I never wanted to see another battle, large or small, in my life. I looked at my lover, my husband, and he looked like a stranger to me. He and Pam stood facing each other, holding hands and beaming through the blood. Then they simply collapsed into each other, and Pam began laughing in a breathless way. “It’s done!” she said. “It’s done. We’re free.”

Until Felipe de Castro comes down on us like a ton of bricks because he wants to know what happened to his regent, I thought, but I didn’t say anything. A, I wasn’t sure I could. B, we’d already wondered what would happen, but Eric’s opinion was that it was better to ask forgiveness than permission.

Mustapha was on his cell phone, which was about as big as a cricket. “Warren, no point in you coming in, man,” he said. “The deed is done. Good shot. Yeah, we got him.”

Parker said, “Sheriff, we’re leaving for home unless you need us.” The weedy young man was supporting Palomino, and Rubio was on her other side. They were all pretty battered in one way or another.

“You may go.” Eric, smeared with blood, was still very much the ruler. “You answered my call and did your jobs. You’ll be rewarded.”

Palomino, Rubio, and Parker mutually assisted each other to the back door. From their expressions, I was sure they hoped Eric didn’t call them in again for a long, long time, no matter what the reward might be.

Indira crawled over to Thalia to apply Thalia’s severed arm to its shoulder with force. She held it there, beaming. Indira was the happiest person in the club.

“Will that work?” I asked Pam, nodding at the shoulder-arm conjunction. Pam was wiping the bloody sword on Akiro’s clothing. His throat was almost gone; wounded parts disintegrate more quickly than uninjured parts.

“Sometimes,” she said, shrugging. “Since Thalia is so old, there’s a chance. It’s less painful and time-consuming than regeneration.”

“Thalia, can I get you some blood?” I didn’t think I’d ever been brave enough to address Thalia directly, but I could sure bring her some bottled blood and be glad to do it. She looked up at me, her eyes full of involuntary tears. It was obvious she was forcing herself to hold still. “Not unless you want to donate yourself,” she said in her heavily accented English. “But Eric wouldn’t be pleased if I drank from you. Immanuel, give me a mouthful?”

“All right,” he said. The skinny hairdresser looked more than a little dazed.

“You sure?” I asked. “You don’t quite seem yourself.”

“Hell, yes,” Immanuel said unconvincingly. “The guy who killed my sister is dead. I’m feeling good.”