“One drop. Got it,” Hajo said. “Open.”

Sour and depressed, Bob opened his mouth and allowed Hajo to drop the liquid on his waiting tongue. Bob made a face and swallowed.

“How long for it to take effect?” Hajo asked.

I waited as Bob’s pupils dilated into enormous black holes. “Now,” I said.

Hajo studied Bob. “How long does it last?”

“Thirty minutes. An hour. Depends on the person.”

“Have you dosed me with this before?” Bob asked me nervously. He was starting to sweat again; he was quite possibly the sweatiest demon alive.

“I never thought I needed to,” I replied.

He sighed and swallowed hard. “Go ahead and do what you’re gonna do, Hajo.”

Hajo spun the bottle in his hand, thinking for a short time before he spoke. “I can’t ask you to do something you wouldn’t mind doing. That proves nothing. It has to be something that you would only do against your will or better judgment.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. Lon and I glanced at each other.

Hajo settled on his test. “Since you and Mr. Butler aren’t the best of friends, Bobby boy, I’m guessing you wouldn’t be eager to piss him off any more than you already have. That would be the last thing you want right now.”

Bob panicked, reacting to the vassal effect and Hajo’s suggestion as Lon turned to glare at them, unhappy about where this was headed.

“Even though you’re deathly scared of him, you’d do anything for Cady, wouldn’t you?” Hajo said. “Why don’t you show Cady how you really feel about her. Kiss her. Now.”

Lon and I uttered a series of outcries that quickly erupted into random angry shouts as Bob unbuckled his seat belt and stuck his head between us. He was mumbling as he reached for me—saying that he was sorry, that he had to do this.

“Sit down!” Lon barked, shoving at Bob.

Hajo laughed as Bob pressed forward. For several seconds, the front seat was a mass of tangled arms and Bob’s clammy lips trying to make contact with my face, then Lon stuck the antique sawed-off shotgun into Bob’s chest. “Sit the fuck down.”

Bob wailed, but tried to push the gun away, undeterred. I cut the wheel harder than I expected—I was unaccustomed to driving something so big. The SUV swerved violently, hit the curb, and plowed over it. Bob’s head slammed against the side of seat. Lon grabbed the oh-shit handle and braced himself while cussing me out. I got control of the car, but not before a couple of drivers honked, and not before my heart rate tripled.

Bob moaned and gripped the side of this head, trying to catch his breath. This had gone too far. Nobody could stop Bob but the person who dosed him.

“Hajo!” I bellowed into the rearview mirror. “Make him stop!”

Lon twisted in his seat, shoved Bob roughly, and pointed the Lupara at Hajo. “Now, you son of a bitch.”

“All right, all right!” Hajo said, still fighting back laughter. “Bob, stop trying to kiss Cady. Sit in your seat and be a good boy. Simon says.”

Bob whimpered as Hajo pocketed the little vial, pleased as pie. “You brew good stuff, Cady,” he concluded. “Now let’s hunt your dead body. Where’s this tracking object you promised?”

We drove around La Sirena with the rear windows cracked while Hajo held Bishop’s key in his hands and went into some sort of mild trance. One hour passed, then another. On occasion, he mumbled a quick direction: “Turn right,” or “Trail’s gone cold. Loop back around.” Compliant but depressed, Bob was crumpled in the seat next to Hajo, wedged up against the door.

Lon and I sat in silence as rain drizzled, the wipers keeping a steady rhythm on the windshield. Worry stalked me from a distance. I wasn’t sure what I wanted more: for Hajo to find some thirty-year-old mass grave, or for him to fail and find nothing. Either prospect was undesirable, and both made me anxious.

Nightfall approached. As we curved around the shore outside the city limits, Lon sneaked his hand over the leather armrest and gently prodded my arm. When I glanced over at him, he was resting the side of his head against the seat, a tender look on his face. He tucked his long hair behind one ear, then ran his knuckles over the elbow of my jacket. I switched hands on the wheel so that I could link fingers with him.

With a sudden cry, Hajo woke up from his stupor. He’d caught the thread.

His directions became increasingly frequent and urgent. Bob perked up and watched with interest as Hajo guided us down an unmarked rocky side street that meandered around the coast. It was hard to see much of the terrain under dark skies and dreary rain. The headlights illuminated a thicket of evergreens on the left that blocked our view of the main road and, as I steered the SUV around a sharp curve, a row of concrete buildings stacked up in the distance, clinging to the shore. From a rickety post, a metal sign hung sideways, riddled with rusted-out holes. It read: PACIFIC GLORY TUNA CANNERY.

“Huh,” Lon murmured. “I remember touring this place on a school trip when I was a kid. It used to rival Bumble Bee until it was shut down in the late 1970s. Botulism outbreak. Put hundreds of locals out of work.”

“We’re close,” Hajo said. “Really close.”

I slowed the SUV as the bumpy road became covered with creeping bramble and downed tree branches every ten feet or so. Across the water, white-purple lightning struck on the edge of the horizon as darker storm clouds gathered. Angry waves crashed against the shore below us as we drove further down into the small peninsula where the cannery sprawled. Sections of the buildings transitioned from land to water with the aid of stilts. A long dock with missing boards wrapped around the Pacific edge of the buildings where tuna boats used to empty their catches.