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is to find a girl.”
    “And protect her. But if learning how to do that puts you or your wife at risk—”
    “Stop. You’re not responsible for us.”
    “Responsible enough. You’re not sure she’s safe with them.”
    “I’m biased. I hate witches. I love Lethe. So I compromise. I have to trust her judgment.”
    Eddie was not comforted. “Could the Cruor Venator be members of her family?”
    “I hope not.” Lannes rubbed his shoulder and winced. “Let’s talk in the park. My wings are killing me. I need to loosen the restraints.”
    As they walked, Lannes did his best to give other passersby a wide berth. Eddie, trying to avoid a stroller, brushed too close and hit something firm and invisible—about eight inches away from the gargoyle’s body.
    “Sorry,” Eddie said.
    Lannes grunted, giving him a sidelong look. “It’s why I don’t like cities. I always get touched in a crowd.”
    “Your brother doesn’t bind his wings.”
    “Which is why he only comes out at night and dresses like a crazy person.” Lannes’s mouth twitched. “I use a leather strap. Foot wide, cinched around my wings and chest. Imperfect, but it cuts down how often I bump into people when I walk. I hate it, though. I can’t take a deep breath.”
    Eddie studied the illusion but found nothing that would give away the fact that a winged gargoyle walked through Columbus Circle, in broad daylight. “Does it ever make you nervous that a trick of light is all that keeps you from being discovered?”
    “Used to. Until I realized there were things more frightening than being . . . seen.” Lannes gave him a pointed look. “I hope you’re prepared for the possibility that you’ll face some of those bad things.”
    “What makes you think I’m not?”
    Lannes studied him a heartbeat too long.
    “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
    Eddie pretended not to care. “I haven’t said it yet, but thank you. It was good of you and Lethe to come down from Maine for this investigation.”
    “Witches are hunting a girl,” said Lannes simply.
    It was a short walk. The leaves in Central Park had turned golden and red, and a long line of horse-drawn carriages was parked alongside Fifty-ninth. Tourists surrounded them, taking pictures. The drivers stood off to the side, in small groups, smoking cigarettes.
    Just past Merchant’s Gate, Lannes and Eddie left the path and cut between the trees to a small grassy clearing still within sight of the Time Warner Center. It felt quiet. Private, even. Dead leaves crunched beneath them. No one else was around.
    “Where will you go after this?” Lannes asked.
    “We were given a list of places she likes to visit, but there’s a second list that Roland put together, on his own. I have a photo of the girl when she was young. I’ll be showing it around.”
    “Needle in a haystack.”
    “We’re close. That’s what Roland and the others say.”
    “Psychics.” Lannes said the word like some would say, kids.
    He fumbled at a spot above his chest. His fingers shimmered, as though immersed in a heat wave or the watery light of a prism. Eddie watched closely, searching for a break in the illusion.
    It never came. He heard the distinctive sound of leather creaking, and the gargoyle’s chest expanded several inches—as though he had been holding his breath. He let out a quiet sigh.
    “Better,” he said, and looked at Eddie. “What did my brother tell you about witches?”
    Not enough. His brother, Charlie, was another agent of Dirk & Steele, and lived in San Francisco. Asking about witches had not elicited a positive reaction—more like suggestions to run for the hills and never look back.
    “A witch imprisoned you and the rest of your family,” he ans" hy,” hwered. “Charlie said he was the only one not turned to stone.”
    Lannes closed his eyes. “I thought he was lucky at first. But then the witch began carving up his body. Every night, like a slaughtered hog. We had to watch