“I can’t wait for this,” Amalia whispered excitedly as we turned the corner. “We’re going to catch that rat bastard and find out where my dad is. I can feel it.”

I wasn’t so sure but I held my tongue as we cut into a back alley.

“Are you going to call Zylas now?” she asked.

Normally, she was the last person to encourage me to bring out Zylas, but as she glanced nervously across the rooftops on either side of us, I knew where her eagerness for a protector came from. In our last encounter with Claude, his demon had choked Amalia unconscious.

“Not yet,” I answered as I waved at all the windows that overlooked the alley. “Anyone could be watching.”

She frowned but didn’t argue. We unhurriedly walked along, the alley bordered by tiny backyards with chain-link fences. The townhouses were nice enough, but any residence in this neighborhood was a far cry from Uncle Jack’s oversized mansion. Yet another way in which Claude and Uncle Jack were complete opposites.

As we drew level with Claude’s unit, I scanned the empty backyard. The grass behind each property was the same length, which suggested the lawns were maintained by the same company. His yard was empty—no plastic lawn chairs, no grill on the small patio beside the back door.

Was it my imagination, or was the back door cracked open an inch?

“Robin,” Amalia hissed. “Do you see that?”

I started to nod.

“The window is broken.”

I stopped nodding and scanned the townhouse. She was right. The window beside the door was broken, the gauzy white drapes fluttering in the icy breeze. It was easy to miss; most of the glass was gone, with only a few shards sticking out of the frame.

“The door is open too,” I whispered.

“Now will you call Zylas out?”

I reached for my chest, the infernus hidden under my jacket, but voices rolled down the alley. Three people stood on a patio six units down, talking conversationally. No way they wouldn’t notice me summon a demon.

“Shit,” Amalia muttered. “What do we do now?”

I looked again at the broken window, then pulled the gate open. Projecting confidence, I walked across the grass and onto the patio. My nerves twanged as I strained my ears. No sound aside from Amalia’s footsteps on the grass as she followed me.

Ready to call Zylas at the first sign of movement, I pushed on the heavy back door. It swung silently inward, revealing a living room illuminated by sunlight streaking around the blinds.

“I … don’t think Claude is here,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” Amalia agreed faintly.

I stepped across the threshold and onto a forgettable beige rug. Amalia slipped in behind me, and we took in Claude’s home.

The living room, with a leather sectional around a gas fireplace, filled one side of the space. On the other side, an oak desk sat near a chaise lounge, and its cushions and accent pillows lay on the rug beside it, their fabric slit and cotton innards scattered everywhere. The desk was empty except for the monitor, severed cords hanging off it; someone had hastily cut the computer free. The drawers hung open, and papers had been dumped all over the floor.

The flat-screen TV was on the floor too, and the drywall around the mount had been punched in. Evenly spaced holes marred every wall, as though someone had taken a sledgehammer around the room and smashed it between every stud. The sofa cushions had received the same tender treatment as the chaise.

“Shit,” Amalia muttered.

“I’m thinking Claude wasn’t the one who broke into your dad’s safe.”

“Whoever did that came here next, didn’t they?” She gave her head a single sharp shake. “They searched this place from top to bottom. Damn, look, they even ripped up the carpet over there.”

“Well.” I gloomily unzipped my jacket before I overheated. “We should still check it out. Maybe we’ll find something the other guys missed.”

“But first, call out your damn demon so he can spring any nasty surprises that might be waiting for us.”

Grimacing, I tapped the infernus against my chest as though knocking on a door. Daimon, anastethi.

At my command, glowing light spilled down to the floor and formed the demon’s shape. He solidified beside me, eyes already narrowed with fury.

“Someone beat us here and searched everything,” I informed him brusquely. “Check the house for danger.”

A long moment passed where he didn’t react.

Crimson radiance erupted. His body dissolved into light and sucked into the infernus, leaving me and Amalia alone in the townhouse.

“What are you doing?” I growled at the infernus. “Zylas!”

“Now you’ve done it!” Amalia threw her hands up. “Of course he won’t help after that. Ugh.”

“Zylas! Daimon, anastethi!”

Red light blazed. It spilled to the floor, reforming his shape—then blurred. The power streaked back into the infernus.

“Get out here, Zylas!”

“You’re as immature as he is,” Amalia snapped, stomping away. “Let’s just hurry up and search this mess.”

I glared at her, then shook the infernus, imagining a two-inch-tall Zylas bouncing around inside it like a pinball.

“You’re horrible,” I hissed at the silver pendant. “Completely useless. We don’t need your help anyway.”

Amalia’s remark about my maturity echoed in my head and I scowled. Dropping the infernus against my chest, I stormed over to the wreckage of the desk. My anger faded into hopelessness as I knelt and gathered the papers. There wasn’t much, mostly scraps with handwritten reminders in a masculine print. “Email so-and-so” and “pick up such-and-such.”

I shuffled through a few printouts of flights and hotels, all months old. As I tossed them down, a glimpse of white caught the corner of my eye—a page that had slid under the desk. Pinching the corner, I tugged it out and flipped it over.

The MPD logo filled the top left corner, and I recognized the layout immediately—a mythic profile. All registered mythics could be looked up in the MPD archives, though the amount of information displayed depended on your clearance level. Being a nobody, I could see only a mythic’s name and current guild. Someone like a GM could see everything the MPD had ever logged.

This page was the latter kind. It showed the mythic’s photo, name, age, description, class, guild history, job and bounty history, even criminal charges—none, in this case. I brushed my finger across the mythic’s name, utterly bewildered by the familiar face in the photo.

“‘Ezra Rowe,’” I read in a whisper.

The bold white scar that cut down his face from hairline to cheek was hard to forget. He was one of Tori’s mage friends who had fled the scene after Tahēsh’s death. One of the mythics Zylas had said carried the scent of demon magic.

Getting on my hands and knees, I searched all around the desk. Either Claude hadn’t printed out anything on the other two mages, or whoever had trashed the townhouse had already taken the additional printouts. I sat back on my heels, scanning Ezra’s profile. What did Claude know about the mysterious three mages who smelled like demon magic?

A clatter sounded from the other end of the townhouse. Rising to my feet, I folded the paper and stuffed it in my back pocket. Lost in thought, I hurried past the staircase and into the eat-in kitchen.