun back around. “And again, sorry about the almost-killing-you thing.”

Marten Heron walked off into a sea of Wookiees, elves, and samurai, leaving the Inspectre and me alone once again.

“Tell me, boy,” the Inspectre said once he was gone. “Did anything seem suspicious about all that?”

A few young men drifted toward the table, picking through what we had to offer them.

“Other than him owning the device that tried to kill me?” I asked, trying to control my snark. “He seemed a little jumpy, like he was nervous about something. It makes me wonder what he’s trying to hide and if it might have anything to do with our problem at the dock yesterday. I mean, how much suspicious activity can go on in this neighborhood, right?”