Beezle opened his mouth, like he was going to make a smart remark, and I shook my head at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Leave Samiel alone. He has enough to handle without you giving him a hard time,” I said.

“What’s with the new touchy-feely policy in this house?” Beezle complained. “I hope you aren’t going to turn into a wuss just because you’re having a baby.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure I can drum up enough smart remarks about your personality flaws to keep you happy,” I said.

“What personality flaws?” Beezle asked indignantly.

I pushed away from the table. “I’ve got a soul pickup this morning. Since I doubt that you’ll return to your regularly scheduled job—”

“What’s the point of guarding this house? Everything that shows up to attack either gets you while you’re on the front lawn anyway or it rings the doorbell.”

“Since you’re not doing much these days besides driving Samiel up the wall, you can go back to your online buddies and collect some more information for me. Find out who’s leading the opposition in Titania and Oberon’s court.”

“Why? You think they’ll cut a deal with you?” Beezle asked.

“It doesn’t hurt to find out who might be receptive to me if I decide to approach them,” I said.

“Just be careful…” Beezle began.

“I know. Faeries are deceptive. Don’t worry. You be careful, too. You never know who you’re talking to online.”

“Yes, I do,” Beezle said.

“You can’t possibly think that everyone is truthful about their identity.”

“Of course I don’t think that. But gargoyles can see the true nature of things, and that means that I know when someone is lying to me about their identity, even online,” Beezle said.

“That’s… really weird,” I said. “But useful.”

Beezle shrugged. “Magic is often weird but useful.”

I went to dress and check the time and place of my soul pickup. It was on Southport in an hour, just under the Brown Line stop. There was an asterisk next to the name, and the footnote at the bottom of the page said, “Possibility of collateral damage.”

That didn’t sound like a routine soul collection. I was surprised that I was the only one assigned if there was the possibility of other deaths. It was annoying that the Agency seers hadn’t bothered to give me any further information. They knew how the person was going to die. Didn’t they think it would help me to know that, too?

The thing about the Agency seers is that they like to keep Agents in the dark. There’s always a possibility that an Agent might try to prevent a death if he or she knew how the death would occur. That is absolutely, positively not allowed. Once a death is foreseen, that’s it. It’s in the books, and no matter how unfair or gruesome that death may be, we are not allowed to stop it.

I slung my sword over my shoulder. “Possibility of collateral damage” meant that only one death was certain; the others could be prevented. It was best to be prepared for anything.

I pulled on a coat, hat and gloves, and made sure Beezle and Samiel knew where I was going—no sense in having them raise the alarm again. Then I flew out the back window toward Southport, which was east of my house.

The winter sun shone so bright I regretted not bringing sunglasses, but it was still close to zero degrees with the wind chill. The snow on the streets and sidewalks was getting that grungy look, gray from dirt and pollution. The cars on the street were coated in a thin film of salt.

Cloaked by my Agent’s magic, I landed near the corner of Roscoe and Southport, in front of a liquor shop that was connected to the El station. On the other side of the station was a two-story building under construction that would eventually hold a fitness center and some more shops.

I checked the clock on my cell phone and saw that it was a few minutes until showtime. I hadn’t identified the soul yet, so I settled in to wait.

A minute or two later a college-age girl stepped out of the El stop. She was bundled up so thoroughly I could see only her eyes peeking above her scarf and the long strands of her ponytail emerging from under her hat. Her backpack looked like it was laden with textbooks. She turned north when she left the station, away from me, and I pushed away from the wall. This was Jayne Wiskowski, and her death had already been written.

I followed her slowly, my boots crunching in the ice and snow even though no one could see me. I didn’t see any sign of her impending doom.

The tattoo in my right palm twitched. Something was coming.

One second it wasn’t there, and the next second it was, like it had crawled through a fold in time and space to appear directly in front of Jayne.

The creature looked like a long and elegant preying mantis, albeit one the size of an NBA player. It closed a pincer around her neck and squeezed.

I broke into a run, the sword in my hand before I could think about it. The pincer, sharp as a Santoku, sliced through her neck before I’d taken three steps.

A woman pushing two toddlers in a double stroller a few feet away screeched as Jayne’s head fell from her shoulders and rolled onto the sidewalk. Arterial blood spurted as her body collapsed. Her soul poured out in a stream of ectoplasm, mouth open in the scream she’d never had the opportunity to utter.

The mantis looked at me, and something like a smile ghosted across its alien features. I realized that I was the only one who could see the creature. And it was turning toward the screaming mother and her crying kids.