Gabe warned me that Malcolm had been talking shit when we checked in at the gym's front counter the next morning. Apparently he didn't take his defeat in the spar well and had been telling everyone it was a fluke and wouldn't happen again.

"Whatever," I said with a shrug.

"Leah beat his ass," Jeremy said. "He needs to accept it. It has happened to much better than him."

"Some guys let their ego do the talking," Gabe said.

"He can talk all he wants," I said dismissively, done with the conversation.

Apparently Malcolm wasn't, though. He found me working the speed bag and demanded a rematch. "This time, a real fight. None of that headgear nonsense. Full strength, too," he added. "If you man enough."

"I'm going to have to warn you, I hit like a girl," I told him.

Gabe wasn't in love with the idea of a real bout first thing in the morning at his gym, but he begrudgingly agreed to it once I made it clear I was perfectly happy to throw down. Gabe did insist on refereeing the fight, though.

"Don't drag it out," Jeremy said in a low voice as he hovered by my corner. "Take him down fast."

"I have no desire to prolong anything," I assured him as I rolled my shoulders.

I slipped my mouth guard in and stepped into the center of the ring, where Malcolm was glowering at me. I didn't bother to respond, giving him my best 'baby, I'm bored' expression.

Gabe waved us back to our corners, then dropped his hand to indicate the start of the fight. Malcolm didn't waste any time, rushing forward and snapping into a reverse roundhouse kick aimed right at my head. Now, a spinning kick packs an incredible amount of force and will take anybody right out of a fight if it connects with the side of their head.

Of course, the problem with it is that it's a whole-body commitment and takes a relatively long time to develop. The other problem is that you're facing away from your intended target. Seeing it coming, I ducked the flying foot and used my own weight to send a hard left into where Malcolm's face was going to be as his body swung around at about waist level. This coupled with his own momentum meant that my fist found his nose at approximately a hundred miles an hour.

My fist was ready for the impact, but his face was not.

Malcolm collapsed to the mat, dazed from the hit. I dropped my knees on his arms and pounded his face mercilessly until Gabe pulled me off. Honestly, the fight was over with that first punch, but I wanted to make a point.

I stood up, but it was clear that Malcolm was not about to do the same. He was done, dusted, and down for a full count.

"Shite!" Gabe said under his breath as he checked to make sure that Malcolm was actually still breathing. He waved me back to my corner, saying something about knowing it had been a really bad idea.

"You didn't prolong that at all," Jeremy said, handing me a towel, which was hardly needed.

"That guy is a fucking idiot," I said once I'd pulled out my mouth guard. "Those moves are flashy, but they'll get you killed."

"He really had no idea he was going up against the Demon Queen," Tiny said with a low laugh.

"Hey, Gabe? I think I'm done here for the day," I said, tapping the gym's manager on the shoulder. "I'm leaving London tomorrow morning, so it'll be a while before I'm back."

He looked up at me from where he knelt on the canvas, wiping the blood from Malcolm's face.

"If you ever do come back, you don't get to fight in my gym again," he said.

"Are you ending my membership?" I asked.

"No," he said, his shoulders slumping. "Just… none of this, understand?"

"Loud and clear," I said, fighting back the urge to say 'but he started it!'

Jeremy looked as if he would leave with me, but I told him to stay and finish his workout. Just because I was in a mood to leave didn't mean that he should cut his session short. He still had his boxing class, after all.

I became a bit angry at myself for leaving the gym on the ten minute walk home. I should have gone back to my workout as if nothing had happened, just to make a point. That's what Emmy would have done, I told myself, and in some ways she was as hard as freaking diamond. Resigned to the fact that it was too late to go back, I stopped off at the bakery and bought some croissants, scones and some Danishes to take up to the penthouse.

The girls were awake and up when I got home. They weren't expecting me to come home early, so I took them by surprise. The two were dancing to one of Jimmy Cliff's older albums playing on the stereo, just enjoying themselves. The volume wasn't too loud (probably to avoid waking Emmy), but loud enough that they hadn't heard the front door open.

I watched the two for a few minutes until Cecilia noticed me standing in the kitchen.

"Ay, coño!" she exclaimed, covering her heart with her hand in surprise. Dulce turned to see what her friend was looking at, startled. The reaction amused me- it was as if I'd caught them doing something prohibited, the way they were suddenly so embarrassed.

"I brought pastries," I said, holding up the bag from the bakery.

The girls broke out of their shock and sheepishly came into the kitchen to see what I'd gotten.

"Have you two had a good time here in London?" I asked. "We have to go back to Colombia tomorrow."

