“And I keep letting you. I’m a big girl. I make my own choices.”
“It won’t always be like this.”
“How do you know it won’t be like this again? How many knives are you carrying these days? Plus a gun and a na’at.”
“This case is kind of a big deal. Later, we’ll probably do a lot of divorces and guard celebrities when they go kale shopping.”
“Just drive. I need to think.”
IN THE END, Candy stays home. No need for her to get caught up in more trouble if things go sideways for me.
I drive to West Hollywood and dump the car, walking the last few blocks to Death Rides a Horse.
The usual eager, desperate crowd is waiting outside, dressed to the nines, tens, and elevens.
When the doorman sees me he takes a step back. I hold up my hands to show him I’m in friendly mode. He looks me over, not quite convinced. He’s a slight guy in a dark suit and white shirt. Hasidic payot curls hang down near his ears.
“What do you want, Stark?” he says.
“Tell Tykho I’m here, and for the last time.”
He stares for a second more, then says something into his walkie. Touches his earpiece like he’s having trouble hearing over the street noise. He nods.
“Wait here,” he says.
While I wait, he checks IDs and looks over the crowd, deciding who’s worthy enough to get inside the club. A couple of minutes go by, long enough that I’m rethinking my peace and love approach to the situation. I don’t want to ambush Tykho by sidestepping into her office, but I’m not standing here all night while apple-cheeked tourists and drunk bachelorettes get past the velvet rope.
About the time I’m thinking of getting physical, the doorman waves me over.
“Go in,” he says. “But wait for your escort.”
The music hits me when I open the door, the bass like a Munchkin beating on my solar plexus with a rolli
ng pin. A phalanx of bruisers rolls up before I can take two steps inside. Big beefy boys with necks as big as manhole covers. Do vampires need some kind of fang extensions to drain a few drops from guys like this? Before I can ask, they surround me and hustle me through the packed crowd like a troop of bulldozers plowing through a field of bunnies.
When we reach Tykho’s office, the lead bulldozer opens her door and the rest shove me through. The door closes behind me. Tykho is behind her desk, making a big show of not looking up. She’s signing papers with a gold Montblanc pen.
She says, “I’m only seeing you because you said it was for the last time. Can I hold you to that?”
“If you tell me the truth.”
“About what?”
“What happens at the new moon?”
She stops writing, puts down the pen, and holds a hand out to a chair for me to sit down. I do it and pull the chair up close to her desk.
She thinks for a minute and says, “Do you know a book called Germania? It’s sometimes called the Codex Aesinas.”
“Never heard of it.”
Tykho puts her hands flat on the desk.
“On the surface it’s nothing. Just a brief Roman account of the history and customs of ancient Germanic tribes they encountered while they were busy trying to rule the world.”
“What’s the big deal about it?”
“There have been a few slightly differing translations of Germania over the years. We had several in the Thule group. Himmler was mad for the thing. He, and some in his circle, saw the book as final proof of the superiority of a pure German Aryan race.”