I turn the corner with a stomach full of dead leaves, and find Arabella leaning against the car and staring needles at Bingo's house. She turns away as soon as she sees me, hooks her fingers in the door handle; the only communication I get is the waves of poison from her thoughts. I get in the car, let out a sigh that does nothing for my muscles, and reach over to unlock her door.

Her attention is on the road all the way back to 101, her mind locked up tight. If I look at her she gets deeply interested in the door. I count miles to Menlo Park, then miles past that to Palo Alto; as we're heading past IKEA I finally get sick of the gravel piling up in my spine.

"I'm sorry I didn't explain."

The temperature in the car plummets. I get a glance, but not much more than that. The tension is considering a daring escape through my neck.

"I could've"—I'm not feeling the eloquence—"I maybe should've, but"—I brush at my forehead—"that demon was dangerous, and he had to have been jumpy when Kincaid went quiet, I had to make him think I had it wrong if I was going to catch him by—"

"If you were going to be macho," Arabella snaps. Anger slaps me full on in the face, with a jagged wake of betrayal. "You didn't tell me so you could show off without weak little Arabella thinking too loud and spoiling your master plan."

There's a little too much sneer in her voice, a step down from perfect derision, but it's enough to leave my jaw locked and my hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. I wiggle over into the slow lane, add a little more time to our drive.

"Am I wrong?" she asks, brazen.

My mouth moves, but it's mostly trying to find the right expression. "I brought you in with me—"

"Oh, well that's very fucking magnanimous." She's a coiled snake now; I feel her wonder how I'd react to her fist. "I'm a peacekeeper, Randy. I'm in on the god-damn joke." Her voice pinches; she's thick-tongued, fighting around some specific word. "I get that it's grim." Too long a breath; waterworks incoming. "And I get that it's dirty." Her volume drops, and I'm almost hunched over the steering wheel. "And I get...that you want my world to be nothing but pretty."

Her head's down; her hand aches. I almost reach out to her, almost untie that knot. But she lets out one long breath, and she's all charcoal and steel.

"But I'm stronger than that, Randall." She looks at me with the heat of a chemical fire. "I might be stronger than you." There's a rustle of cloth, and warm breath tickles my ear. "And however much that pisses you off, you have no excuse to pull that shit ever. Again." She leans closer, and all I see is the bile in her pupils. "Are we absolutely crystal clear?"

My tongue is sandpaper, and my brain's evaporating through my scalp. I lick my lips to reply, and she looks away with a devilish smile.

"Good," she purrs. One lone finger rolls down my forearm, and she slumps against the passenger door. "I'm glad we agree."

It's a thimble's worth of relief, at best; but it's enough to get us home.

All the lights are on at the house when we arrive. I pull up in my usual spot, and look over at Arabella. She gives me a wide glance as we pull up, then hops out the door and stops there, washed over with new tension. She leans down, smirking at my musings on her ass.

"I'll see you inside," she says, like a punchline without a joke. The door's closed before I can respond.

I pop the door open, feel my way out with numb, alarmed hands. Barney's assault echoes among the tabloid rumors from the lawn signs, and for a second I just lean against the door and try to enjoy the familiar din.

Which, I assume, is why Paul clears his throat.

He's standing there on the lawn, leaning against King George with his hands tucked into his pockets. He's shucked his jacket somewhere inside, and I'm wondering how his shirt wound up dark with sweat. I look at him, and he looks at me, both our brains too clogged to get a signal; he gives me his patented smirk as I look both ways down the street and wander into the signs with him.

"Don't you have a monster to look after?" I ask him, with a little uncalled-for emphasis.

Paul shakes his head. That grin is chiseled into his face. I look again down the street, but all I see are a couple drunk kids making out against a car.

"Alright," I sigh. I run my hands through my hair, to the chagrin of my hands. "Where is he?"

"Gone," Paul says. "Shuffling down Villa toward the police station as we speak."

I answer my own question before I ask it. I need a chair. "You went in after his memory."

Paul gives me an expansive shrug. "Turns out to not be as hard as I was expecting. And we'd already linked up once..."

My carefully prepared diatribe has been shredded; I grab at some loose nouns. "What did you put in his head?"

"Fuck if I know," he guffaws. "I mixed it all up a bit, alright, put those murders on the surface, kept all the nasty little details...something about a rage about their sins, something about the little girl being a slut...or I hope so anyway," he muses, like this is a Hollywood pitch session, "but I mean, incoherent is as good as an airtight cover-up, right? Maybe even better?" He stands up straight, teeth flashing. "Make him a hot potato, Church won't talk to him even if he is their guy..."

