She shuddered and hurried her pace.

She passed through the open door and entered, half expecting to find a monster. But instead, she found only a man, distinguished silver hair parted down the middle and curls cropped just below his ears. He had a great beard and thick chop whiskers that covered his cheeks.

He was seated behind a wooden desk at the far end of a room decorated in Persian rugs and stuffed with finely bound books in bookcases. She spied works on magic and theology and an entire shelf devoted to the study of the Fallen. A fire blazed in a small fireplace in the corner, creating a stifling heat, but the inviting armchairs before the hearth looked like the perfect place to spend a cozy afternoon, not to interrogate innocents.

The whole place, man and books and fire, were not what she had expected. The dissonance made her stumble over a nonexistent fold in the rug.

He looked up at the noise. He had been writing at his desk with an old-fashioned quill, the pot of ink at his elbow and parchment before him. When he saw her, he smiled.

“You must be the sister.”

She froze in surprise, unsure what to do.

“Sheriff Ybarra told me to expect you.”

Of course. The sheriff had seen her in the crowd. Of course he would expect her to come. All her subterfuge was pointless.

“So you know I am Fallen.”

“The sheriff did mention it, yes.” He gestured to a hard-backed chair in front of his desk. “Sit. Please. And forgive me for the matter at the door. The gloria was extreme.”

The gloria? The metal cicada had been the thing Abraxas had warned her about? The thing even demonkind feared?

“I do apologize for that,” he continued, “but the holy water, well, I have long suspected the Fallen had a way of outsmarting the holy water. It’s quite outdated as a means of discerning Fallen ancestry. I know your kind are quite clever.”

“My kind?” Her voice was thick with disdain, but the man continued on blithely.

“Will you tell me how you did it?” he asked, eager. “Defeated the holy water?”

She kept her mouth closed, but her fingers flexed within her gloves, the wax covering them cool and solid.

He waited a moment, but when it was clear she had no intention of speaking, his shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Perhaps another time,” he said.

“I’ve come to talk to the head of the Order of Chamuel about my sister. Is that you?”

“I am Mr. Ibrahim, head of the Order of Chamuel.” He inclined his head. “At your service.”

She frowned. “You have a name?”

“Most people do.”

“I mean, that you would share with me.”

“Of course.”

“I thought the Virtues were particular about their anonymity.”