“No jokes,” Semiramis told him. Her neck was stiff now. She had said she didn’t like losing, and in this case, she hadn’t even known she’d played and lost. There were a few other people who looked incensed.

On the upside, they’d be really pissed at Lord of Loss, who had apparently known. He’d earned his spot on the list of people where I wouldn’t be upset if they tripped and fell headfirst into traffic. Or on the wrong side of villains.

“He doesn’t spit,” Tattletale said. She pushed her glass further away from her.

“Don’t push that toward me,” Sveta told her.

“I was going to leave that part out,” I told Tattletale.

“What does he do?” Semiramis asked. “And how? Clarify.”

“They searched his apartment and found little bottles with sliced off bits of flesh, blood, vegetables nourished and grown in his own DNA. That last one might have been an experiment, might be a regular thing. He put his flesh in food and drink, and after that was consumed, he was linked to them.”

Someone nearby stood from their seat. Snuff stiffened, raising a hand.

“Asshole made us into cannibals?” the guy asked. He had a western desperado look, which arguably came into style and inarguably went out of style in the course of one month in 1998. I supposed if there was a place to take another sad stab at it again, Earth N was it.

He had nice hair though. Long, but he took care of it. His eyes were narrow in the part of his face that showed between kerchief and black hat.

“Sit,” Semiramis said. “We’re resolving this in a civilized way.”

“Fuck civilized,” Desperado said.

“Sit. We gain nothing by taking it out on him. We’ll decide his fate soon, when we know all the facts.”

“No. I don’t think we will,” Desperado answered. “We’ll decide it now.”

Semiramis narrowed her eyes. She moved her hand in a claw, stiff and tense, as if every movement would make her knuckles pop, and there was a sound like the very foundation of the Lodge cracking. More than one person rose from their seats at the sound.

Desperado turned on his heel, one hand at his jacket, head lowered so the brim of his hat hid his eyes.

“Do I—” Sveta whispered.

“Only if they threaten our man,” I said.

Sveta nodded. I watched as Little Midas tracked the nod, looked between Sveta and I, and then heaved out a breath.

“Dustwind,” Little Midas said. “No.”

“We’re not—”

“No. Not until we say.”