If she left now, she would be home by ten to two. Joey might not be back from Concasseur's yet. No matter how tired she felt, Alison didn't want to spend much time tonight in her new apartment, waiting for word of his success or failure. She felt much safer here at Light Phantastic, where there were at least a few people to keep her company and plenty of work to occupy her mind.

      "I can last a little while longer, Mark. We're almost there. Let's do it."

      Mark Chun, a bald, bespectacled man in his early sixties, tinkered under Lenora's dress for the next fifteen minutes. Lenora, a full-scale model of actress Heather Bradley, did not seem to mind. Neither did she appear concerned about the plastic axe embedded in her fiberglass head. Such indignities were all in the line of duty for a mechanical stand-in.

      Mark stepped aside and called, "All right. Put her through her paces."

      Alison picked up the radio-control box, punched a couple of buttons and twiddled one of the joysticks. Lenora blinked her blue eyes, opened her mouth in a silent scream, brought her hands up to her throat, and swiveled her head a full three hundred and sixty degrees.

      Mark set down his tool kit and clapped. "Excellent! Just what the director ordered. We're a formidable team, Alison."

      "You did all the work, Mark."

      "Nonsense. Without your help, I'd still be here at ten tomorrow morning when everyone arrives to shoot the scene. Thanks for staying. It was above and beyond the call of duty."

      "No problem. Really."

      Mark turned off Lenora's internal circuitry. "Do you need a ride home?"

      "I brought my car."

      "Well, let me use the restroom, and then I'll walk you out to the parking lot."

      "Fine. I'll lock up in here."

      While Mark took care of business, Alison made sure that the workshop and the adjoining paint shop were secure, that all the equipment had been returned to its proper place. She turned off the lights, stepped into the hallway and locked the door behind her.

      In the studio's main lobby, she looked for Tony Ferelli, the young security guard who worked the night shift. She didn't see him at his usual post, seated in front of a bank of video monitors mounted on a hardwood desk. She assumed Tony was on his rounds, that he would return soon and start flirting with her, the way he always did whenever they found themselves alone together.

      She hoped Tony returned soon. He knew how to operate the controls that opened the electronic lock on the front door.

      Waiting for Mark and Tony, she lit a cigarette and contemplated the darkness outside. She wondered how Joey was making out. What would happen if he failed? And even more perplexing, what if he succeeded? What would that mean for him and her?

      All her post-pubescent life, men had been telling her how attractive she was, trying to pick up on her, professing their love for her. By and large, she knew how to deal with that. She could joke around with guys like Tony and let it go only so far. With the right person (and more so in her college days than now), she wasn't averse to a spontaneous, friendly roll in the hay that signified little more than mutual affection. Brad had played her for a chump, but most of her long-term relationships had worked out well, running their courses without a lot of pain or rancor.

      So why did she have absolutely no clue how to handle Joey Spelvin?

      She had always suspected Joey had a crush on her. It was no big thing. It never got in the way of their friendship. She trusted him not to pull that pathetic "we've-had-one-drink-too-many-and-I-can't-control-myself" crap that some of her other male acquaintances eventually stooped to. She thought she and he understood each other very well.

      Now, all of a sudden, Joey had changed, both outwardly and inwardly. Alison didn't understand the exact nature of the metamorphosis, only recognized that the guy who had brought her Razor Cut a few weeks ago wasn't the same guy who set off for Henri Concasseur's house tonight. The old Joey would never have told her the true story about the twins. He would never have told her he loved her.

      She wondered whether there wasn't a new Alison, as well. The old Alison never, ever responded to Joey in any way that could be considered romantic. But the new Alison...

      The day's allotment of adrenaline used up, fatigue finally weighed heavily on her. She stubbed out her cigarette in a sand-filled ashtray. She wanted to go home.

      Mark Chun had been in the men's room for nearly fifteen minutes. What was taking him so long?

      She walked back up the hallway and, after a moment's hesitation, knocked on the bathroom door. "Mark? Are you OK in there?"

      No one answered. She knocked louder. Still no reply.

      There was another men's room on this floor, but it was at the opposite end of the building. Mark wouldn't have gone all the way over there, would he?

