“Found the security guard,” I say. “Sort of.” I point out a wide blotch of blood and bone about head height on the outside of the glass doors. From there a thick trail goes up and finally disappears near the top. Wide drops of heavily spattered blood lead out into the street. A blue cap with the name of a local alarm company lies on the ground soaked in blood.

“Do you feel that?” Letitia says. I do. There’s magic in play. It’s not a spell, but it feels very familiar. I don’t see any way to go except out those doors or down to a parking garage, which I’m not sure will be any better.

“Fuck it,” I say, hit the doors and step out into the smoke. Inside the building, with its ventilation, the air was clear enough that it was just a faint background scent, but when I open the doors I’m assaulted with the smells of burning wood and rubber, gasoline and meat, the chemical tang of unidentifiable toxins. A thick slurry of ash mixed with the already drying rain sluices through the gutter.

Letitia comes out behind me. It’s hard to see through the smoke. The halos of streetlights, a nearby skyscraper burning out of control a few blocks away. The wind isn’t helping. It pushes and pulls, and somewhere inside it is that feeling of magic flowing like—

“Swindler,” says a voice, breathy and whistling.

“Cheater,” says a second like dry leaves blowing through a cemetery.

“King of the Dead,” says a third, filled with spite and rage.

“Oh, goddammit.” Like I need this right now.

“Eric, what the hell is going on?”

“Letitia, I’d like to introduce you to the spirit of the Santa Ana winds.”

Chapter 34

“The what?” Letitia stares around, looking for the source of the voices. A furnace-heat blast of wind shoves at us, ash gusting around and over us, coating our still-sopping clothes in gray. We both instinctively put up a shield and stand our ground.

“The fuck is happening, Eric?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I think for a second. “Well, don’t worry about it too much. This isn’t an ambush. It’s a parley.” If they really wanted, they could have taken me out the same way I’m assuming they did the security guard. Poor bastard. The only reason to kill him was to use his corpse as a calling card.

“You broke,” says one voice.

“Our agreement,” says another.

“King of the Dead,” finishes the third.

I called up the winds out in Vasquez Rocks, asking for help and making an agreement that ultimately led to all this.