“I’d rather not.”
“But you will.”
“Sure.”
AN HOUR LATER Manimal Mike is in the penthouse crouched by the hound, going over every inch of it, examining the details with a flashlight.
“She has a fair amount of corrosion, but nothing I can’t clean up.”
He nods, satisfied.
“This will work. I can fix Kasabian’s leg and use the frame to build a new torso, closer to human proportions.”
“How soon?” says Kasabian.
Mike frowns and shakes his head.
“I’ll have to get it back to the shop to be sure. Some of the joints are locked and I’ll have to clean and reseal everything.”
“How soon?”
“If I pick it up in the morning, I can probably give you a rough estimate tomorrow night.”
“Great,” says Kasabian.
Mike gets up and wipes his eternally grimy hands on a dirty rag he pulls from his back pocket.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, and heads for the door behind the grandfather clock.
I follow him over and cut him off.
“The other night at Death Rides A Horse . . .” I say.
He holds up his hands in apology.
“Sorry about that. I was in a bad mood and embarrassed that you caught me there.”
“You haven’t done anything stupid, have you? Pledged yourself to some bloodsucker or let one of them put their fangs in you?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Good.”
I reach into my pocket and take out a small bottle.
“Here’s the straight-up truth. I can’t give you back your soul because it’s not mine to give anymore. Never mind how or why, it’s just how things are.”
“Then I’m screwed.”
I hand him the bottle I got from the Cold Case.
“This is a clean soul. It doesn’t belong to anyone. It’ll substitute for yours when the time comes.”
He holds up the bottle to the light and shakes it. He gives me a doubtful look when he can’t see anything inside.
“Did you think you could shake up a soul and see it like salad dressing?” I say.
“What do I do with it?”