“They can see in the dark,” Deven clarified. “In fact, most lords have the power to quench all light, natural or mechanical, since it hurts their eyes. But it still proved an advantage.” Deven swallowed, thinking of Jaguar’s training, then shook his head. “This is all we need.” He gathered the bone and the cord and the dented copper bowl for good measure.

August grabbed a small medical kit from the counter, then waved to Elia. “We’re done. Thanks.”

She nodded back shyly. “You have my condolences, for Carlos.” She touched August’s sleeve.

August’s jaw clenched tightly. He nodded.

Elia smiled. “At least he died doing something he believed in.”

August eyes narrowed. “What?”

Elia looked embarrassed. “He was doing important work. And he—”

“Do you know how Carlos wanted to die?” August interrupted. “The same way I do. Old, in my bed, asleep.”

“Of course.” Elia had flushed bright red.

“His life was taken from him in violence. That’s about as awful as it gets.” He yanked open the door. “Come on, Deven.”

Deven followed, with a sympathetic look from Klakow.

“Don’t be his bitch,” Klakow muttered.

Deven said nothing in return, but he really wanted to tell the agent to fuck off. Instead he followed after August, who stormed down the long hallway like a man on a mission of murder. Deven hurried to catch up with him, anxious about getting lost in the labyrinth of similar-looking corridors.

As Deven fell in step alongside him, August said, “Don’t say anything about it.”

“Why would I?” Deven asked.

August ran a hand through his hair, causing his dark curls to stand on end, making him look wild. “I’m sick of people justifying what happened to Carlos as part of the job. That’s bullshit. I’m not willing to die for work.”

Deven said nothing, and this seemed to anger August more. “What? You agree with them?”

Deven shrugged. “Where I come from life means nothing, because the afterlife matters more. I saw humans murdered by the hundreds. I saw Aztaw soldiers killed in endless combat. I took their lives. And at any moment, I expected them to take mine.” Deven thought for a moment. “None of it meant anything there. But here, I think I see your point. Life is the only sure thing. It’s known, which makes it all that matters.”

August stared down at Deven with an expression similar to the one he’d had in the morgue the day before. His eyes were a little glassy.

“Come on,” Deven said, echoing what he was discovering were August’s favorite words. “Let’s find a nice, dark, quiet place to summon a vision serpent.”

August seemed to pull himself together. He nodded. “Dark, quiet place.”

“Preferably bigger than a closet,” Deven added.

August gave him a sideways glance. “Why, afraid of standing in the closet with me?”

Deven laughed at that. “No. Afraid the deodorant I stole from you this morning may be wearing off and you’ll find my smell offensive again.”

August smiled. Deven again marveled at how something as simple as a smile could bring such light to his eyes and completely transform his face. He really was quite gorgeous.

“I said you smelled, I didn’t say you smelled offensive.” August lowered his voice. “Quite the contrary. I like your smell.”

Deven felt the words sink into his stomach and roll there, warm and heavy.

August resumed his quick pace. “One stop at the armory, and off we go.”

Deven got to meet the odor-sensitive pixie August had mentioned the night before. Deven had never seen a pixie and was surprised by his size, having assumed he would have been small enough to fit in his hand.

Instead, the pixie was nearly Deven’s height, although his ageless body was thin and his skin nearly blue in color. He wore only a small loincloth and had iridescent wings, which increasingly flapped the more annoyed he got.

And annoyed he was. He begrudgingly shoved a set of freeze balls at Deven only after Agent August cut him off mid-curse and threatened to call in Director Alonsa, the head of the Mexican branch office. August grabbed a weapon for himself from an arms locker that was labeled “shard pistols.” Freshly armed, Deven wanted to test his new weapon, but August was determined to do the vision serpent spell as soon as possible.

72 drove them to a warehouse in an industrial part of the city. The boarded-up building appeared condemned; rusted and dented metal garage doors barred the entrance and a large Se Vende sign was nailed over the narrow windows.

72 opened the heavy padlock on the door and they stepped inside, where the building was revealed to be in good condition, brightly lit and clean. The large open space had little furniture, only a few folding chairs and a table set up in the corner, holding a flat of bottled water, a coffee maker, and what looked to be some dirty coffee mugs. The rest of the concrete floor was bare, although markings had been scrawled in a circle at one end and another end was scorched black with burn marks.

“You working for Agent Ortega today?” August asked 72, who nodded. August turned to Deven. “How long does this take?”

“About fifteen minutes to conjure. If we use our blood, the vision will last no longer than an hour.”

August nodded to 72. “Pick us up in two hours.”

72 nodded, his gaping, vacuous mouth echoing screams and chilling Deven. He relaxed once the driver was out of the building.

“Where are we?” Deven asked.

“Practice studio.” August shrugged out of his suit jacket. “It’s a safe environment for conjuring with wards around the facility to contain effects. The agency tries to set one up in every city they have a field office.” He threw his coat over the back of a folding chair. He leaned forward and sniffed at the coffee maker. Something about the odor made him back away. He nodded to Deven. “It’s your show, pretty boy.”

Deven scowled at the name but nevertheless pulled out what he’d taken from Carlos Rodriguez’s evidence box. He also removed conjuring papers from his pocket and matches.

He held out the thorn-threaded cord, a moment of nausea quickly pushed down after years of experience.

“You need blood, right?” August asked. He pulled out the pocket medical kit he’d taken from the forensics lab and rolled up his sleeves.

“Not from your arm.” Deven stopped him. “More effective from the tongue.”

August looked a little queasy at that. “Disgusting.”

“Aztaws usually take the blood from the penis.”

“No thanks.”

Deven handed August the copper bowl. “Hold this under my mouth.” He didn’t think about it. He tore the thorned cord quickly over the center of his tongue and pain choked him. Blood filled his mouth. He spat into the bowl and took it from August, holding it under his chin as he let the blood drip from his tongue.

August had a look of extreme distaste, grimacing at the bowl. “You don’t need that much blood to do a spell, you know.” He pulled a needle from the medical kit and examined it as if making sure it was clean. He pricked his finger, then took the bowl from Deven’s hands. “Our research department has shown most traditional spell casting uses far more blood than necessary. In actuality…” He squeezed the tip of his finger and several drops of blood fell into the bowl, mingling with Deven’s voluminous contribution. “Half a teaspoon will successfully fuel any magic and with less consequences.” He squeezed a few more drops into the bowl, then handed it back to Deven.

Deven glared. “You might have started that speech a minute earlier.” His words were garbled as he spoke around the swelling of his injured tongue.

August laughed, his eyes twinkling as he pulled a bandage from the kit and meticulously wrapped his index finger. He used his bandaged finger to point at Deven. “Less chance of infection too.”

“It was your friend’s thorned cord,” Deven reminded him.