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We’re halfway through a charged little silence that feels almost peaceful when the chamber door opens after one sharp knock.

Gideon enters alone.

He stops just inside the threshold, posture immaculate, gaze carefully fixed above shoulder level. Every member of the Twelve is apparently now determined to survive the week by displaying perfect manners.

‘Sire. Eira.’

The fact that he uses my name makes my brows rise. Valentin notices too, judging by the faint tension around his mouth.

‘Report,’ Valentin says.

Gideon steps forward and places a small black drive on the table. ‘We finished extracting the courier’s private files. They contained more blackmail stock, most of it worthless. But one file is not.’

Valentin’s expression changes and he tenses, and our fragile little pocket of almost-peace evaporates. ‘What is on it?’

‘A conversation between the courier and a broker named Orlan Vey.’

I look up. ‘The Warlock?’

Gideon’s gaze shifts to me. ‘Warlock-magistrate. He has a minor jurisdiction but considerable reach. He arbitrates disputes in supernatural grey markets along the Eastern seaboard. Low official power but high practical influence.’

‘Translation,’ I say, setting down the spoon, ‘a man who knows where the bodies and contracts are buried.’

‘Precisely.’

Valentin’s jaw tightens. ‘Play it.’

Gideon taps the drive against his phone. The recording fills the room, tinny but clear.

A younger voice, nervous. The courier. ‘Vey said no names.’

Then another voice, older, smoother, amused in a way that makes my skin prickle.

‘Everyone says no names until the payment triples. Tavish Drennan was last moved through Briarhook. There’s an old canal route, sealed station beneath Saint Merrow’s. Tell your witch her interest in Navarro’s old sireds is becoming expensive.’

The courier says something too low to catch.

Then Vey again. ‘And tell Rousseau if she wants another clean passage, she speaks to me herself. I’m finished relaying messages through shaking boys with recording charms in their cuffs.’

The recording ends.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Tavish Drennan. One of Rafe Navarro’s missing sireds. And Selphine. In the same breath.

My stomach turns cold. Valentin stands so slowly the room seems to rearrange itself around him.

‘Briarhook,’ he says.

Gideon nods. ‘Abandoned canal district north of the city with several supernatural holdings under false names. We dug deeper when we heard the recordings. There’s one sighting of a woman matching Selphine Rousseau within a ten-block radius four months ago. Aaron is verifying now.’

My pulse jumps. ‘Four months ago?’

Valentin looks at me, the question I don’t ask darting between us anyway.

How long has she been circling this? How long has Selphine been tied to the men we were hunting? To Tezra’s death? To the poison? To me?

Gideon continues. ‘Orlan Vey maintains a townhouse above a closed apothecary in Briarhook. Publicly, he appears neutral. But privately, he sells routes, names and safe passage to anyone who can pay.’