“Stop reading my mind, motherfucker. And you’d do the bimbo anyway.”

Adrian grinned and flexed his heavy arms. “Yeah. I would. And her sister.”

Yup, that angel appeared to be over whatever the demon Devina had done to him the night of Jim’s official “death.” Either that or all the self-medicating with living, breathing Barbies had exhausted any introspection right out of him.

Eddie took a metal file from his pocket and presented it handle first. “Grate some of that carving onto the body. Anywhere is fine.”

Jim chose the flat pads of his chest, and the scraping sounds were soft in the tiled cavern of the cold room.

Eddie took the tool back. “Where’s your knife?”

Jim took out the hunting blade that had been given to him way back when he’d first joined the armed services. Matthias had gotten an identical weapon at the same time-had used it to carve the horse, matter of fact.

“Slice your palm and hold the object hard. As you do, picture the person you want to come here clearly in your mind. Remember the sound of his voice. See him in memories that are specific. Watch how he moves, the gestures he makes, the clothes he wears, the smell of his cologne if he uses it.”

Forcing his head to focus, Jim tried to call up something, anything, about Matthias the Fucker…

The image that dove into his frontal lobe was stunningly clear: He was back in the desert on that night, with the chemical stink of the explosive in his nose and the ringing sound of time-to-get-a-move-on banging in his ears. Matthias had no lower leg, his left eye was nearly gone from the socket, and his digital fatigues were covered with pale dirt and bright red blood.

“… Dan… ny… boy… my Danny boy…” he was saying.

Jim put the blade to the center of his palm and dragged it through his skin, letting out a hiss as the steel bit deep and clean.