blond hair mussed and his eyes blazing. He was crusted with dried blood. His standard uniform of

white tank top, red flannel shirt, and jeans was tattered and torn. Bruising marched up his familiar

face on one side, and he held—of all things—a red collapsible file folder. “I can prove it!” he yelled

again. And he held himself ramrod-straight, the same shoulder holster under his arm and the familiar gun butt peeking out as he moved.

“Augie—” It was barely a whisper. My mouth wouldn’t work right. Oh my God, it’s him. It’s really

him.

“I barely escaped Sergej himself.” The name made everyone wince and sent a glass spike of pain

through my head. I finally shook away from Leon’s hand and made it to my feet. “It’s all here. The

original transcript and a recording. Treachery so unspeakably vile it would steal the heart of any

who heard it. Copies of the directives, signed by each member of the Council, altered after the signing.” August gasped in a breath, and Christophe stepped aside, deftly focusing every eye on him. I

saw it, even though I didn’t believe it. The relief was . . . Jesus.

Indescribable. That was the only word that applied.

August never once used the aspect that month I stayed in his Brooklyn apartment. He went out almost every night, hunting, and came back battered sometimes. I’d cooked him dinners. I’d helped

him bandage himself, and I hadn’t thought much about how fast he healed. In the Real World, anything goes. I didn’t have any gift for healing; that was Gran’s thing.

Still, seeing him, even as beat up and bloody as he was, was like Christmas.

“August!” I yelled and slipped my arms out of my hoodie as Leon grabbed at its back. I was over

the wooden railing in a second, and I hurled myself at him. “August!”

“Eh, Dru.” Half-Bronx, half-Brooklyn, all Augie. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

I shoved past Christophe and threw my arms around August. Hugged, hard. He smelled horrible, but

I caught the familiar tang of cigarette smoke. August could make a thin yellow flame spring up on

his index finger.

He was real, and he was here, and he was a piece of the life I thought was gone for good. I forgot

everything else, even the tangle that was Graves missing and Anna lurking somewhere, in the flood

of scalding relief.

Hot tears slicked my cheeks. I just kept saying his name over and over. He winced, and I eased up

on the hug a little.

“Dru—” Christophe said, trying to pull me away.

But I clung to Augie. I wouldn’t let go. He wrapped one arm around me. “Easy there, księżniczko.

Break my ribs, eh?”

“Augie!” The sickness went away. I hugged him even harder, forgetting again that he was hurt. And