But it was way too late to honor my father’s request that I not intervene; at least I could fight on the right side.

“Why?” Malachi asked, head tilted. I didn’t think he was judging the question, but checking my motivation.

“Because if things don’t change, if we don’t change the way Containment deals with Sensitives, make them acknowledge we don’t have to turn into wraiths, I could be next.”

“I’m in, too,” Liam said. “She just beat me to it. Whoever is doing this has blood on their hands. My sister’s. Marla Salas’s. And they aren’t the only ones.”

Burke blew out a breath. “Good. We hoped you’d both feel that way.”

“For the record,” Darby said, “the pay sucks, because there is none, there are no benefits or sick days, and Containment could be on your ass at any time. But there is a lot of glory in keeping the Veil closed—saving humans from the monsters of the Beyond. No offense, Your Wingedness.”

“None taken.”

Speaking of His Wingedness, “If the Veil was opened,” I said, glancing at Malachi, “you could go home. You don’t want that?”

A shadow crossed his perfect face. “I’m a warrior. I lead my battalions, and the fight is not yet done. I did not choose to be here, but the fight has moved into this land.”

“Meaning the fight is now against Containment?” Liam asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” Malachi said. “It would, perhaps, be better to say that the fight is against ignorance.”

“And what’s the current agenda?” Liam asked.

“Tracking down the rest of the Sensitives who worked with Containment, even incidentally,” Burke said. “But it’s a slow process, and we haven’t been able to keep up. We’re still losing Sensitives.”

“We’ve got a friend in Devil’s Isle who has comp skills,” Liam said. “If you’re good with it, we can talk to him, have him search the network. Maybe he can find something about who might be targeted next.”

Burke glanced at Malachi and Darby, who nodded. “Good idea,” he said.

“So, how do we communicate?” I asked. “Or know when to meet?”

Malachi whistled. At his command, a milky-white pigeon flew down from the rafters, landed on his outstretched arm. There was a small leather band around one scaly leg. “Carrier pigeon,” he said, then gestured to the leather band. “A small message can be placed here.”

“I thought carrier pigeons were extinct.”

“You’re thinking of passenger pigeons,” Darby said. “They are extinct. Carrier pigeons are actually a type of homing pigeon, which is not.”

I looked at the bird, which turned its head in jerky, robotic movements. War hadn’t done much to lower the pigeon count in New Orleans, and since telephones were gone, it was a pretty ingenious solution. Humans had come a long way . . . and sometimes circled right back again.

Malachi nodded. “There’s a spot at your store where a bird could land? Where you could receive a message?”

I thought for a moment. “The courtyard windows. They’re away from the street, and the other buildings that face the courtyard aren’t occupied. There’s a flagpole outside the third-floor window. If you can get them to land there, that could work.”

He nodded. “When you take the message, you can insert another. The bird will fly back here, where we’ll retrieve it.”

“What if we need to get in touch with you before that?” I asked.

“Signal us,” Malachi said. “You’ve got a postwar flag?”