Raindrops begin to tap the windows. Within seconds it’s a torrent, then a monsoon hammering at the glass, washing ash down in thick streaks. The tlepilli are soaked all the way through. A few minutes later, the sprinklers shut off, the rain outside dying down a few moments later.

From our vantage point there doesn’t appear to be any difference, but I wouldn’t expect there to be. We added water to the mix, but the winds and heat are still high and shit’s still burning. A four minute power wash isn’t going to stop it. I just hope it helps contain things a little bit, and even if it doesn’t, we’ve taken the remaining tlepilli out of play.

I gather up my messenger bag and check inside. It’s a little damp, but nothing’s ruined and the ledger is dry as a bone. I wonder if it, like everything it’s used to record, has some magic of its own. I find the pocket watch over by a window, dry it off on my sleeve, and slide it into my pocket.

We take the elevator down, clothes dripping. “Maybe you should have thought that out a little better,” Letitia says, wringing out one pant leg.

“Hey, you said we couldn’t leave them lying around,” I say. “Besides, I only turned on the one sprinkler. You—” I double over like I’ve been punched in the gut. Through the elevator I can hear a distant, muffled explosion.

“You all right? What happened?”

“I’m fine. It just hurts.” I wave her off. “It’s a necromancer thing.” A hundred and twelve people just died in one shot nearby. Eighty-seven left ghosts behind.

There are factories, warehouses, and trains just on the other side of the river. What if a propane tower went? Christ, what happens if a gas main goes up? A couple years back a natural gas pipeline under a suburban neighborhood in the Bay Area sprung a leak. It left an entire neighborhood devastated. Leveled more than 30 houses. Just completely gone. In their place was a 40-foot-deep crater. It even registered as an earthquake. Miraculously only a handful of people died.

With the inferno raging outside, it isn’t a matter of if it will happen, it’s a matter of when.

The elevator opens onto a brightly lit, empty lobby. Outside, thick smoke swirls through the streets, blown along by the hot, dry Santa Ana winds.

“Shouldn’t there be a security guard?”

“Yes,” Letitia says, drawing her pistol. We step out of the elevator, Letitia checking one side, me checking the other. I have a spell ready to snap off if anything goes south.