“And so we halt death …” she said solemnly, her attention on the corpse. “It is done.”

The gray shroud of black crafting power lay over Aaron, the symbol of my blood bright on his forehead, but dimming as it sunk into his skin.

Nuallan stood, snuffed out her candle by pinching it with her thumb and the bloody middle finger, saying what seemed to be some kind of thank you or prayer to the Dark Mother in Charbydon, took her ritual dagger, grabbed her bag, and then shoved her expensive pumps through the circle of ashes. The barrier of smut dropped immediately and she stepped out, stopping in front of Hank. “Leave him on the floor.”

And then she left, the Master black crafter of Atlanta. A very powerful, very deadly, very unpredictable monster.

There weren’t many ghouls in the city, most preferring their homeland in Charbydon, but some of the more enterprising of the species had come to our world where they lived in the shadows and maintained a quiet, mysterious existence.

Hank entered the broken circle and bent down to help me to my feet. His scent swirled around me and my mark gave me a fresh zing of energy, but it didn’t stop me from swaying on my feet, everything going blurry. “Heal yourself, Charlie,” he commanded through tight lips.

My throat burned. I tried to speak, but now it hurt too badly.

I was aware of him and the others helping me out of the room, and of the cool air at the back of my neck where hair should’ve been, of the newly cut ends brushing against my jaw and curving under my chin as my head dipped forward.

“Get her up on the table,” I heard Liz say amid the sound of footsteps and metal clanging. Hands slipped under my armpits as I was helped onto a cold, hard table. Then I was being lowered onto my back. Somewhere in the haze of my mind, I realized they’d put me on a stainless steel autopsy table. Nice, guys, real nice.

The voices of Hank, the chief, and Liz became lower and more distant until they blended into a low hum and finally silence. My muscles relaxed, and I gave in to the oblivion waiting in the wings.

A surge of heat from the mark on my shoulder, followed by a cool breeze floating over my neck wound and winding its way inside of me, slowly restored my awareness. My mind began to process things again, and after a few tries, I was able to open my heavy eyelids and keep them open.

Hank stood over me, one hand over my wound and the other palm underneath my shoulder blade on the mark we shared. I knew what he was doing—giving me his healing energy, and replacing some of my pain with those feel-good hormones from the mark.

I felt drunk. My lips worked, trying to speak, though I didn’t know what I meant to say.

“Better?” Hank asked.

I nodded, testing my throat with a swallow to see if it hurt. Yeah. It hurt. But not as badly as before. “Getting better,” I rasped out.

“Good, because you know I’m not the best at healing others. Why don’t you help me out and start healing yourself?”

“Okay.” I could do that. “If you tell me what Malakim means.”

“It’s just a generic term, a greeting from one Elysian to another. Nothing important. Heal yourself, Charlie. We don’t have a lot of time.”

“You’re so full of it,” I slurred. But, yeah, he was right. Whatever the term meant, it wasn’t important. Not now, and I wasn’t even sure why that question had popped into my head to begin with. I drifted into that cool place of healing, thinking of smiles and laughter and my kid, all the good things that sent a familiar hum of pure light energy into all the nooks and crannies, into the places that still burned, and snuffed out the fires …

“Charlie. Charlie, wake up,” a voice echoed in a singsong tone while a gentle hand shook my shoulder. “Time to kick some Adonai ass.”

Those words made me smile.

I woke from what was a very typical healing state—very similar to sleep—to see my partner shaking his head in an amused way. “I thought that would get you up.”

It took a few tries, but I managed to ask in a scratchy voice, “How long was I out?” The weight in my eyelids dissipated as I pushed to my elbows, one hand going carefully to my throat. Tender. A little squishy as the wound had sealed but not yet scarred over. Otherwise I felt okay. I sat up all the way and swung my legs over the autopsy table, giving myself a minute to regain my equilibrium before sliding off. “Don’t ever put me on that table again.”

Hank tossed me an extra Hefty. “We should double up.”

“I take it you raided the armory again. Where’re the chief and Liz?” I shoved the extra Hefty in the waistline of my jeans.

“Liz is in with Aaron, getting her stuff ready for the ritual, and the chief is on the phone with DC and the Adonai reps. Now that they know about Llyran, we won’t have to worry about them accusing the nobles.”

“Yeah, we have enough to worry about,” I muttered.

I went to twist up my hair, reaching back and not finding it there. Ah, yes. My unnecessary payment to the Dark Mother. The ends were still long enough to pull back into a barrette or a very, very short ponytail that would stick straight out, but I didn’t have any of those handy.

“It looks cute,” Hank said. “Makes you look young and innocent and sweet.”

My eyes rolled. “Yeah, just the image I want to convey to all the bad guys out there.”

Unable to stand the curiosity, I stepped to the small mirror hanging over the sink. My brow shot up. The person staring back did not look like me. Same face, of course, but somehow made softer, a little kinder-looking with my mahogany waves falling just past my chin, the front longer than the back where Nuallan had made her cut. I shoved one side behind my ear, the other side falling over my eye.

Gold and copper glinted in my narrow, calculating gaze as I stared at the younger and—dare I say?—peppier version of me. This could work to my advantage. The badasses I hunted would underestimate this version of Charlie Madigan even more than they did the old one. I’d have an edge, and those fuckers would never know what hit ’em.

I shrugged and spun around. “Let’s go.” Confidence and determination settled over me like a comfortable old blanket as I strode toward the door, but it was quickly tempered by the enormity of what we were about to do: find Llyran, get Aaron’s soul back, and stop the star from being raised before dawn. We needed some serious backup if this was going to work.

Once we made it out of Station One and into the parking lot, I grabbed my cell and placed a call.

“The clock is ticking, Detective,” came Pendaran’s version of a hello.

“Save it, Druid. I need your help.”

20

It was nearing 4 A.M., the time when Atlanta’s bar and club scene was closing for the night and revelers and waitstaff made their way home. Of course, a few you-don’t-have-to-go-home-but-you-can’t-stay-here groups and couples lingered in the streets and alleys. But for the most part, Underground had taken on a quiet air.

Hank and I walked side by side down Helios Alley, the soles of our boots echoing in time. Neither one of us spoke. My senses were on high alert, aware of every sound and every movement around us. When the first flash of a shadow fell on the storefront to my left I didn’t miss a beat. My hearing trained on the soft pads drumming the pavement. A nymph had fallen in with us.

As we approached the end of Helios Alley and the Underground lobby of Helios Tower, I felt a moment of apprehension. If Llyran hadn’t gone to the tower we were screwed. But the tower felt right. He had to be there. But just in case, I had Pendaran scouring the skyscraper rooftops for Llyran and the sarcophagus.

As we entered the wide tunnel that led to the lobby, two wolves fell in step on either side of us and changed as we went, the air infusing with a quick burst of energy and there they were, fully clothed and armed, and marching beside us. Orin and, I had to guess, Killian. No nods. No talking. Just complete and total focus.