Meanwhile, Buckhalter’s world was falling apart. His killer-jock side had abandoned him. The plaster mask affect cracked and crumbled. Feral power leached from him. He shrank into himself; gray, puny, afraid.

“Call them again!” he said. “Try again!”

“The Mares are a renewable resource. More of an idea. Bodies are replaceable as long as the spirit is willing.” While Mandibole spoke, Veronica and Betty slipped in on either side of a gibbering, handwringing Buckhalter. “Fresh start, girls? Fresh start, Dan? Fresh start!”

“I only did what I thought you wanted,” Buckhalter said.

Mandibole stared at me, hand raised. He crooked his finger and the ladies seized Buckhalter’s arms and made him a wishbone. It wasn’t easy or quick. He was hideously strong. There were two of them and they were gleefully determined. I recalled the painting in Redlick Manor of the horses tearing apart a soldier and averted my gaze.

When it was over, Mandibole continued to regard me with mild amusement.

“Keep the car warm, girls.”

Veronica and Betty dragged Buckhalter’s remains as they went.

“Cunning animal that you are,” Mandibole said, “what did you anticipate when you imagined how this evening would unfold? And if I may, you appear to be in need of a doctor.”

“We’re off script,” I said.

And how. I’d fervently hoped to rattle Buckhalter’s cage, get the proof I sought, and lacking that, book it without a shoot-out. Best-laid plans, et cetera. My worse angel had probably gotten a cackle at that plan.

Mandibole clapped once and rubbed his hands.

“Well, you won’t require medical attention. You have my undivided attention.” He didn’t draw a weapon, and that was surprising. He stepped forward, right hand open and reaching, left hand lowered and crooked into talons.

Maybe he wanted to dance. I’ll never know.

The rocker was solid and heavy. Two-brawny-piano-movers-grunting-to-unload-it-from-the-truck heavy. I turned sideways for leverage and flung the chair from waist level. He brushed it past his right shoulder. The chair veered wildly and splintered against the wall. That was okay; as he reacted to the missile, I drew the revolver, my finger tightening on the trigger as the barrel covered his center of mass. The lamps at either end of the house shrieked white hot and the room went black as the bottom of a well and the revolver kicked and spat fire. Mandibole wasn’t there. I shot a wall, pivoted right, trying to withdraw my extended arm, but in the next thunderclap he materialized, the top of his head even with my chin, half my mass, and grinning without a worry in this world or the next. He casually gripped the pistol’s barrel, twisting, and the bullet missed his eye and bored into the ceiling and he pried the weapon and flung it aside. I let go to avoid having my fingers snapped like a bundle of twigs. People aren’t normally strong enough to take my toys.

Sleep, he whispered into my left ear and my left ear faded with feedback snarl.