“It’s not all good times.” Illium shoved his hair back with an impatient hand. “During the high, a percentage of the junkies are hit by the urge to feed voraciously. At least one of the lilies is currently going through a vicious detox because he refuses to touch the stuff again.”

Dmitri raised an eyebrow. “Not much worries them in their pursuit of sensation.” Numb inside from centuries of indulging their every whim, the lilies’ need to grasp at the new, the bright, held a pitiable desperation.

“This lily is part of a long-term pair,” Illium told him. “He fed on his partner during the high and he wasn’t gentle—her neck was raw meat by the end, her spinal cord exposed. A few more minutes and he might’ve severed that, killed her.”

Dmitri understood the depth of the male’s horror. Such deeply loyal connections were rare among immortals, much less in the world of the lilies, and to be protected. Dmitri would end himself before laying a finger on Honor in violence. “Drop this downstairs,” he said, tapping the vial. “Have it tested for everything.”

Illium took the vial.

“Tell Trace he can report directly to me,” Dmitri added. “I want you focusing on the men and women the healers have discharged.” A significant percentage of the Tower’s forces remained down, but enough injured fighters were now walking under their own steam that he needed Illium to take charge of their physical training. It would take skillful work to get them back to full strength in a short time frame.

“Talk to Galen, come up with a workable regimen.” The weapons-master couldn’t leave the Refuge, especially after the recent tensions there, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t available to the rest of the Seven. “He’s already sent through his first set of orders, has people moving.”

Illium bowed deeply, adding an elegant flourish with one hand. “Yes, O Dark Overlord.”

Lips twitching, Dmitri hoped with every cell in his body that Illium would find his way through the crushing pressures of immortality and power, that he wouldn’t lose the joie de vivre that had been a part of him since he was a fledgling. Dmitri had once witnessed a tiny blue-winged baby angel fall hard to the earth after tangling his wings, his flight path prior to the fall that of a drunken bumblebee. Despite running full-tilt, Dmitri had been too far away to catch him.

When he’d reached the site of the accident, he’d expected to find a sobbing, hurt child. Hurt he had been, one wing crumpled, but Illium was already on his feet, his bruised and scraped arms thrust up and his hands fisted, face aglow. “I flew so far! Did you see?”

Dmitri had never forgotten that first meeting with a boy who’d reminded him of the irrepressible spirit of his own son. Illium’s life had not always been painless, and it had left scars, but none of it had been as dangerous as the power now gathering inside him. However, the issue wasn’t critical.

Not quite yet.

“Begone, Bluebell,” he said, an image of the tiny boy he’d carried home to his frantic mother that day at the forefront of his mind. “The Dark Overlord needs to talk to a certain spymaster.”

Walking backward to the door, Illium said, “Jason’s back in the country?”

“He returned from China last night.” From the territory of the insane archangel who thought herself a goddess. “Managed to get past the border and all the way to her innermost citadel.” Dmitri had no idea how, but that was why Jason was Raphael’s spymaster and Dmitri was his blade and his second.

A rustle of wings announced Jason’s presence at the balcony door.

It was time to discuss the heart of enemy territory.

•   •   •

Ashwini and Janvier reached the veterinary clinic in a comparatively short time thanks to Janvier’s skill at weaving through the traffic, the blue of the sky still edged with puffs of orange-pink that bathed everything in a forgiving light. Nothing, however, could soften the impact of seeing the body that awaited them at the run-down but clean clinic in Chinatown.

Sara had been right. This small, helpless animal victim needed a hunter’s attention rather than the vet’s. Not only was the cocker spaniel shriveled and bloodless, its throat had been ravaged as if by a wild beast. “Setting aside the loss of blood,” she said to the vet, “is it possible these wounds could’ve been made by another, bigger animal?”

The tall, mixed-race woman, her features sharp, striking, pushed her glasses farther up her nose and dragged her eyes off Janvier. “The dirty water in the drain where he was found did a good job of messing with the wound, and I’m pretty sure rats have been at this sweet boy, too.” She touched her hand to the dog’s emaciated head. “No telling how long he was down there. Could be days, could be weeks. Even if it was a vicious dog . . .”

“Yes, no animal sucked out every drop of blood in his body.” A chill in her bones, Ashwini checked the cocker spaniel’s teeth, the dog’s skin having tightly retracted to expose the gum line; the enamel was stained and cracked. Even if he had bitten his attacker, the evidence was already too contaminated to be of any forensic use. “Who found him?”

“A homeless man who hangs around the area. Poor thing was heartbroken over it.” A sudden stiffening of the vet’s body, her eyes flashing behind the clear lenses of her glasses. “He’s harmless—I’m sure he had nothing to do with this.”

“I’m not planning to hunt him down.” What Ashwini was looking at wasn’t a mortal crime. It had all the hallmarks of immortal involvement—though she’d dig up information on the subject of natural mummification, too, on the off chance that it was a possibility. “Can you autopsy the body?”