The man looked at me as though I had an exceptionally thick head. "You killed Alexander Macauley," he said. Now the tumblers fell into the weakened steel lock that was Dexter's brain. "Zander was one of you?" He shook his head slightly. "A minor helper. He supplied material for our rites." "He brought you the winos, and you killed them," I said.

He shrugged. "We practice sacrifice, Dexter, not killing. In any case, when you took Zander, we followed you and discovered what you are."

"What am I?" I blurted, finding it slightly exhilarating to think that I stood face-to-face with someone who could answer the question I had pondered for most of my slash-happy life. But then my mouth went dry, and as I awaited his answer a sensation bloomed inside me that felt an awful lot like real fear.

The old man's glare turned sharp. "You're an aberration," he said. "Something that shouldn't exist." I will admit that there have been times when I would agree with that thought, but right now was not one of them. "I don't want to seem rude," I said, "but I like existing." "That is no longer your choice," he said. "You have something inside you that represents a threat to us. We plan to get rid of it, and you." "Actually," I said, sure he was talking about my Dark Passenger, "that thing is not there anymore."

"I know that," he said, a little irritably, "but it originally came to you because of great traumatic suffering. It is attuned to you. But it is also a bastard child of Moloch, and that attunes you to us." He waved a finger at me. "That's how you were able to hear the music. Through the connection made by your Watcher. And when we cause you sufficient agony in a very short time, it will come back to you, like a moth to a flame."

I really didn't like the sound of that, and I could see that our conversation was sliding rapidly out of my control, but just in time I remembered that I did, after all, have a gun. I pointed it at the old man and drew myself up to my full quivering height.

"I want my children," I said. He didn't seem terribly concerned about the pistol aimed at his navel, which to me seemed like pushing the envelope of self-confidence. He even had a large wicked-looking knife on one hip, but he made no move to touch it. "The children are no longer your concern," he said. "They belong to Moloch now. Moloch likes the taste of children."

"Where are they?" I said. He waved his hand dismissively. "They're right here on Toro Key, but you're too late to stop the ritual."