Colin cut in before Heath could reply.

  “Not jusht a talisman.” Colin swallowed. “Everyone agrees that Saint Cyprian was a magical badass before he came up against God” — Colin drew out the name of the Almighty as though he were a southern televangelist — “lost, and saw the light. But some of the stories about Saint Cyprian say that the day he decided to convert, he – how did they put it? – ‘thrust his evil inside his tome and cast it into the fire.’”

  “Let me guess.” Heath set down his cup. “Book didn’t burn.”

  “Apparently he threw the book in the fire and left. Didn’t think to check on it. But after his first confession, the Father Confessor, a Jesuit, sent a novitiate monk to see what became of the grimoire. The hearth had burned itself out but the book was intact, not just the cover but every page crisp as the day it was tanned.”

  “Tanned?” said Nariko.

  “Sheepskin,” said Colin.

  “You found all this out online?”

  “I can’t reveal my sources.” Colin grinned like a sailor on leave reaching the steps of a whorehouse.

  Heath smiled. “And here I thought you abandoned us.”

  “He’ll wish he had,” said the older gay man at the next booth as he stood and faced the trio. Just the start of crow’s feet and smile lines on the man’s tanned face, and his short black hair was slicked straight back.

  But his eye sockets were empty, and small fires burned where his eyes should have been.

  “What are you doing, Papi?” said the younger gay man, his voice hinting at a Puerto Rican accent. He stood up and put his hand on Fire Eyes’ shoulder. This younger guy had to have been at least twenty-eight, but his Latin skin was so smooth he looked like he didn’t need to shave.

  Now the other patrons of Foxy were paying attention. Even the dingy wait staff stopped busing tables to watch. Occult discussions might not have raised an eyebrow, but a domestic situation? That could be fodder for a whole evening’s entertainment.

  Fire Eyes didn’t care, and didn’t seem to notice the hand on his shoulder.

  “Heath Cyr,” he said, voice lowering to a rumble on the edge of human hearing. Or at least on the edge of Heath’s. “Vow before me that you shall abandon all claim to The Black Book of Saint Cyprian or never leave this place alive.”

  “No manners at all?” said Heath, his hand edging below the table and into his backpack. “Where I come from, mister, we introduce ourselves before we start flinging threats.”

  Nariko reached behind her to finger the single steel spike that held her bun in place. Colin only stared wide-eyed.

  “You watch your mouth, boy,” said the younger gay man, cracking his knuckles and stepping up just behind and left of Fire Eyes. “You’re not so pretty I won’t break your nose, you say the wrong thing.”

  Colin slipped under the table.

  “Don’t you break anything,” called a woman from behind the counter. “I will call the police and they will come.”

  “The Black Book is a thing of darkness,” said Fire Eyes, “and you are a thing of twilight. You have not the darkness nor the light to call forth its power. And this is your final warning. Swear now or suffer.”

  Heath hated fighting possessed people. But maybe with all the focus on him, Nariko or Colin could find the puppet-master pulling Fire Eyes’ strings.

  “Fine,” said Heath, as his fingers found their grip on a frosted glass vial. “I’ll swear.”

  Heath grinned. “Fuck. You.”

  Heath dove right and yanked the cork out of the vial with his teeth like he was pulling the pin on a grenade in some old war film.

  Flames roared out of Fire Eyes’ sockets, melting the seat behind Heath and setting fire to pictures and posters on the wall, as well as the wall itself.

  People screamed.

  Nariko swung the fist holding her steel spike. Punching, not stabbing. Her long black hair fell loose and wild past her shoulders.

  Heath flung holy water in the face of Fire Eyes, shouting, “Brother Fox carried the Word!”

  Nariko connected with Fire Eyes’ jaw, a punch solid enough that Heath heard the thunk over the crackling of decorations catching fire. Apparently Foxy’s décor was quite flammable. The heat spreading behind him was rapidly reaching sunburn-at-the-beach levels. Smoke roiled up above him. A fire alarm began a steady screech.

  Fire Eyes staggered back a step, the blaze in his sockets diminished while all around Heath the fire spread further, smoke weaving around him.

