Shiro glanced aside at me and nodded. "But there is a better choice."

"What?"

"Don't fight. Can't lose a fight you don't have."

I felt a snort coming on but I held it back. "I'm sort of locked into it now."

"Both parties want to quit, duel over," Shiro said. "I will be talking to Ortega's second. Ortega will be there. Smart for you try to talk him out of it."

"I don't think he'll do it."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Not fighting always smarter."

"Says the militant Knight of the Cross and his holy blade?"

"I hate fighting."

I glanced at him for a second, then said, "You don't usually hear that from someone good at it."

Shiro smiled. "Fighting is never good. But sometimes necessary."

I blew out a deep breath. "Yeah. I guess I know what you mean."

The rest of the ride to McAnnally's was quiet. In the streetlights, my knuckles looked the same color as the rest of my hands.

McAnnally's is a tavern. Not a bar, not a pub, but an actual, Old World-style tavern. When I went in, I stepped down three steps to the hardwood floor and looked around the place. The bar has thirteen stools at it. There were thirteen columns of dark wood, each one hand-carved with swirling leaves and images of beings of tale and fantasy. Thirteen tables had been spaced out around the room in an irregular pattern, and like the columns and bar stools, they had been intentionally placed that way in order to deflect and scatter random magical energies. It cut down on the accidents from grumpy wizards and clueless kids just discovering their power. Several ceiling fans whirled lazily, and were low enough that I always felt a bit nervous about one of them whirling into my eyebrows. The place smells of wood smoke, old whiskey barrels, fresh bread, and roasting meat. I like it.

Mac stood behind the bar. I didn't know much about Mac. He was tall, medium build, bald, and somewhere between thirty and sixty. He had large and facile hands and thick wrists. All I've ever seen him wear is dark pants with a loose white shirt and an apron that somehow remained free of splatters of grease, spilled drinks, and the various other things he prepared for customers.

Mac caught my eye when I came in and nodded to my left. I looked. A sign on the wall said, ACCORDED NEUTRAL GROUND. I looked back at Mac. He drew a shotgun out from behind the bar so that I could see it and said, "Got it?"

"No problem," I answered.

"Good."