Morthisal sat in the back of a dark gray hybrid Toyota as the Uber wound through streets that climbed steadily upward into the Hollywood Hills. The car reeked of sweat and dried vomit. Morthisal had smelled much worse.

  Houses perched on slopes at odd angles. Some sprawled across multiple lots. Others hid behind walls topped with security cameras. The architecture had no discernible theme. Houses both old and new dotted the area. Morthisal was aware of the absurd home prices and wondered why. Some were little more than hovels with paint peeling from walls, and brittle yellow grass around patches of dirt.

  The higher they climbed, the more elaborate the properties became. Gates appeared. Hedges grew taller. The modest homes near the base of the hills gave way to estates surrounded by stone walls and iron fencing.

  The driver turned onto a narrow road that curved sharply. Trees lined both sides. Through gaps in the foliage, Morthisal glimpsed the city below. A carpet of lights stretched to the horizon.

  Before the ride, Morthisal had ducked into a secondhand store and purchased a dark blue blazer that fit him well enough. The sleeves ended just past his wrists. The shoulders sat square, and he wore his Dark Lord Energy shirt beneath it.

  The Uber slowed as it approached a property with an open gate. Cars lined the street on both sides. A steady stream of vehicles pulled up to the entrance, dropped passengers, and departed.

  "Dropping you here, dude. I can't wait in that line."

  Morthisal paid the driver on his phone and said, "It is no bother. May your night be eventful."

  "Last thing I need," the man muttered as he put the hybrid in gear and zipped away.

  The driveway stretched ahead, paved with smooth concrete and bordered by manicured grass. Tall palm trees swayed overhead. The house sat at the top of the slope. Even from this distance, Morthisal made out three stories. Modern design with sharp angles and floor-to-ceiling windows glowing with warm light.

  Other guests walked up the driveway in small groups. A couple in matching black outfits. Three women in cocktail dresses. Two men in suits who gestured animatedly as they talked.

  Morthisal joined the flow of people heading toward the house.

  To his left, a couple stood beneath a tree. They passed something small between them. The man took a drag and exhaled a sweet-smelling cloud. The woman laughed and leaned against the trunk.

  Ahead, another man veered off the path and stopped near a low wall. He glanced around, then dipped his fingernail into a small plastic bag. Brought it to his nose, sniffed quickly, and put the bag away.

  Morthisal pulled out his phone and sent a text to Serena's burner number.

  I have arrived.

  He slowed his pace and waited. No response yet.

  More guests passed him. A woman in a flowing red dress. A man with slicked-back hair and sunglasses, despite the darkness. Two security guards stood near the front entrance. Both wore black suits and earpieces. They scanned the crowd but made no move to stop anyone.

  Morthisal frowned as he checked his phone, still with no reply.

  A man and woman walked past. The man glanced at Morthisal's jacket and grinned.

  "My dude, how's Tubbs these days?"

  Unsure what the man meant, Morthisal offered a withering smile in return.

  Morthisal checked his phone a third time, but there was still no response from Serena.

  He tried calling the number. It rang six times before going to a generic voicemail.

  Morthisal narrowed his eyes as he dropped the phone back into his pocket.

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  Near the street, a cluster of paparazzi had gathered. Four or five men with cameras. They snapped photos of arriving guests. One called out to a woman in a silver dress.

  "Over here! Look this way!"

  She ignored him.

  An older actor with an imposing frame emerged from a black SUV. He spotted the paparazzi and turned toward them.

  "You need to leave. This is a private event. So get the fuck out of here!"

  The photographers ignored him. Cameras clicked. Flashes popped.

  The actor shook his head and walked toward the house, and stopped to talk to the security guards. A lot of hand gesturing ensued.

  While slightly entertaining, Mortisal needed to get into this party, and to do that, he needed to take matters into his own hands, so he strode toward the front door.

  One of the guards held a tablet. He checked names and IDs for some guests. Other arrivals received barely a glance. Obviously, Hollywood's elite were exempt from moral thought.

  Morthisal joined the short line. A young man ahead of him gestured wildly at the guard.

  "Are you serious? Don't you recognize me? I was in Sunset Dreams. Had a recurring role in season seven!"

  The guard remained impassive. "Name?"