"What are we doing today?" Cecilia asked.

"Honestly, today's not great for you guys. Emmy and I have a meeting at eleven to see about getting residency papers, then we have to go to the guitar auction. That's expected to run to five o'clock."

"Are we stuck here in the apartment?" Cecilia asked, disappointed.

"What would you two like to do?"

"The British Museum," Dulce announced.

"Alright," I said. "I'll have Jeremy go with you."

"We can do it without him," Dulce protested.

"Probably," I admitted. "You'd probably be perfectly fine. This is a very safe city, and you'll be in touristy parts of town. Still, I'd feel a lot better if he was there with you."

Cecilia looked as if she wanted to object a little more, but she just took a bite of her croissant instead.

"I think Emmy got us tickets to see a play tonight," I added. "So you two can't be out too late. Be home by five or so."

The girls both seemed to think all this was acceptable, so after their pastries and coffee they went to go get dressed, despite the fact that they had plenty of time since Jeremy still hadn't gotten back.

Jeremy wasn't too pleased with his assignment for the day when I explained it to him, either. It wasn't that he resented playing babysitter to Cecilia and Dulce- far from it. He seemed to get along well with the girls. No, his main objection was not being there to act as Emmy's bodyguard. Yes, he understood that where we were going was very safe and there was very little risk, and yes, I'd be there, but he still felt that he was abandoning his duty.

I reminded him that we planned on having him around for the foreseeable future and there would necessarily be times that he wouldn't be able to keep an eye on Emmy as his duties require him to be elsewhere.

Eventually he conceded the point. He was going to do what I asked in any case, but at last he begrudgingly admitted that yes, it was better if the girls had somebody who knew how to navigate the city and keep them from any harm and that it had to be him.

Emmy asked if we really even needed to bother with UK residency in the car on the way to our appointment.

"If we are allowed to stay up to one hundred and eighty days a year without official residency, does it matter?" she asked.

"Probably not, no," I admitted. "Chances are we won't run up against that limitation, but who can say what the future brings? This opens up our options and gives us a bit more flexibility."

"What do you think about a French residency for you? We could even pursue a citizenship, since you are legally married to a French national," Emmy asked, but I think it was more out of conversation than anything else.

"It might not be a bad idea," I admitted. "Again, just for flexibility and ease of travel."

I think Emmy was surprised by my response, because she didn't have any sort or reply for what I'd just said.

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For some reason I'd gotten the impression that Harry Powell's friend was some sort of immigration lawyer, or whatever the English version of that would be, but as it turned out his was actually a government office, although one that didn't really seem to be designed for the public to access. It was almost entirely unmarked and there was no real waiting area where one might expect applicants to sit.

The receptionist recognized us immediately and said that we were expected. In just a few moments a man in a nice suit came to greet us and lead us back to his office. He introduced himself as David Davis, and the expression on his face said that he knew it was a bit funny.

"When Harry reached out to me on your behalf, Ms Farmer, I did a little bit of the necessary background work. To my surprise, it seems that you two are- and this is the first time I've seen this in my many years in this field- 'pre-approved,' as it were. All the Home Office needs is for you two to sign the required documentation and the deed is done, as they say," said Mr Davis. "It will take a little while for the paperwork to be processed, but I would imagine that you'll receive notification of your residency status fairly quickly."

"Pre-approved?" Emmy asked, puzzled.

"Yes, it seems that the necessary background checks and so on have already been done. When did you first file the paperwork?" Mr Davis asked.

"I can't recall, exactly," I said, heading off Emmy saying anything about us never having done so.

We filled out the forms that Mr Davis had for us, thanked him kindly, and left. The whole process had taken only a few minutes, unlike virtually every other visit to any government office in the history of mankind.

"I did not realize that you had already started the process," Emmy said once we were outside and walking down the street, looking for a place to have lunch.

"I didn't," I told her. "This must have been Colonel Bridger's doing. I can't say I'm surprised, and I also can't say that I resent him doing it, since I had mentioned to him that I wanted to get residency for- well, for all three of us, at the time."

"Angela… She should be here with us."

"I truly wish she was," I agreed, taking Emmy's hand.

"Jeremy told me that you beat a man senseless at your gym this morning. He said that you 'pounded the man's face in,' and that you left him unconscious," Emmy said over lunch at a Pret a Manger location on Piccadilly.

"That's… not an inaccurate description of what happened, yeah," I admitted between bites of my overly-dry egg salad sandwich.

"What prompted it?" Emmy asked.

I explained about how Malcolm had wanted to spar a few days earlier, but took it badly when I cleaned his clock. He thought to get back at me, taking it too seriously.

