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Between me and Agatha, a figure shimmered, outlined in black and white static sparks—real but not. Like an old, out of tune TV trying to find a picture.

Tom’s chipper American voice stuttered. “C-cure for d-depression is simply, more alcohol . . .”

Tom Collins’s outline gradually solidified into semi-transparent existence, complete with his burgundy waistcoat, black pants, white dress shirt and blue bow tie. His hands paused over the lab table, and he blinked, looking up. He took in the room—me to his left, Agatha to his right, then Reynard asleep on the table, and Zee armored up and looming in the gloom. “This is not the hotel bar,” he said in an irritated voice.

Zee strutted forward. “All you need to know right now is that I’d like to order a round of Fuck That Fae Over There, and a chaser of Let’s Get The Fuck out of Here.”

How he was real and solid without a bot body for him to operate, I had no idea, but we all saw him, even if he was a little . . . transparent, and out of focus.

“Coming right up,” Tom said. He grabbed a few cannisters and test tubes, flung the liquids together, shook them up until the liquid began steaming, and launched it at Agatha. She side-stepped the cocktail, but we all watched as it smashed against the wall, exploding with a dramatic if short-lived flame and a puff of pantomime smoke.

Tom bared his thin smile. “Hydrogen cyanide gas can be quite fatal. I suggest you take your leave, gentlemen. Not that either of you ineffectual fucking idiots ever listens to my advice.”

Zee grabbed Reynard and bolted out the door.

Agatha lurched for the door too. I grabbed her arm, spun her around, and slammed her down onto the lab table, putting some extra not-human oomph behind it. No phone, no witnesses, just Tom.

“Adam, you do not have long before the air becomes lethal,” Tom warned.

The taste of bitter almonds tingled on my tongue. I pinned Agatha down and bared my plain, flat human teeth in a snarl.

“What are you?” Agatha wheezed, after fighting and failing to shove me off.

“I’m a nice person, most of the time. But sometimes, people like you and Gideon and Sebastien mistake niceness for weakness. Don’t make that mistake, Agatha, and in future, we’ll get along fine.”

She saw it then, or some of it. Deep in my eyes, she saw the thing I kept hidden, the thing countless others had died for, the thing that had been hunted from one world into the next, and she knew her fight was over before it had begun. “Gideon Cain will not like this, Mr. Vex,” she whispered, trembling.

“Then he can take it up with hotel management.” I snatched her phone from her hand, crushed it to dust, and let her up. The almond taste scorched my tongue. It was time to leave.

“And it’s SOS Hotel.” I told her. “S-O-S. Not Sex Hotel. We don’t do that. Well, we do, but it’s not . . . it’s not in the name.”

She glared, and coughed. “There’s a whole lot of hurt coming your way, Mr. Vex.”

I grabbed Tom’s backup from the laptop, and he vanished back into the little black box. “Maybe.” A tickle burned my throat. I coughed, wheezed, and backed toward the door. “Stay away, Agatha. Next time I won’t be so nice.”

I hurried back along the dark corridors, and stepped out into San Francisco’s warm, clean night air, tasting freedom.

“You alright, Kitten?” Zee asked, still carrying Reynard.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Can you text Reynard’s driver so we can get out of here?”

“Sure.” Zee dropped Reynard. He landed with a hard thump on the asphalt. “Oops.” Zee unlaced his leather armor at the side and slid out his phone. “Did you get Tom?”

I showed Zee the drive. “Got him.”

“Awesome, I’m getting so fucking wasted in the bar later, and then imma give my cock some much needed personal time. You wanna join us? You, me, and my still-attached dick?”

I grinned. “Do you have to ask?”

He tapped out a quick message to Reynard’s driver, scooped Reynard into his arms again, and we headed for the rusted gateway.

“You know,” I mused aloud. “I think Tom might be a djinn.”

“He serves gin.”

“No, I mean, like a genie in a lamp kind of thing.” I needed to look up djinn in the Wilson’s Guide, but I did know AI definitely did not manifest themselves into existence. Tom Collins was a Lost One. The kind who knew how to whip up hydrogen cyanide, apparently.

Reynard’s car rolled to a burbling halt outside the parking lot.