I was perilously close to losing my temper. Instead, I curled my fingers into Dake's shoulder as the demon retreated. "Oh, c'mon, Dake, we're just playing around, right? You don't mean to hurt me. You like me. You want to be my friend, don't you, Dake?" Exactly as I would talk to a four-year-old.

Dake whined and nodded, his lank brown hair flopping forward over his sweaty forehead. Just like school. I'd interfered once when some of the bigger Magi kids had been pushing Dake around, and had to suffer his pathetic attachment for the rest of my career at Rigger Hall. The trouble with Dake was that he had no grit in him; if he hadn't already been broken Mirovitch and Rigger Hall would have wrecked him. For a Magi to lack a magickal Will was bad news; the Power wouldn't obey and his or her spells would go awry. I was of the private opinion that it was a good thing Dake hadn't been able to call up more than an imp inside a chalk circle with a whole collection of more experienced Magi standing guard in case things went wrong; an unwary, cowardly Magi would be easy prey for anything larger than an imp.

And I wondered what would have happened if something like Jaf had shown up in response to Dake's summonings. A Greater Flight demon could kill even from within a chalked circle; that's why they were so hard to call up. Lucky me, getting to hang out with one.

The demon made a low grinding sound, a growl. "Good," I said. "Good. You'll be my good boy, Dake, and give me a tracker. Then I'll be out of your hair and you can go back to selling Chill and waiting for it to burn out your fucking brain and your Talent as well."

"I'm not on Chill," he lied, his eyes shifting back and forth.

I cursed internally. Does he have enough Talent left to do a decent tracker? I stepped back, and Dake slid down from the desk, his boots hitting the floor. I half-turned, looked at the demon. Japhrimel's eyes were incandescent green. "Make sure he doesn't move," I said, and didn't wait for the answer.

Below conscious level, the spinning vortex of darkness that was the demon focused on a red-brown pulsing smear. Dake.

My own aura under the demon's shielding held the trademark glitters of a Necromance. I watched those glitters swirl, reacting to the presence of the demon and the nervous spatters of red-brown Dake was giving off. On this level, Dacon Whitaker was visibly in trouble, gaping holes in his aura, Power jittering and trembling out of his control. Dake's Power would escape him, eat him alive as the Chill consumed his nervous system. But not yet—not yet. He had his Power—but not for very much longer.

I snapped back into myself. The demon was absolutely still and silent, his shoulder touching mine, his eyes eating into a trembling Dake.

I held the paper up. "I need a tracker, Dake. Get your kit, and be quick. I've got other shit to do tonight."

When it was finished, the tracker looked like a globe of spun crystal and silver wire, a crystal arrow inside it, pulsing faintly reddish as it spun. "What's the range on this thing?" I asked, almost forgetting that Dake was a Chillfreak now. When he was motivated he did good work, and it was always nice to see another magickal discipline perform.

"Worldwide, baby, it's a Greater Work. Let it settle for about twenty-four hours, then give it the keyword and it'll go live. Use sparingly." Dake coughed into his palm, scuttling back toward his desk. The odor of burning blood in the air had bothered me for the first ten minutes, but my nose was acclimated now.

I've never seen anyone grind up a frog before, I thought, and shivered. I dropped the tracker in a small leather pouch and settled it carefully around my neck. "Okay, Dake. Thanks."

I did not tell him I owed him one.

He blinked at me. "You're not going to kill me?" he whined.

The thudding bass beat of the music downstairs made me nervous. "No," I said. "Of course not, you idiot. Why would I kill you?"

As if he was a goddamn normal instead of a Magi who should know better.

"I know how you feel about Chill," he stuttered, "and if you think I—"

No shit you know how I feel about Chill, everyone knows how I feel about that shit. "I don't think, Dake." I turned on my heel and started for the door. "I know. And you'll get yours soon enough. The Chill's going to eat you, Dacon. There's no detox for it. You're a stupid motherfucker."

"It's not my fault!" he yelled after me as I swung out the door. "It's not!"

"Yeah," I said, and stamped down the stairs into the womblike starred dark of the club below. "Sure it's not, Dacon. Nothing ever is."

Hot salt spilled down my cheeks as I pushed through the crowd of people and finally, blessedly, achieved the coolness of the street outside. One of the bouncers—probably the Chillfreak—sniggered something behind me, and for a single heartbeat I considered turning around and separating him from his liver.

I wrestled the urge down, still striding along the cracked pavement, my shields resounding. I waited until I turned the corner to stop, head down, my ribs heaving. I had jammed my sword into the loop on my belt, not trusting myself with edged metal right now.

"Are you injured?" the demon asked.

I almost flinched. The hard impenetrable darkness of his aura swirled once, counterclockwise, brushed against my aura's sparkling. Checking for damage. I shivered, my shields thickening reflexively, pushing the touch away. It was bad enough to smell like a demon, I didn't want him pawing at me. Even on an energetic level.

"I'm fine," I forced out through a hard lump in my throat. "I just wanted to… I'm fine."

He didn't say anything else. Instead, he only stood there. Another human being might have asked me useless questions, tried to say something comforting. Apparently a demon wouldn't.

I finally wiped my cheeks and scanned the street, deserted except for me and a demon. "Okay," I said. "We've got our tracker. Let's go."

"Is he a friend of yours?" The demon tipped his chin back, indicating the vague direction of the club with one elegant motion. His eyes were darker now, strange runic patterns slipping through the depths of green light.

"Not any more," I said, casting around for a callbox.

There was one down at the end of the street, and I set out for the lighted plasteel box. The demon followed me, moving as silently as a manta ray slipping through dark water.

I passed my hand over the credit square, flushing my palm with Power. The door clicked open, and I stepped into the callbox. It was one of the older ones without a vidshell. Thank the gods for small favors. "Hold the door," I said, and the demon put out his golden hand, held the folding door aside.

I picked up the handset and dialed the copshop.

"Vice, Horman speaking," Detective Lew Horman snarled on the other end.

"Horman? It's Danny." My voice sounded normal. A little husky, but normal.

"Aw fer Christ's sake—"

I didn't know he was a Christen. "Don't blaspheme, Detective. Look, I've got a word for you."

"What the fuck now, deadhead? I ain't Homicide!" The high edge of fear colored his voice.

"You know the Chill that's been soaking the South Side? I found out a major distributor."

That got his attention. He literally gasped.

I waited a beat. "Of course, if you're not interested—"

"Goddammit, you deadhead freak. Give it up."

"Dacon Whitaker, out of his club. One of his bouncers is a Chillfreak and so is he now."

"A fuckin magician's a Chillfreak? I thought they didn't—"

"They don't last long, but they're nasty while they do. I'd take some para backup with you. Don't mention my name, okay?"

"Quiet as the grave," Horman snorted.