“Hey, are these canapes?” I say, my voice way too loud. “I’ve never had canapes. Am I pronouncing that right? Oh, hi, how ya doin’?” I toss the chicken skewers aside and stick my greasy hand out to shake the hand of the guy Chu’s been talking to. He stares at it like I’m presenting him a live snake. “Oh, sorry.” I wipe the grease on my pant leg and stick my hand back out.

“Excuse me, Senator,” Chu says. “This is one of my more eccentric donors. Maybe we can pick this up again sometime next week? I’ll have my assistant call your office.” I feel a little magic and the Senator blinks as if in a daze.

“Oh, yes, certainly.” He walks away without even acknowledging me.

“Well, that was rude,” I say.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Chu says, the smile never leaving his face, but the tension in his jaw telling a different story.

“I’ve got the thing you were talking about. Thought you might want to see it in person.”

“The bottle? You found it? I mean, you found one strong enough to hold Quetzalcoatl?”

“And then some. Let’s go find a dark corner someplace and I can show you. Maybe we’ll even start some rumors.”

“Study. Down the hall, second door on the right. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.” He looks somewhere between giddy and panicked.

“You got it, chief. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Chapter 30

He doesn’t. I’ve only just broken into his liquor cabinet and poured a liberal dose of some Balvenie 17-year-old DoubleWood when he comes in, Peter close at his heels, closing the door quietly behind them.

Legs on his desk, the briefcase next to them. I’ve stuck my messenger bag to the side.

I lift my glass in a toast. “Gentlemen, I drink to my health.” I down the glass.

“Actually, you’ve got that wrong,” Peter says. “It’s ‘I drink—’”

“Shut the fuck up,” Chu says, snarling at him. “Nobody fucking cares, Peter.” He turns back to me. “Where’s the bottle?”

“Oh. I put it back in the cabinet. I didn’t think you’d want any.”

“The spirit bottle,” Chu says, each word coming out like breaking glass. “You cannot be as fucking stupid as the rest of these people.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “That bottle. It’s right here.” I take my legs off his desk and snap open the briefcase, lifting out the glamoured fake.

“One certified, Grade A spirit bottle. Accept no substitutes.” It’s weird holding it. I know what it is, what it really looks like, how heavy it really is, but it feels just like Darius’s bottle. Color me impressed.