| SEVENTY-ONE |

| 1 : 11 AM |

SWANN KNEW LILLY HAD BEEN AWAKE. HE ALWAYS KNEW. IT WAS A GAME he had often played himself as a child. His father would have his small conclaves at Faerwood, finding himself in need of a foil or an object of ridicule at two and three and four in the morning. Swann had even studied techniques—mostly of Eastern origin—to slow down one’s breath and pulse to further the outward appearance of sleep, coma, or even death.

He fingered the goatee into place, held it, the smell of the spirit gum drawing him back to his childhood. He recalled a small club near Boston, 1978. The dressing room chair had tape on one leg. There were crumpled McDonald’s bags in the corner. His father played to an audience of ten people.

Swann tied his tie, put on an older raincoat. After all, he could not be glimpsed in North Philadelphia looking like the master of ceremonies at a bizarre gathering of aging conjurers.

He flipped off the makeup mirror lights. The lights slowly died, as did the memories.

THE VAN SAT waiting for him in the garage. In the back was Patricia Sato, his lovely Odette. She was the girl in the Sub Trunk. He had built it to exacting specs. There was no air inside.

Moments later, observing all traffic laws, Joseph Swann—also known as the Collector—drove to the Badlands.