"What about the Dubois brothers?"

"What about them? They certainly don't have any book. I'm not even sure they can read."

This was getting nowhere. I took the ghost knife from my pocket.

"What are you doing?" Cabot asked.

"Hold still." I slid the ghost knife through Cabot's arm. He collapsed, struck the wooden floor hard, and began whimpering. Then he curled up into a ball.

"Please," he said in a half-choked whimper. "Please please please please."

I'd seen the ghost knife take away people's vitality and hostility, but I'd never seen a reaction like this. I'd meant to make Cabot more docile to get honest answers out of him. Instead, I'd cut away his bravery and uncapped his fear. I'd broken him.

The ghost knife was a spell I'd cast. My first. It was a part of me, and there was still a lot I didn't understand about it.

"The book. Who has it?"

"I don't know! I swear I swear I swear I swear-"

"Enough." He shut up.

What was I going to do with this guy? He'd recover if I left him, but was I allowed to leave him? What if he was also carrying a predator, like Emmett Dubois? What about his iron gate?

I didn't know what Annalise would do with him if she caught him. I didn't know if carrying a spell, even one he didn't cast himself, was reason enough to murder him. If it was, his whole family would die, too.

Could I do that? Could I tell Annalise about Cabot's iron gate, and the iron gates on his kids, knowing it meant she might hunt them down and kill them? h.e.l.l, she might make me kill them, as a kind of initiation.

Or should I keep my mouth shut, let them walk away, and betray Annalise again?

I looked down at Cabot. He didn't look dangerous, but I couldn't leave that spell active. What if Annalise laid her sc.r.a.p of wood on him? I reached down and slid the ghost knife through the iron gate.

The mark burst in a shower of black steam. Cabot bucked, kicking the desk. Papers fluttered to the floor.

I felt something go out of him as the spell came apart. It was like a third person in the room had walked out and I hadn't noticed its presence until it was gone.

Cabot moaned and wept, laying his face against the floor. He looked miserable and pathetic, but I wasn't done with him yet. I had to make sure he didn't have any more spells on him.

I pocketed the gun and dragged him out from behind the desk. He didn't resist. I wasn't sure he could resist, even if he'd had the guts for it. All he did was cover his face with his hands and plead in a voice so small that I couldn't make out anything he said.

There were guys I'd met in prison who would have gone stiff as a rod to see a man break down that way, but it made me feel queasy. Still, I had to be sure there were no more spells on him. Annalise would want to know.

I rolled him over. I slid the ghost knife through the top front of his pants, cutting the belt and zipper wide open. Then I grabbed his pant cuffs and pulled.

I really hoped no one would walk in on us now.

I studied him long enough to confirm that there were no other marks on him. I kicked his pants to him.

"Humiliating, isn't it?" I said. "Some guys would be so furious at being treated like this that they'd get themselves a gun and come after me for revenge. Don't be that stupid. Understand?" He nodded. "I want a couple things. First, tell me where the book is. And don't lie. If you lie, I'll know."

"I swear," he said in a pathetic voice. "Please, I swear I would never lie to you. I don't know. Maybe Cynthia has it-"

"Second, keep away from Cynthia."

Cabot shut up and nodded. His eyes were as big as saucers.

"Third, you aren't protected anymore. I don't know when the next kid is going to die, but I do know you're going to start forgetting them soon. Maybe you'll be happy to forget. But don't forget this: I don't want to see you again.

"Last, get out of town. Don't go back to your apartment. Just get in your car and go to Whidbey. Tomorrow, go see a lawyer, but to night go be with your kids. You may still end up dead or in prison, but at least you'll get to see them."

That was it. I couldn't look at him anymore. I couldn't look at what I'd done to him. I backed away, quickly scanning the room. I didn't want to leave anything behind. I didn't want to come back here ever again.

I walked to the stairs and went down. They creaked and groaned. I could hear Cabot behind me, quietly weeping to himself. The ghost knife had destroyed him in a way I'd never seen before. I took it out and looked at it in the semidarkness of the stairs. I could feel the power in it, and I could feel that power was partly mine, but only partly. How would it feel to have the spells on my body destroyed?

More important, what would Annalise think of what I'd done? We were here to destroy predators and steal spell books. Spells were too powerful to circulate out in the world. The scorched black earth all over Hammer Bay was proof enough of that.

The only exception, as far as I could tell, was the Twenty Palace Society. From talking to Annalise, I knew they had strict rules about the use of their magic, and if they were a little too ruthless with it, it was only out of fear and a desire to protect us all.

