Raya picked up thereligieuse, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully. “Phoenix said something like that at Cosmo’s. Or was it at breakfast?”
Interest flashed across Justine’s face. “Cosmo’s?”
Raya set the pastry down. “Have you been there?”
Justine stammered slightly. “No. I mean, I know Cosmo—but I haven’t seen her in centuries.”
“Literally,” said Phoenix.
“She was a terrible thief. Used to sneak in at night and take as many pastries as she could carry.” Justine sounded almost wistful. “After a while I would just leave her favorites out on a tray.”
Phoenix had no idea how to respond to that tidbit of information.
“That’s so sweet,” Raya said. “Why don’t you go see her?”
“I promised myself I’d stay away.” The wrinkles around Justine’s eyes deepened as she frowned.
Raya spoke softly. “She’s in danger, Justine. They all are. They need help.”
Justine’s form wavered for a fraction of a second, revealing impossibly creamy white wings shot through with gold, and a corona that outlined her head with a blaze of glory. The vision disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Justinian is hiding underground. I leave him treats, sometimes, near a hidden entrance to the tunnels.”
“Take us there, and we won’t just be square, Justine—I’ll owe you whatever you want.”
Justine eyed him. “Whatever I want?”
“Cross my heart.” He gestured to match the words.
“You don’t have a heart, Phoenix.”
He shrugged. “Metaphorically speaking.”
22
Phoenix sent Raya back to the hotel, insisting that she rest and recuperate before their evening rendezvous with Justine, who would meet them after the bakery closed.
Raya, predictably, argued like a debate team president, but was eventually cozened into complying thanks to lavish promises of adventure, magic, and angelic encounters to come.
Meanwhile, he had business to conduct.
Invisible to all but other supernatural beings and witches, and unencumbered by a mortal companion, he spread his wings and took to the air, hovering over the 7tharrondissementwith its elegant old buildings before angling across the Seine.
Notre Dame stood sentry over the Île de la Cité in the middle of the river. He dove between its two largest towers just for fun, watching the tourists mill about in the plaza below. He considered making himself visible and swooping down for a startling fly-by, but decided that he’d angered enough angels in the vicinity of the cathedral and probably shouldn’t court trouble if he planned on asking one for help.
Past the Seine and a few dozen streets over, he landed at the gates to a vast cemetery. The cobblestone paths wound under tall trees that cast shifting shadows on the graves and vaults below.
Phoenix had known more than a few of the permanent residents.
Allowing himself a single sigh for centuries gone by, he ghosted through the crowd at the entrance and continued deeper into the necropolis, past statues of shrouded, weeping mourners.
Stone angels with stained wings kept a blank-eyed watch as he veered off the path into a tangled jumble of neglected gravesites.
He stopped before a vault, wider and taller than the rest, with a flattened roof fully exposed to the sky above due to a lack of trees in the immediate area. A quick pulse of his wings allowed him to land lightly on top.
The Dead Drop had been used in years past to leave messages in times of upheaval—and in peaceful times, the more mischievous demons had left behind a motley collection of rude words, bad puns, and the occasional drawing in questionable taste. The Dead Drop functioned something like a whiteboard in a break room, requiring only a quick flight over the cemetery to reveal the inscriptions left by other demons.
Phoenix bent to the task, tracing his finger over the stone roof of the vault. “Rogue witch exceeding his powers,” he muttered as he inscribed the words. “Do not congregate. Do not make yourself known. Remain hidden until I give the all-clear. By the authority of Phoenix, Great Marquis of Hell. That should do it.” He straightened and dusted his hands. “No, wait.” He bent low again. “P.S.—Cosmo: Justine says hi.”
A rustling sound in the distance, different from the sounds of the tree branches in the breeze, made him turn instinctively. “Come out, whoever you are. I can hear you.”
