IN HER SERVICE

Something heavy walloped the roof of the car.

"Jesus! What the—" Geraint hit the brakes and downshifted. The car slid sideways on sodden gravel. Whatever was up there battered the Volkswagen's hardtop like a battalion of storm troopers. The thick girth of a telephone pole loomed through a rain-streaked window. Somehow they avoided impact and fishtailed to a stop on the lip of an irrigation ditch. Geraint took pause to breathe. He glanced over at Max. The pounding on the Golf's roof had stopped, but his passenger's eyes were fixed on the ceiling. The curves of their clear orbs glittered in the darkness.

"Attahasayuta," Max whispered, tracing the ceiling with a gloved index finger. "Pavitra Parama."

Geraint opened his mouth to emit the requisite beg pardon, but he never got that far. Four giant hands slammed palms-down on the windshield from outside, and a massive inverted face with three red eyes peered in at him. The musky smell of patchouli weighted the air. For a moment, his petrified brain registered the sound of female laughter like a song in the night. A prehensile tongue lolled out, leaving a dark streak on the glass, and the nightmare on his windshield vanished.

Geraint wasn't sure how long he'd been screaming, only that he stopped abruptly as one of the Monsewer's hands tightened on his voice box. All sound expired in a high-pitched yawp as Max pinned him to the seat.

"Are you quite finished, Mr. McKellar?" They were practically nose to nose. A fall of Lambert's damp hair trailed along Geraint's collar. "I would rather listen to the bagpipes at close range than the sound you were just making." Max loosened his hold enough for Geraint to cough.

"Would you, uh, mind backing off a foot or so?"

The Monsewer obliged. Sometimes he could be a bloody nice guy.

Geraint rubbed his throat. He clamped his teeth together, but that didn't stop their high-speed rat-a-tat-tat. He stared past Lambert's shoulder. Despite the rain, an inky blotch had congealed on his windshield. Geraint pointed. "What—the—hell—is—that?" Even he could hear the panic in his voice, which seemed about three octaves higher than it should have been.

Max twisted away from him and pulled off a glove. He reached out a pale index finger to the windshield. Garnet-black liquid seeped right through the glass to form a glistening droplet on his skin. Before Geraint could blink, the Monsewer had him pinned by the throat again. Max traced what felt like a triangle between Geraint's eyebrows. The gory fingerpaint burned like camphor. "Jai bhagwan, Geraint McKellar—consider yourself blessed."

Geraint's eyes watered. He sputtered and tried to writhe away. Finally Max let him go, leaning back to gage the effects of his handiwork. Geraint raised a hand to his forehead. Blood? Was Lambert completely off his psychotic French guy rocker? Rapidly his mind began enumerating and classifying the diseases a guy could contract via body fluids. He'd gotten about as far as Ebola when the Monsewer's placid baritone cut in on his reverie. "It will not harm you. It is a sacred mark of protection—the kiss of Kali Ma. The Goddess honours you, my friend."

Geraint crossed his arms over his chest and hugged himself, glaring at Lambert suspiciously out of the corner of one eye. "You're telling me a Goddess just bounced off my windshield."

"Yes, if you like."

"I definitely do not like."

"Come now, Geraint—you are rather too petulant, hmm? After all, how many men have looked on the Divine Countenance?" Max sat back in his seat and tugged off his remaining glove. Raking his fingers through the tangled mass of his hair, he tossed it casually over one shoulder, sectioned it, and began braiding it at his nape. The rain resumed its patter on the windows, sounding a little less icy. After a moment or two Max observed, "They say the poet William Blake had a similar experience as a child, when he saw God press His forehead to the windowpane."

"Yeah, and they also say Blake screamed his frigging head off."

"Mais oui. Geniuses sometimes exhibit a deplorable lack of self-control."

"You—" Geraint gazed at his own extended forefinger. It shook ever so slightly. Worse, he was imitating one of his least favourite gestures from his father's well-worn repertoire. He compressed his lips briefly. With dignity, he unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out into the rain, slamming the door behind him. The Golf resonated almost sympathetically with his lack of self-control. He'd stomped some distance down the road before it dawned on him that 1) it was still a miserable goddamned evening and 2) the three-eyed thing from his windshield might still be lurking around out here. Besides, something else had occurred to him.

"Sacred mark of protection against what?" Geraint demanded as he sloshed back into the Volkswagen.

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