“I was by to see Raphael today.”

He was? How many people had been in that room while I’d been asleep?

“And it looks like you need to find these mages quickly. Faster than before.”

Right. But was that really the answer? I had to be sure before I went on the proverbial wild goose chase. “Before I jump on the first plane out, you haven’t told me anything about what I’m looking for, who I’m looking for, and how they can help me. I can’t just go there and look around hoping to stumble upon something. Raphael… He’s—”

“Dying.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I will not cry right now. He’s not dead yet. There’s still time.

“I will tell you a little about my country.”

It was with those words that wolves around the table all took a breath and leaned in. Like they’d never heard anything about Muraco or Peru before. There was something about Muraco that made me want to listen to him, too. To trust him. And I definitely wanted to hear his story.

“In my country, we don’t separate ourselves from other supernaturals. It’s not normal for us to live the way you do here. All in your own compounds behind your own walls and fighting amongst yourselves. It’s not right.”

I bristled at that—who was he to tell us how to live—but remained quiet.

“Long ago, a wolf fell in love with a very powerful witch. She didn’t turn, because she was happy with her life as it was, but they were mated all the same. Together, they formed a new way of living. Witches. Wolves. Fey. All living together. Having families. This is where I am from. This is how it should be. I’ve tried to tell the other packs, but no one will listen.” He looked at Teresa and Dastien, who sat together, their hands entwined. “But they give me hope for peace in this part of the world.”

He gestured with his hands, and his joints popped. “We lived together for some time before there was trouble. You see, not everyone lived in the villages. Some witches wanted to stay apart. Some packs wanted to roam. Some fey liked underhill better. But we all got along. For a time. Then the magic casters—mages, witches, wizards—whatever you want to call them, it’s all the same—split away from us, breaking into two groups. Good and bad. The good ones practiced a pure white magic. They lived alone, like priests working their magic—meditating and praying. When things went wrong, people from all over the country, from other parts of the Andes, would come to seek their guidance. To receive blessings. It was said that their auras were so pure they glowed in the darkness. And sometimes, a witch from my wife’s coven would decide that they wanted that quiet life and they would disappear to join.” He sighed, and I looked at Yvonne.

Had she heard of anything like this? I’d have to ask.