He approached, loosey-goosey boneless, like the King of Pop shuffle-sliding across the marble floor. Cave fish pale and damp. Short; five-five, five-six. Built lithe as a dancer, skin stretched tight across his forehead, cheeks, and knuckles. Close-cropped hair, gelled flat and shimmery. Dark shirt and tailored pants. Shiny black shoes. Our reflections blobbed in those shiny shoes like trapped souls. Tight white suit jacket with a cursive monogrammed pocket square. The monogram was done in crimson. It spelled FIN.

He clutched my hand and kissed it with a courtly flourish.

“You are one lived-in sonofagun. Shall we do lunch?”

The ear thing undermined my balance. I almost swooned in sympathy with some dame in a penny dreadful. First werewolves, now gothic heroines. Both were characters who tended to meet bad ends.

■■■

I followed him a trifle unsteadily and the goons fell in behind. As we walked, the calendar rolled back to the 1920s. Airy and bright with a faint aftertaste of institutional racism and menace. The clouds had burned off; sunrays lanced through windows and skylights. The effect was dazzling. A labyrinth unfolded around us—galleries, ballrooms, solarium, parlors. Grand fireplaces and frescos of rearing black horses painted on plaster and brick.

“Redlick Manor was constructed in 1846 to a precise specification,” Mandibole said. “Sun phases are captured over there. Moon, over there. Solar system alignments, above.” He gestured with the expert timing of a tour guide. Wall panels, ceiling tiles, mantels and lintels were indeed carved with occult designs of varying subtlety.

“The patterns within the tiles; the eyes etched into the pillars . . . If you feel you’re being watched, that’s a feature, not your imagination. The sundials, the arabesques, fitted to a suite of purposes. One purpose.” He inclined his head to regard me over his shoulder. He touched his hair. “Our friends the Labradors indulge a different, parallel, aesthetic, as do the rest of the elite families. Our friends and foes. Beneath the surface, where it truly counts, we share this commonality of purpose.” He checked to see if I was nodding along with his bullshit. I was.

We came to a dining room appointed with gossamer hangings. The southern wall was covered in a fresco of black horses rampant to a blazing multi-spoked wheel, or spiked ring, adorned with skulls—the Redlick Group corporate logo done as a piece of Hellenic religious art. Gerald Redlick’s portrait hung at the north end. He wore a Russian military uniform and a Cossack-style fur hat.

“Remember to toss a sheet over that when Newsweek comes in here to do a photo shoot,” I said.

“Newsweek wouldn’t dare cast Senator Redlick in an unflattering light,” Mandibole said. “There are rules, my friend. The industry knows which side the bread is buttered on.”

The table was set with a sumptuous feast. Cold dishes, steaming dishes, caviar, wine, and coffee. More liveried servants attended our every need. The goons stood beside French doors that let onto a balcony. I assumed the pair were fraternal twins. Or clones indentured to El Presidente.