Bones jumped into the pit, landing with a small splash about twenty feet down. Nothing underground in New Orleans could stay dry forever, even with the impressive pump system Marie had beneath the cemetery. I jumped in next, glad I had on boots so that whatever squished beneath my feet didn’t end up splattered on my skin.

The hole above us closed at once, plunging the tunnel into as near to complete darkness as was possible for vampire vision. There was only one way to go, so Bones headed deeper into the tunnel, and I followed. We had to walk single file to avoid touching the walls, and I wanted to avoid them for more reasons than their layer of spongy mold. Madigan wasn’t the only person who loved booby traps. Marie had rows of long knives hidden in these walls, and one flick of a switch would send them shooting out to julienne whoever was unlucky enough to be in their path.

After about thirty yards, we came to a metal door with hinges that should have been rusted, but they didn’t let out a creak when we opened the door. Then it was up the short staircase to the windowless room that I guessed was inside one of the larger, communal crypts. It had no apparent exit aside from the way we came in, but once more, appearances were deceiving.

Take, for example, the handsome African-American woman in the recliner across from us. Manolo Blahniks peeked out from beneath her fuchsia skirt, its bright color repeated in the string of gemstones that hung over her black sweater. She’d gotten a haircut since I last saw her, its dark length now ending at her chin instead of her shoulders. The flattering new ’do framed creamy mocha features that were both ageless and lightly lined.

The closest I could come to pegging Marie’s age when she’d been made into a ghoul was fortyish to fiftyish, but there was no mistaking the years in her gaze. Those hazelnut eyes held knowledge that would intimidate the most lauded of sages, and I didn’t let her soft smile fool me. It was more warning than welcome, pretty though her seashell-colored lipstick might be.

“Majestic,” Bones said, calling her by the name she preferred.

That lush mouth curved further. “Reaper. Bones. What brings you to my city?”

Her drawl was pure Southern Creole, smoother than butter and sweeter than pie, yet as usual, Marie didn’t bother with false pleasantries. That trait we had in common.

Two unoccupied chairs were the only other furniture in the small room, but I didn’t sit. This wouldn’t take long.

“We’re here to ask for a favor if you’re capable of doing it.”

Marie’s brow rose at my challenging statement. Bones gave her a bland smile, yet his shields cracked, and I felt his approval threading through my emotions. Now, at least, she’d hear what the request was, if only to prove that she could do it.

“What is it?”