A couple hours later, Daemon carefully placed a stem of night jasmine in front of him. Without water, it had wilted a bit, but it still seemed to wake beneath the moonlight, delicate petals opening and releasing their powerful perfume.

Please work, he thought as he knelt on his rolled-up mat.

Daemon took a deep breath and began to recite a plea, but it was very different from yesterday’s.

Hey-o, he began. I’m going out on an arrogant limb and hoping that, because I might be your son, you’ll hear me. Kichona has fallen into the hands of a delusional maniac who worships Zomuri, who, you probably know, is also insane. The only ones who can stop him are me and my friends, but as you can see, we could use your help. Me, in particular. I switch from wolf to pathetically naked boy at random, which pretty much sums up our position. So will you do it? I could really use some fatherly guidance here. I mean, even if it’s not you, just someone up there, please help.

Was it too up front? Possibly. Requests to the gods were supposed to be laden with deference and ceremony. But so far, the stiff approach hadn’t worked; maybe normal entreaties were just background noise in Celestae. Daemon hoped his informality would make his plea stand out.

As with yesterday, they kept praying steadily through the night, but they took breaks when the smoke got too thick, since it was compounded with the heady perfume of the flowers tonight.

As night gave way to early morning, Daemon began to sag on his mat. The brashness of his pleas shifted to dispirited resignation. At one point, he caught himself staring blankly at nothing in front of him, the flowers just a smoldering pile of ash.

But at the moment Daemon was about to give up, some of the stars directly above him seemed to wink out, as if a giant cloud had blown in to cover that portion of the sky.

He didn’t move.

Did I imagine that?

Daemon looked again at the spot in the sky. Where a constellation had twinkled earlier, now there was a distinct splotch of black sky.

“I think something’s happening . . . ,” he said.

Someone in the thicket of trees cleared his throat.

Daemon, Sora, Fairy, and Broomstick were supposed to be the only ones in the chestnut grove.

They turned toward the noise, half-hopeful their pleas had been answered but half-afraid they’d find a squadron of ryuu standing there. Everyone drew their weapons.

A young man stood in the shadows on the other side of the grove. He was so still he could have been mistaken for a tree. He stepped forward into the moonlight, revealing that he wore nothing but a loincloth made of alligator hide.

It wasn’t the ryuu. But it wasn’t Vespre either.