Epilogue One

“Hey, Say,” said Monh, “not putting on your stockings tonight?”

Say and Monh and two other Lao were in a corrugated tin hut in Bangkok. They’d worked on the site till it was dark. Then they ate instant noodles and went to bed, too exhausted to listen to the radio or look at pictures in magazines. That’s the way it was seven days a week, and, for Say with his nightmares, it had been hell. He’d nearly died in an accident a few weeks before. He’d been so exhausted he almost fell from the thirty-fifth floor of the unfinished building. Monh had grabbed him at the last second. It was because of this that his relatives at the camp had sent him the charm. It was ancient, that much was obvious. It was yellowing with age. His mother told him it had belonged to a great shaman. It hung on a simple string and weighed no more than a bubble but it contained great magic.

He’d worn it the day it arrived, and for the first time in a year he didn’t see her in his dream—the succubus. She didn’t taunt him. Didn’t attempt to seduce him. The next night he left off the nightdress but wore the stockings. He dreamed about fields and chickens and friends from the old days. She was afraid of the charm. He knew it. And tonight he’d be leaving off the stockings, and his roommates wouldn’t mock him again.

Because Say had the power.

Epilogue Two

Epilogue Two

“It’s quite mundane, isn’t it?” asked Daeng.

“What is?” asked Siri.

“Life without an assassin breathing down your neck.”

They were on the veranda at the French embassy enjoying one of Civilai’s leftover bottles of Merlot. Seksan, the not-French ambassador, was in the kitchen frying up another batch of crêpes. The moon was just an unconvincing smile in a tar sky. Ugly had reverted to form and remained on the pavement beyond the barbed wire–garnished wall. Like Daeng, he continued to wag a tail that only he could see.

“How did they get along?” she asked. “Fraudulent father and homicidal son?”

“Phosy said they were together for five minutes before the boy attempted to garrote Henry with his belt.”

“Families. What can you say?”

They looked at the inflatable Fred Flintstone punching bag that sat at the head of the table. He hadn’t touched his drink.

“Still not talking to us, Civilai?” said Daeng.

“He’ll get over it,” said Siri. “I haven’t spoken to him about the whole murder thing yet, but I imagine he’ll be more angry at being a victim of a lie than at being dead.”