A week later

"The Hexarchy?" I ask, looking at the newspaper in my hand, at the title on its first page. "Fucking what? Do they think we're a goddamn band or something?"

"Or a superhero team," Dresden says with a grin. "You can be Iron Man, Stark. You've already got the name and the alcoholic asshole thing down pat."

"Oh, fuck off, Dresden. Talk to me when you've got something original. I've heard that fucking joke a thousand times from my girlfriend."

"Is that what you call your pillow?"

I look up from the newspaper, and something in my eyes wipes the grin off the smarmy fucker's face. "Watch your damn mouth. You can say whatever shit you want about me, but if you start talking about Candy, I'll eat your lungs."

He holds my stare for several seconds. Then, his eyes widen briefly, slightly. He nods. "Nice to see you care about some people." He says finally.

I snort, taking a cigarette from the pack in front of me, on the table, and lighting it with Mason Faim's lighter. Mason used to be my friend, long ago- at least my younger, dumbass self though he was. I used to hang out with him and his magic circle, back when we were dumb Sub Rosa brats with too much time on our hands.

Mason performed a ritual that dragged me down to Hell, where I was trapped for eleven years, first as a plaything for Hellions, then as a gladiator and, finally, as an assassin. So was born Sandman Slim.

I was nineteen when I arrived in Hell.

Later, I escaped and, after several clusterfucks, got even with Mason. I saved the universe several times: from the Kissi, God's failed angels. From the Angra Om Ya, the old gods ours store the universe from and conned into being banished outside it. I even saved Death once... well, not quite. The old Death was gone, replaced by Samael. But I still stopped an insane fucker from replacing it and breaking the cycle of life and death.

I had Mason's lighter with me throughout all that.

The cigs I'm currently smoking are called 'Lungsbane'. Supposedly, going through a pack melts a normal human's lungs. Me, I'm just tingly, but, if it's true, I can't help but wonder who the fuck would buy them.

There's one born every minute, indeed.

"Well, I gotta go," Dresden says, getting up from his chair. "I've gotta get back to the firm."

I nod goodbye as he leaves the Hawk's Wind Bar and Grill, the ghost of an old bar where the sixties never end. Pretty nice, in a tacky way.

Dresden and Taylor are now partners in a detective firm, headquartered in Dresden's office building, with Cathy as their secretary. I'd make a joke about secretaries, but even I'm not that tasteless. Dresden may be a hypocrite and Taylor a smug dickhead, but neither of them is a pedo. I'd kill them if they were.

I go back to reading the paper. It's the Night Times, obviously. One of the Nightside's two newspapers, and the one worth a damn, in my opinion. The other, the Unnatural Inquirer, is a shit-racking tabloid. If I wiped my ass with that rag, I'd pity my shit.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

The Night Times is run by Julien Advent, the Victorian Adventurer. Allegedly a hero. He doesn't back down from talking shit about assholes who deserve it, at least, and always writes the truth. I can respect that, even if working at a newspaper means talking about what other people do. It's a parasite's job.

Advent dissapeared through a timeslip during Victorian times and reappeared decades ago,but he's still as young as when he arrived. Supposedly, he made a serum that brings out the best in people, which I guess keeps him in his prime. Like Hyde in reverse.

There are Hydes too, in the Nightside. Here, Jekyll existed, and you can still buy his serum, if you're crazy enough. You, too, can become an evil brute. And then, Old Man Slim will gut you for playing out your twisted little fantasies.

Anyway, Advent seems decent enough, for a nineteenth century Brit. If he gets his jollies gargling opium while beating up inferior races, I haven't caugh him yet.

Today's paper talks about our team-up and Cathy Barret's rescue. In the Nightside, big players don't play nice together, let alone unite to save someone out of the goodness of their hearts.

Fuck 'em.

And so... the Hexarchy. Me, Wolfe, Dresden, Taylor, Gordon and Suzie. Maybe they'll start making action figures.

"Is this seat taken?"

I look up from the paper, unwilling to appear startled. The fuck? I can hear heartbeats, never mind steps.

The newcomer has chalk-white skin and a mane of black hair. His eyes are black, too, as are his boots, pants and leather trenchcoat. It looks fucking sweet. Maybe I can buy it from him?

"Well, I dunno," I answer. "Maybe the Invisible Man's got his ass parked in it, but he's naked. Get on with it, though. Don't you wanna sit in his lap?"

The guy sits down, but there's no Invisible Man. I'm heartbroken.

"You are used to greater things than this," he says. I raise an eyebrow. I was just thinking about saving the universe, and...

"Are you a fucking telepath?" I ask bluntly. He shakes his head.

"I know what I need to, when I need to. But I'm right, aren't I?"

"You talking about better smokes? Yeah, I guess. But, unless you've got a pack of Maledictions up your sleeve..." I drawl. He smiles thinly.

"You've saved your reality before."

 My reality, eh? So, he knows I'm not from around here.

"And what if I have? Do you have an universe that needs saving?"

"Not at the moment, no. But, when I do, I'll come to you first, Stark," he says, pushing a pack of Maledictions across the table with a pale finger. The fuck?

I look from the pack to him, trying to place the guy. He seems... familiar, but...

"Do I know you?" I ask. "I think I've seen you around. You got a name?"

His smile widens. "Oblivion. Hadleigh Oblivion."