The cop edges closer, hand on that big freight train of a gun. My heart's packing its bags and running a magnet over the accounting records. The guy cocks his head at me—he's a big horsey fella, the kind of face born to be confused—and looks with those sky-blues of his at the girl. Questions snake through the air.

"It's"—the girl sniffs hard as she can—"it's alright." She shakes her head at the policeman, ducks away from my touch. "It's alright—"

"Ma'am, what's going on?"

"Attacked," she gasps. "Was attacked, this man"—she looks at me like I'm John Wayne.

"Right. Don!" he calls back to the cruiser. He gives the girl a look of raw authority. "Just go talk to Don over there, he'll help you out."

She leaves with a murmur and a nod, and the cop gives me a scan that makes me wonder if I didn't actually do something.

"The girl was being attacked—"

"I.D. please, sir?" He gets his notebook out of his belt, flips to an empty page.

I discover half a dozen new sweat glands as the cop questions me. He has a follow-up question for everything, my place of residence, my whereabouts, my reasons for being at the site of the attack. I can tell he's irritated I got to the crime before he did, so I play it straight, with the niggling exemption of the perps being sociopathic thought-constructs wearing people like rubber gloves. He takes down my descriptions (I probably just incarcerated two confused possession victims), and asks me if I saw where they went. My stomach does its impression of a bayou as I raise my arm and point resolutely in the wrong direction.

"Huh. Fir Street," he murmurs as he scribbles another note. He croaks some line of police-speak into his radio, confirms the gibberish that comes back at him. Then he's back to me, and sort of regretting it. "Thank you sir. For being there in time." I'd feel pride if that wasn't rehearsed. "And for being a good soul. Really." He sticks out his hand for a shake. "You leaving town soon?"

"Wasn't planning on it." I manage not to grunt as we touch hands. The guy's sister just came out of the closet; he feels like chilled worms. "Think you'll need to call me?"

"More than likely. Number?"

I rattle it off. He clicks his pen shut, closes the notebook. "Night, Mr. Chatham."

They pack the girl into their cruiser, and they're headed back the way they came. I'm left there on an empty street with the residue of a mugging floating around me, wondering why I was the lucky guy who was there when the cruiser showed.

The answer to all my woes is best mixed with lime juice and ice.

"Cops?"

Paul acts like I'm saying I was attacked by marmots. I give him a look designed to make him very, very uncomfortable.

"Cops," I say, swirling my glass. "Pair of demons were mugging somebody."

"Mugging?" Paul scoffs. "Hardly. Mugging is a little more—"

"Survivable?" Arabella suggests.

Kelly comes out of her mental cubbyhole, leans forward with her eyes stuck to mine. "What did they look like?"

"Right." My name is Vodka; I'll be representing Mr. Chatham in this matter. "Um, guy was sort of a swirl of green, sharp edges. Woman or what passes for one was like a, a beetle, odd number of legs though, fleshy-looking eyes." I tap my cheek with a numb finger.

Kelly slithers back into her chair. That doesn't stop the staring.

"Locals," she says. "So that is good at least." She looks at her finger like she's considering chewing it.

"Good?" I ask.

"Means they will respond to threats."

I let that one fall flat. My mind hooks on the events of tonight. "Hey, Kelly?"

She tilts her head. "Randall?"

"What was Arthur so scared of?"

Blackness sucks into everyone's auras; Kelly's face wipes totally clean, and her skin goes buttery and jaundiced for that one precious moment of shock.

"What do you mean?"

"I scanned your book." I sway my head in the direction of the tome. "Got an old memory from Arthur. Some threat to your lives?" In my head that was dashing, quip-worthy emphasis. But I think my vowels are liquefying.

Kelly shakes her head. "Arthur was paranoid."

"With good reason," Paul chuckles.

"Irrationally paranoid." She brushes a finger along the book's spine. "Arthur thought we were being watched. Said he was getting orders. Things outside the agreement, or so he thought. Didn't explain them very well. Insisted..." She picks up the book, and slips it gently into her lap. She doesn't keep talking.

Arabella grabs onto the silence. "Insisted?"

Kelly looks up; I think that look is "confused". "Insisted that he had to tell someone."

Deep thought slaps each of us across the face. I trade a look with Arabella and Paul, and come back to Kelly with a head full of confusion.

"But you contacted us."

Kelly milks that stare for all it's worth. "I did. Arthur was supposed to have been contacting you when he disappeared."

