Candy Morgue pushed through the nightclub doors and let the bass hit her ribs. She came here to forget the cure she still needed, just for one night. Her skin was holding, mostly. The lights were low enough to lie for her. She ordered a glass of something that glowed faint blue. A spirit drink, the kind that hummed against her teeth. She drank it slow and watched the dance floor churn with bone and rot. A skeleton in a torn collar leaned close and complimented her smile. She let him. She laughed when Barley Corpsman shouldered up beside her, blunt as always. "You look like trouble tonight," he said. "Same as every night," she answered, and clinked her glass to his. Vivienne Mortis watched from a corner booth, arms folded, dress hanging off her thin shoulders. "You're losing a finger," she said flatly when Candy drifted over. Candy looked down. Her left pinky hung wrong, the skin split at the knuckle. The music kept going. Her stomach did not. She slipped off the stool and into the bathroom. Under the buzzing light she saw it clearly — the rot had moved past makeup, past lies. The party was over before it started. She wrapped the finger in a napkin and pressed it flat. When she came out, she found Gravewalker waiting by the door, pink eyes steady. "We're done here," she told him. She needed a chemist now, tonight. The dancing was a luxury she could no longer afford.