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He didn’t want them to look official. The Lost Ones wouldn’t trust that. The spell took and caught.

Adam dressed them in jeans and T-shirts, though he added leather jackets and combat boots.

Were he Argent or Silver he could have made the change permanent, formed matter from the very stuff of spirit.

There were always limits. Even the elves had limits. It was more than a little scary to consider what not having any would look like.

Adam didn’t have that kind of power, though he had to wonder if he also lacked imagination.

He’d gone with something he knew, but he could have made their clothes fantastic, choosing outfits from another era or his own imagination.

He’d done that before, the last time they’d spirit walked together, but now, when he tried to imagine something more, he felt like the well was dry. At least this way they wouldn’t stand out.

Adam took his time. He walked among the houses, noting the ornate, old-fashioned streetlamps that marked the way. Each housed a pixie hive. The light danced a happy orange as they swarmed. The delicate music of their wings eased a bit of the weight in his chest.

The graffiti was a lot less charming.

“Are we in the right place?” Vic asked.

They walked a little further before Adam spotted the painting on the sidewalk.

A red wolf’s head—it looked angry, and fresh. They’d captured his snarl. It was pretty much how he’d looked when Adam had killed him.

Around it were scribbled the words No More Royals. No More Rules.

“Yeah, I’d say we’re in the right place.”

They followed the graffiti through the rows and streets of stumps. He could not read many of the languages, but the sentiments didn’t vary much when he could piece them together.

One, written in English, showed a pair of severed, pointed ears and bore the phrase, Down with the Crown.

“At least it rhymes,” Vic noted.

Adam didn’t laugh.

Seamus had a right to be worried. The Lost Ones were more than discontent. Their rage was growing, and it had found a target in Silver.

Adam felt eyes on them, but no one approached.

Vic eyed the houses and asked, “Where do you think they are?”

“Seamus said they were at the tower.” Adam nodded in that direction.

Vic took his hand and they walked.

In the mortal realm the tower sat with a cemetery to its east and a park to its west.

The cemetery’s iron fence remained in the spirit realm, walling the paths away from the rest of the city. It was hard not to compare it to the Watchtower of the North, where the grounds were filled with amusement park rides and dignitaries of every imaginable race.

Here the blocky mausoleum reigned over a field of tombstones and crypts, though there weren’t as many full structures as there had been in the graveyard where Adam had last gone to question the Lost Ones.

They’d occupied it in force, building shelters out of scrap and tents. Adam spied a covered wagon straight out of the Wild West and a camper van that had seen better decades. Wendy and Joey must be doing a brisk business.

“I guess Seamus offered them sanctuary but not deluxe accommodations,” Vic said.

“As above, so below,” Adam mused. “This is worse than the alleys back home.”

“It’s everywhere,” Vic said. “Every city at least.”