“Who?” says Kasabian.

“The King of Candy Land. Or was it Josie and the Pussycats?”

“Great. Now she gets discreet. Forget it. Chicks only want one monster in their life and Stark got to Brigitte first.”

Mike stops working and Kasabian tries to stand. This time he makes it. His legs support him and he takes a few steps like, well, a circus dog doing a trick for biscuits.

I say, “You know, no matter how well you make his arms and legs work, he still looks like a mutt.”

Mike sighs and nods.

“To rework his whole body so it’s more human shaped, I’d have to cut it up with a plasma torch, lengthen and straighten his back legs, redo the spine, and rebalance and recalibrate the whole thing,” he says. “The only way to do that is for Kasabian to get off it.”

I look at Kasabian, walking steady for the first time since I’ve been back.

“Maybe he’s right. Maybe you should go back to your skateboard for a while and let Mike do his thing.”

Kasabian looks panicked. He stumbles back against his desk, his hound legs giving way.

“No way anyone is chopping up this body. I looked like a fucking bug on that skateboard. Now at least I’m mammal shaped.”

“I’ve got all your limbs working right for the moment,” says Mike. “Maybe there’s some way I can do your legs without taking them off.”

Kasabian sits down and slaps his computer keyboard. The screen lights up.

“Yeah. You work on that. Right now let me get back to work building my site.”

As Mike packs up his tools he looks at me.

“I’m not getting my soul back, am I?”

“Not today, Mike. But keep up the good work. You’re closing in on daylight.”

I head into the big bedroom Candy and I share. Samael’s old clothes still hang in the closet. Custom shirts and suits so sharp they could cut you like a knife. I toss my jeans and T-shirt on the bed and change into a bloodred button-down shirt and black silk trousers.

Candy follows me in and sits on the bed.

I say, “Why don’t you stay here and see if Kasabian can pull up any information on Moseley when he was alive.”

Candy doesn’t move.

“I know you’re not dressing up for me, so who’s the lucky girl?” she says.

I comb my hair in the bedroom mirror. It doesn’t help much. The neater I get my hair, the worse it makes the scars on my face look. There are donut crumbs on the glove that covers my prosthetic left hand, so I toss the glove onto a pile of dirty clothes and put on a clean one.

“Brigitte was there when the Qomrama disappeared, but even if she wasn’t, I bet she’s not the one sending hit men after me.”

“Then who is?”

“I don’t know. But there were only two other people there when Aelita took the 8 Ball. Saragossa Blackburn and his wife. So, I’m off to see the wonderful Wizard of Oz.”

THE SUB ROSA is the underground magic community that keeps the old practices alive and secretly runs a few pieces of the world. Saragossa Blackburn is our Augur, the president and holy high chieftain of the entire Sub Rosa freak squad in California. There’s no one bigger. With his heavy money Illuminati of politicians, corporate honchos, bankers, entertainment-industry lackeys, and law enforcement creeps, he’s the power behind the power, and when we don’t have a Sub Rosa governor running the state, Blackburn makes sure that Mr. or Ms. Civilian knows who’s really calling the shots.

He’s a scryer, a seer who gets glimpses of the future. All Augurs are scryers and Blackburn is supposed to be a good one. On the other hand, he didn’t see me coming the last time I paid him a visit, but I was still Lucifer back then. Now that I’m just another asshole, chances are he has me right on his radar.

And here comes the proof. Men in shades and dark Brooks Brothers suits pile out of a line of blacked-out vans. The last time I dropped by, Blackburn was so sure of his untouchability that he didn’t bother with security guards. He had enough wards and hoodoo mantraps around the place to hold off King Kong but not the Devil.

I don’t like this. It feels too much like the bullshit I had to put up with when I worked for Larson Wells and his holy brown shirt army, the Golden Vigil.

A marine type with a blond crew cut and steroid shoulders the size of baby bulls puts his hand up.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you have an appointment?”

It’s not the “excuse me” part that gets under my skin. It’s the “sir.” Procedures. Protocol. They’re all civilized masks for contempt. I can deal with that, but I like my hate straight and up front. And these boys radiate hate like Tijuana blacktop in August. They know who I am and that I put a massive hurt on the last bunch of Sub Rosa security goons that braced me like this.

But I learned a bit of the protocol dance myself when I was playing Lucifer. Sometimes civilized is the best play. The feint they’re not expecting. Besides, I’m decked out in silk and shiny shoes like Louis the Sun King’s jester. Unless I crack someone’s head and eat their brains, I couldn’t scare a Brownie.

“I’m here to see the Augur. My name is James Stark.”

“Yes, sir. Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but if you tell Blackburn I’m here, I’m sure he’ll see me.”

Mr. Shoulders smiles.

“The Augur is a busy man. If you call his secretary and make an appointment, we’ll be happy to make sure you get inside. I can give you his secretary’s phone number.”

“Yeah. You see, I kind of saved his wife’s soul, so he owes me a favor. Plus, someone tried to shoot me today, so I’d like to see the Augur right fucking now, pretty please with ice cream on top.”

This is what Shoulders and his friends have been waiting for. An excuse. His heartbeat is going up. Microtremors in his face and hands are sure signs he’s waiting for me to make a move. And if I don’t do something soon, he’s going to work himself up to where he’ll make a move for me.

A few months ago I would already have had half of these merc fuckwits on their backs, bleeding and crying for their mommies. But I’m trying to cool some of that these days. Go with the advice Wild Bill Hickok gave men in Hell and pick and choose my fights.

“I’d really appreciate it if one of you gentlemen could call the house for me,” I say. I follow it with a big, sunny smile.

