“I thought you were going to kill me, I really did.” Here in the wine cellar with Mookie Pearl bound to a chair with honest-to-god heavy gauge chain, Candlefly puffs on a cigar: a Honduran, not a Cuban. A far better smoke. A mouth-feel like velvet. The taste and smell of chocolate, cherry, and, if he may wax poetic, old books. Candlefly is not himself a fan of old books, but his cousin, Grigor – well. Grigor is a book-sniffer of the highest order. “You certainly tried. You’ve made quite a mess of things for us, did you know that? You stopped our first attack on the miner, Morgan. Then you thwarted the attack on Daisypusher. But you’re a speedbump, not a wall. Where is the Ochre? You have it. You must. Our… spies no longer detect its presence in the Underworld.”

Mookie’s eyes finally open all the way.

They see Candlefly and go wide.

The thug tries to say something, but it comes out as frustrated gibberish.

“Ah!” Candlefly says. “You’re upset. Probably because my face looks so pretty again.” He showcases his own visage like a game show hostess framing a prize with elegant hands. “It’s been almost twenty-four hours since you pummeled my face into pâté and I look good as new, don’t I? I cannot share how or why. Old family secret.”

“You’re…” Mookie starts, his lips drooping, but the words slowly forming. “Not human.” A string of drool oozes from his mouth, pools beneath his chin.

“Do you want a prize for figuring that out? I assumed it obvious by now. Perhaps I overestimated your intelligence.”

“Fuck… off.”

“With such startling wit, how could I ever think you stupid?” A cruel twinkle in the man’s eye. “You are right, Mr Pearl. I am not human. Not entirely. My entire family is… of mixed heritage, you might say. The Candlefly roots go very, very deep, indeed – roots that drink from the oldest bloodlines.”

“You’re a… half-and-half.”

“So crass. Hardly. Do I look like an aberration? Some mutation with dolphin flippers and a monkey’s tail? A cock like a lizard’s tongue? A tongue like a goblin’s cock? Please. We are not the stock of some common shadow, not born of some randy gob-folk or from a Naga with his septic seed. Ours is a far more refined heritage. A proud tree. Strong and tall and with many branches.”

“Fucking… monster… either way.”

“Yes. Perhaps. But don’t act like you’re any better. We’re all monsters here, Mr Pearl. Varying only by degree. Now: I come to ask you a question and I ask it again: where is the Ochre?”

“Up… your mother’s… ass.”