  “What the fuck, Papi?”

  Heath rolled to his feet and immediately had to jump over another wash of eye-shot fire that burnt away whatever coated the tile floor. Not as much or as strong as the first wave, but the blaze it set stretched to connect to its kin behind him.

  Sirens in the background now, and more screaming as patrons shoved and trampled their way out the front and the back, coughing as they wedged past. Out of the corner of his eye Heath could see a neckbeard in an apron running out of the kitchen, carrying a fire extinguisher. Neckbeard had a little white mask covering his mouth and nose, at least.

  And Heath’s pants were on fire. Terror seized him at the thought of burning alive. He started beating his legs with his backpack, hoping its enchantments would help put out the flames.

  More fire behind him and to the left, hot enough that he was sweating before he knew it. Smoke everywhere now, Heath breathing through the collar of his sweaty t-shirt. Stampeding patrons to his right. And in front of him, Fire Eyes, trembling and swaying while the crying younger gay man tried fruitlessly to drag his lover out the door and away from the building inferno.

  Nariko stood on her seat, holding her spike in both hands and chanting in rapid Japanese. Her hair floated as on a cushion of its own air. Smoke passed around her but didn’t touch her. Heath could feel power rising from below.

  Thump!

  Heath couldn’t see the source of the sound, but the moment he heard it Fire Eyes collapsed, the flames in his eye sockets giving way to dark brown eyes. But Heath could only catch a glimpse before Former-Fire-Eyes’ lover dragged him out the door.

  Through the growing haze of smoke Heath saw Colin, a brown growler clutched in both hands where he stood over an unconscious woman three tables away.

  Neckbeard opened up on Heath’s legs with the fire extinguisher, finishing what his backpack had started. Cold white spray. He then started on the fire itself.

  “No!” yelled Heath. “Too late! Get out.”

  But Neckbeard elbowed Heath aside and swept his spray across the flames. He looked valiant but accomplished nothing.

  “Go!” yelled Nariko, still untouched by flame or smoke.

  Heath coughed, but pointed to the downed woman beside C— where Colin had been a moment ago. Colin had vanished again.

  “I’ll get her.”

  And Nariko turned into the spreading haze, which parted around whatever spell she had going. Heath had no such spell up himself, so he availed himself of the better part of valor. He wiped sweat from his forehead and shielded his face against the intense heat on his way into the crowded street.

  And that street was crowded. None of the patrons had left. They were all watching the flames, or crying and holding each other, or taking pictures or videos, or talking on their phones. And it wasn’t just the patrons. Enough people were gathering that the fire engines and ambulances up the block had someone yelling into a megaphone to get the attention their blaring sirens weren’t. News vans were right behind them, and overhead Heath thought he saw the shadow of a helicopter. Maybe two.

  Police officers pushed through the crowd, desperate to exert some control.

  A heavy-set woman in a Foxy t-shirt and black jeans was yelling at Former-Fire-Eyes and his lover. But Former-Fire-Eyes was dazed and the lover was yelling back in Spanish. They had a crowd of their own forming.

  Heath stood there shaking from his ankles up, singed and sweaty. Shock began laying a comfy blanket over his stress and strain. Everything felt just a little too distant. Even the bird pecking at his shoulder.

  Bird? There was no bird when Heath brushed at his shoulder, but the pecking began again.

  No. Not pecking. Tapping. A finger tapping.

  Heath turned. There was Colin. Looking hazy, like he was still in the smoke. Weird Colin with his weird magic self-help books like The Amazing Miracle of Horus Power and The Irresistible Force of Swami Magic. Colin was hushing him. Why?

  “Come on.” Colin whispered, but Heath could hear him clear as a bell. He took Heath by the hand and led him down the street.

  “But Nariko…” Heath’s voice sounded funny in his ears. Distant. Almost tinny.

  “I’ll get her next.”

  Colin led Heath through the crowd and no one noticed them. Heath felt like he’d cast an ain’t-your-problem spell, the kind that made people notice everything but him unless he did something obnoxious or got in their faces.