      She pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Mark?" No one stood at the urinals or the sinks. The stalls were all empty. She found no obvious sign of anything amiss.

      Nevertheless, Alison was sure something was wrong. She ran back to the lobby, hoping Tony would be waiting for her.

      He wasn't. The lobby was deserted and silent.

      She felt panic growing inside her. She wanted to throw herself on the double glass doors and pound on them until they either broke open or she beat her hands bloody.

      There had to be a phone on Tony's desk, or maybe an intercom system she could use to page him. There was no need for the screaming meemies. Not yet.

      She went around the desk and found the phone. She picked up the receiver and listened. The phone was dead. She fought the urge to scream.

      Something on one of the monitors caught her eye. She bent towards the screen for a closer look.

      The camera was aimed at one of the rear emergency exits. The steel door hung slightly ajar, letting in a pale shaft of moonlight. The moonbeam partially illuminated a body lying on the floor. The body wore a security officer's uniform. Its head was twisted to a very unnatural angle.

      Before she could react to that gruesome picture, Alison realized that she was standing in something wet and sticky. She looked down and saw the elongated puddle of blood. She followed it under the desk to what lay hidden there.

      Mark Chun stared back at her through shattered glasses. A small amount of blood dribbled from his nostrils and open mouth. A gaping knife wound in his chest fed the crimson stream spreading across the linoleum.

      Alison screamed.

      "I knew you were not dead, Joseph," Henri Concasseur said, thin lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk. "But I never expected to find you here." He snapped his fingers. Tiffany, still holding the knife, released Joey to go stand beside her master.

      Joey's mind raced as he picked himself up from the floor. He hadn't come prepared for a showdown. So what should he do now?

      Marcel made up his mind for him. From within the sack, the prisoner of the govi shouted, "Release me! I am your only hope!"

      He bent and picked up the sack. Marcel cried, "Yes! Do it! I can save you!"

      Concasseur rushed at him. "Give that to me. You do not know what you are doing!"

      Joey pulled the clay pot from the sack. It quivered in his hands like a hard-shelled reptile, something cold-blooded, eager and evil. He threw it at Concasseur's feet. The bokor dove for it, but the govi struck the floor and shattered. Concasseur scrambled away from the broken pottery.

      A huge cloud of smoke and flame billowed from the govi. The foyer instantly reeked of sulfur and burning meat. An ancient, wizened black man, his face deeply scarred and one eye covered with a yellow cataract, suddenly appeared before Joey.

      "I thank you for releasing me, boy," Marcel said, his smile revealing a row of pointed gold teeth. "It is a shame you will not live to see me defeat your enemy."

      Marcel's body suddenly turned into a column of smoke. Strong, invisible fingers forced Joey's mouth open. The acrid smoke poured down his throat, filling his lungs. Gagging and choking, he fought with all his strength.

      It was not enough.

      At Light Phantastic, Delmore Zweibeck stepped out of the women's restroom.

      He had his orders. Find the blonde. Make her tell where Spelvin was hiding. Then kill her in any way he pleased.

      Delmore enjoyed errands like this.

      Mr. Concasseur wanted the girl found immediately. He made that very clear to Delmore when they parted at the airport. Delmore did not want to disappoint Mr. Concasseur, not so soon after wrecking things at that farm in Sonoma County. He did not want to be punished again and spend any more time buried in Mr. Concasseur's backyard.

      He had expected to find the blonde at the building on Euclid Avenue. That would have made things very simple. But other people, a middle-aged woman in a pink flannel night-dress and a short, hairy man in boxer shorts, had moved into her apartment.

      They paid for that mistake.

      Delmore spent a long time, maybe ten whole minutes, trying to make them tell where the girl worked. It was the only other place he could think she might be, but he could not recall the name or address. The man and the woman claimed not to know.

      That made him very angry. He hated it when his brain didn't work the way it used to. He took his frustration out on the woman in the night-dress and the man in the boxer shorts. Delmore often found that the sound of breaking bones improved his memory.

      It worked this time. Just when he thought that he would never remember where the blonde worked, the name "Light Phantastic" had popped into his skull. The mental block demolished, the address had followed quickly.

      Now he was here. And so was the blonde. Everything was going to work out just fine and dandy.