"I might have overreacted a bit," I admitted. "Aaaand he probably didn't actually learn anything from it, either."

"Will you be in trouble?"

"No. Well, I'm not sure. I don't think I'm banned from the gym, but I do think I'm not going to be allowed to spar with anybody anymore."

"But the police will not be involved?" Emmy asked for clarification.

"What? No! It was a fair fight, under terms that he called for. No, it might have been a brutal mugging, but it was perfectly legal," I said.

"If Jeremy had not told me what had happened, I do not think you would have mentioned it at all," Emmy said, taking a sip of her Perrier.

"No, probably not," I agreed.

"Because it meant nothing to you," Emmy said. "I do not think it would have meant much more to you if you had been the one who had lost the fight, either."

"Well, I'd have a few more bruises and maybe a concussion, but…" I shrugged. "You live by the fist, you get knocked out by the fist."

"I know that I have called you a monster before," Emmy said. "I am very, very grateful that you are my monster. I could not imagine what it would be like to oppose you."

"I'm grateful to be your monster," I said, lacing my fingers in hers. "Grateful, too, that I get to sleep in the bed with you, and not have to hide underneath it."

Emmy's pretty laugh rang through the store's small seating area. Of course everybody in the shop had been staring at us surreptitiously, but Emmy's musical laughter turned heads anyhow.

"You truly are my beast," she said, kissing my knuckles.

"And you are my Belle," I replied in as gruff and deep a voice as I could manage.

It was only a few blocks in the welcome early afternoon sunshine to the auction house, so we strolled in a leisurely fashion, making a lap around a small square park on our way. Once at the auction house we were ushered to our seats, which had our names on placeholders which doubled as programs, listing all the 'lots', which in this particular case were individual guitars.

The actual auction started right on time. I didn't count how many different guitars were up for sale, but it had to be over a hundred, making Emmy's collection of somewhere around two dozen seem underwhelming. Of course Gilmour had had decades to amass all of them, whereas Emmy only had three when I first met her less than ten years before. With any luck, she was going to add one more to her stash that day.

When I'd asked Emmy why she was so focused on the one in particular, she explained that Gilmour had never actually recorded anything with it or used it on any tours. He had bought it as a collector, merely to have it.

When I pointed out the fact that him not having recorded any notable songs made it less desirable, she said no, it made it more so for her.

"It is an almost completely unplayed 1957 Stratocaster. That is the best year," she explained. "It is like a collector wanting to buy a- a Ford Mustang. A 1965 would be the most desirable, no? A 1966 is still very desirable, but a 1965 is more so. This is that guitar. To add so much more value, though, this is the only one finished by the Fender factory in this color blue, which has become my trademark. At this point in my career it would not do to be seen with a Sunburst Stratocaster. It also has the very rare factory gold hardware, and has been unchanged from the way it was delivered from the luthier."

"Ah, I get it," I replied. "To go to the Ford Mustang analogy, it's a 1965 with matching serial numbers, painted in factory one-off paint with the best options, garaged from new."

"That is it exactly. It is, in essence, the Holy Grail of rock guitars, simply meant for me."

Looking through the program, I saw the blue Strat was going up for auction at roughly the halfway mark. The early listings were for various guitars with somewhat uninteresting provenance, but despite that every single one went for more than the projected estimate supplied by the Christie's assessors.

"I am starting to fear that the blue Strat will go for much more than anticipated," Emmy whispered as the time drew near.

"Doesn't matter," I told her. "If you want it, make sure you take it home, whatever the price."

"It might go for double the estimate," Emmy hedged. "That will be a lot for a guitar."

"It would be, but like you said- it's unique, fits your signature perfectly, and you've already played it, so you know you like it."

"But do I like it one hundred thousand pounds' worth?" Emmy asked, more to herself than to me.

"If you do, that's O.K. We have the money," I assured her.

When the time came, bidding started out surprisingly fast, with several remote bidders driving up the price quickly. Emmy gave me a questioning look when it broke the one hundred thousand pound mark, and I just nodded. She hadn't begrudged me buying myself a nearly two million dollar car, so I wasn't going to complain about her wanting to spend the money, either.

All in all, it went for a bit over twice that- surprising, since it really had no connection to Pink Floyd or David Gilmour's solo work other than the fact that he'd simply owned it for a while.

Its defining feature was its uniqueness and innate desirability. Whoever the two other bidders were, they were probably big-time performing guitarists as well and not simply collectors, like the guy who bought the Black Strat for over two million pounds. That was not somebody who had any intention of playing it. It was going to go on a wall or in a display case somewhere.