My nervous system kicks on the nitro boosters.

"Contacting us?" Arabella's a new shade of pale. "I thought you said he was visiting family."

"He was. Was an excuse." She looks over at Paul. "Cover."

"Why do I get the look on that one?" Paul asks.

"She can't tear herself away from you," I deadpan. "Kelly, why did Arthur need cover to contact peacekeepers?" I don't like the answer I'm coming up with.

"Said he was paranoid," she responds. "He thought there was"—something distracts her for a second—"someone listening in, he talked about an—"

We finish together. "Astral dragnet."

I dig my fingers into my temples. I might be sober again. "Fuck me. Kelly..." I look her in the eye; least I can do when I'm going to rock her world. "He might not have been paranoid."

"I had processed that, thank you." Man, right where it hurts. "I do not know who made Arthur disappear. I don't. But I—"

"I think I might." It comes out in a groan.

Kelly's attention is an ice cube on the back of my neck. I keep my eyes on hers mostly out of self-preservation, and let her pull the thoughts off the surface of my brain. That ugly shade of yellow comes back to her.

"That's not..."

"Possible? Desirable? Healthy?" It sounds like I'm not in the mood. "We collared a guy on our way north, and he said Master Gary was the one signing his checks. That dovetails really nicely with what we just heard, so I'm going to go ahead and put two and two together."

"And two and two here make screwed," Paul says. "With the angle men in chief jumpy over the Pocket situation they'll be fitting this Gary guy for a noose."

"If you can prove it," Kelly says.

"Well every journey starts somewhere," I respond. I give a look to Paul and Arabella again, the baby cousin of the look of command Dr. Barg loves to throw our way. "What do you guys say to a little post-breakfast interrogation tomorrow?"

Paul shoots me a predator's grin. "I say I'll probably be hungry."

"Not given your current track record," Arabella replies. And to me: "I'm in."

We turn as one to Kelly, our link-up buzzing with excitement. Our ersatz companion looks at me, and at Paul; and with her aura at a low buzz, shakes her head.

"I can't go out to Master Gary's. I can't."

"That's stupid," Paul says.

Kelly just looks. "Influential man. Draws a lot of water. Can't afford to cross him until—"

"Until he might have made a peacekeeper disappear?" I snap.

Kelly's mask stays in place. "You don't understand."

"I rarely do." I hold up a finger before Paul can fire off a retort. "I'll accept that you can't go." I put on the subtext with a trowel. "But can I at least get an address? If we're going to kick up a fuss I'd prefer my feet be aimed the right direction."

"I..." Apropos of absolutely nothing, Kelly puts on a smile. "An address will be useless where Master Gary lives. I'll write down directions."

"That's ominous." I rub my hand across my face. "Directions, good. Great. Good. Tomorrow morning," I say to the room.

"Aye aye, Cap'n," Arabella says, breezing up out of her seat. "Shut eye, then. Since someone decided to wake me the fuck up." She glides a finger along my arm to tell me she doesn't mean it.

"And I think I need a pack of cigarettes," Paul mutters. He gives me an amused look. "You want me to prod you awake 'round ten, Billy the Bottle Fairy?"

I keep my eyes firmly locked on his as I take a long, slow drink of my cocktail. I take my time licking my lips. "Yes."

"Right then. Time for that cancer I won't let myself get." He slides a cigarette out from the pocket of his coat. "Godspeed, man. Drink a tall glass of water."

So it's just me and Kelly. I put my drink down on her battered cork coaster, and look across the room at her, just in time for her to pull herself out of the armchair without a second glance at my face.

"I'll be outside with Paul."

"Somethin' I said?"

She doesn't even look at me. "You do not want to have this discussion." And she closes the door behind her.

I consider staring, but it's really not worth the effort. I flick off the lights in the living room, throw my melting ice out in the sink. The couch rises up to greet me like a wedge of discomfort; I already feel my spine turning into a paperweight. I shift around in the dark, and sweat hot vodka, and try to listen in on the conversation between Kelly and Paul outside.

I don't hear them saying a thing. There's some shuffling here and there, one or two of Paul's murmurs, but nothing I can make out as speech. But that makes sense, then, since they're both demons—and that thought puts a cattle prod up to my spine.

Paul and Kelly are both demons. Pure thought, with more power than I could want. Telepathy is near the bottom of the list of things they can do.

So how the hell did I overhear them earlier?