  Then Colin was opening the front passenger door of his little white Saturn sedan and settling Heath onto the seat.

  “Be right back,” said Colin, and as he hustled off, it occurred to Heath that the world was too distant. That he shouldn’t be feeling his way through a thick blanket of cotton.

  Someone had just tried to kill him.

  There. A flare of feeling. Heat in the muffle. Heath shook his head and dug through his backpack for some fresh yellow rue leaves and their green berry middles. Took longer than it should have. Felt like he was wearing winter gloves.

  But he found that rue. He held up a big pinch and made the sign of the cross over it three times. Then he said, “Wake me up, Uncle Loko. Wake me up now. Bad time to be sleeping.”

  He chewed the bitter rue and felt the world rush back in. Jitters all through his bones and dancing in his stomach. Sweaty, hot and feverish everywhere, except cold at the back of his neck, and sticky where the fire extinguisher got him.

  But that rush came in and eased on through so smoothly that Heath could almost feel Uncle Loko rubbing the sore spot on the back of his neck, making everything better. But even Uncle Loko wasn’t that good a doctor. With a little bitter rue, Uncle Loko could settle him right down, but everything in Heath’s world was far from all right.

  But now, at least, he could assess himself.

  Heath probably had burns on his shins and calves, but they weren’t screaming at him, so they could wait. Heath’s jeans were singed pretty badly from the knees to the cuffs, but not his shoes. Which made no sense whatsoever, unless it was a sign from Papa Legba telling him to run.

  But somehow, Heath doubted that.

  The rear driver-side door opened and Heath damn near wrenched his neck spinning to see, but it was Nariko dropping down onto the seat, angry enough to chew coal and spit diamonds.

  “Gone!” she snapped, as Colin opened his own door and jumped into the driver’s seat. “Paramedics snatched her before I could ask a single question.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” said Heath. “But not here.”

  “Don’t worry.” Colin held up a small handful of red-brown hair. “I cut off a hunk, just in case. Seemed like your kind of thing, Heath.”

  Heath smiled.

  Colin revved the engine to a mild cough. “Let’s roll.”

  Heath had been to Colin’s place six times now, and it surprised him every time. He kept expecting Colin to live like a typical college student – in a dorm, maybe, or at least a one-room studio with a stack of pizza boxes in the corner and more books than bookshelves. Someplace that smelled like nag champa and burnt coffee.

  He certainly did not expect the kind of two-bedroom condo that looked like it should belong to a Yuppie. Carpeting the color of sea foam with a pale blue couch, loveseat, and pair of recliners. Wall mounted forty-inch television with surround sound speakers set into the walls. A walnut coffee table with fanned magazines about architecture as well as music. Abstract oil paintings on the walls, alive with rainbow colors, all the work of local artists. On a stand in the corner waited an acoustic guitar that Heath suspected was worth more than Colin’s Saturn.

  The place smelled like homemade potpourri. Heath could pick out mint, geranium, rose, and lemon verbena.

  And that didn’t even include the fancy dining room, or the elegant kitchen with its cherry hardwood floor and swirls of blue and pink through its white marble counters.

  The bedrooms were upstairs, though one had been converted into a music studio, where Colin housed the rest of his guitars as well as his recording equipment.

  Nariko couldn’t get a step inside the cherry wood entryway before commenting.

  “Way too much style for a straight man.”

  “Nothing wrong with knowing what you like,” said Colin, gazing fondly over his furniture. “And who said I was straight?”

  “I can’t wear anything low-cut around you without you practically drooling. Even my form fitting tops—”

  “What can I say?” asked Colin with a shrug. “You have a great rack, and I’m an equal opportunity lover.”

  “I hate to interrupt,” said Heath, “but we do have more pressing matters than who Colin sleeps with.”

  “Whom,” said Colin.

  “Whomever.” Heath strode past them, heading for the kitchen. His grip tight on the hair from the unconscious woman at Foxy. Nariko and Colin followed as soon as they locked the door behind them.

  Heath began setting up on the marble center island, first separating the woman’s red-brown hairs into two piles, one twice as big as the other. Then he dug through his backpack for the bedpan, his incense, dollar-store matches, and a few other things.

