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“Careful. The paper’s glossy.”

The Seneschal took the paper in his claws. In the dim light of the cavern, his eyes looked like halo-gen headlights. I shivered.

“El alquimista,” he said.

“Pardon me?”

He handed back the picture. “This armadura was made by an infante called el alquimista. The Alchemist. It is unique. Made with esencia de sangre. What your people might call a kind of ‘materia.’”

I was writing notes furiously. “Right. We knew that—sort of. But who was this alchemist? Was he looking for the philosopher’s stone?”

“Not looking. Didn’t need to look anymore.”

I blinked. “You’re saying this alchemist found something—like, a kind of prime essence, or a fifth element?”

The Seneschal made a dismissive gesture. “Useless literary terms. El alquimista was a noble who lived at the Habsburg Court in Madrid. He trafficked with dark elements, and some say he found a way to control the oldest demons who walk the lengths of hell. Others say he was just crazy and talked too much.”

“But why would he make a suit of armor?”

The Seneschal shrugged. “Why not?”

I sighed. “Is there anything else you can tell me about this Spanish nobleman? Did he have a real name?”

“Of course.”

“And what was it?”

“El alquimista.”

“Right.” I put the notepad away. “And I imagine you don’t know anything about his family connec-tions, or when he died.”

He shook his head. “Too many questions. Tired now.”

I looked at Patrick. He was examining a collection of stainless-steel tins whose labels had crumbled long ago.

“Of course. We won’t trouble you further. Thanks for your help.”

I took Patrick by the arm before he could touch anything. He rolled his eyes, but fell into step next to me.

“Lucian knows,” the Seneschal called after us.

I turned around, staring at him. “Excuse me?”

His expression was mild, but his eyes burned blue in the dark. “Lucian Eskame Agrado. Ask him.

He knows.”

Then he closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair.

In less than a minute, he was snoring quietly. The talons of his left hand twitched as he dreamt.

7

We walked silently back to the car. I wasn’t sure what Patrick was thinking about, but my mind was fixed on the last words of the Seneschal. Ask Lucian. He knows.

But what, precisely, did he know? What wasn’t he telling me, and why was he suddenly so unavailable? It took all my willpower not to start furiously texting him, but I wanted to wait until we were home first. I didn’t want Patrick to see me in full nervous-breakdown mode. Which was ironic, since up until a few minutes ago the two of us had shared a lovely and mellow evening together.

“That was weird,” Patrick said as we crossed the parking lot. “I mean, a little, right? How do you think the birddemon knows Lucian?”

I shrugged. “Maybe they went to college together or something.”

“Did Lucian go to college?”

“I don’t really know.” I was digging around in my purse for the keys when I felt something. It was barely anything at all. But those were generally the warnings that you had to fear the most. Powerful demons left very soft footprints. I looked up, scanning the parking lot.

“You felt that, too?” Patrick was looking around as well. “It was like something tickled the back of my neck.”

“Do you think it’s one of your kin?”

He shook his head. “Feels different.”

Shit. Different was never good.

I drew my athame from its boot-sheath. It was already warming to my touch, responding to whatever presence was nearby.

“Get in the car.” I pushed the keys into his hand. “Lock the doors. If things start to go south, drive home and get Derrick.”

“You’re not serious.” He stared at me. “Tess, I’m not going to piss my pants inside a locked car. I’m staying with you.”

“This isn’t about being macho, Patrick. You may be strong, but you’re also young and inexperienced. I don’t want you getting killed.”

“I’m already dead.”

“That’s not the point.” I sighed. “Just listen, okay? I may look weak, but I’ve spent half my life in combat training. I know when to fight, and I know when to run. You don’t. You’re cocky, and you think you can take down anything because your body’s full of hormones.”

“Actually, I think your brain stops producing—”

“Get in the car, Patrick!”

He folded his arms. “No.”

“Really? You’re going to pull a Jimmy Dean on me?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“No. Of course you don’t.” I closed my eyes. “Fine. Stay close to me.” I unzipped my jacket so that I could reach my shoulder-holster. Patrick’s eyes widened as I removed the Glock 9mm from its case. I clicked off the safety and held it out, carefully, with the barrel facing him.

