Behind the crates was a messy conglomeration of blankets, empty bottles, spilled cards, and other mounds of discarded garbage. The employee lounge. One blanket was off a little from the others. In the midst of the wool nest was half of a desiccated human leg. Bite marks were evident in the long dead limb, and graveyard dirt was a litter beneath it. "There." I indicated the blanket with a grimace of distaste.

Goodfellow ignored the leg and shoved the blade under a fold of cloth. "All right. Let's go."

"Won't they smell you? On the blade or upstairs?"

"Do you smell me?" he challenged, wiping his hand on his pants without a single wince for the ruination of fine fashion.

As a matter of fact, I didn't. There was only the sharp smell of musk and spice. Cologne, and a strong cologne at that, to cover up any hint of puck scent. "Neat trick," I admitted reluctantly.

"It's a special mixture. I've been wearing it since this whole debacle started. I prefer to stay nameless and scentless until all of this passes. I'm a survivor." He moved toward the door at the quickest pace his limp allowed.

I studied the blood on his shirt as he passed me. "Yeah, I noticed."

That stopped him in his tracks. Green eyes hit me, harsh and uncompromising. "Do you want George back?" He leaned closer. "Well? Do you?"

It struck me that I might not know Robin as well as I thought I did. Complacent in his loyal but breezy friendship, I'd forgotten who he was. Who he'd been. Who he would always be. Pucks were good at most things, but they were absolutely exceptional at one. No matter what they had to do, they got their own way. Luckily, Robin's way was fairly benign. Comfort, luxury, a wildly varied sexual life, all of that came easily to him with little effort expended. But now… now he wanted George back.

Guess what. So did I.

"I want her back," I replied levelly. "I want her back and I don't give a shit how we do it."

When she'd first been taken I'd worried how she might feel if bad things were done to get her back. As the days went on and she remained lost, I decided I just wanted her back. Period. Bring on the bad things. Bring them the hell on.

The dark gaze lightened, then ran clear. "And we'll get her back." We moved on to pass from the warehouse into the light. "Don't waste any tears on the succubus. She'd killed more humans in her long life than you could begin to count. A predator falls. It's the way of the world."

"Law of the jungle?" I snorted with dark skepticism.

"If you want to be clichéd about it." He gave a weary sigh, rubbing at the weeping claw marks on his neck. "Let's get something to drink, several somethings in fact, and I'll tell you what I learned."

Goodfellow usually chose bars that reflected his personality, upscale and pretentious. This time he threw image to the wind and picked the first one we came across. We lucked out. It was dark, as all good bars are, but it was clean—from what I could tell. Plants were everywhere… hanging in baskets, creeping over the tables, casting branches toward the ceiling. And I'd have sworn there was a bird on every one of those branches. Parrots, finches, parakeets… and a shitload of others I couldn't identify. I wasn't much on our fine-feathered, jet-force-crapping friends. These seemed well behaved enough, chirping or squawking only occasionally, but I still shot a wary eye upward when I grabbed a spot at the bar. "Weird place," I commented, checking the pretzel bowl suspiciously for white streaks.

"Bacchus be damned," Robin groaned. "It's a peri bar. Just my luck. My catastrophic, bowel-churning luck."

Before I could ask what the hell a peri was, the bartender came over… wings and all. Dove gray barred with silver, they were tucked neatly against his back. In a black T-shirt and jeans with short wavy black hair, he looked like your typical Mario from Queens. The wings could be a gimmick of the bar and stuffed in a locker before he headed home. Could be, but apparently weren't. Stopping opposite us, his round black eyes fixed on Goodfellow and he said without preamble, "Ishiah wants to talk to you."

"I don't remember asking you what Ishiah wanted," Robin responded in a bored tone. "Two beers with a whiskey back."

The peri's wings rustled in annoyance, and without further comment he moved down the bar to fill the order. "What's a peri?" I asked. Wings, feathers. Nah, it couldn't be. It had been a long time since I'd been as naive as that. Pre-third-trimester was about where I'd place it. It didn't stop me from yanking Goodfellow's chain. He needed it. We both needed it.

"They're not…" I looped a finger over the top of my head. "Are they?"

Robin rolled his eyes in disgust and said, "You truly are an uneducated delinquent, aren't you?" The alcohol arrived. As the peri slid the glasses in front of us, he opened his mouth to speak again. Goodfellow beat him to the punch. Holding up a finger, he said coldly, "Don't." Then he pointed the same finger down the bar. "Go."

Shedding a few disgruntled feathers, the peri hesitated, then obeyed with a scowl. There were other customers waiting to be served, oblivious humans and creatures as odd as any peri. "Overgrown cockatoo," Robin muttered. Not wasting any time, he did his shot, my shot, then chugged half his beer. Setting the mug back down, he said with reproof, "You have mythology books in your apartment, absolute reams of pertinent information. Pages and pages. Do you use them to blow your nose or to wipe your ass?"

I snorted into my beer, then took a swallow. "They're Nik's books. Hell, you already know they're Nik's books. Besides, out in the wild, he points and I shoot. It's a good arrangement."

"Gods. And you embrace your ignorance. That's what so astounds me." Goodfellow shook his head and finished his beer.

I examined a pretzel carefully and popped it into my mouth. I wasn't hungry. I didn't want it, but it was there. So often in life that's what it comes down to. It was there. "Yeah, yeah. Not angels, then?"

He cast a disgusted look at me over the top of his empty glass. "Yes, that's exactly what they are. And on Fridays they have a potluck with St. Nick, the Easter Bunny, and the tooth fairy." Resting his forehead in his hand, he mumbled, "You exhaust me, I swear it."

I had another pretzel. "So," I repeated offhand, "not angels, then?"

"Hermes, blow me." Reaching over the bar, he snagged a bottle of whiskey and poured it with a liberal hand before starting the lecture. "The peris, as a race, have been around as long as I have. Perhaps longer. They've been thought to be angels, fallen angels, the offspring of demons and angels. Always colored with the brush of the holier-than-thou. Messengers. Creatures of light. Creatures of power." He laced the labels with all the mockery in him, which was a helluva lot.

"And what are they really?"

"Publicity hogs." He slammed another shot. "Nosy, pushy publicity hogs. Nothing more. Trust me, Caliban, I've seen nothing of the divine in them." His eyes went distant and dark. "Nothing of the divine in this world."

There he was wrong. Maybe I couldn't touch it or be a part of it… Maybe it wasn't for me, but there was something special to be found. In George. I pushed the pretzel bowl away. We'd needed a breather from what had happened at the warehouse, needed a moment of the mundane. Now that moment had passed. "What did the snake tell you?"

Amber glowed in his shot glass as he turned it this way, then that, in his fingers. "The crown." He drained the glass. "She'd seen it. She'd worn it. And she was not particularly impressed by it. It didn't complement her coloring." He looked down at the blue that had dried on his shirt. "Obviously."

Jewels for the mistress, as Promise had conjectured. Close. My hand tightened around the mug. We were so close. "Where is it?"