Chapter 49
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Poker night at my new neighborhood bar in Washington, DC. My shoulder was sore, my left hand had lost some nerve function that it would never completely regain, and months spent recovering in a hospital bed had left me weak and shaky. I still had nightmares about the Quod Glasses, though not nearly as many as the people who were wearing them when the firebolt hit.
But I was home. I was in DC, and playing poker with people I certainly never expected to be playing poker with again: Violet Manchester, Bruce Putnam and John Grimassi from the FBI’s residential agency in Hennington, Minnesota. The three of them were in town for a conference and had called me at home to invite me to come out for a hand of cards with them.
“So you’re back in, then?” asked Grimassi, throwing
