“Hello, Mr. Detective,” Nancy said in a breathy voice.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The women dressed in crimson-and-bronze sweaters and skirts; the men wore Valley High letter jackets. The silver-stitched motto read EVER LIFE, which seemed at odds with Mandibole’s monogram. I assigned them nicknames based on impressions. Nancy the Beautician, Mr. Denim, Golf Pro, Slick, Ichabod, Veronica, and Betty. These worthies regarded me with stoic malice. Mr. Denim and Golf Pro itched for a rematch if I knew anything about mad dog glares.

“The Mares of Thrace,” Mandibole said. “A shy lot. I managed to coax these forth in honor of your presence.” Hardly shy. They were poised in their seats, intent upon me. He said, “Our motto is Ever Life. While flesh and bone are susceptible to the degradation of time and gravity, a youthful spirit is always attainable by dint of meat, drink, and the nourishment of spirit. Ours is a philosophy of dark hedonism. Currently, the Mares manifest the Aspect of Day. This aspect is what the humdrum world sees. Would you care to witness their transformation into the Aspect of Night?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

“Thank me later.” He inclined his head toward Nancy and her comrades.

The Mares bowed their heads, concealing their expressions. The air thickened. A static charge built and goosebumps dimpled my skin. The Mares straightened and lowered their hands. Their faces were grotesque smudges in the murk. Flat affect was the medical term—rigid, semi-flexible masks; about as lifelike as four-color comic book caricatures. Weirdly, the closer I looked, the less it seemed that they’d applied traditional makeup as a foundation. It was as if they’d smeared modeling plaster on, let it harden, and done the final touches with thick eyeshadow, blush, and lipstick. Twenty feet away, passable for human. Up close and personal? The results were dubious. Nancy especially unsettled me. Her eyes glittered yellow as they caught a fleck of bloody sun.

Special-effects makeup? Autohypnosis? Was I hallucinating?

“Mr. Coleridge, recently you physically abused two of my servants who were in the Aspect of Day.” Mandibole referred to Mr. Denim and Golf Pro. “A word of warning: Pray you never test them when they manifest the Aspect of Night. Their physiological threshold and neuromuscular reactivity are heightened by an influx of natural chemicals, including extreme levels of adrenaline. While in this state, they can quite literally rend you limb from limb. While in this state, they would love the opportunity to rend you limb from limb.”

“We’re all friends here.” My mouth was dry.

Mandibole glanced toward his coterie.

“None of you will utter a word. Is that clear, Nancy?” He waited for her to bow her head in deference. “Mr. Coleridge, anything you intended to ask my friends, you may ask me. I do not promise to answer fully, truthfully, or at all. Do commence.”

“Sean Pruitt,” I said.

“Dead. Nancy the Chatterbox already bent your ear. A tragedy, seeing as it was the grain of sand on the railroad track that derailed the Jeffers Project. Many lives were irrevocably altered by the loss.”