“Have you ever fired a gun before?”

He swallowed. “No.”

I placed it in his right hand, closing his fingers gently around it. “This is a Glock forty-five semiau-tomatic. It has ten rounds, and each bullet mushrooms on impact. Aim along the line of sight, like this—”

He pointed the gun at a nearby streetlamp. “What should I aim for?”

“Head and chest. When you fire, try to space your legs apart evenly—” I showed him the best position. “Extend your arm, and keep your target sighted. It takes less than five pounds of pressure to pull the trigger, and if you hold it with your finger, the gun will keep firing. So once you have a shot lined up, just try to keep the gun steady and hope that you hit a vital area.”

“You don’t sound too confident.”

“Demons can be anatomically tricky. And this is your first time using a gun, so I’m not expecting miracles. But any distraction is better than nothing.”

I felt the same shiver as before. A figure detached itself from the darkness at the edge of the parking lot. It walked toward us, its pace easy, measured. Not a good sign. Amateurs always hurried, but professionals took their time.

I turned to Patrick. “Look. I made a promise to Caitlin that I’d protect you.” It wasn’t exactly the truth. I had made an internal promise of sorts, but Caitlin was already dead by then. I didn’t think that information was important right now. “It was the last thing I said to her.”

He seemed to turn this around in his mind for a few seconds. Then, at last, he nodded. “If things go bad, I’ll get in the car and go for help. I swear.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“But I’m not leaving you if I don’t have to.”

I held my athame in a defensive posture. With my free hand, I flipped open my cell and dialed home. The answering machine clicked on.

“Derrick,” I said after the beep. “Lost Lagoon. Hurry.”

I closed the phone, wishing it was a second gun. The thought of introducing Patrick to the world of firearms didn’t exactly sit well with me, but I reasoned that his teeth and bare hands were already deadly weapons. In all probability, the Glock was just going to slow him down.

The figure was about twenty meters away now. It looked like a man, but I couldn’t tell for sure. It didn’t seem to be carrying a weapon, but that wasn’t a good sign. Things that didn’t need weapons were a lot scarier than gun-toting criminals.

“Should I start shooting?” Patrick whispered.

“Not yet. I’ll give you a signal.”

“What signal?”

“Mostly likely, it’ll be me screaming profanity.”

He nodded. “Right. I’ll remember that.” There was a slight quaver in his voice. The bravado had vanished. “Do you think they’ll get your message?”

“Don’t know. If Idol is on, Derrick’s probably screening.”

“Guess it’s just us, then.”

Something clicked in my mind. “Wait. Patrick, you said there were some other vampires nearby.

You could sense them.”

He nodded. “Yeah. There were two of them.” His look went slightly distant. “They’re still there.

One seems stronger than the other. Maybe closer.”

“You can call them.”

He blinked. “I can?”

“Yes. I remember.” I dimly recalled reading about this ability in higher-tier vampires. I had no idea if Patrick had the kind of mastery over his abilities necessary for such a summoning. But I was willing to gamble. “Just close your eyes and send out an intense thought. Like a mental scream.”

“I’ve never done that before.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

The figure was ten meters away now. I could see that it was a man wearing dark jeans and a black hooded sweat-shirt. There was something wrong with his face.

“Do it now,” I hissed. “Just scream on the inside.”

Patrick closed his eyes. I felt a wave of power explode from him, sending ripples of seismic disturbance through the night. My athame hummed in a kind of inanimate sympathy with the cascade.

Cold claws raked at the edges of my mind, and I tried to shake off the power-shock. He was strong.

He had raw energy in spades. Maybe it would actually be enough.

He looked at me, breathless. “Did I do it right?”

“I have no idea. But get ready.”

He aimed the Glock, using the sight just as I’d taught him. A quick study, too. Maybe he’d make a good magnate after all.

The figure in black stopped a few meters away from us. His face, which had seemed eerily distorted at first, was actually covered by a metallic mask. The metal was so well polished that it reflected my own face back at me. All I could see were his eyes, dark and still, coldly assessing. Definitely a demon. Humans didn’t have that kind of serene, predatory gaze, unless they were sociopathic.

