Billy the Kid’s eyes and mouth snapped open in horror. He had been standing behind the Italian’s right shoulder, facing the Elder, but now he slowly and carefully stepped aside. He’d been in enough shoot-outs to know that it was not a good idea to stand behind a target.

“And you have seen many tails?” the small man with the white beard said. His almost lipless mouth was a horizontal slash, and his solid black eyes fixed on Machiavelli’s face.

“Many, in both this world and the Shadowrealms. I have always had a fondness for beautiful things,” the Italian added. “I collected antiques for centuries, and for years one of my most prized possessions was an Abelam Yam Mask from Papua New Guinea. It was adorned with the most magnificent bird-of-paradise plumes.”

“A beautiful bird,” Kukulkan agreed.

“Though I do believe yours is the finer plumage,” Machiavelli added.

“If I thought you were attempting to flatter me, I would strike you dead on the spot.” The old man’s face shifted subtly.

Billy took another step away.

“You want to know whether I am lying?” Machiavelli asked.

Kukulkan tilted his head to one side, listening.

“Are your feathers more beautiful than the plumage of the bird-of-paradise?” Machiavelli asked.

“Why, of course,” the Elder agreed.

“So I was merely stating a fact. I have found that the truth is usually the simplest way,” the immortal said. “Fools lie, clever men stick to the truth.”

“Your master said you were… complex,” Kukulkan said after a long pause.

“I was unaware that you knew my master,” Machiavelli said. “Though I should not be surprised; I suppose most of the Elders know one another.”

“Not all,” Kukulkan answered. “I am still occasionally shocked when someone I have not heard of in millennia reappears in this Shadowrealm.” He turned his head to look out the enormous window that took up one wall. From this angle, with his strong chin and hooked nose, he resembled the faces on the stone statues Machiavelli had seen carved into temples across South America. “Your master and I are related,” Kukulkan said softly, glancing over at the Italian, “not by blood or family, but by bonds forged in struggle and adversity. I am honored to call him brother.”

“Can I ask how you know my master?”