I slow down the car to let a unicorn herd cross the road. Seriously? Unicorns? I met a breeder one time who let me in on the secret that they’ve only been around since about 1920. They don’t advertise that fact, obviously. It’d be like De Beers admitting that a diamond is just a pretty rock.

I park the Corolla between a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost and a black Bentley Continental. I resist the urge to “accidentally” bump into one of them.

The steps to the front door are lit with bioluminescent plants at the edges. The colors are vibrant and shifting, making it hard from a practical standpoint to actually see the steps. Probably by design to fuck with visitors.

What I don’t see are the security guards. I know they’re here. I probably have three of them standing behind me right now and if they’re using spells I’d never know. There’s so much magic in the air they could have an invisible 747 parked in the driveway and the only way I’d figure it out is to walk into it.

I get to the door, straighten my tie, pull my cuffs and look about as presentable as I’m ever likely to be. I knock on the door.

When it opens the smug look of satisfaction on Attila Werther’s face drops almost to a pout when he realizes I’m not surprised.

“I told everybody you weren’t dead,” I say. “Nobody ever listens to me. I mean, you’re what, a hundred? Hundred and fifty? You don’t live that long and not know how to get out of tight spaces.”

“Two hundred and three, actually. And credit where it’s due, I actually did have a harder time than expected. Had to sacrifice my driver to get back. You might as well come in. I can at least offer you a drink before killing you.”

I follow him inside. The door closes on its own behind me. The inside is all stark white marble, with black accents. I feel like I’ve walked into the end scene of 2001. “Power, grace, and snazzy interior design. You just don’t see that kind of thing anymore,” I say.

“I already pay someone to suck me off once a week, Mister Carter, so unless you’re applying for the position, stop trying to blow me and get to the point.” He leads me into a study that’s just as stark as everything else I’ve seen.

“Have a seat. Whiskey?” I sit in the proffered chair, a surprisingly comfortable wingback upholstered in . . . is this manticore fur? Huh. Haven’t seen that in a while.

“Given you’re probably gonna kill me anyway, I might as well go out with some quality hooch,” I say. “That’s a yes, by the way. Okay. The point. I didn’t murder any of those mages. And I didn’t murder your granddaughter.”