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pushed a photograph of a dead raptor under his nose.
    When he did not answer, she pressed on. “A small symbolwas carved upon the wrists of all prior victims.” Her eyes watched him. “It was in demonish. From the looks of it, either Sanguis or Raptor.”
    “I’ve worked this case for over a year now, Chase. I believe I am familiar with the particulars.”
    Her expression altered from engaged to flat as glass. How well he knew that look, and although it was familiar, he found himself mourning the loss of her animation.
    “Do you know what the symbols mean?” Her wide brow furrowed, the merest wrinkling of her clear skin. “I confess, I am not able to read it.”
    The food in his stomach grew heavy, rolling about as if it might revolt. He’d been found by her. And while he couldn’t be sure she remembered the details, the symbols carved upon his flesh had been telling. Should a person know enough about demonology, she would know that the symbols had been those of the raptors. Jack’s guts tightened as sweat beaded along his back. He swallowed hard, still held by the power of her searching gaze. He wanted to run from it, from her. Did the scene live in her memory? Haunt her, turn her dreams into nightmares?
    No. That was his lot in life. Likely all she felt was pity for the sorry sod she’d rescued two years ago. He fought against the cornered feeling that had his breath stuttering and returned to his food, cutting a banger with care. “Few others bother to learn the culture of Raptors and Sanguis. It isn’t as though their kind is well liked.”
    Raptors were scum who fed off the misery of others. Sanguis demons were not precisely hated, but as they needed the blood of others to survive, they had a certain parasitic quality that made most supernaturals wary.
    Chase’s lashes swept down then, letting him take an easy breath. She glanced up again, less probing, butunnerving to him just the same. “And what of this shifter? How does he fit?”
    The shock of finding the dead shifter in Trafalgar Square still unsettled him. He’d left the scene with due haste, sinking the slimy raptor he’d just killed in the Thames instead. Someone was imitating his crimes, and he wanted to know why.
    Jack dug into his pocket, threw a few coins upon the scarred table, and told her the one truth he could. “That is the question of the day, Chase.”
    In keeping with the mercurial nature of London weather, it was raining when they left the coffeehouse, and while Mary did not mind, Talent insisted upon taking a hack back to headquarters. A silly extravagance that had her protesting and him snarling. They sat, each stewing in silence, the hack bogged down at an intersection, when Mary felt the hum of a spirit. A moment later a familiar form drifted in through the hack window and made herself comfortable on the seat next to Talent.
    Hello, Miss Mary
. Though she was in spirit form, Tottie’s voice was clear as day in Mary’s head. Nor did the dingy light of the carriage dampen the bright color of her shining blond hair or the sparkle of her green eyes.
    “Hello, Miss Tottie.”
    Talent perked up at Mary’s response and looked as if she were cracked. “Pardon?”
    “Mistress Tottie is here. I was saying hello.” Tottie, short for Charlotte, was Poppy Lane’s newest assistant, handpicked by Mary due to her exceptional memory. That she was whip-smart and irreverent was a boon. Mrs. Lane needed someone to keep her on her toes, after all.
    Mmm
, said Tottie.
Are you going to say hello, too, youexceptionally large wall of man
? She leaned into Talent, her shimmering image tiny in comparison to his, and ran her fingers along his neck.
    Talent shivered and glared round, his whole frame tensing away from Tottie. “Is she sitting next to me?”
    He looked as though he might start swinging, as one swats at a fly, and Mary bit her lip. “She is merely saying hello.”
    Oh, I am
, Tottie agreed.
I’ve been wanting to say hello to Mr.