For all the plainness of the exterior, the interior of the building was extravagant to the point of self-parody. The floors alternated between deep pile carpets, expensive hardwood, and strategically placed Persian rugs that I suspected were the real thing. The walls were lined with artwork. Most of it was unknown to me, but I stopped in front of one piece that I thought I recognized from an art history class I’d taken. Jessie came over and looked it over. She glanced from it to me with a raised eyebrow.

“Is there some special about this painting?” She asked.

“It looks like a van Dyck,” I said, leaning in close to get a better look. “Jesus Christ, I think it’s real.”

“Should that mean something to me?”

“Maybe not. He was a court painter to Charles I. Mostly did portraits, but not always,” I said with a nod to the painting. “They usually sell for more than most people make in a year. Some of them sell for more than most people make in a lifetime.”

“What’s this one?”

“Samson and Delilah.”

“How do you know?”

“I took a class once,” I said, resisting the impulse to touch the old masterpiece. “I’ve got no idea what it costs, but to just have it hanging on a wall like this seems reckless.”

Jessie regarded the painting with a thoughtful look. “Or very confident.”

“It’s confidence,” said a smooth, rich voice. “Absolute, utter confidence. No one would dare try to steal from me. Not in my own home.”

I turned toward the voice. The Corrupted Oracle didn’t look like a rabid dog. He was handsome in a decadent way. Slim, in black slacks and a gray shirt, with a maroon smoking jacket hanging open around him, he held a lowball glass in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. His skin was a rich bronze that I doubted he got from spending time outside. His black hair was long, straight, and fell to his shoulders. The black wingtips on his feet, while not polished to a shine, were meticulously free of scuffs and dirt. He pointed at the painting with the hand holding a cigarette.

“A gift from a grateful client,” he said. “And well done to you for recognizing it, young man. Then again, with a name like Jericho, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.”

I inclined my head at the man, not sure what to think. “I take it that you’re the Corrupted Oracle.”

He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. I watched in morbid curiosity as the overlong ash on the cigarette stayed firmly in place, despite the motion of the man’s hand.

“Everyone gets so hung up on titles in our strange little world,” he said. “Call me Corban.”

“Is that your real name?” I asked.

He laughed. “As though I’d tell Jericho Lott and the Wormwood Witch my real name. Still, it’d become endlessly tedious for you to call me the Corrupted Oracle over and over again. Come along children.”

At that, he turned and started walking away. With no other obvious choice, we followed him. He led us past more paintings and some rather well-made, if shockingly obscene, sculptures. He brought us to a pair of double doors, threw them open, and strode into a room. I stopped at the doorway and looked around. It was some kind of study. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled to bursting with cracked leather spines. There was a huge desk organized to within an inch of its life. I saw a closed laptop set to one side, folders stacked in a tidy pile, and an old Bakelite rotary telephone. Set perpendicular to and in front of the desk was a small leather sofa and coffee table. Across the table from the sofa were two overstuffed chairs. He gestured at the chairs and sprawled onto the sofa. He finally noticed the cigarette ash, which was now a full inch and a half long. He sighed, put the cigarette out in an ashtray on the table, and lit another. He looked at Jessie and a faint line creased the space between his eyebrows.

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“I know why the boy is here, but why are you here, witch?”

Jessie gave Corban a wintery smile. “I figure you’ll do something foolish, and the boy will kill you. It should be a good show.”

Corban’s eyes shifted to me, measuring, weighing. “Are you here to kill me?”

I played it casual. “Not specifically.”

“Well, that’s something anyways,” said Corban.

“Although,” I amended. “I was told to burn you to ash if you so much as twitched wrong.”

“That woman never could let things go.”

I gave Corban a questioning look. He shook his head and waved it off.

“Old history. Fine, let’s get on with it. Ask your question. Then, we’ll see if you can meet the price.”

“Price?” Jessie asked.

“I don’t work for free, woman. I may be corrupted, but the old pacts still bind. You should know that.”

Jessie looked embarrassed. “Of course. Ask your question, Jericho. There’s nothing binding in that.”

I hated it when the conversation was going on above my head. I had no idea what they were on about with pacts and bindings. Still, there was nothing to do but press forward. If I didn’t get my information here, I didn’t know where else to go.

“The hunter is traveling,” I said. “How do I find the hunter?”

The Corrupted Oracle took a deep drag from the cigarette and blew the smoke into the air. It hung around him like incense smoke. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, there were no irises, no pupils, just pure white sclera. I felt a tingle in the air, a charge building, and those white eyes flicked back and forth, seeming to read something in the smoke. Jessie was leaning forward, studying the process, and I found myself wondering if that was what she had really come along to see. Corban read the smoke for all of about five seconds, then closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the irises and pupils were back in place. He seemed to sag for a moment. It looked to me that he’d been drained by a terrible effort. He took another drag and perked up.

“Yes. I can tell you what you want to know,” he said, amiable and charming.

“And the price?” I asked.

“The price,” mused Corban. “It’s always a quandary, you know. Deciding what to ask for. You obviously don’t have the means to lavish me with mountains of cash, jewels, or any of the other things I’d normally demand. You aren’t emotionally equipped to give up your soul, not that I’d have any use for it. I suppose I could demand your firstborn child.”

Jessie rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t have any more use for a child than you would for his soul.”

Corban acknowledged the point with a sad smile. “Probably not. Then again, we all crave family, and it’s been a very long time since I’ve had one.”

I shook my head. “No. I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s the problem with your type. Always so hung up on morals. Very well, we’ll do this as the Jinn do it. I want three things. First, I want a favor.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but Jessie cut me off.

“Not a word, Jericho,” she ordered, then looked at Corban. “Only a fool agrees to an open-ended favor. What are the terms?”

Corban gave her an annoyed look. “A medium-sized favor. Nothing murderous or reprehensible. No assassinations or thievery. I’ll have him run an errand, perhaps, or provide me temporary shelter one day, should I need it.”

“The second thing?” I asked.

He shot a look at Jessie. “I want a kiss, from her.”

Jessie and I spoke in unison. “What?”

“Oh, come now, it’s not that terrible a thing, is it? I’m well aware that I’m an attractive man. It’s not a trap. There are no secret magics at work. I just want a kiss, freely given by a young and terribly powerful woman. After all, power is its own aphrodisiac.”

Jessie sat there, her mouth hanging open a little and not speaking. It took me a second to get my thoughts together.

“I asked the question,” I said. “I have to pay the price. You’re asking for something beyond my power.”

“You came here together,” said Corban. “You’ve allowed her to negotiate on your behalf. For my purposes, you are a package deal. Therefore, I can divide the price as I see fit.”

I started to shake my head.

“Alright,” said Jessie. “I’ll do it.”

Corban and I both blinked. I turned to her.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“What’s life without a little risk,” she said with a gleam in her eye. “He is attractive, in a fallen from grace kind of way. Besides, if he does something I don’t like, I’ll give him leprosy.”

Corban’s eyes went a little wide.

“Can you really do that?” I asked.

She gave Corban a predatory smile. “Better believe it.”

“If you’re sure,” I said. “What’s the last thing?”

Corban swirled the liquor in the lowball glass and then drained it. “I want the two of you to come back here, once a year, to spend a day with me.”