Even so, I felt like a hypocrite. I'd done a lot of stupid things in my life. Who's to say that it was okay for me to walk around with spells all over me, but Cabot couldn't? And who says the Twenty Palace Society should be the ones who decide?

I walked across the wooden floor toward the door. I was going to tell Annalise about Cabot and his kids. If she decided they had to die, or if that was some sort of rule for the Twenty Palace Society, so be it. Maybe I would be the one to do the deed. It would serve me right.

I hoped we could let them go, though. Cabot didn't have any spell book. I was sure of that now. I would just have to ask Cynthia next. And Charles the Third.

I stepped through the doorway into the dim daylight. Four men were standing on the curb. They pointed snub-nosed.38s at me.

"That's him," someone said. Another man was standing behind the first four. His hands were wrapped in casts. It was Floyd.

I didn't recognize the others. I realized that I should have been afraid, but my adrenaline glands had apparently not gotten the danger message yet.

The door to the warehouse was still open behind me.

"Don't do it," one of the men said. "Hear me out first."

He was medium height and built like a decathlete. He had a thick mustache and goatee, but his head was shaved. Finally, I'd met the fourth man who had spoken with Dubois, Charles Hammer, and the mayor when Harlan had been shot.

His expression told me what I wanted to know most: he wasn't jumpy, wasn't nervous, wasn't uncomfortable. He would kill me if he had to, and then he'd go on with his day. I shrugged. "Okay. What do you have to say?"

"Our boss is interested in you. She would like to invite you to have lunch with her."

His expression was cold. All four guns were still pointed at me.

"I accept."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

This time we rode in a Chevy Sport van. It had plenty of s.p.a.ce for the goons to sit around me and keep me covered.

Floyd sat in the front pa.s.senger seat. The guy who extended the invitation sat on the bench behind me. Another sat beside me, and the last two were on the seat in front of me. They twisted around to aim their revolvers at me.

The one beside me held his gun too close to my arm. I could have wrestled him for it, if he didn't have three armed friends backing him up.

"Bobby?" the one next to me said.

"Do it now," the man behind me answered. "And don't use my name, dips.h.i.+t."

I looked at the guy beside me. I'd known dozens of guys just like him inside, and the one thing I couldn't do was show them my fear. "Why can't you use his name but he can use yours?"

If the guy took offense, he hid it well. He pocketed his gun and started to search me. He did a pretty terrible job of it, even if he did manage to find everything useful I had on me. He took Cabot's gun, my wallet, Annalise's keys, and my ghost knife and handed each one back to Bobby.

"What's this?" Bobby asked me, holding the ghost knife over the back of the seat so I could see it.

"My good-luck charm."

"Yeah? What's this squiggle?"

"My doctor's signature. I copy it when I'm forging a prescription."

"Not funny. Give me the real answer."

"Okay. Really, it's the last signature Kurt Cobain ever gave. He died the day after he signed it."

"Whoa," one of the guys in front of me said. He was a scrawny black guy with bad teeth. "I want to see that."

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"Shut up up there. It's n.o.body's signature. And it sure ain't no good-luck charm, otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"You just wait." I winked at the scrawny guy in front of me and sat tight. As long as I didn't make a break for it, I figured I'd live long enough to eat lunch.

I sat quietly and watched the town pa.s.s by. I could feel the ghost knife behind me. I knew I could call it, but this wasn't the time.

We approached the supermarket. I told the driver I wanted to stop in and pick up a bottle of wine-I hated to show up at someone's house empty-handed. He slowed at the entrance to the parking lot, unsure if he should stop. Bobby cursed at him and told him to pa.s.s it by.

I didn't laugh this time, but I did smile. The guys were liking me less and less all the time. Bobby, unseen in the backseat, griped and mumbled about the amateurs he had to deal with.

"Don't be an idiot, Bobby," I said. The vehicle was suddenly silent. "Professional criminals are the stupidest people in the world. I know. I've been one of them."

We drove the rest of the way to the Curl Club in silence.

The first thing I saw when we approached the club was a high wall. It looked freshly painted. Tall, flower-less stalks had been planted along the cinder block. I wondered what sort of plant it was.

We pulled up to the wrought-iron gate. The driver lifted a remote control, pressed a b.u.t.ton, and the doors slid apart.

