Hattie shakes her head.

“Can’t. It’s not in our territory. It’s the Shoggots’ and we don’t go in there. Hell, we don’t even like to trade with them.”

Diogo has noticed that Vidocq is still holding a vial in one hand. He points to it with a knife and Vidocq gives it to him with a smile. He shakes it and sniffs. Opens the top and gets a face full of acrid white smoke. We’re all choking and coughing by the time the idiot gets the stopper back in.

Hattie looks at our gagging group and says, “I was just telling this gentleman how we don’t like trading with the Shoggots, except some of the more gullible among us do, don’t we, Diogo?”

He waves away some smoke and smiles at her.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Those swords and knives the boys like to show off. Trust me, they don’t have the wit among them to make something like that. That’s Shoggot work. They’re good makers. Especially sharp things.”

“Maybe you could take us to meet them,” says Delon.

She raises her eyebrows.

“When I called you a fool earlier, I meant it figuratively. Now you’re making me think I might have a been a bit too generous.”

“But you know how to contact them.”

“Why would I do that?”

Delon reaches into his bag and pulls out another small bottle.

“Salt distilled from the River Gihon in Third Heaven, which cures all poisons.”

Hattie takes it from him and holds it up to the light. Satisfied with what she sees, she puts it in her pocket with the Tears.

“What else have you got in that bag?” she says.

“Nothing that would interest a lady like you.”

“Really? Why don’t I have my boys take it and chuck you all over the balcony.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say.

Hattie turns to me.

“Which one of these assholes do you like the least? I’ll do you a favor and kill him first.”

Diogo takes a step toward me, but Hattie stops him with a short wave.

“This one looked like bad news from the moment I saw him. What’s wrong with his face? No one brings a man like that along who isn’t looking for trouble.”

“Not with you,” Delon says. “Sometimes we don’t get to pick and choose who we deal with, do we? Like you and the Shoggots. He’s my Shoggot.”

Hattie gives a short, snorting laugh that ends in ragged coughs.

“Here I was feeling sorry for us and you’ve got to haul around your own monster. Look at him. He’d like to put a knife into your back right now.”

I shrug.

“Nothing personal. I always want to stab someone.”

“This motley crew looks like more trouble than they’re worth,” says Hattie. “Give them to the Shoggots. May they choke on each other.”

Hattie gets up and starts down a hall with her boys.

“You wait here while we prepare. Don’t steal anything. I’ll know if you do.”

She points to a hotel surveillance camera that hasn’t worked since disco was king.

Delon comes back to where the rest of us are sitting.

“Do you trust them?” I say.

He shrugs.

“What choice do we have?”

“That’s not what I asked. Does the family keep its promises?”

“Tykho said yes, but you’ll notice that she’s not here.”

I turn to the others.

“Keep your weapons handy but don’t get itchy and start shooting at shadows.”

Vidocq looks at the hall that the Mangarms went down.

“I’d love to know more about their potion making. When this is over, maybe I’ll come back and do some trading of my own.”

“You do and I’ll tell Allegra,” says Candy.

Vidocq narrows his eyes.

“God does not love snitches does he, Father?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Traven. “We’re no longer on speaking terms.”

Hattie and the boys come back, but seeing them doesn’t fill me with confidence. They’ve left the robes and furs behind and have armored up in a garbage-dump combination of shoulder pads, padded hockey pants, hard hats, and football and baseball helmets. Diogo is looking particularly proud of his mall-cop shirt and badge. They’ve left their swords behind and are carrying axes and baseball bats.

“I don’t believe we dressed properly for the party,” says Brigitte.

“Anyone with second thoughts can still go back,” I say. “After this, I’m not so sure.”

Candy punches my arm.

“Stop playing Nick Fury. We’re all on board.”

“I just want to make sure everybody knows.”

Brigitte looks at Candy.

“He’s so funny when he’s playing Dad.”

“Isn’t he just,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m more used to doing these things on my own. Not as part of a school field trip.”

Vidocq says, “Consider that for once you’ll have people to watch your back.”

“You’ll need them,” says Hattie, and puts on a wired-front hockey helmet. “Let’s go.”

We walk the twelve floors back to street level. I have a feeling they have the rope-and-pulley system rigged to get up and down faster but they don’t want us to see how it works. At the bottom, Hattie and her crew lead the way with lanterns and we head deeper into the mall.

There’s rubble everywhere, but we’re not in the worst of the wreckage. The big concrete slabs were probably dumped there during the time when the construction crew was looking for bodies. In the dim light, the random piles of stones make the place look like a haute couture Pompeii. We’re moving in a single small pool of light. Our footsteps echo off the walls. Insects buzz around our heads.

We go through a food court the size of a football stadium. The place hasn’t been looted. It’s been ripped to pieces by people looking for every spare corn dog and chicken wing they could find. Farther on are the dried remains of an old water park. Slides, fountains, and indoor surfing with an artificial wave machine. Nails and hooks have been driven into the walls, and clothes, all rotten now, hang in the dark. Crushed cans and plastic bottles litter the floor. People used to wash and haul water to their little fiefdoms from here. A desiccated body lies in the bone-dry fountain. The skull is crushed. Dried blood spray on the fallen concrete and in patches on the floor. I bet this was where they used to hold bazaars and where someone broke the truce big-time. I have a bad feeling I know who did it and we’re strolling right to them.

Paper crunches under our feet. Images torn from books and magazines are glued to the floor in patterns. The pages have bubbled up, are slick in the humid air, but a clear path is laid out through them. A long straight line, then a tight turn to the left. The path doubles back on itself several times in smaller and smaller curves. The pattern stretches out all round us in a circle thirty or more feet across. It’s a complex maze with a kind of cloverleaf at the center. A labyrinth. A meditation path, like you see in some old churches. The path of this labyrinth is paved with photos of the world outside Kill City. Hollywood. New York. Paris. Mountains. Someone doesn’t want to forget where they came from. The world as a holy relic. It’s funny to think of L.A.’s short con streets as some poor slob’s idea of Heaven, but there it is.

Father Traven’s light dips as he trips and almost goes down. Brigitte, right beside him, grabs him before he falls. I should have looked him over better when we got out of the van. He might be sleep-deprived, coming off the booze. Also, this is a pretty odd place to drag someone who’s spent his life in libraries. Was it a mistake bringing him? Brigitte never gets too far from him and I don’t think she would have let him come if she thought he couldn’t handle it. Still, I need to keep my eye on him.

I move the beam of my small LED flashlight over the empty storefronts as we move beyond the food court. They look ancient. Like caves for Neanderthals. This is the part of town the Flintstones don’t come to after dark.

Sofa cushions lashed together are makeshift beds for whoever lived there. Pits for cook fires are gouged out of the linoleum floors. Gray piles of ash dumped outside the folding-glass doors.