      Smiling to himself, Delmore Zweibeck removed a cassette from his jacket pocket. He opened the Walkman clipped to his belt, inserted the tape and pushed the PLAY button.

      The first scream belonged to a black teenager, a street kid he'd caught in Oakland one evening. His scream was lusty and full-throated, tinged more by pain than by fear. It lasted ten seconds.

      The next scream on the tape was the product of a Tenderloin wino. Although very high-pitched, it still possessed an interesting, fruity richness, probably the result of lungs filled with phlegm. It lasted a full thirty seconds.

      Delmore loved listening to his Greatest Hits tape. Everything on it was music to his ears.

      Time to get the girl and finish the job. Once he had gotten into the building and killed the guard, he could have just grabbed her and split. But where was the fun in that? It was better to toy with the blonde, leave her little surprises here and there, prolong the delicious anticipation.

      There was plenty of time. She wasn't going anywhere he couldn't follow. He had made sure of that by reaching under the hood of her car and yanking out everything that could be removed with a minimum of fuss.

      There was nothing she could do to stop him. You can't hide from a dead man who wants to find you.

      Delmore wiped his bloody knife on his pant leg. He hated to dirty his new jeans, but he wanted the blade to be nice and clean for her. It was better that way.

      A shriek of terror echoed down the studio's corridors. The blonde had found the gook's body.

      Ready to begin the hunt in earnest, Delmore regretted not having brought his recording equipment. The girl had a lovely scream. It belonged with his Greatest Hits.

      Joey hid in the recesses of his brain.

      Marcel had not been able to expel him completely. Although unable to control his own body, Joey shared the ancient sorcerer's perceptions, even some of his twisted thoughts.

      The possession was like bathing in maggots. It filled Joey with a revulsion so intense that it threatened to drive him insane. Nevertheless, he hung on, waiting for a chance to fight back.

      "Leave Spelvin," Concasseur said. "There are other bodies in this house you can occupy while we talk." He stroked Tiffany's hair. "This one, for example."

      Joey wondered why the salt had not affected Tiffany. Had Claude been wrong?

      "I do not want the woman," Marcel said. "Besides, we have nothing to talk about, Henri. It is time for you to die."

      "Do not be a fool, Marcel. You cannot hope to best me. You have been away from the world for a very long time. You are weak."

      Marcel flexed Joey's muscles, relishing his return to corporeal form. "But this young man is very strong, more powerful than you ever imagined. His power is mine now."

      Concasseur said, "There is no need for a fight. We can work out our differences and go our separate ways."

      "After what you have done to me, you want to `work out our differences'?"

      "Have you forgotten that you were planning to kill me before I imprisoned you in that govi? I acted out of self-defense, Marcel. I had no choice."

      Marcel curled Joey's lip into a sneer. "Do you think I am some sort of fool? You tormented me for decades, Henri, keeping me from taking my rightful place among the loas. For that you shall pay!"

      Concasseur must have tasted the spell brewing in the air before Marcel unleashed it. Caught unawares, he would have died in excruciating agony, his internal organs sprouting bony needles and cutting him to shreds from the inside out. But when the supernatural weapon came at him, Concasseur deflected it with the proper counter-incantation.

      The released energy sent the foyer chandelier hurtling to the floor. It landed with a spectacular crash and sent chips of crystal skimming through the air. Neither sorcerer flinched.

      "I have learned a thing or two since we last met face to face," Concasseur said. "I suggest you take my initial offer. There is a slightly injured male body upstairs. Repair its wounds, and it will serve you well. Leave Spelvin, take the other, and I shall not interfere with you."

      "Never! Only one of us will leave here alive."

      Concasseur hit Marcel with an anti-possession spell, a kind of psychic emetic used to remove demons from unwary initiates. Joey felt Marcel's grip on his body loosen. He pushed blindly against the invader.

      The ancient sorcerer hung on and pushed back. Joey screamed in agony and retreated to his hiding place.

      Marcel regained control and turned his attention to Concasseur. Suddenly it was the younger bokor who writhed on the floor. Concasseur's flesh swelled, his face puffing up like an inner-tube. His stomach ballooned until the skin threatened to rip open and spill his guts out.

