On one side of a sweeping staircase is Blackburn’s office. On the other side is what looks like a parlor. The sliding doors are open a crack. Inside are maybe twenty people listening to him ramble on about cost-benefit projections and which state political offices to keep and which corporate investments to kick loose. First someone tries to assassinate me and now another budget meeting. Where do I have to go to get away from this shit?
It looks like I walked in on a synod, a solstice meeting where Sub Rosa heavyweights get together to figure out what nefarious party games they’re going to play in the New Year.
Blackburn is a scryer, a seer who gets glimpses of the future. The Sub Rosa Augur is always a scryer and Blackburn is supposed to be a good one. If he’s predicted me coming, I’m in trouble. With any luck he’s blind to Lucifer’s tricks. Of course, this could be a trap and he wants me in close quarters where I can’t run. Okay. I haven’t killed any humans in months.
It’s tradition at official meetings that the Sub Rosa sigil floats at the front of the room like the Super Bowl blimp. The sigil is a caduceus, snakes wrapped around each other in kind of a figure eight. A symbol of knowledge. In the first crossing, the top hole of the eight, is a circle surrounded by a square surrounded by a triangle. The squared circle. An alchemical symbol for the work. The work is magic and the secret things you can learn to expand your mind and perfect the world. The bottom crossing is a black circle with three lines radiating outside the snake like the sun. The alchemical symbol for gold. In the old days, gold stood for enlightenment. These days gold just stands for gold. I kick one of the doors out of the way, pull the Glock, and put a bullet through each end of the caduceus. The thing flares and drifts onto the carpet like ashes.
“Looks like a party. You busted in on mine, so I thought I’d return the favor.”
Blackburn storms over, not the tiniest bit afraid. He’s a good-looking guy with a primo Italian suit and a wide politician’s face that looks like it should be on a hundred-dollar bill. His graying temples make him look like he’s in his late forties but I know he’s well over a hundred.
“How did you get in here? You’ve invaded my home and interrupted classified Sub Rosa business. If you weren’t a wanted criminal before, you certainly are now, Stark.”
Blackburn gestures past me at someone I can’t see.
“Get some security . . .”
I swing the Glock behind me and fire without looking. Something hits the carpet. I put the still-hot muzzle under Blackburn’s chin.
“If that sentence is headed where I think it is, you better say it pretty because it’s going to be your last words.”
“Pretty please, Mr. Blackburn. Let me do it. I’ve wanted to put the boot to this rude boy for a long time.”
It’s King Cairo’s hoarse voice. Hoarse because screaming at the top of his lungs is as quiet as he ever fucking gets. He’s head of a family specializing in freelance hoodoo muscle, stuff both on and off the books. He’s a skinny Mohawked shirtless rat in a floor-length velvet coat trimmed with ostrich feathers. He thinks shrieking and jumping on furniture makes him a punk. Really it just makes him a Dixie Wishbone addict.
Wishbone is a kind of hoodoo meth. It makes you