Shoulders is one second from Tasing me when his phone rings. A funny, chirping ring tone. He relaxes. It’s not conscious. It’s reflex. He’s been trained to stand down when he hears that particular tone. Besides, he has six other roid-rage behemoths behind him ready to stomp me to apple butter if I scratch my nose. But that’s not going to happen. I can already see it in his body language. His shoulders are slumped. His voice is calm and low. His heart rate is dropping back to normal. When I see flat-out disappointment on his face, I know whose funny ring tone just saved my nice creased slacks.

Shoulders slaps his phone closed and sticks it back in his jacket pocket. It takes him a second to get the words out.

“Mr. Stark, I’ve been told that you’re authorized for a visit with the Augur.” Then comes the really hard part. “I hope you’ll forgive any inconvenience the new security measures might have caused you.”

“I forgive you,” I say, “but I’m not bringing a piñata to your birthday party. You’ll have to get your own goddamn candy.”

In grand Sub Rosa tradition, from the outside Blackburn’s mansion looks like something a wino coughed up after a night of Sterno and generic, nonfilter cigarettes. In this case, it looks like an abandoned residency hotel on South Main Street. The first floor is boarded up, covered with cryptic gang graffiti and stapled flyers for bands and strip clubs. The second and third floors are empty, burned-out shells. It’s all just hoodoo, of course. Inside, Blackburn’s place is a Victorian wet dream. Hell, it’s so real he probably has opium addicts and lungers planted in the guest rooms to add a little more color to the place.

Inside, a guy in his early twenties in a gray suit he can’t possibly afford greets me. A staff monkey. A young Sub Rosa emperor-in-training waiting to enter the big leagues. I wonder how connected you have to be to get a gig like this at his age.

“Please follow me, sir,” he says in a voice smooth as buttermilk. I follow him into Blackburn’s study. I killed a few people in here last month, but you’d never know it by the look of the place. No blood or a single bone fragment in sight. My compliments to your mystical janitors.

“James. Good to see you,” says Blackburn, coming from around his desk to shake my hand. He’s on a first-name basis with me since I saved his wife. I’m not on a first-name basis with him because he’s as close to God as we have in California.

“Thanks. And thanks for calling off your dogs. Did you hire all of them on my account? I’m flattered all to hell.”

Blackburn points to a seat by the desk. I sit. He goes back around and settles down.

“Not you specifically. It’s more because of . . . well, everything. Your coming in so easily was unnerving, of course, but Aelita’s behavior was worse. I’m good at seeing what people really are, but I suppose that skill doesn’t extend to angels. Anyway after the . . .”

“Massacre?”

“Yes, the massacre here, I decided that we finally needed to update security. The old ways of respect and even fear for the office of Augur are long gone. The twenty-first century is a fine place, but it’s a little medieval too. We need our Great Companies to keep the neighbor’s dog from crapping on the lawn.”

“If ‘Great Companies’ means expensive mercs, I guess so. Still, with your money I think you could do better. At least one of your guys wanted to start trouble, not put it down.”

“I know,” says Blackburn. “That’s why I called when I did. And he’s not usually like that. He’s usually a good man. It’s just that you scared him.”

“Me? Look at me. I’m dressed like a Deadwood dance-hall girl. How am I going to scare pros?”

“Because you’re still James Stark and everyone knows the things you’ve done. And gotten away with.”

“Now you’re making me blush.”

Blackburn gives me a smile. I can read people too. He’s indulging me because he wants something.

“If you’re really so interested in my security, why don’t you come and work for me? I hear you’re having some trouble with your revenue stream,” Blackburn says.

“Is it that obvious these aren’t my clothes?”

“I’m offering you Aelita’s old position as head of my security team. Wouldn’t you like to step into her shoes and show how much better you’d be at the job?”

“Don’t you already have a new security chief?”

“Yes. Audsley Ishii. A very competent man. But I’d rather have Sandman Slim on my side.”

“On the payroll, you mean.”

“Exactly. What do you say?”

I shake my head.

“I tried the salaryman thing back with the Golden Vigil. I work a lot better on my own, thanks. And right now I’m kind of busy trying to save, you know, the world.”

“I thought your chasing Aelita was a more personal thing.”

“It’s pretty damn personal, but she’s not what I’m chasing right now.”

Blackburn leans back in his chair. Steeples his hands.

“You mean the bauble.”

“It’s a god-killing weapon.”

“I’ve heard the stories. All unsubstantiated.”

“Do you think when the Angra Om Ya come stomping back, you’ll bribe pissed-off elder gods with brunch and VIP night at Disneyland?”

Blackburn’s hands go from a steeple to a dismissive little wave.

“Come on, Stark. You’ve seen the celestial realms. You don’t really believe all this nonsense about old gods and ultimate weapons, do you?”

“I believe it because I met one of the Angra. Remember the ghost that offed the mayor a while back? Her name is Lamia.”

“The little girl with the knife, you mean?”

“She killed off enough Dreamers to destabilize reality. If I hadn’t stopped her, she might have destroyed the world all on her own. And she’s just one little piece of what these fuckers can do.”

Blackburn goes quiet for a minute. It’s on his face. Am I here hustling him with ghost stories or am I telling the truth and maybe he and the other masters of the universe ought to start getting scared?

“I’ve looked into L.A.’s future and haven’t seen anything like what you’re describing.”

I shrug.

“You couldn’t see what an angel was angling to do. What makes you think you can see what gods want?”

He leans forward, his elbows on the desk.

“Work for me. I can give you access to more resources than you can possibly have on your own.”

“Thanks, but seriously, I’m terrible. You’d want me dead in a week,” I say. “But let me ask you something. Are you the one keeping the cops off me? Maybe clearing the decks just enough so I have to work for you?”

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.”