      Marcel stood and looked down at him, gloating. "You may have learned a few things, Henri, but I have forgotten nothing. Once I am inside a body, I hold onto it forever, and nothing can force me out."

      Concasseur, his grotesquely bloated body wracked with spasms, gasped, "Then I will have to kill the both of you!" Between lips inflated like blood-gorged leeches, he began to murmur an incantation.

      Joey saw that he couldn't win this fight alone. He needed help. Before Concasseur could finish the spell, he let go of his body and set off for points unknown.

Alison thumbed the button that should have unbolted the front door. Nothing happened. "Goddamn it! Open!" She punched it with her fist.

      Over her ragged breathing, she heard footsteps from the hallway on her right. Slow, careful footsteps. Deliberately noisy. Not in any hurry whatsoever.

      She ran to the doors, threw herself against the push bar, nearly knocked the wind out of herself. Footsteps getting closer. No more time to waste. She ran down the hallway on her left, back toward the workshop.

      She came to a fire alarm mounted on the wall. On the fly, she grabbed the lever, pulled it down, broke the little transparent plastic bar. Bells clanged. Sirens whooped. Someone would come eventually.

      Footsteps still behind her.

      She reached the door she had just locked minutes ago. If she got inside, she could escape through the fire exit at the back.

      Her fingers twitched, their nerves overloaded with stress. The keys fell to the floor, and their jangle sounded louder to her than the fire alarm. She scooped them up with hands slick with sweat.

      All the keys suddenly looked alike. For Christ's sake, which one was it?

      Heavy breathing. Footsteps. A mechanical whirring. The sound of someone screaming very, very far away.

      She fumbled away precious seconds. Square head? Round head? Finally got it. The correct key slid into the lock. She turned it, opened the door. Movement behind her, almost on top of her. She stumbled into the workshop, slammed the door behind her, heard it lock. Something hit the door. It held, but the metal buckled slightly.

      Fists hammered, beating a furious tattoo. She scrambled across the darkened workshop, groping for the fire exit. She hit it running. The door popped open a few inches...

      ...And stopped.

      Not believing what she saw, she shoved with all her weight and strength. The door swung a tiny bit and banged into a large, immovable metal object.

      "Oh, shit!" He'd parked his car right up against this exit, blocking her last escape route.

      She looked back the main entrance to the workshop. It wasn't holding up well under her attacker's onslaught. Any minute now, it was liable to give.

      Nowhere to run. She was going to have to stand and fight. She needed two things, a diversion and a weapon. A dozen crazy schemes whizzed through her mind as she tried to remember what the room contained, what was there that could save her life.

      The locked door rattled on its hinges. She made the best preparations she could think of and hid.

      Joey was in the place between worlds.

      It was dark and cold and without boundaries, a landscape of swirling mists and darting shadows. Joey felt like he was falling at a great speed, but his unchanging surroundings gave no confirmation that he was moving at all.

      Staring into the surrounding fog, he realized that he was not alone. A host of shadowy figures moved through the mist. Some appeared thoroughly human. Others were escapees from a freak show or an extraterrestrial zoo: a buxom woman whose hands each ended in five writhing snakes; a boy with two heads, one facing forward, one facing back; an enormous crab-like thing that sang softly to itself as it fed on a pile of human hands and feet.

      None of the inhabitants of this place paid Joey any attention. He liked it that way. But he had to do something to save himself and that required making some noise. Hoping that his voice would not attract anything dangerous, he shouted, "Jeff! Tom! It's Joey! Help me!"

      The crab-thing swiveled one of its eye-stalks towards him.

      "Tom! Jeff! I need you!"

      The twins appeared out of the fog. Tom shook his head and said, "Looks like you've screwed up in a major way, Lovecraft."

      "Thanks for pointing that out, Tom."

      Jeff said, "What do you expect us to do for you now?"

      "Show me the way out of here. I've got to get back to my body."

      The twins snickered. "Shit," Tom said, "we have no idea. No one's ever shown us a map."

      Jeff said, "Hey, Tom, you think we can leave now that's Joey's here?"

      "I'm not dead yet," Joey said.

      "You might as well be," said Jeff.

      "Maybe we should ask the General," Tom suggested. "He'd know."