"Stop." My stomach's warming up, and all I can think about is what color the vomit might be. "Stop." I breathe, and my thoughts wander to Kincaid, the wild eyes, the way his neck veins snapped taut...what was the last thing I ate?

"I know," Paul says. "I know it's nasty and it's cruel and it's fuckin' ugly and you've got all these morals twistin' up like rubber bands tryin' to figure how to make yourself right with this." I feel his grin, like sunburn across my forehead. "Plus it's kinda unsatisfying for you, yeah, only one big hero's stand tonight—"

"Why did you do it?" I snap, rearing up to look him in the eye.

He holds his hands up, defensive. "And the guns start blazin'!" He hunches up, gives me a wall-to-wall smile. "You're talkin' about how I betrayed you, you mean? How I was coverin' up for Barney and tryin' to make sure you didn't suspect him and generally keepin' the guy ordering all those hits from comin' to—"

"Paul, I might march in there and recommend to Dr. Barg that we kick your ass off the team, this isn't the time to try to feed off my tempe—"

"Dr. Barg's not going to listen." He's cold now, ice crackling on a griddle. "Dr. Barg, see, isn't so busy tryin' to pretend that he's mister pulp detective catchin' all the guys who are too dark a shade of gray to notice pragmatic issues like, oh, say, politics."

He can't read me out here; there's no way he can read me out here; and so he can't feed. Can't feed on the ball of hate in my sternum, can't feed on the pressure behind my eyes. He looks me up and down, looks away, tetches in his throat.

"The Pocket's big time stuff, Randy; and even if he's a coincidence, which I'm really doubtin', Barney wasn't small change either. Old school, powerful, kinda guys Dante wanted to write about. If either of them'd thought we were really going to be a threat to this operation, they wouldn't have sent Kincaid to botch it all on purpose; they'd would have bored a hole in us and liquefied our spines first chance they got. And that’s those of you who can actually die."

Paul's face tries for "scared", but I'm too busy wringing shock out of my cortex.

"You played them," I gawp.

He holds up a hand, scout's honor style. "Double agent at your service. Barney dropped in on my mind not too long after we showed up at Bingo's place, tried to threaten me with old times. Because annoying me goes over real well."

"So you played chicken," I say. "You clammed up like the Norman Bates and tried to misdirect us—"

"You want a medal?" he asks. Condescension dissolves into mock pathos. "But then you tricked me, you got the info from me when my defenses were weak...and now poor Barney's been tagged by the higher-ups, and the Pocket's whole operation's gonna fold like an accordion."

I don't take a step back; if I take a step back I'll look as shocked as I am. "You played me...me...Dr. Barg?" I ask, competition bristling in me. Well at least I don't look pathetic...

"If he pegged me he stayed shut up about it," Paul says. "Which would be just like him, yeah? Let the conspiracy play out?"

"Given that it had to to keep us all safe?" I'm looking back on my stunt at Bingo's place, and all I'm seeing are the kinks in my plan. "Personally I'm assuming he knows, just so I don't wonder."

"You and Arabella," Paul says, with a shake of his head. "Way you talk only thing that'll stop Barg is Kryptonite."

I force myself to stay tense. I raise my hands, and give Paul a quick round of staccato applause. "Well done, man. Well done. Hats off. I might even consider trusting you again in about a year."

Paul sniffs. "You were smart you wouldn't be trustin' astral parasites in the first place." He winks at me. "We're done here."

"Not quite." I check my words before I say them. "Thanks Paul. For savin' my bacon." Who am I that saying that's so difficult? "Your methods annoy me, but hey, par for the course." Oh, that's who.

Paul shakes his head as I walk past. "Yeah, I gotta admit, keeping a lid on it would've been harder if I hadn't thought this'd really piss you off."

I chuckle, and keep on walking. "Night, Paul."

"Night. Oh, Randy?"

"Huh?" I look back, and he punches me right in the mouth.

His thoughts are hot, tangled, weird; strange enough that it delays me noticing how much that stings.

"Fuck," I mumble, through the pressure of my hand.

"Fuck you," Paul corrects me, with a wolverine grin. "I knew you'd get it out of me, but next time try not risking the whole fuckin' agreement on it, yeah?"

"Next time try not pretending to betray us," I shoot back.

