On the far side of the dance floor, the DJ booth was empty. I managed to work my way around the edges of the floor and climb into the booth, where an imposing array of lights and switches confronted me. I’m pretty sure aircraft control panels are less complicated. Since I didn’t have a clue, I hit anything and everything that looked like it might be a power switch until the bass-heavy dance mix went mercifully silent. Now it just sounded like the sound track to the world’s most ambitious gay porn movie.

I went back into the fray. Getting to the satyr was going to be the hard part. There was a constant slow-motion swirl of activity around him, a dense concentration of men swapping places, partners, and positions as they waited their turn to kneel at the altar, as it were. Men of all shapes, sizes, and ages, ranging from burly bears with furry chests to waxed-chested gym rats with six-pack abs to drag queens with heavily smeared makeup. I pushed my way into the throng, squeezing past the vertical bodies and clambering over the horizontal ones until I was close to the epicenter.

“Bitch, please!” One of the buff gym rats disengaged to give me a look of glazed indignation. “No cutting in line.”

Holding dauda-dagr in a reverse grip, I pressed the back of my hand against his forehead. “Police business. I need you to step back and clear this space, sir.”

“Huh?” He blinked at me, the glaze only semi-clearing. Either the effect of the funk was stronger this close to the satyr or gym boy was under the influence of something else. Or both.

I touched dauda-dagr’s tip to his bare chest. “Step back.”

With a pained hiss, he did. If that’s what it took, fine. I stole a quick look at the satyr, who appeared oblivious to my intervention, happily grinning and thrusting away. Prying the lid off the plastic tub of lime-flavored salt, I made a circle around him and his current tribute-giver, tilting the tub to pour out a stream of salt with one hand and using dauda-dagr to clear space with the other.

Luckily, once the salt was poured it seemed to keep the orgiasts at bay, and it clung firmly to the dance floor, which was slick with viscous fluid. Yeah, that’s pretty much a straight-up “Ew!” I left a gap in front of the satyr and his partner and retraced my steps, using the point of the dagger to draw a line through the salt.

Sometimes it’s better to act than think, and doing what it would take to close the circle was definitely one of those times. Holding dauda-dagr and the salt tub awkwardly in one hand, I wrapped my free arm around the waist of the guy kneeling before the satyr and executed a sort of half-assed hip throw on him.