“Yes, Charlotte,” he said, his voice smooth like fine whiskey. “I was a very bad boy once upon a time.”

I nodded. “Okay, well, that’ll work for now. But Reyes knows your real name, right?”

“He does.” He said it almost regretfully. “Not that he ever used it in hell.”

“Then I’ll just ask him. Until then, Osh it is.”

“And her name?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet. I’ve been calling her Beep.”

He laughed softly, giving my belly a light rub, then pulling back his arm. “I don’t know why, but that seems very appropriate.”

“Thank you. I like to think so.”

He winced as he rolled fully onto his back again.

“Why are you and Reyes sleeping on your backs? Your wounds are horrible. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on your stomachs?”

He rubbed his eyes, his lids drifting closed every so often, no matter how hard he fought against it. “You learn things where we come from, and one of them is that you are much more vulnerable on your stomach. No demon worth his salt sleeps on his stomach.”

“Oh.” That was certainly not the answer I’d expected. A survival instinct. Interesting.

“What you should be asking yourself,” he said, indicating Mr. Wong with a nod as the departed man hovered in my corner, “is why a being that ungodly powerful is hanging out in your apartment.”

We spent a quiet evening at home, and I used much of that time studying Mr. Wong. I’d heard that before, of course – that Mr. Wong was powerful – but he’d been here when I first looked at the apartment, not the other way around. It wasn’t like he showed up later to stalk me or anything. Then again, why was a being that powerful hovering in the corner of an apartment in Albuquerque, New Mexico? Wouldn’t he have better things to do?

Before I could ask Osh any more about it, his lids had drifted shut once more, as though he could no longer hold them open. So I dropped it. For now. But studying Mr. Wong wasn’t getting me anywhere either. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was all connected. Mr. Wong. The Twelve. Even the house that was possessed. Did a recent demon possession have anything to do with the Twelve showing up? I’d find out soon enough. I was meeting Father Glenn there in a couple of days. Hopefully, I would find some answers, along with the demon that liked to carve my name.

Cookie and Amber brought dinner. Uncle Bob joined us, too. He had so many questions, but I just didn’t have the energy or the desire to answer them. I’d been drained and I was barely injured. I couldn’t imagine what the boys were going through.

Reyes hardly stirred enough to eat, but Osh explained that the deeper he slept, the faster he’d heal. He could actually go almost comatose and be healed from a near-fatal injury in a matter of hours.

“We all can,” he said, staring at me pointedly. “Since he got it the worst, however, one of us needs to stand guard.”

“So, you won’t heal as fast as he does?”

“No. But I will once he wakes. I’ll go into stasis and be as good as new in a day.” He looked up in thought. “Maybe two days. This is fantastic,” he said to Cookie and Amber, twirling spaghetti around his fork.

Amber blushed, the little hussy. She had the biggest crush on Quentin, a Deaf acquaintance, but I could understand her fascination with Osh, though I was still having a difficult time connecting the name with the kid. He didn’t look like an Osh at first. Maybe the more I used it, the more he would become Osh. Osh Villione. I wondered if he’d let me call him OshKosh B’gosh. Prolly not.

“That guy who attacked you today,” Ubie said, keeping a wary eye on Osh, “was in prison with Reyes.”

I nodded. “He seemed a little rough around the edges. When did he get out?”

“That’s just it. He didn’t.”

I put down my fork. “What do you mean?”

“According to prison records, he died two weeks ago.”

“What?” I asked, completely taken aback. “There’s no way, Uncle Bob. I can tell a living person from a dead one.”

“You haven’t asked me the best part yet.”

“Okay, what’s the best part?”

“He died of a heart attack. He was in his sixties.”

“This guy had some issues, but I doubt heart disease was one of them.”

“We’re looking into it, pumpkin. It has to be some kind of clerical error.”

“Please, keep looking. And while we’re on the subject,” I said, biting my lower lip in hesitation, “did you tell the captain?”

“I did. I’m sorry, hon. I was kind of at a loss on what to do.”

“No, it’s okay. And?”

“He agrees with me. We need to let this one slide for the time being. The guy you identified as the perp is already dead on paper. We can’t send in a crime scene, knowing they could be attacked. And how would we explain it, anyway?”

I relaxed visibly. Another day without being arrested for murder and/or covering up a murder was a good day in my book.

“But he does have some questions for you,” he said.

“Of course he does. Oh, and I asked Rocket. All the people in the suicide notes have passed. But the one from this morning,” I added curiously, “lived until this afternoon. You got the letter at what time?”

“The wife said she woke up and it was in the kitchen. Nothing was gone or missing except him.”