Søren said nothing. Then he smiled.

“Well, when you put it that way.”

“The way you handle it is this—he gives you the house, you look at it, nod, and say ‘I suppose it’ll do.’ Then you pat him on the head, fuck him blind, and never mention that he gave you the house again. He’ll secretly hope for a feast of gratitude. Meanwhile, you’ll dole out mere crumbs. And he will eat those crumbs off your fingertips.”

Søren reached out and patted her on the top of the head.

Nora laughed, a laugh that bounced down the hall. She grabbed his hand and held it tight.

“Now I just have to figure out a housewarming gift for you,” she said.

They locked the house up and walked back to the hotel. As they laid down in bed together, Søren wrapped her in his arms and pulled her to his chest.

“I’m still your priest, aren’t I, Little One?” he asked.

She kissed his chest over his heart. She knew if she could cut his chest open and look at his heart, she’d see her name tattooed across it, right next to Kingsley’s and Fionn’s and God’s. “You’ll always be my priest.”

Chapter Eleven

Sunday morning, when all God’s children ought to be in church, Cyrus was trying to hunt down a dominatrix.

He’d stopped by Edge’s Garden District house/palace again, and while Nora Sutherlin’s black German Shepherd came to the gate and glared at him, his owner didn’t come with him. When he buzzed the intercom, no one answered.

Cyrus considered any time after 8:30 in the morning safe for making phone calls. At 8:31, he’d called Nora’s cell phone number that had been on the card she’d given him. The call went straight to voicemail. He’d asked her to call him back, but after waiting over two hours, he decided to try again.

She picked up this time. It was 10:30.

“Ah, Ms. Sutherlin,” he began. “This is Cyrus Tremont.”

“Good morning,” she said. “Isn’t it? I think it’s good.” Then she laughed.

“It is for somebody,” he said.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“I have kind of a weird favor to ask.”

“That sounds interesting. Ask it.”

“If I bring you something, can you tell me what it is?”

“What is it?”

“If I knew what it was, I wouldn’t have to bring it to you, would I?”

“True. But can you give me a hint? Animal? Vegetable? Criminal?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Send me a pic?” she said.

“I’d rather not have a record of this.”

“Come over then. I’m in the French Quarter. Le Richelieu Hotel. Suite 301.”

“I’ll be right over.”

“If a well-groomed Viking opens the door, don’t worry. He’s with me.”

She hung up before Cyrus could ask about the Viking. He had a feeling she was trying to freak him out.

It was working.

Turned out she hadn’t been kidding about the Viking. When Cyrus knocked at the door to room 301, a tall, broad-shouldered blond man with a neatly-trimmed beard answered the door. He looked like he’d pillaged his share of villages.