“Why a Pagan?”

“I may spend my days below ground, but I do hear things, rumbles of displeasure from some of the Pagans. They seem to believe you stole from the club and put a few bullets in one of their shot callers. I made it known that you are under my protection.”

“Is that why I’m here? So I can thank you?”

“For now, it’s about breakfast. For later…” X made an expansive gesture. “Discourse. Debate. A few well-fought contests in the days which remain.”

“Discourse and debate.”

“Honest discourse. Vigorous debate.”

“You had Tyra killed for the sake of a conversation?”

“In part, yes.” X frowned for the first time, shaking his head. “But also because she was cruel, selfish, and vain, an utter waste of life.”

“And what of my life?”

“You’ll lose a few days of it. A small price.”

“No, X. Not a few days. I’ll be here long after they kill you. The lights will flicker, and I’ll be here to see it happen. Ten years later, I’ll still be here. You’ve assured as much: the photographs, the murder weapon.”

“Yes, well…” X poured coffee for them both. “You’ve known for some time that I am not a nice man.”

He lifted a cup, his attitude so dismissive that Jason found it impossible to keep his anger in check.

Tyra’s death.

His freedom.

X must have seen the conflict in Jason’s face, yet acted oblivious. “Tell me again, Jason. How long since you left this place?”

“Two months and nine days.”

“And, in that time, did you think of me? Beyond what I’d chosen to share, were you curious about my life before this place? Did you search out the articles, the documentaries? The public record is quite extensive.”

“No.” Jason clenched his jaw. “I left here knowing everything I needed to know about your life and the people you killed. If I forgot half of what you told me, I’d still know too much.”

“Do you know how they caught me?”

Jason did, in fact, know a lot about X’s life before prison. In spite of what he’d said, he’d watched both documentaries, read the articles and police interviews, the in-depth profiles in the glossy magazines. No journalist had all the facts, of course, and no cop alive knew how many people X had actually killed. But Jason could name them all. He knew what they’d looked like and how they’d died and what small flicker of life had drawn X like a moth from the dark. He knew their last words and how they’d begged and what they’d felt like and smelled like, and how X had placed his tongue, once, on a still-beating heart that tasted of salt, and felt like warm vinyl.

When the cops finally caught up with X, even the most arrogant admitted it was blind luck or providence.