Likewise, as Herb was pinned against the wall, and his mouth cranked wide to start screaming, there was no sting in the ears from the high-pitched agony, no banging as those heels kicked at the Sheetrock, no tearing as his clothes—

Oh, shit. The loose PJs poor Herb was wearing were ripping at the crotch.

But that was hardly the worst of it.

Like someone had spread-eagle’d him and was dragging his legs apart like the wishbone of a turkey, the Mr. started to rip at the centerpiece, a fault line initiating at his hey-nannies and proceeding up his pelvis, his abdomen—

All kinds of internal organ-ish stuff fell out and landed like over-boiled lasagna noodles, glossy, mushy, and disturbingly pink and brown.

“Oh, man,” Balz muttered, “that’s gonna get whiffy.”

The tearing-apart along with the pulling-asunder kept up, cracking Herb’s sternum, halving his set of lungs, stopping at the base of his throat. And then all his nearly-there was dropped to the floor.

Herb, the former hedge fund manager, now hedge mound fertilizer, twitched a couple of times . . . and then didn’t move at all.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true.

His blood was still leaking out of his major veins and arteries.

“You know,” Balz commented dryly, “I bet you don’t worry about getting mugged much, do you.”

Devina wiped her hands off on her hip even though she hadn’t directly touched the guy. “No, I’m good out on the streets alone. And speaking of mugging, it’s time that you and I stop fucking around. Give me my Book.”

Balz, who’d straightened from his stretch-forward during the laughy-taffy interlude, glanced back at the ancient volume. It had closed itself up, and the spotlight that was mounted on the ceiling hadn’t come back on. Or maybe it hadn’t been on in the first place, and the halo around the Book was just dimmed.

“Give me what’s mine,” Devina demanded as she put her hand out.

Like maybe Balz owed her a fiver and was just going to slap a bill right on there.

“If you don’t give it to me,” she said as she sex-walked her way over, “then that is going to happen to you.”

Ridiculously, she pointed to the mess on the floor—like anyone might have missed the example of all her Ginsu knife skills.

Balz narrowed his eyes. Then he took a pointed step to the side. “You want it, you take it. Just pick the thing up and leave. There’s nothing stopping you.”

Or is there, he wondered.

The pout on her face was poetic. “After everything we’ve meant to each other . . . surely you can help a lady out.”

“No offense, but can you really call yourself a lady when you just field-dressed that motherfucker?”

“Now he’s part of the exhibit.”

“As a human anatomy illustration?”

“Exactly.”

They both laughed a little. Then it was enough of the jokey-jokey on both sides.

“So Balthazar, here’s how this is going to happen.” The brunette smiled again, but her eyes were chips of obsidian, cold, bright, and hard. “You’re going to pick that up and give it to me. And then I’ll decide whether or not—”

“‘To blow your ship from the water.’” As she blinked in confusion, he shook his head. “Come on, Raiders of the Lost Ark. Dietrich to Katanga. You remember, they were on the deck of the ship and—”

“Shut up!” She jabbed her red-tipped forefinger at the Book. “Give it to me.”

“No.” He put his hands up. “I’m not going to. Now what?”

“Give it to me!”

There was a pause, and he waited for her to throw him back against the wall. Or maybe castrate him with thin air and make him eat his own nutsack. When nothing like that happened, he was interested in just how far he could push her.

“You know, if you stamp one foot, it’s going to really persuade me. Even better, tap-dance. I’ll whistle a tune—”

The roar that hit him in the face was like getting sandblasted with a hurricane, his hair streaking back, his skin flapping like he was in a wind tunnel, his chest getting compressed—and yet the sound seemed to be only between his ears, the effect only on his body.

“I own you,” Devina snarled over the din, “and you’re going to give me what I want.”

• • •

Sahvage found Mae’s car after four hours of searching for her. There had been nothing back at Tallah’s cottage. Nothing at her own home. Nothing that he could sense anywhere.

It was as if she had disappeared off the face of the planet.

Or, even more untenable, was no longer on it . . . because she had gone unto the Fade even though she did not believe in it.

Just as he’d been about to lose his ever-fucking mind, as he was making yet another circuit back from the suburbs and out to the cottage, with no Mae at her house and no Mae on his phone and no Mae—

Blue lights. Flashing blue lights.

He’d first seen them on the previous trip into town from the rural farmlands, but because he hadn’t sensed her anywhere near the scene, he’d ignored them. Besides, the truth was, about two hours into looking for Mae, he’d stopped expecting to find her—and started bracing himself to be found.

By a brunette with demands.

Or, Scribe Virgin forfend, body parts.

Except with nothing else to go on, he decided to check out the accident scene. Materializing in the darkness thrown by a stone wall, he surveyed the front-end car accident—

“Mae!”

Sahvage shouted her name as he recognized her Civic—and as the cops looked up from what turned out to be a body on the ground, his blood ran cold. He knew it wasn’t Mae, but as he was downwind from the scent, he prayed it wasn’t Tallah.

“Sir, unless you’re a witness or can identify—”

As a female officer came over to him, he didn’t give her the chance to get any further with the bug-offs. He busted into her mind and got the details he needed: Male victim on that grass had been stabbed and was dead. Car that was off the road was registered to a Christopher Wooden who had died in 1982 and lived ten miles away. Passerby who had a house in the neighborhood had called the scene in.

No other material anything—at least not that mattered to Sahvage. But that was definitely Mae’s car, the name on the registration an identity shield to keep things legal on the human roadways.

So where the hell was she?

And yet even as he asked the question, he knew. He was willing to bet that somehow, the brunette had come here and abducted Mae—

As his phone went off, he fumbled the thing out of his jacket to check the screen. When he saw who it was, for, like, the hundredth time, he flat out lost it.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—what,” he snapped as he answered the call. “Can you fucking leave me alone—”

“You’re the one who called me, asshole,” the Reverend shot back over the connection. “And given what you’re looking for, I’d have assumed you’d have picked up your fucking phone one of the last four goddamn fucking times I called. Now do you want to find the Book or not.”

Sahvage looked at the dead guy and dragged a hand over the top of his head. “Unless you’ve got it in your lap, I have other priorities right now—”