Malachi scowled. Jim and Henry were already posted on corners around this block, but apparently we hadn’t gotten here early enough to see how she’d arrived. I wondered how many Mazikin were watching us right now. The rain made it impossible to pick up their scent.

Jen led us inside, down a long hallway lined with closed doors. “Because you’re seventeen and almost an adult, this meeting will be unsupervised, but you call if you need help, all right? You’re not obligated to meet with her, so you can leave anytime you want.”

“It’s okay, Jen,” I said, shoving my shaking hands into my jacket pockets. “It’s no big deal.”

She threw me a pitying look as we stopped in front of Conference Room 113. The Rita Santos–Mazikin was perched on one of the swiveling chairs, her fingers curled around its armrests. Her wild hair was brushed today. Just a few braids and beads, but she’d managed to comb the leaves and twigs out. She wore an ill-fitting light-blue suit with a stained cream-colored shirt underneath, and I wondered if she’d stolen the outfit from one of the Mazikin victims. Her gold-brown gaze scanned our faces and then fixed on me. She leaned forward suddenly, looking like she might fling herself through the glass wall separating us. I flinched. Malachi whispered something under his breath and shifted closer to me. Jen sighed, and then knocked briskly on the door and opened it. The hallway filled with the faint scent of incense.

“Hola, Rita,” Jen said, “Ella está … here.” She stood back and looked at me. “I’ll be right down the hall, all right? My door will be open.”

I nodded, not sparing her a glance, too busy staring at my mother, who was whispering my name over and over again. Drawing in a lungful of hallway air, I strode into the room and seated myself at the opposite end of the table from Rita. A stranger. My mother. My enemy. A Mazikin. I didn’t know what label to use, what name. She was all of those things to me. She rose from her chair, but at that moment Malachi entered the room and positioned himself between us.

“Quédate sentada,” he said firmly, pointing to her chair. “No voy a permitir que te acerques a ella.”

Rita grimaced, revealing dark yellow teeth. “I … not hurt … her.”

Malachi looked over his shoulder at me. “This is your meeting,” he said, his expression revealing his tension. It was nearly impossible for him to resist killing a Mazikin who was sitting within arm’s reach.

Despite the suit and the hair combing, Rita’s fingernails were black-tipped and ragged. She watched me with pure hunger in her eyes as I gripped my chair tightly and said, “Tell us why you wanted to meet.”