The Duke on Duke was situated on the ground floor of a gorgeous old Georgian building. The frontage was half brick, half glass, the windows framed by wood that had been freshly painted black. The door was also wood, but like the window frames, its song was muted by multiple layers of paint.

“This looks more like a bar than a café,” I said.

“It’s linked to the hotel next door, so it probably acts as both.” He pushed the door open and waved me through.

The inside bones of the building were exposed brick, the floor black and white tiles, and the styling modern. Pink leather stools lined the bar on one side while sapphire leather bench seating ran the length of the other. The regularly spaced tables were freestanding—no doubt so they could be moved around to cater for different-sized groups—while the chairs were also sapphire in color but did at least look comfortable. That wasn’t always a given in places like this.

A waitress approached and asked if we’d like a table. Lugh explained that we were meeting a friend and gave her his name. She directed us to the back of the room and said she’d be down in a few minutes to take our order.

The front half of the room was much brighter than the rear and, as the shadows clustered around us, an odd sense of trepidation stirred. Gods only knew why.

Jules had claimed the last table at the end of the long room but didn’t move or even look our way as we approached. There was a half-consumed coffee close to his right hand and a phone next to his left. AirPods were in his ears, and his eyes were closed. He looked for all the world like someone caught up in the program he was listening to.

I had a growing suspicion that was not the case.

Lugh stopped in front of the table and cleared his throat. “Jules Auclair? I’m Lugh Aodhán—I contacted you a few hours ago about...”

His voice trailed off. Then he swore softly, reached across the table, and gently pressed two fingers against the other man’s neck.

He swore again, this time with more vehemence. I didn’t have to ask why.

Jules Auclair wasn’t listening to music or anything else on his phone.

He was dead.

Chapter Four

“The bastards got here before us.” Though Lugh’s voice was low, it was filled with anger and frustration.

“It could be a natural death,” I said. “Maybe he had heart problems or something.”

Lugh shot me an irritated glance. “Heart attacks generally don’t kill you instantly. Even in the case of a sudden cardiac arrest, there is at least a few minutes between onset, unconsciousness, and death.”

And whatever did kill him had been superfast. The café staff would have noticed something was wrong, otherwise.

My gaze jumped to the shadows behind him. Sometimes in these sudden death situations a soul would linger, but there was no indication that was the case here. Not that I was overly sensitive to those sorts of things—no more sensitive than anyone attuned to the energy of living things such as trees was, at any rate.