Watching him stroll out of Craig Bailey’s driveway, I couldn’t decipher his body language. Like me, his wrinkled clothes were stiff with sea water, and we were both sporting rat’s-nest hairdos; we looked like homeless people who had stumbled upon evening wear in a trash bin. He opened the driver’s door, got in, and closed it without looking at me.

“Well?” I asked, barely able to contain my curiosity. “Did he have the talon?”

“He’s dead.”

I closed my eyes. Not out of reverence—I didn’t know the man from Adam—but in mind-numbing frustration. “What?”

“Died of a heart attack yesterday morning,” Lon elaborated. “I talked to his son. He was pissed as hell that Craig spent the family money on worthless occult collectibles. Would have been more than happy to sell the talon to me, but it wasn’t there.”

“Wasn’t there? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. That fucking piece of shit sold Bailey the talon, then stole it back.”

“Who? Spooner? Why would he do that?”

“Because then he could make money without losing the talon. He’s pulled stunts like this before—at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“So he sent us out here on this wild-goose chase, and he had it all along?”

“I’d bet my life that he does.”

Desperate for a hot shower, I scratched the back of my head; my scalp was dry and itchy. “How do we get it from Spooner?”

“We’ve tried asking nicely,” Lon said with a bitter smile.

I nodded. “We’re going to have to take it by force.”

“Yep.”

“You think you can remember the incantation for that memory spell we used on Riley?”

He tapped his temple. “Mind like a steel trap.”

“I think I can remember the sigil, if you can do that part.”

“Hmm … I might have something better in mind. It’s in the trunk.” Carefully considering whatever scheme he was cooking up, he idly stroked his mustache with his thumb and index finger. I pulled aside his collar and winced at the nasty indigo tooth marks I’d left on his neck. He lifted his eyebrows, inspected the bite in the rearview mirror, then gave me a smug smile as I covered it back up.

“You got a lighter in that tiny purse you stashed in my glove compartment?”

“I do.”

“Good. There’s some valrivia hidden in a box under the car manual. It’s not fresh, but I don’t care at this point, if you don’t mind rolling it up for us. We’ll stop somewhere and get food along the way.”

“And some coffee, please.”

“And some coffee,” he agreed as he started the car.

It was just before one in the afternoon when we arrived at Spooner’s place of business, an art deco building in a commercial district on the outskirts of Morella, just ten minutes away from my house. Lon identified Spooner’s car parked in the alley by the back entrance, so we pulled behind it and marched up a short flight of steps bounded by a painted metal railing.

“I thought you said Spooner didn’t work.”

“He doesn’t. He’s a collector. This is where he cons people out of money.” Lon battered the metal door with his fist, cigarette dangling between his lips. He leaned forward, ear to the door, and listened for a response inside. Seconds ticked by, ten stretching to twenty … a minute.

“I hear movement,” Lon reported before banging on the door again and yelling, “Delivery!”

I heard it too, then a series of approaching steps. Locks began clicking open from the other side of the door. When the door swung inside, Spooner stood a few feet away in the same garish suit he’d worn the night before. With shocks of orange hair shooting out at all angles from his head and bloodshot eyes, he looked even worse than we did.

He was also very, very surprised to see us.

Lightning fast, he shoved at the door to shut it, but Lon wedged his foot against the kickplate before it closed. He stuck his Remington inside the humble opening and racked it once. Slowly, the door opened again. Spooner stood in the doorway, hands apathetically raised in submission.

“Hello again,” I said brightly.

“Let’s talk,” Lon added, prodding Spooner’s chest with the gun’s barrel.

We dogged Spooner down a sterile hallway until he halted in front of a frosted glass door. He opened it and entered.

All four walls of the intimate room were lined with locked glass display cabinets. In the center, a low, square metal table was surrounded by four green armchairs and a swing-arm lamp.

Lon was wrong; this wasn’t the room of a collector. It wasn’t carefully arranged and tended like his library, and the items weren’t cherished or admired. They were displayed with the care of a pawnshop owner. Spooner was a fence, not a lover of rare mysteries.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t a jackpot in here. A multicolored supernatural fog swirled around the haphazard arrangements. Pink, green, yellow, blue—nearly every item in the cabinets was Æthyric in origin. Hundreds of them.

I looked closer. Horns, bones, teeth, and talons cluttered one crowded shelf. They gave off the strongest visual marker, but they weren’t the only occult treasures. He also had a staggering selection of metal and clay pendants and charms … dozens of books and scrolls. The earthly items were nearly as interesting and varied as the Æthyric ones: a small animal skull covered in precious gems, a leaf-shaped Aztec sacrificial blade, a golden Middle Eastern puzzle box with Jinn markings.