“His daughter is the girl seen on the security cameras. The one we thought killed Zoladski’s grandson. The one who calls herself Persephone.”

Werth’s no actor, but he feigns a look of shock and disappointment.

“You don’t think it’s Mookie that killed the grandson.”

“That is what we think. The damage done to the body is in line with the man’s… strength, is it not?” Candlefly laughs again. “He’s positively giant. I don’t know that I’ve seen any human so big.” The laugh dies on the vine. “He’s a murderer and the Boss would like his revenge.”

“I don’t buy it. Mookie’s loyal.”

“Are you sure? He’s not loyal enough to tell us that the criminal and murderer known as Persephone is actually his daughter, Eleanor.”

Now it’s Werth’s turn to laugh. “Not loyal enough to tell us? There’s no us. There’s the Organization, and then there’s you. You come up in here like you’re the new Boss and–”

The assassin moves. He steps past Candlefly, a gun materializing out of nowhere – a Snakeface trick for those who have learned it, for those Nagas in the killer’s caste. The gun is small, a little four-barrel derringer, and by the look of the size of those barrels (big enough for a pinky finger each), it’s a .357 or higher.

Werth winces, shields his face–

But Candlefly steps in. Eases the gun aside. With a gentle head nod, the assassin retreats and goes back to leaning on one of the stoves. Werth looks; the gun is already gone. As if it never existed.

What’s left behind, however, is a bad thought hanging in the air like a rotten stink:

Candlefly is the new Boss.

Which means the old Boss is dead.

The goat-man knew, of course. That Eleanor Pearl was – is – Mookie’s daughter. That’s fine. It irritates Candlefly a little that the man would lie, but the lie is expected. He’d do the same. The irritation is irrational, and Candlefly doesn’t appreciate irrationality, especially within himself.

The half-and-half goat-man, the satyr Werth, is about to speak up – but Candlefly holds up a silencing finger. The old goat is wise enough to heed the gesture, though Ernesto can see his ratty goat-ears flatten in anger.

“Where is he?” he asks James Werth.

“Where’s Mookie? I’m not telling you that.”

“I understand your loyalty to your soldier, but that time is done. Your loyalty goes up the chain, not down it. Does it not?”

“It does.”

“Are you Mookie’s boss? Or is he yours?”

Werth doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, smoldering.

“Pearl has left you vulnerable. Swinging in the wind, as the saying goes. By not telling you, he makes you seem complicit in all this. You’re not, are you?”

“I want to go,” Werth says.

“Can I show you something, first?”

Hesitation. “Mookie didn’t kill the grandson.”

“You seem sure.”

“I am sure. He’s not like that.”

“I want to know where he is.”

“So you can kill him.”