It starts in a bar. Well, actually it starts on a ghost tour in New Orleans, but this part starts in a bar.

The bar in question is a pub-shaped cancer in the middle of Castro Street, an Irish name stapled to a wall of standardized alcohols and an open patio full of blue-collar shouting. I prefer my bars dim, with quotes on the walls, but Paul was insistent, which is why I'm sitting on the aforementioned patio, building a wall of drained gimlets while I try to read The Dain Curse. It isn't working.

Paul slides up next to me just as I'm considering the best way to rant about his taste in watering holes. His aura's a mess of blue and fading orange, too bright to look at without squinting. I get my tongue ready for a good venting, but I only get as far as "What" before I lose my composure in his eyes. He's got four pupils. Something got under his skin.

"What?" I ask again, as I pick up the latest gimlet.

Paul takes a second to study me. Now I know it's bad.

"Call from the crip," he tells me, in that horrid Liverpudlian accent. "We need to get moving. You sober?"

"As William Faulkner."

Paul smirks. He thinks my irritation is tasty. "So I get to drive, then?"

"That's a funny word for a crime against engineering."

He shrugs, his pupils melting back to a normal level. "At least we'll hit all greens. 'Scuse me." He nods toward the bar. "Gotta go take out the hook."

"Don't use me as an excuse," I call to his back.

His latest catch is a blonde girl who should clearly be a brunette, reliving her spring break courtesy of the tequila slammer. I watch her and Paul from under a cloud of denial, the way he touches her chin, the smile he gives her as he walks away; I take it all in with a dark resignation, punctuated with the dregs of the gimlet.

"Cute girl," I quip, as I hop off my stool. "Which one is she, Romy or Michelle?"

Paul shrugs, all shit-eating grins. "I'm pretty sure she was named after a liquor." He looks back, and seals the deal with a wave goodbye. As he opens the gate, he says "I think I'll call her Pucker."

I wrangle my amusement into a simper; not like Paul needs any help knowing my mood. "What's the plan?" I ask, as we head for our white Cavalier.

"Sunnyvale," he says, all business. "Harry's birthday, big time."

I'm suddenly sober, and I don't like the world's new tilt. "I can drive."

"You can." He grins at me over the hood of the Cav. "But I will."

I glower at him, and toss him the keys. I miss, technically, but Paul manages to guide them into his hand. His grin echoes through my brain as we slip into the car and take off. One failed Inquisition, and all the demons get cocky.