“Laytham, are you okay? You sound—”
I hung up. I grabbed a few things from the room and sprinted back toward the garage on the upper level. I took the first car I could find. I don’t remember what it was; it didn’t matter. I noticed the limo that had been in the garage was gone. I cursed as I roared down the drive, through the already open gate, and onto the freeway.
I did over a hundred the whole way to Encinitas, to Caern’s door. I wished I knew the secrets of the road magic that let viamancers bend space, but I didn’t, and even if I did, I don’t think I had the focus, the calm, to do any working that required clear thought. My mind was a wildfire, there was no reason in it, no plan, just the highway and the sick guilt and dread eating the core of me.
I screeched to a stop at Caern Ankou’s house, sprinted up the sidewalk, and through the shattered remains of the front door. There was the smell of gunpowder and ozone, the jagged afterimage of sudden violence humming in the now still, silent air.
Caern’s body was in the hallway, near the shelf of family photos—her new family, her only real family. She was splayed on her stomach, like she had been running down the hall when they got her. She had been shot in the back several times. I dropped down beside her, no strength left in my legs, felt her warm blood pooling around her. Her eyes looked up at me, empty—no accusations, no fear—nothing. I closed them.
She was clutching one of the photos of her, Joey, and Garland, like a drowning woman might clutch at a life preserver. It was the same photo she had shown me, her favorite one. As I sat next to her, I saw that she had been shot several times in the belly by someone at point-blank range. There were wounds on her hand that made me think she had tried with her last breath to protect the child in her stomach. She was dead, the baby was dead, and I was still living. I wanted to cry, to scream, to tear at my own face and skin, but I had no fucking right to any of it. I didn’t even think I was capable of crying anymore.
She was beautiful, even now. Crystal Myth, Caern Ankou, mother, wife … daughter.
I searched the house. There were no other bodies, no loving husband, no little, now-motherless boy. There were no signs of a struggle, only a brutish, hasty search. One of the family pictures from the wall in the hallway was missing. The purple crystal bracelet was still around Caern’s wrist. I took it off and put it in my pocket. I took the photo she was clutching too. I held her still-warm hand for a moment.
I walked out of the house, vaguely aware of the neighbors gawking and pointing, some snapping pictures with cell phone cameras. Sirens threatened off in the distance. I got in the car and I drove away.
TWENTY-FIVE
The executive offices of Pentacle Studios were off Santa Monica Boulevard. Their security was good, even a few tricks and traps for those in the Life. I bypassed most of it with a lifetime worth of skills cultivated toward getting into and out of locked places. The Harryhausen animates, the IMAX tesseract, and the Trebek sphinx proved a little more time-intensive, but I was very focused on getting my face time with the CEO.
I burst into a conference room full of Pentacle execs, yes men, pitchmen, money guys, and gofers. At the head of the table, looking like a dark, slumming Borgia king, sat Max Winder in a wine-colored button-up with no tie and a black Isabel Marant blazer. His long white hair and goatee were perfect, flawless.
“Hi,” I said. “Sorry I’m late. I’m the asshole you’ve been trying to kill for a while.” Everyone in the room shut up. They all looked to Winder, whose face remained serene, save for an arched eyebrow.
“Ah, Laytham,” Winder said, standing. He was a few inches taller than me and I sensed no tension or menace in him whatsoever. He strode to me and extended a hand for me to shake. I declined. “I didn’t know that our meeting was today, but no worries, please have a seat. Espresso? Clif Bar? Bottled water?”
Winder’s executive secretary rushed into the room, breathless. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Winder, he just ran right past me. He came out of the executive elevator somehow! I’ll call security.”
“They might take a while to answer,” I chimed in.
“That won’t be necessary, Glenys,” Winder said. “If you could please make that other call for me, and tell our friend that Mr. Ballard is here now for our appointment?”
Glenys looked at me like I was contagious and then nodded to her boss. “Of course, sir.” She closed the door behind her. Winder returned to his chair at the head of the table. I remained standing, the door to my back.
“I know what brings you here, Laytham,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about talking out of school. Everyone here is on the same page. We all travel in the same social circle, or summoning circle if you prefer.” Laughter came from all corners of the room.
“Makes sense,” I said. “Why meet in some dingy cave when you can have your human sacrifices catered?”
“Blunt, but essentially accurate,” Winder said. “We’re a Los Angeles tradition, Laytham. We’ve been here since the beginning, through the good times and the bad. We’re bankers and politicians, dream makers, and working stiffs, the homeless and the one percent. We cross all the lines, all the barriers. We are explorers in sensation, we breathe in the universe and it breathes us in.”
“You’re murderers and molesters,” I said, walking around the table, looking from face to face, some amused, others guarded, most of them bland.
