“Handling that purple carpet must’ve done some permanent damage,” Raphael said.

“To you.”

He leaned over and murmured, “I’m not the one with purple stains on my butt.”

Oh, it’s like this, then? “Would you like to be?”

He grinned and nodded.

“Maybe you needed backup to help you with Roman,” I told him.

“I don’t need backup. I can take him with one hand tied behind my back.”

“He had one hand tied behind your back.”

“Maybe it looked like that from where you were sitting…”

That’s how Jim’s messenger found us, sitting on the ground, bickering and flirting. Jim’s teams had returned from the Warren, the poor neighborhood by White Street, and they had brought information about Gloria back with them.

I sat at a large conference table filled with food and reports. Jim sat across from me, and Chandra, Clan Jackal’s designated expert on ancient Egypt, sat to my left. Between us teetered small mountains of paperwork—all of the information Jim’s team had squeezed out of the inhabitants of the Warren. Derek joined us after the first fifteen minutes. We were looking for clues. Somewhere at this very moment, Gloria’s associates were preparing to raise Apep from the dead. We needed to know where that location could be, and Gloria was our only link.

We’d been at it for hours. So far I had made two piles: a big pile of stuff I’d gone through and didn’t consider relevant, and a very tiny pile of paper that might be something. I’d covered half a legal pad in notes. I was hungry again. The lunch hour came and went without us finding a smoking gun.

“It would be nice if there was a map,” Chandra said. “With a town circled on it.”

“And a note that said ‘Secret Hideout Here’?” Derek added.

I scrutinized the paper in front of me. Gloria had used a private shipping service, which was faster and more reliable than the post office, but which also forced their customers to declare the exact contents of their packages. In the event your package decided to sprout tentacles when the magic hit, they wanted to be prepared for that eventuality.

This particular operative, whose name was Douglas, had tracked down the shipping company Gloria used and offered their rep an outrageous bribe for the manifest of everything delivered to Gloria’s doorstep. Handmade soap, thirty bucks a bar. Expensive perfume. Pricy bath salts. Someone was living high.

Doolittle walked through the door. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I’m saving the world,” I told him.

Doolittle looked mournful. “I’ll make us some hot chocolate.”

I went down the list of deliveries: books, blah-blah, more soap, antimosquito cream. Hmm. Georgia was in the grip of a drought. I hadn’t seen a mosquito in ages.

“Mosquito cream,” I said.