He stormed out into the hall, leaving the door open. Presumably, he did it as an act of angry defiance, but I knew it was so Roman could follow him. Normally, the demon would have simply teleported out, but for whatever reason, father and son were investigating together today. Once alone on the stairwell, Jerome muttered, “Hold on.”

Roman must have because Jerome disappeared. He reappeared—and me along with him—in a new setting: Erik’s store. It was evening, and Erik had shut down for the night. The fountains were off. The music had stopped playing. Yet, near the back of the store, a few notes of humming could be heard. They cut off almost immediately, and footsteps sounded as someone approached.

Jerome stayed where he was, not deigning to move. He knew his presence would have been promptly felt. He knew Erik would come to him.

And sure enough, gait still unsteady from being sick recently, Erik made his way to the store’s front. He radiated wariness as he moved. For me, he always had a kindly smile and cup of tea. Even Carter, the most powerful immortal in Seattle, would earn a respectful smile. But Erik was on his guard now—which really wasn’t that weird, considering who stood in his store.

Erik came to a stop a few feet from Jerome and straightened himself up as well as he could to his full height. He gave Jerome the smallest nod of greeting.

“Mr. Hanan’el,” said Erik. “An unexpected visit.”

Jerome had just taken a cigarette out of his coat, and it fell from his fingers. The look he gave Erik was a hundred times more terrifying than anything I’d ever seen. I expected another flare-up of power, one that would blow the entire building apart.

“Do not,” said Jerome, “ever let that name cross your lips again, or I will rip them off.” His voice was low and even, simmering with the rage and power he was holding back.

Had I been there, I would have gasped. Jerome’s true name. Erik knew Jerome’s true name. I used fake names to blend in and forget my identity. But for angels and demons, names were power. In the right hands, a name could be used to summon or control a greater immortal. In fact, for Dante to have summoned Jerome in the spring, Grace must have revealed that name.

Erik didn’t flinch at Jerome being in smite mode. “I assume,” said Erik, “you are seeking something.”

“Yes,” said Jerome, slightly mimicking Erik’s tone. “I am ‘seeking’ my succubus.”

Erik’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Miss Kincaid?”

“Of course! Who else?” Jerome did technically have another succubus, Tawny. But maybe he wouldn’t have gone hunting for her if she disappeared. He took out another cigarette and lit it without a lighter. “Do you know where she is? And don’t lie to me. If you’re keeping her from me, I will rip you apart, leaving your tongue for last.”

“Ripping body parts appears to be a theme tonight,” replied Erik, clasping his hands behind his back. “But no, I don’t know where Miss Kincaid is. I didn’t know she was missing.”

Jerome took a step forward, eyes narrowed. “I told you, do not lie to me.”

“I have no reason to lie. I like Miss Kincaid. I would never wish her harm. If I can help her, I will.” Erik’s wording was careful. It was me he was offering to help—not Jerome.

“She spoke to you about some force—some ‘siren song’ that kept coming to her,” said Jerome. He gave a curt report of what Roman had observed when I disappeared. “What do you know about this thing? What kind of creature was it? It was feeding off her depression.”

From the moment this dream had started, Jerome had displayed nothing but rage and terror. Yet…as he shot off questions, it was almost like he was rambling. There was desperation under all that anger. Desperation and frustration because he was in a situation with no answers and felt powerless. Demons, as a general rule, do not like feeling powerless. Resorting to human help—a human who knew his name, no less—must have been excruciatingly painful for my boss.

Erik, classy as always, remained calm and formal. “There are creatures who do that, yes, but I don’t believe it was one of those. I believe it chose those times because she was weakest. It was simply a lure—probably not the creature or culprit itself.”

“Then what creature is it?”

Erik spread his hands wide. “It could be any number of things.”

“God-fucking-damn-it,” said Jerome, dropping his cigarette onto Erik’s floor and stomping on it hard.

“You’re no longer connected to her?”

“Correct.”

“You have no awareness of her—one of your kind isn’t masking her?”

“Correct.”

“And you know she’s not dead?”

“Correct.”

Erik’s brown eyes were thoughtful. “Then the creature is likely one outside of your scope.”

“Why,” asked Jerome wearily, “does everyone keep telling me things I already know?” The question could have been directed to Erik, Roman, or the air. The demon took out another cigarette.

“You need to figure out who would take her and why. She has enemies. Nyx was not pleased with the resolution of her last visit.”

“Nyx is locked up.” Jerome spoke as though he had stated that a hundred times. I was pretty sure he’d been asked all those questions about me a hundred times too.

“Your summoner, Mr. Moriarty, was not overly pleased with her either.” Although Erik remained professional, his lips twisted ever so slightly, like he’d tasted something bitter. Regardless of his feelings for the demon, both Erik and Jerome shared a mutual hatred of Dante.

This gave Jerome pause. “I doubt this was human magic, though I suppose he could have had help—he’s sought allies before. I’ll look into it.” He dropped this new cigarette and stepped on it too. “Regardless, I still can’t believe I’d have no sense of her in the world.”

“Maybe she’s not in this world.”

Erik’s words hung between them for several seconds.

“No,” said Jerome at last. “Many have interest in her—but none who would do that.”

I saw in Erik’s face that the words “Many have interest in her” had caught his notice. He stayed silent, however, and waited for Jerome’s next profound statement. Which wasn’t that profound.

“Time to go,” said the demon, probably so Roman could grab hold again.

Jerome teleported, off to wherever it was he had to go.

And me? I returned to my prison.

Chapter 15

It was 1942, and I was in France.

I didn’t want to be in France. I hadn’t wanted to be there for the last fifty years, yet somehow, Bastien kept talking me into staying. There was also the small fact that our supervising archdemon didn’t want us to go. He liked the way we worked together. Incubus-succubus teams were hit or miss sometimes, but we were exceptional, and our superiors had taken note. It was good for our hellish careers but not for my morale.

Bastien didn’t see what my problem was. “Hell doesn’t even need us here,” he told me one day, after I’d complained for like the thousandth time. “Think of it as a vacation. Hordes of souls are being damned here every day.”

I walked over to the window of our shop and peered out onto the busy road, pressing my hands against the glass. Bicyclists and pedestrians moved past, everyone needing to get somewhere and get there fast. It could have been any ordinary weekday in Paris, but this was no ordinary day. Nothing had been ordinary since the Germans had occupied France, and the scattered soldiers in the street stood out to me like candles in the night.

Bad simile, I thought. Candles implied some kind of hope or light. And while Paris had fared better than most people realized under Nazi rule, something in the city had changed. The energy, the spirit…whatever you wanted to call it, it had a taint to me. Bastien said I was crazy. Most people were still living their daily lives. The food shortages weren’t as bad here as in other places. And after shape-shifting into Aryan nation poster children with blond hair and blue eyes, we were more or less left alone.