There was a moment on the drive when I wondered if it was ever not going to be like this. But then I decided I was crazy. It would always be like this, riding to certain death every few months, trying to protect people we would never meet. Some people painted. Some people baked. We did this, whatever the hell it was. I just didn’t want to die. I didn’t want Curran to die. I wanted to save Eduardo.

I wanted there to be a stretch of normal, if not for a few months, then at least for a few weeks.

The magic ran thick tonight. Warm wind bathed me as I stepped out of the car. A change was in the air.

A dark shadow slid across the stars above and a jet-black winged horse flew through the air, circling the yard. Arabian horses were never my favorites. They were loyal to a fault and would run themselves to death for the right rider, but they were a bit high-strung for my taste. But this horse was perfect, from the velvet coat and silky mane to the tapered hooves of her elegant legs. Vast wings, black as midnight, spread from her shoulders. She glided on the air currents, a graceful creature of legend come to life. Even Mahon watched, halfway out of his car.

I caught a glimpse of Curran out of the corner of my eye as he moved to stand next to me. We watched the horse gently land on the pavement, Bahir on her back.

“Do you ever wish it were just normal?” I asked him quietly.

“Yes. But then we would never see things like this.”

Bahir dismounted, light on his feet.

“Where did you find her?” I asked.

Bahir petted the horse’s muzzle. “I didn’t. Amal found me.”

He clicked his tongue at her. Amal shook herself. Her wings vanished.

Atlanta was getting stranger and stranger by the day.

“Come on,” Luther called. We followed him into the building, up the stairs, to the far end of a long hallway, where big double doors stood wide open. A large room spread before us, devoid of furniture. The floor was covered with chalkboard paint. Bronze braziers stood by the walls filled with coals ready to be lit. That had to be the incantation room.

In the middle of the room, in a protective circle drawn on the floor with chalk, Mitchell lay in a small heap. The glyphs around the ward glowed weakly—the spell packed one hell of a wallop. Shreds of fabric littered the floor around the ghoul. A woman sat in a chair by the wall, reading a book.

“Blood,” Curran said.

I glanced at Luther.

“We tried putting him into a straitjacket so he wouldn’t hurt himself.” Luther sighed. “He keeps trying to crack his skull against the floor.”

“What happens during tech?” Nick asked.