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52

Carlos is standing on a grate through which he can hear the pounding industrial music below, puffing on an inexpertly rolled joint.

"You're, what, the new courier?" Carlos says. "The new meat?"

"I guess I am," you say.

"Trash," Carlos says. "I'll outlive you, you know. New vampires only last a couple of years. Retainers like us can live forever, especially with Lettow in charge."

You've already lasted a couple of years, and you're not having this conversation for your health, so you say, "I need a place to stay and a new car."

"Yeah, yeah, me and Miguel and Lana, we'll set it up," Carlos says, waving his hand so blue smoke swirls around it. "We'll handle everything. I'll send someone around. Later. Now let me listen."

He closes his eyes as the EDM buzzes out of the floor grate.

Whatever was happening in the parking lot below has sorted itself out; the heavies are back upstairs, laughing. You memorize their names and faces in case they're trouble later, then circle the Elysium for a few minutes, getting a feel for the place.

You can't believe you're back in Tucson. You wonder if anyone recognizes you. Beyond the rooftop, the city lights appear dim and washed out, as if seen through a black veil. Red brake lights from the highway look like a sluggish trail of blood.

"Just call her!" That's Dove, speaking in hushed but anxious tones to Prince Lettow.

You can't quite hear the rest of the conversation, but then the Prince's genial smile vanishes. Dove withers at whatever he says next.

Then the eagle swings its golden eyes back toward you.

"Ah, Cvjo," Prince Lettow says. "I told you I would have work for you. I need to send some emails, and that is not as easy as it once was. Come here."

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