  "Blake Morris, man. I already told you."

  The guard scrolled through his tablet. Shook his head. "Not on the list."

  "This is ridiculous. Call Levi. He'll tell you."

  "Step aside, sir."

  Blake's face reddened. "Do you know how many followers I have? I could ruin this party with one post."

  Blake strode away muttering curses.

  The guard returned and motioned Morthisal forward. "Name and ID."

  "Serena Winters invited me. Am I not on the list? Vince Logan."

  The guard tapped his tablet. Scrolled and tapped again. His jaw tightened.

  "No. Just leave. Okay? We have enough assholes trying to crash this thing."

  Morthisal smiled, then spoke in a more sinister voice. "Perhaps you could check again?"

  "I checked. You're not on it." The guard's hand moved toward his earpiece.

  Morthisal lashed out with a thread of power. The man was strong. Stronger than most. Morthisal pushed harder, draining more of his power than expected.

  "Look again," Morthisal whispered. "You will find me. There." He pointed at a random name on the screen and twisted the thread.

  The guard's face went slack. He nodded slowly. Scrolled through the tablet again. His finger stopped. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Logan. It's been a night, know what I mean?"

  He stepped aside and waved Morthisal through.

  Morthisal walked past the entrance and into the house. The foyer opened into a vast space with marble floors and a chandelier that hung from a ceiling at least twenty feet high. A curved staircase led to the upper floors.

  Rhythmic music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house.

  Servers in black vests moved through the crowd with trays. They offered drinks in tall glasses and cocktails with elaborate garnishes. Morthisal spotted one with a tiny umbrella and was suddenly thirsty.

  A dozen competing scents washed over him. Expensive perfume—floral and cloying, mixed with the sharp bite of cologne. Someone nearby reeked of cigar smoke.

  A woman approached with a tray of appetizers. Tiny pieces of bread topped with what looked like fish and cream.

  "Smoked salmon crostini?"

  Morthisal accepted one, bit into it. The flavors were salty and rich. He followed the server and asked for a few more, then walked away while snacking on the delicious appetizers.

  The crowd filled every available space. Groups clustered near the walls. Couples danced near the center. A few people stood alone, nursing drinks and watching everyone else.

  The dress code varied wildly. Some guests wore formal attire. Others showed up in ripped jeans and leather jackets. A woman near the staircase wore what appeared to be a dress made entirely of metallic chainmail, though the gossamer links were so delicate they would have offered laughable protection in battle. The nearly transparent garment was clearly designed for conquest of an entirely different sort.

  Morthisal moved deeper into the house. Passed through an archway into another room, eyes scanning for Serena. This one featured floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city.

  A bar occupied one corner. A bartender worked quickly, mixing drinks and pouring wine. The line stretched back several people. Morthisal considered joining it as he would like a Sex on the Beach to calm his nerves. He felt out of place, and he had no one to guide him through this strange party. How he wished Travious were here to assist.

  He had joined the line for a drink when a voice cut through the din.

  "Vince Logan. How in the world did you get in here?"

  Morthisal turned to find a smiling Serena Winters gliding toward him.

  He nodded as she drew up to him. "Despite my failed audition, I am a good actor."

  "Must have been an Oscar-winning performance. Security is tight."

  "I was forced to take matters into my own hands. I messaged and called you to no avail."

  "Oh my God." Serena put her hand on Morthisal's shoulder. I'm so sorry. I left my other phone in the car. My driver would have been the only one to hear it." Serena's hand drifted to his lapel, where she ran her fingers down. "Great jacket. I haven't seen one of these in years. I love the irony and that shirt. What a riot. We need to get you out more."

  "You assume I live a dreary life away from all of this. I assure you, Serena," Morthisal leaned in and fell on some slang that he had learned from Eddie. "I have seen some shit."

  "Have you now?" Serena suddenly snapped her fingers and pointed at the bartender. "Get this man a-" She turned to him. "What do you want to drink?"

  "Sex on the Beach."

  Serena threw her head back and laughed again, then shouted over the four people ahead of him. "Two Sex on the Beaches."

  The people in line looked annoyed, but no one said anything.

  When they had their drinks, Serena motioned for Vince to follow. "Come on. I'll introduce you to everyone."

  Morthisal strode into the fray.