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The venue floor was a seething mass of bodies, jumping, slamming, sweating under white-hot lights. A screaming circus, stinking of body odor and cheap spilled beer, packing every inch of the dance floor. The linoleum felt sticky under Fontaine's shoes. Standing with his back to the wall at the far edge of the crowd, he leaned in as Rache shouted over the music.
"Gotta be two hundred people in here. What now?"
"Irving hooked us up," he shouted back, and showed her a slim, round disk, like a makeup compact. He cupped it in his palm and popped it open.
Inside, where a mirror would have been, a sheen of turquoise water sloshed inside the compact's shallow bowl. He tapped it, sparking the enchantment to life, and the waters rose to follow his fingertip. They sculpted themselves, taking on three dimensions, becoming a luminous blue head. It had caveman features, with a monobrow and a cauliflower nose. The compact tugged in Fontaine's grip like an eager puppy on a leash, pointing the way to the target.
They spotted him across the room. Foster, the spitting image of the water sculpture, pounding back beer from a red Solo cup. Fontaine snapped the compact shut, banishing the spell.
"Wait for it," he told Rache, sensing her juvenile eagerness.
Finally, Foster shoved his way through the crowd. He made for the bathroom, stumbling like he was three sheets to the wind. They shadowed him.
The men's room stank like a Porta-Potty on a sweltering summer day. A single fluorescent light buzzed and popped over a grimy sink, the others busted out or dead. For the
moment, as their target swaggered his way to the urinal and fumbled with his belt, they had the room to themselves.
Fontaine nodded to Rache. She put her back to the bathroom door, leaning into it, keeping it shut.
A length of chain dropped from Fontaine's sleeve. Links of cold iron, inscribed with glyphs of banishing and breaking. It swung, idle in his grip, as he came up behind Foster. In a tidy, practiced motion, he threw it over the man's head. Just as quickly, he hauled the man down.
Foster hit the filthy linoleum hard, emptying his bowels onto the floor as the chain bit into his neck. Fontaine dug a knee into the small of his back, yanking hard. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed the chain garrote like a rodeo rider on the back of a bucking bull. Blood seeped between the chain links, skin tearing, glyphs flaring as Foster spat and snarled and choked. Then his last breath rattled loose and his forehead hit the floor.
Fontaine waved a hand at Rache. "The box, quick!"
Rache lugged her briefcase over, slapping it up onto one of the sinks. Spying Irving's sandalwood box along with the rest of their gear, she tossed it over to Fontaine, who caught it with one hand. With the other, he whipped the bloodied chain back under his overcoat sleeve. Then he tugged down the collar of the dead man's shirt.
"Tools of the trade," Fontaine said. He showed Rache a rounded scoop on a handle, like a melon baller with razor-edged teeth, glinting with dormant magic. "Soul stays in the body for sixty-six seconds after the moment of death, give or take. That's your harvest window. After that, it flies free."
The dead man's spine cracked. Fontaine put his back into it, jamming the scoop into the base of the man's neck, tearing flesh and fracturing the vertebrae, digging down to the marrow. He flicked the lump of bloody tissue away, snatched up one of the iron vials, and uncorked it with his teeth. He spoke around it, whispering a garbled incantation. A charm of calling and binding and imprisonment. A silver, luminous mist rose from the ruin of the dead man's neck. Then it streaked toward the open lip of the vial, streaming inside. On the last syllable of his chant, Fontaine raised the vial to his lips and sealed it with the cork.
"And there you have it," he said, already rising to his feet. "The immortal soul of one fugitive from hell's law, bound and ready for delivery."
"What do you think they'll do to him?"
"Not our concern. We do capture and retrieval, not punishment." He led the way to the door, walking fast. "Once you've got the target secure, never linger a second longer than you have to. A clean getaway means a clean payday."
1:01 a.m.
"Are you in love with her?"
The windshield wipers slapped back and forth, pushing away the rain, which was back to a slow and icy drizzle. It kissed the city streets, whispering of an early winter. A dangling traffic light glowed a faded red, like the last dying ember in a fireplace.
"Why?" Fontaine glanced right. "Fixing to mock me for it?"
Rache folded her arms. "Just making conversation, partner."
"We aren't partners yet."
"Are you in love with her?"
The light flickered green. He stepped on the gas, cruising through the empty intersection.
"I'm a man given to romantic notions," Fontaine drawled, "and unwise sentimentality."
"Not sure what that means."
"I frequently find myself in love with the idea of being in love. And Ada, she's a dreamer, an idealist. Two folks like that, well, they don't belong together, but they can lie themselves into the idea."
