The waitress came over with the coffeepot. I turned my mug upright for a fill and ordered a Danish. “Because it will help me do my job,” I said in an even tone once she was out of earshot. “Did you hear about the orgy out at Rainbow’s End?” Lee gave a brief nod. “Turns out it was set off by a satyr in rut.”

“Satyrs go into rut?” He sounded bemused.

“Yeah.” I blew on my coffee. “Every twelve years. And if I’d had a database to keep track of this one, I could have prevented the orgy.”

Lee studied me. “So it’s true?”

I took a tentative sip of my coffee, scalding my tongue, and grimaced. “What?”

“I heard a rumor that you were supposed to be some sort of diplomatic liaison to Little Niflheim,” he said. “But I didn’t believe it.”

I looked around for the waitress, hoping to catch her eye and ask for a glass of ice water. “Why not?”

“With your temper?” Lee grinned. “Unless you’ve changed a lot in the last six years, you’re the least diplomatic person I’ve ever known. Didn’t you get suspended for threatening to cut Stacey Brooks’s hair off in her sleep?”

“No,” I said. “That was Jen Cassopolis. I got suspended because the pipes in the girls’ locker room burst when I lost my temper because Stacey Brooks called my mother a Satan-worshipping whore. Anyway, yes and no. I’m an agent of Hel, and it’s my job to serve as the liaison between her rule of order and the mundane authorities. No one ever said I had to be diplomatic about it, just effective.”

“So you’ve actually been there?” Lee asked. “To Little Niflheim? You’ve actually met her?”

“Yes.”

He took a deep breath. “Tell me about this database.”

Between bites of my Danish, I filled him in on what I had in mind. I’m not sure if I was using the correct terminology, but I wanted to be able to sort and search the data by different criteria: proper names, type of eldritch, capabilities, date, location, transgressions, favors. And I wanted it synced with a calendar that would keep track of things like the full moon and satyrs’ twelve-year rutting cycles.

Lee listened impassively. “Okay,” he said when I’d finished. “That’s doable. It might even be mildly interesting. What’s your budget?”

I winced. “Yeah, about that . . .”

“I figured.” He leaned back in the booth, stroking the landing-strip of beard clinging to his chin. I wanted to tell him it looked ridiculous, but I didn’t think he’d thank me for the favor. “All right.” He glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “I’ll do it. But I want in.”