      Joey said, "I'll call him myself." He shouted, "Ogu! By the benevolence of Papa Legba, walk through the gate and come to me!"

      After a moment a figure, dressed in a military uniform and bearing a huge machete, appeared. Stopping a few feet from Joey, Ogu removed his cigar from his mouth and flicked the ashes into the air.

      "You let yourself be surprised," the loa said. "You should have been better prepared."

      The god's criticism stung. "How was I supposed to know that Concasseur would show up tonight?"

      "There were signs. But no matter. What is done, is done."

      Something hidden by the fog roared furiously, and something else screamed in pain. Joey said, "I've got to return to the world of the living. Can you show me how to get there and defeat Marcel?"

      "I may be able to do that. Follow me."

      Tom and Jeff hung back, not sure whether they were included. Joey motioned to them, "Come on!"

      In single file, they walked behind the loa as he led them through the mists. Joey had no idea how far they went, but eventually they came to a closed wooden gate that only seemed to separate fog from more fog.

      Joey asked, "The crossroads?"

      Ogu blew a series of smoke rings. "One of many. Papa Legba has left it unlocked for us."

      Joey lifted the latch and stepped through. The others followed.

      A huge, yellowish mound lay directly in their path. The mound was made of flesh, diseased, purulent flesh that quivered and rippled like a massive, sentient tumor.

      "My God," said Joey. "What is that thing?"

      Ogu said, "It is part of Marcel. As he gains more control over your body, it will grow ever larger."

      "You mean, we're back inside my head?"

      "In a manner of speaking, yes."

      Joey studied the hideous growth. "Give me your machete," he said to Ogu.

      The loa held out his blade and grinned. "Good. Cut it. Make it bleed."

      Joey took the machete, nearly toppled over from its immense weight, and dropped it. He bent to pick it up but could not budge it.

      "It's too heavy. I can't lift it."

      He struggled and grunted and was only able to lift the hilt less than an inch. He looked up at his brothers. "Tom? Jeff? Please, I need your help."

      The twins exchanged a glance and came forward. They put their hands on top of his. A surge of energy coursed into Joey's body, charging every fiber of his being with unguessed-at strength. Together, they lifted the machete.

      The three brothers brought it down on the giant tumor. The blade cut cleanly through the tissue. Blood and pus squirted everywhere.

      The whole world screamed. The scream ripped Joey away from Ogu and the twins, sent him hurtling through darkness like a superluminal bullet. He landed with a jolt inside a familiar body, pushing out something foul and slimy. He unleashed a cry of his own as black smoke jetted from his nostrils and streaked down the hall and up the stairwell.

      Only a second of real-time had passed. Henri Concasseur, body puffed up like a poisonous toad, stared up at him. The bokor choked down his spell and then said, "Ah! You're back."

      A voice spoke inside Joey's head. "Use the power of the marassa, the power of four twins in one," Ogu said. "It is all within you now. Hurry!"

      Concasseur grabbed Joey by the ankle and pulled him off his feet. Joey's skull cracked against the floor. Momentarily stunned, he could only watch as the bokor wrapped his fingers around his throat.

      Concasseur barked a Creole incantation to Baron Samedi. Joey's body suddenly stiffened. When the bokor released his grip on him, Joey discovered that he was paralyzed, unable to twitch more than an eyelid.

      "You have fought well, Joseph," Concasseur said. "But now it ends. Let me take you back where the real magic is done."

      He pushed the battered door aside and entered. Alison didn't have to see more than his silhouette to know who he was. The Walkman. He strode in like he didn't have a care in the world.

      "Olly, olly, oxen free!" he giggled. "Come out, come out, wherever you are! Don't make Delmore come and find you."

      Don't turn on the lights, she prayed.

      He didn't, probably assuming that they weren't necessary to his task. He held up the knife and cut the air with it. "Still want to play Hide and Seek, do you? That's OK. I like Hide and Seek!"

      From beneath the workbench, Alison aimed the radio-control box, flipped the toggle and manipulated the joystick. A few feet away, mechanical Lenora sprang to life, turning her head, swinging her arms and trundling a few inches along her track.

      The Walkman took the bait. He bulled his way across the room and grabbed the dummy by its blonde wig. "Gotcha now!"

