of casualties. What we need you to do is stop an event.”
He coughs wetly and wipes his mouth with a monogrammed hankie. When he’s done I say, “What kind of event?”
“Stupendous,” says Sandoval. “Cataclysmic.”
“Can you narrow that down a little?”
“No. All you need to know is that something awful will happen on Sunday unless you stop it.”
“And if I do I get put back in my body for good, completely alive?”
She raises her eyebrows a fraction of an inch, even as she says, “That’s the deal.”
The silk slippers they gave me are absurdly comfortable. I wiggle my toes in them, telling myself that this pack of jackals is going to keep its end of the bargain.
“I’d still like to know what kind of event.”
“I told you. No.”
“You see, it would help to know what I’m walking into. Am I knocking over a quinceañera or stopping a nuke launch? You get my meaning? It’s about preparations, appropriate tools, and my general attitude.”
“Maybe we should tell him,” says Sinclair.
“No,” says Sandoval. “It’s a trick.”
I look at Sinclair, then back at Sandoval.
“I know it has to do with the Wormwood bunch that broke away and opened their own lemonade stand without you.”
“No,” says Sandoval. “You do what we say and you get your body back. That’s all you need to know.”
I don’t say anything long enough for the room to get uncomfortable. Sandoval gives me the stink eye and I give it right back.
“I think we should tell him,” says Sinclair.
Eva shakes her head.
“No.”
I wait, wiggling my toes. Not saying a word.
Finally, Sinclair blurts, “It’s a ritual. A magic ritual.”
Sandoval whirls around and slaps him hard enough to leave a mark on his cheek.
I say, “What kind of ritual?”
Sandoval stares at Sinclair, breathing hard. Sinclair touches his face where she hit him. Despite things, he says, “When you joked about a nuclear launch you were closer than you realize.”
“The other Wormwood has a bomb?”
“They might as well have,” says Sandoval. She turns from Sinclair and looks at me. “The splinter faction are in possession of a ritual that will utterly destroy Los Angeles.”
Sinclair says, “It will trigger similar destruction all over the world. Berlin. Tokyo. Sydney. Anywhere we, the true Wormwood, are concentrated.”
“They hope to wipe us out in one massive action,” Sandoval says.
I listen to their hearts. Check the microtremors on their faces. They’re telling the truth.
Well … fuck.
I say, “With all due respect to Berlin, Tokyo, and wherever the fuck else, I don’t care. Let’s talk about L.A.”
“They’re out to destroy our entire infrastructure,” says Sinclair.
Sandoval says, “Then they can pick off the stragglers one by one.”
I look over at the roaches.
“Any of you have a cigarette?”
“There’s no smoking in the house,” says Sandoval.
“I wouldn’t think it matters, seeing as how you’re all going to die.”
“What do you mean?” says Sinclair. “You won’t take the job?”
“Not if you keep lying to me.”
He frowns.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re Wormwood. Why do you need a dead man to do your dirty work? You’re global and yet you can’t find one single asshole who can handle this job for you?”
“I think you might overestimate us at the moment,” says Sandoval quietly.
“The other faction took many of our best and brightest,” says Sinclair. “Or killed them.”
“Besides, you have a unique set of skills,” Sandoval says.
It’s making more sense now.
“That’s why you gave me back the Room of Thirteen Doors. You don’t just need someone who can stop the ritual. You need someone who can get to it.”
“Exactly.”
“That means you don’t know where it will happen.”
“Correct.”
“But you’re absolutely sure it will happen Sunday.”
“On the new moon, yes,” says Sinclair.
I look at them both. They’re still telling the truth.
“What day is it now?”
“Wednesday evening.”
“Wednesday? Why didn’t you bring me back sooner?”
“You don’t just snatch a soul from the afterlife willy-nilly,” says Jonathan Howard, their necromancer. “It needs to happen at the right time.”
He’s taller than me. British, with wire-rim glasses. He carries the weird smell of death that all necromancers have. Rotting flesh. Nasty hoodoo potions. They try to cover it up with cologne, but that just makes it worse.
I walk over to him.
“What about fixing my body? Does that need to happen at some super-special time too?”
He leans back from me a little.
“No. That can happen anytime.”
“You sure?”
“Completely.”
I pat him on the arm.
“You better be, Johnny, ’cause I’m not going back to Hell alone.”
I turn back to Sandoval.
“Let’s hit the fucking road. Where do we go? Who do I kill first?”
