This close to the buildings, flaring lines moved across Qaphsiel’s map from one structure to the other. The box had been here, and recently. A triangle signifying a mortal presence moved along the line and off into the void. Qaphsiel touched the triangle and willed it larger. The image grew, but the map stuttered and lost the image, though not before he caught a glimpse of a sandy-haired man in his thirties. Finally, after all these years, a face. Where the man had gone after being near the box, Qaphsiel couldn’t say. But the map had been pointing to Hollywood for days. That’s where he’d find the sandy-haired man. He was certain. Oh, good. How many people are there in Hollywood? Not more than a million or so. Still, it was the best news he’d had in a long time.

The afternoon was warm and Qaphsiel was hot in his Windbreaker. His wings were pressed tightly against his back, and they held in every degree of heat. Years ago, he’d had a little green plastic fan. It worked on batteries and if you put it near your face it created a tiny breeze. What did I do with that? He checked all his pockets. No. It wasn’t there. There were a couple of tourist shops on the bottom floor of some of the nearby hotels and office buildings that probably carried them, but he was stuck with the eternal dilemma: the only currency he could produce was gold. That had been fine a few thousand years ago. Even a hundred years ago it hadn’t been so bad. But in this modern world no one trusted anyone. I need to find a new pawnshop. He couldn’t go to any one shop too often. The first couple of times he’d wander into a shop, the proprietors were usually happy not to question how a guy in a dirty Windbreaker and sneakers could come up with a pile of gold coins. But once or twice was all he could get away with at any one shop. Qaphsiel had pretty much worked the local shops to death. He’d have to go farther out to find cash.