      Dropping the control box, Alison rolled out from her hiding place. She kicked over the line of open turpentine cans she had gathered from the paintroom. As the liquid splashed across the floor and soaked his sneakers, the Walkman turned and snarled at her.

      She flicked the switch on the portable air compressor and aimed the spray gun square at the Walkman's chest. She had enough time to hose him down with one strong blast of paint thinner before he started coming at her. With trembling hands, she dropped the spray gun, opened the box of wooden matches and struck one against the side. She used it to ignite the rest of the box and threw the flaming packet into the puddle of turpentine.

      Fire raced across the floor. The Walkman ran from it, but he was not fast enough. The flames caught him and roared up his pant legs. The rest of his turpentine-soaked clothes combusted. He became a screaming, burning puppet, flapping his arms wildly as the fire ate him alive.

      The overhead sprinklers gushed. The Walkman rolled on the wet floor, desperately trying to extinguish himself. His sunglasses and headphones melted onto his head. He thrashed blindly, knocking over equipment and furniture as he howled like a wolf in a trap.

      The fire would cut off her only escape if she didn't act quickly. Alison ran across the room, dodging the flames, heading for the open doorway through which the Walkman had entered. She stopped only to pick up a crowbar lying on a nearby workbench. Once she reached the lobby, she would use it to smash the glass doors open.

      She made it safely to the hallway. The Walkman's screams and the smell of roasting flesh followed her as she fled.

      Concasseur dragged Joey down the hallway by his ankles. Deflated back to his normal proportions, the old sorcerer still had a good bit of strength left in him. They headed towards the study. Tiffany Wellington tagged along behind them.

      Joey struggled to move his limbs, but his body might as well have been made of stone. His inner voice yelled for help from Ogu or the twins. Either they did not hear, or there was nothing they could do.

      Footsteps ran down the main staircase. Concasseur froze. The front door opened and slammed shut. The bokor said, "Our friend Marcel has undoubtedly availed himself of one of the spare bodies I keep around the house. He is wise to run away. But I shall find him eventually and deal with him then."

      They reached the study. Concasseur pulled him inside and arranged him in the center of the rug. Tiffany stood to one side and watched without apparent interest. She still carried Joey's knife.

      Concasseur bent down and said, "I wish I had time to plumb all your mysteries, Joseph Spelvin. I would dearly like to know how you defeated Marcel."

      Joey struggled to speak. He managed to open his mouth slightly. With the little bit of air in his lungs, he forced out a single grunt.

      Concasseur moved closer. "What are you trying to say? If it is some sort of spell, it will do you no good, I assure you."

      The bokor motioned with his hands. Joey's muscles lost some of their rigidity. He took a deep breath and said, "Rebecca Toland!"

      Tiffany Wellington screamed, mixing grief, rage and madness into an ungodly keening. Concasseur stood and turned towards her, a look of astonishment on his face.

      Joey said, "Your real name's Rebecca Toland! Kill Concasseur!"

      Tiffany came out of the study's shadows like a rabid panther, a sleek night-creature driven hopelessly insane. "What did you do to me?" she shrieked as she plunged the knife into Concasseur's gut. "What did you do to me, you fucking bastard?"

      The bokor had no answer to that question. As he hung impaled on the blade, Concasseur moved his mouth up and down. No words, only blood and spit, came out. Tiffany jammed the knife higher into his chest. Concasseur twitched and rolled his eyes.

      Her black negligee splashed with red wetness, Tiffany used the edge of the blade to slash Concasseur's throat. The bokor shuddered, fell to the floor and died.

      Alison swung the crowbar. The glass in the locked front door shivered and cracked, but it did not break. She hit it again. It still did not give.

      Police cruisers and fire trucks were pulling up in front of the studio. She welcomed the dizzying strobe of their bubble lights. The squeal of their brakes and the squawk of their radios heartened her.

      Safety was only a few feet away. She raised the iron bar a third time.

      Down the hall, the Walkman bellowed, "Spelvin! Where's Spelvin?"

      The fire hadn't been enough. She heard the giant stumbling along the corridor, heading her way.

      She struck the door again. Bits of glass fell onto the pavement outside. She thrust the crowbar into the hole and yanked it up and down. If she could just clear enough space for her to crawl through...