Inside, I saw a big lot with a line of cars along the far wall, parked out of sight of the road. The club itself was off to the right, nestled into the side of the hill. It was four stories high, and judging by the long windows, the bottom floor was some sort of auditorium.

To the left, there was a smaller building, only two stories, with a loading dock in the front. Finally, at the far end of the lot sat a little cottage. It had a little weather vane on the top and a mailbox in front. A homey little sign above the door said simply OFFICE.

We didn't drive to the office, as I expected. We pulled right up to the double doors in front of the big building. A small sign above the door said CURL CLUB. It, too, was freshly painted. The rest of the guys began to pile out, momentarily forgetting that they were supposed to be threatening me. I felt the barrel of Bobby's gun tap the back of my head, so I climbed out of the van like a good boy.

"Watch him," Bobby snapped. Two of the gunmen turned their weapons on me again. Floyd smirked like a kid who was going to see his big brother get a spanking. The Kurt Cobain fan opened the doors. Bobby stayed behind me.

The sport van pulled away. I turned to watch it go, thinking about that remote control. I felt a hand shove into my back. "Move." I did.

We walked into the building. The first thing I noticed was that the main floor was even bigger than I'd thought. Not only was the ceiling twenty feet above me, but the floor was sunken.

"Come on," Floyd said. He was still smirking.

We descended the stairs. The room was done up like a b.u.mpkin's idea of a casino, but done on a budget. The wallpaper and carpets were wh.o.r.e house red, which was appropriate, I suppose. I saw a pair of roulette wheels, a handful of c.r.a.ps tables, and a lot of blackjack tables. In the corners were a couple of lonely, neglected-looking slot machines. Judging by the number of customers, business was slow. Maybe these were just the all-day die-hard gamblers.

Against the far wall was a mezzanine with green felt tables. Poker, I guessed. At the end of the mezzanine I saw a fire door marked EXIT.

We turned left and walked across the floor toward a flight of stairs. The boys accompanying me were relaxed, and I didn't do anything to spoil their mood.

We climbed the stairs. One of the men was gasping for breath by the time we reached the hallway at the top. The corridor seemed to run the length of the building, with several doors on the left side but only one on the right. At the far end, a second flight continued up. The Cobain fan rapped on the first door on the left, and someone inside threw the latch. The door opened.

We all walked into a little restaurant. At first I thought it was a bar, but this place had no booths and no dark corners anywhere. At the back I could see a little stage with a bra.s.s pole.

Only a single table was occupied. Bobby and I walked toward it, but the others hung back by the door. Seated at the table was a young woman of about twenty, slightly plump, with dull yellow hair, black eyebrows, and pale skin. She smiled at me with painted lips, and her gaze was intense and slightly intimidating. She was plain-looking at best, but she had an aura of furious vitality.

Beside her, a woman of about seventy, with dyed-red hair piled on top of her head and a shapeless dress over her shapeless body, sat slightly hunched. She stared up at me with narrow, suspicious eyes, picked up a long, white cigarette, and took a deep puff.

I a.s.sumed I was looking at Phyllis Henstrick.

"This is him," Bobby said.

"Thank you, Bobby," the old woman said. Her voice was raw from years of smoking. "Have a seat." I wasn't sure which of us she was talking to. Bobby pulled out a chair for himself and pointed at the one he wanted me to take. We both sat at the table. She didn't object.

She watched me for a couple of seconds. The silence dragged out. "Thank you for coming," she said finally.

"Thank you for inviting me so politely."

"You're welcome." She was so deadpan I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or if she really was unaware that I'd been brought here at gunpoint. She stuck the cigarette between her lips and sucked on it. Bleh. I'd only spent a couple of seconds with her and I wanted to get away. "We have a lot to talk about," she said, "but it's a little early for lunch. Maybe you'd like to go upstairs. Tiffany can show you the way, and keep you company for a while, if you're feeling a little tense."

I looked at Tiffany. She still had that dangerous glint in her eyes. It had been a long time for me, so of course I was tempted, but the ugly old woman took an ugly puff on her ugly cigarette, and I found the common sense to resist. "I'll pa.s.s. Sorry, Tiffany. I'm sure you're very good at your work."

"Not your type, eh?" the old woman said. "I don't have any boys on the premises."

"I'd turn down anything you offered me, except a ride into town. Or breakfast."

She turned to Bobby. "Would you ask Arlo to fix us some turkey sandwiches? And cole slaw." She turned to me. "Do you like cole slaw?"

"Not really."