I reached out carefully with my senses, not touching his aura, but just skirting around the edges of it. I felt incredibly dense power, like an iron wall. Not mage potential, exactly, but something else.

Something very familiar.

“I’m Tess Corday,” I said, keeping my athame level. “I work for the CORE. I’d like to avoid an incident here, if possible.”

The figure didn’t reply. Instead, he slowly pulled up the sleeve of his black jersey. His right hand was wrapped in a kind of glove, made from intricate leather thongs with gleaming brass buttons. In the palm of the glove was a latticework of golden wire, where three red stones had been set. They looked like carnelians, but there were curious black spots inside of them.

The black spots moved as I stared at them, almost dancing.

I remembered suddenly where I’d seen points of darkness like that before. When the Iblis had murdered Jacob Kynan, it left a tortured imprint on the space of his crime scene. Miles had used his power to make the space remember, and I’d seen those chilling black dots swirling just above his outstretched hand. Voids, he’d called them. Points of de-created space, reduced to nothingness.

The spots danced, swirling faster. Red tongues of light gathered around the stones, painting the asphalt bloody. The trace of power I’d felt before grew stronger, clearer. I remembered.

Necroid materia.

“Patrick! Get in the—”

Patrick fired. The gunshot split the silence of the parking lot. Evidently, hearing my scream was enough of a signal for him.

His first shot only grazed the necromancer’s shoulder. He squeezed the trigger as I’d told him to, firing a second and a third time. Those bullets made contact, one in the shoulder, the other midthigh.

He wasn’t exactly holding the gun steady. But at least he was hitting the target.

The necromancer took a step back, but didn’t cry out. The carnelians on his glove were still burning red, like a parody of emergency lights.

“Patrick! Aim for the glove!”

I reached deep underground, searching for a vein of earth materia. We were close to the ocean, which meant that both geothermal and aqueous energies crossed each other nearby. I found a nodal point. It was old and strong, probably part of the structure that kept the entire park in one place.

I pointed my athame at the ground in front of the necromancer. A line of molten green light struck the concrete. The ground shuddered. A ripple passed through the earth, and it went liquid for a moment. It undulated, flashing out like a tongue, veined with granite, plant material, and threads of crystal.

I gestured with the point of the athame, and the ground exploded upward. It swirled around the necromancer, forming a cage.

I turned to Patrick. “Forget what I said about shooting. Get in the car.”

“But Tess—”

“Get in the damn car, Patrick! Now!”

But it was already too late.

The necromancer reached out with his gloved hand, wrapping his fingers around the stalagmites that imprisoned him. The lapidary in his glove burned red, points of impossible darkness moving within their core. Something like fire swirled between his fingers, but darker, colder. Threads of light tore across the rock, spooling around it, cutting like taut wire into the sediment.

The threads multiplied. They moved with the speed of a burning vine, covering the rock, seething, like a spreading bloodstain upon the substrate of the rock. It crumbled to powder, shimmering for a few seconds as a haunting red outline. Then the rock was simply gone, as if it had never existed.

The necroid materia felt like a kick to my stomach. I knew that entropic forces could produce molecular disintegration, tearing through cell walls and shattering the valences that created basic life. But this was different. The materia hadn’t destroyed the rock. It had unmade it. The deadly pattern of light had literally unraveled the bonds that held both my magic and the rock together, extinguishing them.

De-creation.

I knew that the Iblis could do it, but the Iblis was a pureblood demon. It walked the shores of an im-material plane, wielding and ravening the forces that made our world physically coherent. But this wasn’t an otherworldly being.

Did Lucian have access to the same power?

Christ. Who was I dating?

Patrick wasn’t listening. He fired again, this time aiming for the head. A Glaser Safety round struck the necromancer between the eyes, resounding with a loud crack against his steel mask. The mirror image of my face shattered.

He took another step back, shielding his face with his left hand. Blood and metal fragments glistened all over, making him unrecognizable. But his eyes were still fixed on me. I noticed for the first time what looked like three spots of blood in the corner of his right eye. They gleamed within the iris, like drops of red paint.