      Alison heard the Walkman enter the lobby, the heavy tread of his footsteps, his labored breathing. She turned to face him, brandishing the crowbar.

      The flames had eaten away most of his clothes. The skin beneath was black and red, charred and blistered. His face was a twisted ruin, like a GI Joe doll left on a radiator.

      Any living human being would have been paralyzed with shock. The Walkman kept coming.

      "Where's Spelvin? I'll make you tell!"

      He rushed her, a locomotive made of burned meat. She swung the iron bar, but he grabbed her wrist, twisted, and made her drop it.

      The Walkman forced her arm behind her back. "Tell me where Spelvin is!" he shouted.

      God, he was strong. "I don't know!"

      "Don't lie to me, bitch! I'll rip your arm off and feed it to you."

      "I don't know!"

      He pushed hard. The pain increased tenfold. She gritted her teeth against the agony. She started to moan. She couldn't help it.

      Just at the point when she knew that her arm was ready to snap, he suddenly let go. She heard him mutter, "No..." She turned around to stare at him, to see what he was planning to do next.

      The Walkman just stood there, as if he had forgotten all about her. Staring sightlessly, he said, "Henri. They've killed Henri."

      Alison picked up the crowbar and bashed the zombie's forehead in. The metal sank three inches into his skull. A gray porridge of brain tissue leaked out.

      The crowbar still lodged in his head, the Walkman toppled to the floor. His massive arms and legs writhed for a few seconds and then were still.

      Not at all understanding what had happened but sensing that Joey must have won somehow, Alison backed away from the corpse. Just as the firemen broke the front door open, she shouted, "Way to go, Spelvin!"

      Concasseur's death broke the spell holding Joey. Keeping his eye on Tiffany, he cautiously stood up.

      She paid no attention to him. Weapon in hand, she stared down at the sorcerer's corpse. A single tear trickled down her alabaster cheek.

      He walked over to her and took the knife. Now she looked at him.

      "I remember everything," she said. "It's awful."

      Joey said, "I know."

      She reached out and touched his hand, the one that held the knife. "You have to do it."

      "I know."

      When the blade pierced her heart, Tiffany made a soft sound in her throat but did not scream. Joey pulled the knife from her chest, and she tumbled to the floor, landing beside Concasseur's corpse. There was no blood.

      Joey's knees wobbled. He dropped the knife and leaned on the desk to keep from falling over. Wiping a slick of sweat from his forehead, he whispered, "Fucking A. It's over."

      "Yes," said a gravelly voice. "All that remains is the mopping up."

      A dog-headed figure loomed in the study doorway. For one heart-stopping second, Joey thought it was the reanimated corpse of Carol Hartinger, come to seek its revenge. But this beast radiated a dark power that the yuppie werewolf could never have matched.

      Joey had no fight left in him. Resignedly, he asked, "Who are you?"

      "I have many names." The creature stepped fully into the room, and Joey choked on its stench. "I have come for what is mine."

      Joey understood. He nodded at Concasseur's body. "Take it."

      "Yes." The hot-point demon lifted the corpse effortlessly. With one taloned hand, it popped out the bokor's eyeballs. These went into a pouch around the creature's neck.

      "You have done well," the demon said. "I would not have guessed that Concasseur could be defeated by one as young as you."

      The stink was nearly more than Joey could stand, but he did not want to offend the beast by leaving the room. Breathing through his mouth, he said, "I just got lucky."

      "There is no such thing as luck. You will learn. One day you will be very powerful indeed. It would be my pleasure to serve you then."

      Joey shook his head. "Thank you, but I'm not interested. I have a few loose ends to tie up, and then I'm finished with vodoun forever."

      The demon laughed. "Oh my, you are young! We can talk again in a decade or so. Perhaps you will have changed your mind by then."

      "I don't think so."

      "We shall see. In the meantime, goodbye and congratulations, young Joseph Spelvin. Savor your victory while you may." The baka draped Concasseur's corpse around its shoulders and disappeared.

      Joey stared at Tiffany's body. He bent down and closed the lids over her dead, violet eyes. Some victory.

      He left the house and set off to find Alison.