“Not the nice kind.” I was intrigued by mythological figures. Why would a former assassin be obsessed with that crowd? Because Jason, Achilles, Tane, and Thor wore black hats when necessary. Hitmen of the gods.

“Definitely not the nice kind,” she said. “Not one from Devlin’s comic books or the sanitized version you get in school. His class is reading capsule tales from Norse myth, wouldn’t you know? Those are the fake renditions. The knockoff versions. You’re the old, Homeric original who wore animal skins and the skins of your enemies and bone and bronze. The kind the gods bestow power and terrible destinies on, and then laugh.”

“Baby—”

“They solved problems with brute force and the point of a spear.”

“Honey—”

“No powers, only the attitude and the destiny. Yeah, sweetheart, you’re a hero. The worst kind. You know what happens to heroes.”

“Actually, I’m thinking about Lionel.” I wasn’t going to admit that death gods and curses were on my mind or that she’d struck half a dozen nerves.

“There’s a ball of yarn.”

“He rescued a possum stuck under his porch. Now he bunks with a pet possum.”

“Where? What?”

“We think a raccoon beat its ass. Missing an eye and an ear. He nursed it somewhat back to health.”

“Sure to wow the floozies he drags home,” she said. “Possums aren’t my bag. Yeah, yeah, God’s creatures and whatever. I’ve only seen dead ones. Maybe that’s it. Hard to bond with roadkill.”

“Understandable. I think Patroclus Possum may be his new character test for dates.”

“How does that work? The possum doesn’t approve, no banging?”

“Let’s not go crazy,” I said. “He rigged a carrier crate setup. Covered it with a floor mat from his Monte Carlo. The possum hides in there and hisses at anybody who gets too close.”

“It’s like a rehearsal for what he’ll do if a woman ever moves in.”

“Issue two: He pines for the mercurial heiress.”

“Hell yeah, he does. I pine for her. She’s smoking hot. She’s brilliant. And rich!”

“Hence, heiress.”

“Don’t be a wiseguy.”

“I see what you did there. He’s hunkered down at the farm and no sign of wanting to ever move on. Fantasies about taking down the cartels don’t count. I’m worried that he’s done. The cabin is his final bunker. Which is fine, it’s his choice. Except, what happens when Virgil and Jade kick the bucket? They’re old as the hills.”

“Well, you’ve given the future of Lionel Robard some thought,” she said.

“Whoever takes over the property may not be so kindly disposed to a burnt-out war vet tipping garbage cans and propositioning the lady tourists.”

“They might not like his varmint either.”

“What’s the real deal? Headaches? Nightmares?” Meg regarded me with sharpened interest. “Some top-secret bullshit you and Lionel won’t share with the wimminfolk?”

“A man offered me a job. He’s exorcising demons. The pay is right, though.”

“This guy a prick?”

“He is definitely that.”

“Now, tell me why you’re sitting here under a cloud. The real-real reason.”