Ghastek studied me. I had made a reasonable effort to look as normal as possible and hid most of myself with my ragged cloak. People in cloaks were a common sight in the city, and he could see my face well enough.

“You’re not one of Feldman’s regulars.”

“I’ve been recently assigned to the chapter. If you contact the Order, they will confirm my credentials.”

Ghastek looked at me for another long moment and said under his breath, “Bring him.”

Somewhere in the depths of the Casino a vampire had just spoken in Ghastek’s voice.

We waited. Ghastek stared at me. Most people would at least try to pretend to look elsewhere out of politeness. Ghastek openly scrutinized me.

Two journeymen appeared at the top of the stairs. A short elderly man walked between them. He wore a dark brown tunic that was two sizes too big and hung around him like a sheet on a clothesline. Age had stolen his hair and cut wrinkles into his walnut-brown skin, but his eyes, the color of clover honey, were alert and bright.

He saw me. His eyes sparkled, and he straightened up and picked up speed, sandals flashing under the hem of the tunic. The journeymen struggled to keep up. Ghastek turned to look at him, taking his eyes off me for a second, and I put two fingers on my lips and touched the outer corner of my right eye in a single quick motion. You do not know me.

A small smile flickered on Namtur’s lips and vanished. He was the one who’d taught me the language of thieves.

Ghastek turned back to me. I presented him with a blank, almost bored expression. Just a knight preparing to escort a senior citizen. Nothing to see here.

Namtur stopped about two feet away and gave Ghastek a withering look. “What is it now? Are you offering me this pretty child? What is an old man like me supposed to do with her?”

Ghastek looked offended. “A knight has come to escort you to the Order. I didn’t realize Eahrratim and the Order had such close ties.”

Using my grandmother’s full name wouldn’t score him any brownie points.

Namtur stuck his chin in the air. “The things you don’t know or realize are an ocean, and your mind is a tiny boat upon its waves.”

Ancient disses were the best.

“Delightful,” Ghastek said dryly.

I needed to move this along. “Do I need to sign anything?”

A group of people came around the corner, from my left, led by a woman in a light green dress that did wonders for her already spectacular figure. Her long red hair dripped on her shoulders. Rowena, one of the Masters of the Dead, the second most powerful necromancer in Atlanta. She had to be in her fifties, and she was still gorgeous. I always suspected that she and Ghastek were an item, but nobody could ever prove it.

The three men behind her wore identical outfits: dark pants, dark tunics, and heavy ceremonial cloaks, artfully draped over their shoulders. The leading man, older, with white hair and bronze skin, wore a cloak the color of jade, and the two younger men trailing him had cloaks the color of turquoise. People of the Sun.

There goes the neighborhood…

Among the Aztec cults, the People of the Sun were the strongest. Even before the Shift, twelve million Mexicans spoke the Aztec language. After magic had flooded the world, the Aztec mythology and religion came back full force. Some of it was good and some of it was horrifying.

The People of the Sun worshiped Huitzilopochtli, the god of war, sun, and sacrifice, and they controlled random spots all over the Southwest. Anyone could join. They didn’t discriminate by national origin, gender, sexual orientation, or magical abilities, as long as you prayed to their god and no other.

So far, the People of the Sun stayed away from mass human sacrifice, probably because they were powerful enough without it. We had run up against them during our time in LA, and they had been one of the factors that prompted our move to San Diego.

Rowena’s group headed straight for us.

This was planned. Ghastek meant for us to see each other. It couldn’t be for me, so it had to be for Namtur.

Rowena moved slightly to the side, and I saw the older man’s face. Tizoc. One of the tecuhtli, the lords, old, powerful, dangerous as hell. His real name was Luke O’Sullivan. Most of his family still lived in Boston, and he occasionally made trips up there for Thanksgiving. The two guys behind him were likely Jaguar warriors, elite fighters who served as tecuhtli personal bodyguards.

I turned away, so my hood blocked my face. Tizoc and Namtur had tried to negotiate before, and it was hate at first sight. Could this get any worse?

The two old men saw each other. For an instant, nobody moved.

Tizoc recovered first. “Namtur, you geriatric desert snake. I thought I smelled something foul, and there you are.”

Namtur ignored him. “We shall leave now.”

All around us, the smears of undead magic moved closer. There were six vampires right above, ready to fall through the ceiling, and more were coming. Ghastek expected a confrontation. He’d arranged it and now he was preparing to contain it.

“Running?” Tizoc mocked.

Namtur made no indication that he’d heard him. The ultimate insult—he’d decided that Tizoc was so insignificant, he was beneath notice.

“Knight woman, I do not have time to stand around.”

“Looks like we’ll be going now,” I said to Ghastek.

Tizoc flicked his fingers and the two guards moved to block the exit.