  And while he prepared, he had questions for Colin, who was grabbing Teufelsbrau IPAs for himself and Nariko, who perched on a counter behind Heath.

  “I know the coincidental timing of your knocking out that woman with the collapse of Fire Eyes is compelling, but how certain are you that she conjured that spirit?”

  “Positive,” said Colin, popping the cap off his beer. “She had the intense look. She was mumbling…”

  Colin sipped from his beer, and Heath turned and folded his arms across his chest. He shot Colin an irritated grin, knowing that part of the answer was still coming.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Colin. “And she was the only patron in the restaurant with a sigil from the Grimoire of Pope Honorius sketched out in salt on her table.”

  “How do you know that’s what it was?”

  “Just because I don’t use the magic in those books doesn’t mean I don’t read them. They’re fascinating.”

  “Colin?” said Nariko.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you’re on our side.”

  “Feeling’s mutual.”

  They clinked beers and toasted each other.

  Heath was about to ask another question, but Colin cut in as though finishing his comment to Nariko. “And not just ‘cause you’re hot.”

  Nariko turned to say something, but Heath cleared his throat. She shook her head dismissively and looked away. Heath looked back at Colin.

  “Did she ever get a look at you?”

  “Nope,” said Colin. “That’s why I figure we’re safe here. My own safeguards notwithstanding, I figure we’re better off where they shouldn’t be looking for us.”

  “Makes sense,” said Heath, tilting his head in thought. “You were seen abandoning us earlier—”

  “And you vanished under the table at the first sign of trouble,” finished Nariko. She turned to Heath. “We should be good as long as your bald-head spell holds out.”

  “Bald-head spell?” said Colin.

  “Pagans,” said Heath, shaking his head as he turned and opened his portable censer, “the bedpan.” He tossed a small round coal onto the bed of salt, which was dirty from previous uses, but pure enough for his purposes. He lit the coal with dollar store matches and turned back. “And that spell should hold off any interested parties until about midnight.”

  “I’ve got some pretty solid wards against magical traces,” said Colin, “plus a couple of watchdog spirits keeping an eye on things. Oh, and I’m an agnostic, thank you. I don’t know why any of this shit works. I’m just glad it does.”

  “You just admitted you deal with spirits,” said Nariko. “How can you call yourself agnostic? Shouldn’t you at least call yourself an animist?”

  “What is a spirit?” countered Colin. “How do I know these aren’t aspects of my own mind—”

  Heath cleared his throat again.

  “Do you need a beer?” asked Colin with exaggerated innocence. “You sound parched.”

  “We have a small supply of hair here. Enough for probably one good spell and one longer-term enchantment.”

  “Puppet work?” Nariko’s face brightened. “I love watching you do puppet work.”

  “Poppet,” corrected Heath, “and before we get to that we need to make sure we’re all on the same page here.”

  “Why did Fire Eyes give you two chances to back off before attacking?” asked Nariko, who then finished her beer.

  “Exactly.” Heath blew out a slow breath. “Whoever called up Fire Eyes couldn’t be working with the guys from Tsarina’s. They were all about distraction to set up their attack. Fire Eyes wanted my word to back off, and even gave me a bullshit reason.”

  “Might not be bullshit,” said Colin. “The purists out there would say you use your share of black magic – maybe more than your share – which means she might have seen you as a potential ally, long term.” Colin shrugged. “Also the Black Book might just be the kind of thing that corrupts whatever it touches.”

  “But why warn me off?”

  “Me, I find the prospect of you going full-dark kind of scary. But her?” Colin tipped back his beer. “I don’t know. Ex-lover? She was pretty cute. Even had green eyes like Nariko here.”

  “Didn’t recognize her,” said Heath, shaking his head.

  Nariko fetched her own second beer, and the things she didn’t say felt all too loud to Heath.

  “So we have one more mystery there. My landlord wants me to fetch this book. Some karcist-style sorcerer woman was willing to warn me off, but then went straight to lethal force when I objected. And a third group with vaguely Italian connections tried to kill me just to keep me ‘out of the equation.’”