The blue Strat, though, that was coming home with us (in its original case) with the full intention of making music.

Emmy was a mixture of elation at getting what she'd wanted and buyer's remorse for having spent so much on it.

"You just have to make sure you record a hit song on it so we can write it off on our taxes," I told her, which got the laugh I was hoping for.

Jeremy and the girls were at the apartment when we got home, but Emmy barely said hello before shutting herself in her little studio with her precious.

"She must have won the auction," Jeremy said.

"Yeah. The price was a lot more than expected, but she really wanted it, so…"

"How much?" Cecilia asked.

"Over four hundred thousand dollars," I replied, seeing no reason to avoid the subject. After all, it was public information for anybody who cared enough to go online and look.

"For a guitar?" Dulce asked, her eyes wide.

"It's a really nice guitar," I said.

In some ways I regretted that we'd gotten tickets for a West End show that night. Emmy wanted to stay home and play with her shiny new toy and the girls and I had an early-morning flight out of Heathrow, which always sucked. Still, it was one more London experience for Cecilia and Dulce.

None of us had ever seen a staging of Man Of La Mancha, and we all enjoyed it quite a bit. The girls were surprised by the ice cream break during intermission, but happily used the little wooden spoons to shovel down the little tubs of vanilla.

In the car on the way home the girls sang various little bits and pieces, from, "I'm Sancho, yes I'm Sancho, and I'll follow my master to the end," to, "I see Heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea," to of course, "To dream the impossible dream, to fight the impossible foe!"

It was adorable to see the two in such a good mood, but then, from what I could tell they'd had a great time the whole trip.

Cecilia and Dulce went to bed pretty much right after we got back to the apartment and Emmy vanished into the studio after asking if I minded.

I sat at the kitchen counter with a Negroni I'd made myself while Jeremy puttered around the kitchen, cleaning up and putting things away.

"I'll be back in Los Angeles by Thursday," I told him. "I have a few days to take care of things in Colombia, then I'll come home."

"Emmy has no plans to do anything outside the house or studio before then," Jeremy replied, "But if she does, I'll make sure I'm there with her."

"Good," I said. "But we're going to have to start you with the training programs we talked about soon, and those'll mean you'll have to travel for them. We're really pretty safe in Los Angeles- honestly, anywhere in North America these days- so you don't necessarily have to be there all the time. There won't be a repeat of Atlanta."

"I know," he agreed. "But I feel useless if I can't be there to protect her."

"Think of it as an investment. We get you trained up and you'll be that much more ready if anything does happen," I said, patting him on his big shoulder.

Tiny took a sip of his beer. "I watched your fight this morning. Pretty much the whole gym did," he added.

"And?"

"That guy had no idea he jumped in front of a freight train," Jeremy said. "He was not ready for you. You know, he left in an ambulance."

"Oh, jeez," I groaned. "Did Gabe have anything to say after I left?"

"He seemed pretty shaken up by the whole thing. I'm pretty sure he expected you to beat that guy, but nobody expected it to be so quick and brutal, or so one-sided. Everybody in the gym was talking about it after you left. I overheard the guy you sparred with last time we were in London saying that he knew you were fast, but nobody knew you could hit that hard. I think… and I hate to say it, but I don't think anybody took you too seriously since they'd only ever seen you in light strikes sparring, right? I think the assumption was that you might be fast, but because you're a woman you can't be as strong or aggressive as a guy might be. I think the simple fact that you followed him down and kept beating the shit out of him ended anybody thinking that chicks can't be, well, I mean, brutal. You said that Gabe had seen the Atlanta videos, right? He knew you were capable of actually killing people in seconds, but even despite that I don't think he actually really understood what that meant."

"Did Gabe say anything about banning me from the gym?" I asked.

"Not to me, he didn't," Jeremy said. "I like that gym, and I like how convenient it is. I'd hate for us to get kicked out because some asshole bit off more than he could chew."

"Yeah, me, too. Do me a favor and go work out tomorrow, and see what Gabe has to say. If we're kicked out, we're kicked out. If not, though, I'd like to keep training there," I said.

"When am I going to train at your gym in LA?" Jeremy asked.

"Are you feeling ready? If so, we can get you signed up any time. It all depends on how your recovery is going," I told him.

"It's almost been a year," Jeremy said. "I really don't feel it anymore, even when I do crunches."

"Alright. We'll get you going next week," I said, finishing off my drink. "Meanwhile, I'm going to bed."

I checked in on Emmy, who asked if I minded if she stayed up a bit. I told her I'd save her place in bed, then retired for the night.

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