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black cloth dangled from the
mirror by a length of coarse twine. A gris-gris, maybe, one that
Zola definitely hadn’t placed.
    The bag clinked as he yanked it
free. He smelled flowers and copper, two scents that exploded in
his nose as he upended the bag on the counter. Rose petals and
pennies tumbled out, along with a small bottle of whiskey and a slim
dime that seemed to spin in time with his pounding heart before
finally settling on the slick tile.
    Just like that, he was back in the
bayou, watching his mother bury another wax doll baby under the
raised edge of their ramshackle porch. She’d always whispered
words, low, mellifluous entreaties that faded in the heavy air,
rising to blend with the rustle of Spanish moss in the trees.
    Not a gris-gris. Flowers, nine pennies, whiskey and a Mercury dime. Everything a
rootworker would need to buy graveyard dirt from the departed.
    It was a message and a warning, all
wrapped up in bits and pieces of his past. The Scions had come
in while they slept, or even while they made love. Under cover
of magic, they’d violated the safety and sanctity of Zola’s
home.
    And yet, no blood had been shed.
    Walker swept the contents of the
black bag into the small wastebasket beside the vanity. The
Scions wanted nothing to do with Zola, either because of her
connections or because she’d been blameless in Tatienne’s
affairs—but they’d hurt her if they had to. To get to
him, they’d mow down anyone and anything in their way, and damn
what the Conclave had to say about it.
    He made a cursory check of the
apartment, but found nothing. He hadn’t expected to. No one
remained, stealing about the rooms under cover of magic. They had no
need for it.
    The Scions had accomplished their
mission and left their message. They knew Walker, knew what lived at
the very heart of him—and the lengths he would go to in order
to keep Zola safe.
    And he knew where they’d be waiting.

    Walker parked his borrowed bike at
the end of the long driveway. Someone had taken a swing at the rusted
out mailbox, and it dangled precariously from its wooden post. He
righted it before he set out for the house on foot, though he had no
idea why.
    No one lived here and, unless his
half-brother tired of city life, no one would.
    It had been years since he’d
walked the mostly-dirt path. Grass had grown up in the middle of the
road, between the packed ruts, and the heavy canopy of live oaks and
cypress overhead blocked out the light of the moon.
    The path lightened, and he could see
the house at the end of it. Walker had barely cleared that thick
cover of the trees when a voice spoke from the sagging porch. “So.
You come alone.”
    Walker studied the simply dressed
man and shrugged. “I assumed that was what you wanted.”
    A soft footstep made the porch
creak, and a woman appeared at the man’s shoulder. “It is
easier not to have to contend with the Seer’s get, but we were
not sure you would abandon her.”
    Abandon. The word rankled, shamed him. “She has nothing to do with
this.”
    The man laughed, rusty and flat.
“No, I suppose not. Taking her from you might right the scales,
but she’s more trouble than she’s worth...as long as you
come with us quietly.”
    “ Just me.” Walker
shifted his weight, instinct demanding a fight—though there
would not be one. “The rest of the pride is hers now, and my
life is yours.”
    Gravel crunched behind Walker, and
the two Scions on the porch stiffened. The woman tilted her head and
gazed past him. “Does she know that?”
    Damn it. Walker turned to find Zola standing there, eyes narrowed. “I
thought I might have gotten away with it.”
    She raised both eyebrows, silently
asking if he’d really thought he could, then looked past him toward their enemies. “I
know what’s mine. The pride is mine, as is Walker Gravois. Are
you here to challenge me for them?”
    The woman paused at the top of the
porch steps. “Gravois is coming with us. He must