Ig was dead.

Johnny leaped down and lay upon the floor beside the bed, head and tail low. He gave a single whimper. The flash of power that had hit me earlier now seemed to whoosh back into him. Fur retracted, dark skin lightened, and bones and shape reverted.

He was still, cheek on the floor, eyes shut, blood-smeared face stuck in a grimace.

With my head downcast to keep the image of the throatless body on the bed from making its way to my nightmares, I left Hector and went to crouch with one knee down beside him. “Johnny.” I touched his shoulder; his skin was heated.

At my touch, he stirred. His eyes caught the edge of my skirt; from his angle he could see the dancer undies. It changed the grimace entirely.

“Johnny,” I repeated—with a dash of scolding in it—and put my other knee down.

He sat up as if his body weighed more than the world itself. I started to help him, then stopped myself. He’d just revealed to Hector and Todd who and what he truly was. Seven had taught me that, especially with these other-than-humans, appearances conveyed valuable messages of strength and respect and status.

I stood and backed away as Johnny, naked, gained his feet. He was dirty from the floor and his chest, like his chin, was stained with dark blood. It was a morbid scene, a ravaged dead man, sheets coated bright red, and the tang of fresh blood in the air.

It was a rite of ascension, it was a mercy killing, and it was murder. Yet, it was not unjust. I felt no urge to take action and right this, for this had not been wrong.

Todd pushed off from the wall. He went forward and stopped beside Ig and in front of Johnny. He said nothing. I held my breath.

When Todd reached into the gore on the bed and removed the wolf ’s-head necklace from Ig’s body, though, tension filled the room in an instant. Todd was taking the symbol of leadership of the pack.

He made no immediate move to put it on, however. He just studied the bloodied herringbone chain and rubbed his thumbs over the Y-shaped centerpiece. His bruised eye was swelling.

I expected a swing, a kick, a punch, harsh words, anything. Anything but Todd dipping his fingers into Ig’s open throat.

I choked on my held breath, unable to form words.

With fingers coated in syrupy fluid—and wearing the deep frown of a man resolved to an unhappy fate—Todd reached out and drew a long Y on Johnny’s chest, stylizing the snout and ears of a wolf.

It reminded me of the ankh Menessos had drawn on my sternum with his blood when he’d marked me. That seemed like so long ago . . . much more than a month.

Lowering himself on bended knee, Todd offered the necklace up to Johnny. “This pack has no crown to offer, but our leadership is yours, Domn Lup.”

Johnny squared his shoulders, and accepted the wolf ’s-head, chains dangling and dripping the blood of his predecessor. He considered the token, weighing its meaning for the space of several heartbeats before lifting it and securing it around his neck. Though he was still naked and dirty, all I saw was the king of wolves, a lean and muscular man with dark hair and a haunted blue gaze fixed on me.

He’d just claimed his mantle. For all the symbolism, for all the promise it held for us, it had cost him. And I already understood the price that must be paid more than I wanted to.

“I’ll call the pack.” Hector left us.

Don Henley’s voice erupted from my bag with the chorus of “Witchy Woman.” The protrepticus.

“Yes?”

“Xerxadrea is leaving for the Botanical Gardens now,” Samson said.

“Thanks.” I lowered the phone, biting my lip. I needed to be on my way, but I didn’t have a ride. Johnny couldn’t take me, he had to address the pack. “I have to go.” I put my hand on Johnny’s arm. “I’ll call a cab.”

“I . . .” He didn’t finish. He wanted to come with me, but he needed to stay here. We both knew it.

I nodded. “I know. We’ll figure out how to manage without you.”

“Can you do that again?” Todd asked. “The change?”

Johnny nodded tiredly. “If I have to.”

“They’ll need to see it.”

Once his tattoos were unlocked, as Beau said, he’d be able to transform without such effort. That he could defy the magic and do it at all meant that the ink spell was weakening. Or that Johnny was more powerful than anyone knew. We had to find the person who had tattooed him. But until Johnny, Menessos, and I all shared pieces of our souls, we couldn’t proceed with that. I’ll have to dig in his memories. Sharing souls must grant the shareholders an All Access Pass. I was going to have to talk to my spirit guide, a jackal named Amenemhab.

On the phone, Samson cleared his throat loudly. I put it back to my ear. “Yes?”

“The Lustrata doesn’t take cabs, honey. Especially not dressed like Superhooker. Your broom is leaning on the bad boy’s motorcycle.”

I’d left it at the haven. “How—”

Sam rolled his eyes, literally, around in his head. “Do you really need to ask that, witch?”

Riding the broom, I discovered another problem with the boots. The high wedge heels made it impossible to sit a broom properly with my feet tucked under my bottom. Menessos and I are going to have a long talk about shoes before he has the chance to send me any others with the expectation that I’m going to wear them.

Flying over the gardens, I scanned for any movement or people. The moon was waning, only a few days past full, but clouds were diffusing its light. So I had to rely on the street lamps lining Wade Oval and the soft glow they cast through the leafless trees. Still, I saw no one moving inside the gardens. So I steered lower and skimmed along the perimeter. I saw two shadows in tailored suits on East Boulevard and recognized Menessos and his next in command.

Damn it, Goliath’s here.

Menessos sprang over the Botanical Garden’s fence and landed beside a white oak. The fence wasn’t incredibly high, but I was impressed that such fine suits could endure that kind of activity without damage.

Goliath passed what had to be Aquula’s wrapped body to him, then vaulted into the gardens himself before taking the bundle back.

I considered waiting until Xerxadrea showed, but my conscience reminded me that I was the Lustrata. Being a coward around Goliath wouldn’t cut it. So I intentioned myself under the branches—brooms steer on intentions—and landed on the pathway behind them. Maybe giving him the higher ground would show my lack of hard feelings.

Menessos came forward. Goliath, holding the little body as if it were a swaddled infant, wore indifference like a mask. Though I put him on his knees, he’s likely assuming I’m foolish to give him any advantage.

“The rose garden,” Menessos said. “She would like that.”

I’d been to the gardens a few times, and having just done a flyover, I led the way. After a few steps I realized this was silly. The vampires could find their way in the darker garden interior better than I could, and with me having to contend with the impractical boots, I just slowed our progress. I followed inset stone stairs that, as the pathway steepened, gave way to railroad timbers. At the bottom, going around a spindly fir tree, we passed a hedged container bed and arrived at a concrete path with rounded steps and two stone masonry columns supporting wrought-iron gates.

In the summer, hostas lined this pathway with their broad and lush leaves, but the gardeners had evidently been preparing the beds for winter. In the dark, the empty patches were ominous in this solemn place, too quiet without crickets.

We emerged at a clearing with a tall red oak. I spotted Xerxadrea flying over. We hurried down the stone path and stopped at the edge of the rose garden. The roses, trained over the arches in the summertime, had also been trimmed back for the winter. The main bed held sad remnants of red and orange mums, and the water feature was drained and dry.