Eddie took a metal file from his pocket and presented it handle first. “Grate some of that carving onto the body. Anywhere is fine.”

Jim chose the flat pads of his chest, and the scraping sounds were soft in the tiled cavern of the cold room.

Eddie took the tool back. “Where’s your knife?”

Jim took out the hunting blade that had been given to him way back when he’d first joined the armed services. Matthias had gotten an identical weapon at the same time—had used it to carve the horse, matter of fact.

“Slice your palm and hold the object hard. As you do, picture the person you want to come here clearly in your mind. Remember the sound of his voice. See him in memories that are specific. Watch how he moves, the gestures he makes, the clothes he wears, the smell of his cologne if he uses it.”

Forcing his head to focus, Jim tried to call up something, anything, about Matthias the Fucker. . . .

The image that dove into his frontal lobe was stunningly clear: He was back in the desert on that night, with the chemical stink of the explosive in his nose and the ringing sound of time-to-get-a-move-on banging in his ears. Matthias had no lower leg, his left eye was nearly gone from the socket, and his digital fatigues were covered with pale dirt and bright red blood.

“. . . Dan . . . ny . . . boy . . . my Danny boy . . .” he was saying.

Jim put the blade to the center of his palm and dragged it through his skin, letting out a hiss as the steel bit deep and clean.

Eddie’s voice cut through the memory and the icy pain. “Now take your palm and rub it on the wood shavings. Then get out your lighter and fire it up. Lifting your hand, blow across it into the flame and onto the body, keeping that picture in your mind.”

Jim did as he was told . . . and was amazed to see a blue glow coalesce on the far side of his Bic, like the thing had magically turned into a blowtorch. And the hey-check-its didn’t end there. The flare settled around the body, blanketing it in a shimmer.

“You’re done,” Eddie said.

Jim flicked his Bic off and just stared down at himself, wondering what Matthias was going to think.

There had been a time, long ago, when he and the guy had been tight. But as the years had passed, the bastard had gone one way, Jim another. And that was before the whole being-dead, fallen-angel thing.

But this wasn’t about him and Matthias.

Jim pulled the sheet back into place, covering his own face and wondering how long it was going to take for the spell to call Matthias here and for Jim to see the guy again.

He slid the table into the refrigerator and shut the door, cutting that phosphorescent blue glow off. “Let’s blow this joint.”