Paul nods. "Agreed."

"Agreed."

"Excellent." He leans back against the sign, and crosses his arms. "See you tomorrow night for drinks?"

"Absofuckinlutely," I slur. "Night. For real."

Paul shakes his head. "Good night. And good luck."

I walk toward the house, massaging my jaw with dulled fingers, straight into the last leg of the gauntlet.

The house feels like the Grim Reaper did a mazurka through the living room; I taste ashes at the back of my throat, and all the sounds seem like they're under a heap of wet towels. Arabella's on the couch looking at a frosty bottle of vodka, rolling a shot glass back and forth on the armrest as she stares.

"Randall?" Dr. Barg asks, from the comfort of the office.

I am every man who has ever been tired. "Tooth Fairy, actually."

Dr. Barg rolls his chair out to the doorway, and looks at me like he's just put me on a slide. He nods to Arabella, who toddles off into the kitchen, and stares at me expectantly.

I keep my eyes on him, and I take off my coat. I drop the change from all the pit stops into the cookie jar. I put my wallet and keys on the coffee table. And then I stand there, watching him watch me, thinking as hard as I can of every brain dysfunction I know.

"What's up, Doc?"

All of that, and his face doesn't budge. "How did it go?"

I look away from him, rub the back of my neck.

"Mixed bag."

Barg stares, and when I stay quiet, gestures for me to continue.

"It was one of the demons," I say. "Someone else from New York, another veteran, must've known Morrison's rider. He was aiming Kincaid at good targets, trying to keep him as sloppy as possible." It tumbles out of me like I rehearsed it; I tick off checkboxes in my mind, and I loathe myself.

"Out us," Barg rumbles. "Get the Inquisitors moving again."

"Exactly. He was a big shot back when he was shielding people from the Church. Guess he missed the old days. But I got him confident, got him trapped, dumped evidence in his boss's hands. And now the real big shots are on their way to pick him up as of when we left. By now, I'm guessing he's been stripped to his component atoms."

"Or slapped on the wrist and let go," Arabella says, as she comes wandering out of the kitchen. The vodka bottle is gone, and there's a drink in her hand; I can taste it the moment she leaves it on the table.

Dr. Barg looks at her, and back at me. He cleans his glasses, and nods. "So we found the culprit, and the proper authorities"—I repress a snort—"have been notified. Good. Good." He steeples his fingers, and stares hard at my mind. "And the part that makes this a mixed bag?"

I glance at Arabella for emphasis. "I sort of went in all hot-shot and didn't let Arabella in on the plan. It almost came back at me right away when the demon tried to shut me up before the play ended. Which of course is why I didn't tell her, but it was still a cowboy move to pull, and I'm nowhere near done feeling sorry." Some of the cramps leave my mouth with those words.

"I see," Dr. Barg murmurs. "It attacked you?" He taps a finger against his brow.

I swallow. My eyes drift to the old man's legs. "Yeah."

He wheels back, catches my eye again. Whoops. "Are you feeling alright? Psychic assault can scramble the nervous system. Any numbness, vertigo, synesthesia...?"

"All passing," I grate. "I had it all but it's all fading. Felt like being massaged with a steamroller."

"Good." He interlaces his fingers. "Good. Well. Good job. Both of you." Finally, he turns away from me, toward Arabella. "Consider yourself on call for field work."

Arabella scoffs at him. "Yay?"

He answers her with half a smile. "If only I could expect a more emphatic reaction."

That gets me to snort; I stop before the rest of my emotions flood out. Arabella brushes past me, gives me a look that affirms what was said in the car. She doesn't need to punch me to sting. I watch her climb the stairs, listen to two doors close and lock; with a heavy sigh, I turn to Dr. Barg.

"We safe?"

He steeples his fingers, staring a hole through the backs of my eyes. "The demons will be appeased. And the Church will either never know or find its hands tied. So from outside, yes, we're safe. From inside..."

"I know." I shake my head. "I know, I know. I'll never pull something like that again."

Dr. Barg sniffs in amusement. "I'm certain you won't."

My jaw tenses. "You don't believe me?"

"I can read your thoughts, Randall." He rolls an inch or two back toward the office. "Of course I believe you."

That makes my lips curl into a grin. "Thanks, Doc."

He dismisses it with a shrug. "Thank you for living up to my expectations. Now go get some sleep. You've been under attack all day, and tomorrow I need you to see if Carmel Morrison's ready to discuss tutelage."

End Book One