A wide stone bench was carved into the wall opposite the mattresses. A padded cushion sat atop it, and sitting on it was—I surmised—Spooner, smoking a cigarette.

He was hard to see in the shadows until he shifted to face us, allowing the blue light to illuminate the side of his face. Middle-aged and awkwardly tall, he had pale skin, stark orange hair, and matching freckles. Only a plain green halo, so not one of The Thirteen, then.

He studied me with an unsettling smile. Freshly showered, his pumpkin hair was slicked back, his cheeks pink. He wore an odd, crumpled suit; the jacket was brown and the vest beneath it cheetah-spotted, and topped with a green ascot instead of a tie. The man at the evidence room in Portland was right on the money; this guy really did look like a giant leprechaun. A badly dressed one.

“Hello, Lon … and friend.” He took a long drag off his cigarette, lazily crossed his long legs, and leaned back against the stone wall.

“Spooner.”

“And friend?” he prompted again.

“Cady, this is Spooner. He doesn’t have a real job, but he’s wealthy, if that impresses you.”

It didn’t. Lon must have been reading my thoughts, because he lightly pressed his thumb against my neck in acknowledgment.

My eyes settled on Spooner’s socked feet. They were mismatched, brown and black; the black one had a hole in the toe. His shoes rested on the cushion beside him. He moved them to the floor and patted the fabric. “Please, Cady. I wish you had come back here sooner.” He waved a pointy finger toward the couple on the mattresses. “They’re momentarily exhausted, but they’ll recover fast. If not, there are others.”

The dozing nude male rolled to his side, eyes closed. That’s when I noticed the gray scales on his shoulders and the tiny blunt horns on his head. No fiery halo, so he wasn’t transmutated. Then I spotted the purple patch of skin at the top of his sternum.

“Incubus,” I said in an even voice.

“And succubus.” Spooner exhaled smoke in my face. Rude. I waved it away. It wasn’t valrivia. It smelled like a stimulant, which was the last thing in the world anyone in these caves should be using.

“How do you have …” My words trailed off when I spotted the narrow channel that ran along the floor. A binding triangle inside a larger circle. The channels were lined with thin glass pipes containing a thick, dark substance. “Not red ochre,” I said, inspecting the glass. It was hard to tell much of anything in the dim lighting. “It looks like oil paint … a mineral bound in oil. Cinnabar?”

Spooner gave me another unsettling smile. “Close. Vermilion. You can enter freely without breaking the binding.”

Huh. I thought it was used mainly when you wanted to ensure that nothing could inadvertently break the binding, not to allow the magician free passage in and out of the binding area. Most magicians go to great lengths to protect themselves from contact with summoned Æthyric demons, and with good reason. A lot of demons don’t like being summoned out of their plane. Would you like being ripped away from your life unexpectedly by some wheezing, power-hungry magician who only wanted to get information out of you or use you for your knack? Probably not.

Like humans, Æthyric demons vary in intelligence and physical prowess. There are plenty of docile demon classes, but just as many wild ones. And if you summon a demon who’s pissed off and ready to rip your head off, given half the chance? Well, that might not be someone you want to lock yourself up with inside a small, contained space. Honestly, the Pareba demon that Riley had summoned was only the second Æthyric demon I’d ever witnessed who’d been allowed to roam free without containment.

Granted, succubi and incubi aren’t really dangerous; in fact, they readily enter pacts with magicians, willingly exchanging sexual favors for bits of earthly information or temporary use of a magician’s guardian. But considering the elaborate binding in front of me, it was pretty clear that these two were being held here against their will.

This setup is kind of repulsive, just FYI, I thought to Lon. He squeezed my neck lightly.

Spooner cut his eyes toward Lon. “Don’t tell me you’ve brought her here to skip ahead in the initiation queue.”

“No one’s taking your place in line. Don’t be paranoid.”

“Good. Because I think one crazy wife is enough for this club.”

“Don’t test me, Spooner,” Lon replied.

“I’m not here to join,” I confirmed.

He studied my halo but made no comment about it. “What are you here for, then?”

“We want to buy something you’ve recently acquired,” Lon replied. “The glass talon.”

Something dark crossed Spooner’s face, but he remained composed and relaxed.

“Why would you want that?”

“Why would you?” I asked.

“I’m a collector.”

“And an opportunist. How much?” Lon asked.

Holding the cigarette in his mouth, Spooner settled the shoes in front of him and tugged at the laces to loosen them, slipping one on. As he tied it, he said, “I don’t have the talon.”

Lon toed the second shoe and kicked it aside. “Yes, you do. I talked to the person who sold it to you in Portland. I know how much you paid for it.”

Spooner leaned forward to hook the heel of the shoe with his fingertip. Scooting it back into place, he stuck his hole-y toe inside. “I sold it already.”