That’s new. “Let me guess, the birds?” One of the tattoos on my chest, right in the middle, is a circle of Celtic ravens. When they’re charged with power I can turn them into actual ravens that fly out and make somebody else’s day really miserable. Until I use them they shift position within the circle, changing configuration from moment to moment. After they’ve been used they’re just another static tattoo until I charge them again.

At least they used to be.

“They’ve changed,” she says. “Didn’t they used to be Celtic or something? Because they don’t much look like it now.”

When I was turning to jade all my tattoos stayed intact. But this one changed. Instead of Celtic imagery, they look more Aztec, and they’re not ravens anymore. I think they’re eagles.

They also seem to have acquired a mind of their own. When I was in Mictlan they saved my life by coming out without me triggering them. I haven’t done anything with them since it happened. They should just be a static tattoo of birds, but they’re still moving around on my chest.

“I’m really not sure what their deal is,” I say. “You said they ate your stethoscope?”

“Tried to.” She shows it to me. There’s a small dent in the disk.

I have no idea what to do with this information, so I change the subject. I’ll think about it when I’m not lying on a hospital table.

“Thanks for saving my life,” I say. “Poison and blood loss really do a number on a guy, huh?”

“Double whammy. You’d been pumped full of . . . something. An anticoagulant, something like oleander and warfarin, I’m thinking. You weren’t clotting. Your heart rate was cranked way up, making you bleed out faster. I’m honestly surprised you’re alive.”

“I lose a lot of blood?”

“Enough. But I gave you a charm that should get your blood volume back up without a problem. And the lorazepam should help with the heart rate.”

I’m surprised she saved me. I got her fiancé, Alex, probably the best friend I’ve ever had, killed. Then I brought more trouble to her doorstep in the form of a face-shifting Russian gangster. And now this.

“I don’t think my heart’s slowing down,” I say. Vivian starts to put her stethoscope to my chest and pauses.

“It’s okay,” I say. “They won’t do it again.” I hope. The birds stay calm as she listens to my heartbeat.

“Take a few minutes,” she says. “It was a lot worse an hour ago. I got the poison out of you, but there are some effects that we just have to wait out.”

“How did you—”

She shows me a disposable, plastic water bottle filled with a tarry, black liquid.