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Vincent stares at her. I can’t read his expression. Is it shock and anger, wonder and loss, maybe a mix of all of them? What I know is if I don’t say something, he’ll go on staring at Tykho forever.
So I say, “Here’s what I don’t understand. You say you don’t like these Nazi fucks, or the White Lights, or any other occult bullshit artists, and yet there you were. Out in the sticks with a knife in your hand helping with the ceremony like Suzie Sauerkraut. Why would you do that?”
She looks straight at Vincent.
“What lady doesn’t want Death to owe her a favor?”
Vincent slumps in his chair, his hands clasped together, letting his hands drop between his knees.
“The fascist movement had some power in L.A. in the thirties and early forties, but we’re long past that,” says Candy. “How does the White Light Legion keep going?”
But I know the answer. “Like any other crooks, right, Tykho? Protection. Loans. Easy cash crimes. We know from Wonderland Avenue that they shake down people and kill the ones who can’t pay. But with this occult angle there has to be more to it than that.”
“There is,” she says. “A lot more.”
“Want to let us in on some of it?”
“Why should I? You bring me this husk and call him Death? Yes, he was a powerful angel, but look at him now. Why should I say anything more than I’ve already said?”
“Because I’m going to kill the new Death, and when I do, Vincent is getting his old job back. Maybe Edison Elijah McFuckall owes you, but Vincent doesn’t. You might be a vampire now, but even vampires die, and Vincent can wait a long time. Plan all kinds of special surprises for you.”
Tykho spins around once in her chair.
“Fine. Why not? If it will get you out of here for good.”
“No promises. Tell us something charming.”
“How about wild-blue-yonder contracts?”
“I know all about those. I’ve been offered one more than once.”
“But do you know where they come from?”
“Where?”
“Right here.”
She throws out her arms.
“Sunny California. You see, a group of necromancers developed the original method after World War One, when death was on everyone’s mind. They sold a few, just enough to finance their own studies and research into deeper, darker arts. Later, other, more ambitious magicians, seeing the potential of the contracts, began working with the necromancers as brokers. This being L.A., they went to where the money and power lay. Hollywood. They started selling them to celebrities, who brought in other celebrities. And the money rolled in. Who do you think runs the blue-yonder racket now?”
“The White Light Legion,” says Candy.
Tykho nods.
“Through some of the more open-minded talent agencies around town.”
“Like Evermore Creatives?” I say.
“They’re one of the biggest,” says Tykho. “There’s one more thing I’ll tell you and then you have to go.”
“Make it something good.”
“The people you say you saw killed on Wonderland, and others who’ve died in the canyon, what do you think happens to them?”
“The nonfamous blue-yonders? They become flunkies for the big-name ghosts. Valets and butlers.”
“Not as many as you might think,” Tykho says. “Think bigger. There’s no profit in maid service for ghosts.”
