The tat was close-really close: the same size, on a flat piece of skin, sans belly button or the curve of a shoulder that would have shown up as a wrinkle on the lid. I stared at her – she had sharp, punkish hair like I did, and a sexy, come-hither smile. Automatically, I checked out the curves of her breasts, pressed beneath one delicate hand-they were full and luscious and looked quite lickable. Then my eyes drifted up to the tat, and I felt queasy. Had I just seen this woman in the flesh-flesh torn from her chest and stapled to a board like a seat cushion?

There was no way to know. I'd give the book to Rand at the first opportunity and hope he could find out. But then I started thinking: Sumners was tattooed himself, and some of those tats had to be marks of great magical power.

I flipped to the bio, trying to find out a clue about how he died, but it was no help. It had been printed in 2003, and the most interesting piece of information was that Sumners had 'recently had his hands insured with Lloyd's of London for over a million dollars.' Useless.

I'd originally gotten the book to try to find out who had worn that tattoo. But now here was a new question: did Sumners die near a full moon

And then a creepy voice breathed in my ear: "Give me some skin, Dakota."

3. ENTER THE RAT

"Jeez!" I cried, recoiling from the foul-smelling breath behind the voice, splattering my mocha across the table. "Spleen, don't do that!"

Life had cursed Diego "Spleen" Spillane to look like a rat-long, pointed nose, thick, scattered, grey-brown hair, and one yellowed, fake eye. Generally he played above type. Today he was full of himself, and apparently couldn't resist working it.