“On the morning of our second day, we were strolling down the Champs-Elysées when a bird shit on his head. ‘Did you know a bird’s shit on your head?’ I asked a block or two later.Instinctively Katz put a hand to his head, looked at it in horror – he was always something of a sissy where excrement was concerned; I once saw him running through Greenwood Park in Des Moines like the figure in Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’ just because he had inadvertently probed some dog shit with the tip of his finger – and with only a mumbled ‘Wait here’ walked with ramrod stiffness in the direction of our hotel. When he reappeared twenty minutes later he smelled overpoweringly of Brut aftershave and his hair was plastered down like a third-rate Spanish gigolo’s, but he appeared to have regained his composure. ‘I’m ready now,’ he announced.Almost immediately another bird shit on his head. Only this time it really shit. I don’t want to get too graphic, in case you’re snacking or anything, but if you can imagine a pot of yoghurt upended onto his scalp, I think you’ll get the picture. ‘Gosh, Steve, that was one sick bird,’ I observed helpfully.Katz was literally speechless. Without a word he turned and walked stiffly back to the hotel, ignoring the turning heads of passers-by. He was gone for nearly an hour. When at last he returned, he was wearing a windcheater with the hood up. ‘Just don’t say a word,’ he warned me and strode past. He never really warmed to Paris after that.”

“Is that dog shit on the bottom of your shoe?’I sat up a fraction. ‘What?’‘Is that dog shit on the bottom of your shoe?’‘I don’t know, the lab report’s not back yet,’ I replied drily.‘I’m serious, is that dog shit?’‘How should I know?’Katz leaned far enough forward to give it a good look and a cautious sniff. ‘It is dog shit,’ he announced with an odd tone of satisfaction.‘Well, keep quiet about it or everybody’ll want some.’‘Go and clean it off, will ya? It’s making me nauseous.’And here the bickering started, in intense little whispers.‘You go and clean it off.’‘It’s your shoes.’‘Well, I kind of like it. Besides, it kills the smell of this guy next to me.’‘Well, it’s making me nauseous.’‘Well, I don’t give a shit.’‘Well, I think you’re a fuck-head.’‘Oh, you do, do you?’‘Yes, as a matter of fact. You’ve been a fuck-head since Austria.’‘Well, you’ve been a fuck-head since birth.’‘Me?’ A wounded look. ‘That’s rich. You were a fuck-head in the womb, Bryson. You’ve got three kinds of chromosomes: X, Y and fuck-head.”

“Time to go,” he says. “I already see this heading somewhere I’m too drunk to go right now. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” I jump up and run and block the window before he can leave. He stops in front of me and folds his arms over his chest. “Stay,” I say. “Please. Just lay in bed with me. We can put pillows between us and I promise not to seduce you since you’re drunk. Just stay for an hour, I don’t want you to go yet.” He immediately turns and heads back to the bed. “Okay,” he says simply. He throws himself onto my bed and pulls the covers out from beneath him. That was easy.”

“It’s a puzzler, and I don’t want to sound full of myself, but I may just be the Vyrus messiah."He shakes his head.“I don’t know for sure. Have to meditate on that shit some more. Anyhoo.”

“Except for the giant sword in his hand."Is that really necessary?" I asked when I walked in, noting that his dagger was also hanging off his belt.His head jerked up, and I thought he might have been relieved to see me. But then he turned back to the Itineris, crouching down to pull something out of a black duffel bag at his feet. "Never hurts to be prepared," he said."It just seems like overkill when you already have a dagger and I have supernatural magic at my disposal.""'Superpowerful?'" He stood up, a gold chain dangling from his fingers. "let me remind you of two words, Mercer: Bad. Dog."I rolled my eyes. "That was nearly a year ago. I'm way better now.""Yeah,well,I'm not taking any chances," he said. For the first time, I noticed there was some sort of holster thing on his back. He slid the sword into it so the hilt rose over his shoulders. "Besides," he added, "I thought you might not come. After what happened the other night..." he paused, studying my face. "Are you all right?""I will be when people stop asking me that.""You know I had nothing to do with that, right?""Yeah," I replied. "And if you did have something to do with it, I will vaporize you where you stand."The corner of his mouth quirked. "Good to know."He closed the distance between us, coming to stand entirely too close to me. "What are you doing?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound as breathless as I felt.He lifted his hands, and with surprising gentleness, placed the chain around both our necks. Looking down at it, I saw that the links were actually tiny figures holding hands. I'd seen it somewhere before."This is the necklace one of the angels is wearing in the window at Hex Hall.""It is indeed."Reaching down to take my hands, he explained, "It's also a very powerful protection charm, which we're going to need."I swallowed as we laced our fingers and stepped closer to the Itineris. "Why?""Because we're going a very long way."I involuntarily squeezed his fingers with mine. The last time I'd traveled through the Itineris, I'd only gone a few hundred miles, and that had made my head nearly explode. "Where are we going?" I asked."Graymalkin Island," he answered. And then he yanked me into the doorway.”

“Then, still smiling, he kissed me. When he lifted his head he didn’t go far so I heard it when he whispered, “My reward.” My eyes narrowed and I snapped, “You’re not allowed to do that shit.” His head jerked slightly and he asked, “Say again?” “Be sweet and make me all melty and want to jump you when I’m celebrating my heretofore unknown badassness with a bunch of bikers and their bitches. Not to mention, I’m hungry.” Tack grinned as his arm snaked around me and he yanked me close. “You wanna jump me?” he asked.”

“When I ask Plutarch about his absence, he just shakes his head and says, "He couldnt face it.""Haymitch? Not able to face something? Wanted a day off, more likely," I say."I think his actual words were 'I couldn't face it without a bottle,'" says Plutarch.”