A three-hour flight later we were driving a rented car through the crowded, noisy streets of the Financial District in the dim, pre-dawn hours of the morning. It was less busy at this hour, but New York traffic is always awful at any time of day, in almost any neighborhood. I tap the arm rest of the passenger side door, frowning at the license plate of the car ahead of us.

"You are preoccupied, ma belle," Carver observes, glancing towards me as we creep ahead another inch. Our turn off the main road is about twenty feet and a half an hour away. "Care to discuss?"

"It's nothing new," I tell him, shrugging. "Just worried about all of it."

"There is a lot to be worried about," Carver says with a sympathetic nod. "But please, tell me. If I do not have some entertainment I will doze off. Of course, in this traffic, I might sleep for a week before I am expected to move..."

Reina and Row are already knocked out in the back seat, Reina drooling on Row's shoulder.

"I feel like this is a wild goose chase," I confess, "Looking for Abe, I mean. Lavinia hasn't contacted us in a month. Something must be wrong. The Daks wouldn't just vanish like that without getting word to us."

"Relax, ma belle," Carver says soothingly. "They are not that easy to kill. I know, I've been trying for centuries. They will find us when they are ready. Have you had any more visions from Abehartach?"

I shake my head as Carver edges the car forward another inch.

"He's still calling to me," I say. "I can hear him in the back of my mind when it's quiet. But his words are faint, indistinct. What I can understand is nothing I haven't already heard. I haven't got a fucking clue where he is without Lavinia to tell me, and if the Daks get destroyed, this whole rebellion starts to feel like a lost cause."

"I have thrown in my lot with worse lost causes," Carver says with a chuckle. We finally reach our turn and I sigh with relief as we leave the stop and go traffic behind. This street is still congested, but at least we're moving. "Have you heard of the Mud Angels?"

I frown, shaking my head.

"Sounds like an indie rock band," I say frankly. Carver laughs.

"In 1966, Florence- Center of all great art and literature in Europe- experienced the worst flood in its history," he says. "One hundred people dead, and millions of priceless masterpieces lost or destroyed. Paintings older than I am, by the most famous artists to have ever lived. Rare books by the thousands. Ancient sculptures, antique furniture, clothing and textiles that were the last examples of techniques now lost to us."

"Jesus," I mutter, trying to imagine it.

"The water rose over twenty two feet at the height of the flooding," he continued. "And when it was over, Florence was in ruins, and in no shape to save itself or the priceless art it once housed. This is when the Angeli del Fango, the Mud Angels began to arrive. They were students mostly, young men and women who had come to Florence to see the art and architecture, celebrating the unification of Europe after World War II. And they threw themselves into relief efforts without hesitation or expectation of reward. And more came, traveling from hundreds of miles away specifically to help. Digging, crawling through the mud, to recover the lost art works. Hundred more volunteered for restoration, frantically drying and cleaning, trying to save anything they could. Now that was a lost cause worth pursuing."

"You were there?" I assumed.

"Of course," he said with a nod. "I traveled from Paris as soon as I heard. Perhaps I am biased, but I think as immortals, we have a particular duty to art, and to the preservation of art. Who else can guard it as we can, and see it carried into the future?"

"That's surprisingly sentimental of you," I said, smiling. "I like it."

He smiles back at me briefly, warmth in his eyes, then turns his eyes back to the road.

"There was a gallery near the Piazza Cavaleggeri," he says. "In the lower levels of another building. It was filled with water to the roof. When the flood receded, being underground as it was, it remained submerged. The water would have to be pumped or bucketed out. And beneath it, at least four feet of thick mud, mixed with oil from the ruptured central heating tanks. 'Everything there is destroyed,' they said. We cannot reach it. We cannot save it. But I had been listening to them say this all day. I had held precious books from the Uffizi and watched them dissolve into nothing in my hands, knowing there were no other copies. I had pulled paintings from the mud, their frames snapped and canvases torn and stained with oil. I laid them gently in the arms of the restorers like birds with broken wings, like lame horses, knowing they couldn't be saved. So when they tell me, this is a lost cause, I wade in anyway. What is drowning to a vampire? What do I care for mud and oil in my lungs? I'll live. For hours I dove, over and over, digging in the mud, searching blindly in the darkness, carrying up anything I could find. Others, humans, joined me. Angels in the mud. Most of that day is a blur, but I remember one thing. I remember a painting, a panel from an iconostasis I think, no bigger than my hand. Most of the panel paintings had suffered the worst as the water broke down the gesso. But this one, by some luck or trick of chemistry, was perfect, I carried it up out of the water and it gleamed in the light. The Virgin Mother holding the crucified Christ. It seemed like a sign somehow- this tiny, perfect thing, pulled out of the mud unharmed. I think it may have been the only thing salvageable we pulled from that gallery. But I would do it again. A hundred times, I would do it again, to save that one painting. A lost cause is only lost the moment you declare it so. There is always something there, waiting for you in the ruins. I will not tell you that fighting Morana is not a lost cause. Only that I believe we should do it anyway."

I sit quietly for a moment, letting his story soak in, trying to imagine him digging through the mud, holding broken paintings like injured animals. It’s hard to picture. But I think I understand.

"Thanks," I say, knowing it isn't enough. But he just smiles at me, reaching over to squeeze my hand briefly.

"Wake the sleeping beauties," he says. "We're here."

"Lucian works here?" I say, eyes widening as I look up at the stately skyscraper we're approaching. The sun rising behind it glints off its mirrored surface.

"He owns it, actually," Carver says with a smile.

"He owns it?" I say, stunned. "Lucian? My Lucian?"

Carver grins at me, and laughs as I turn red.

"You know what I meant!"

We head inside, where I feel weirdly underdressed in jeans and sneakers compared to the secretary in her crisp designer skirt suit and flawless-yet-practical manicure. But she doesn't bat an eyelash as she confirms that we're "Mr. Lucian's" first meeting of the day. We take the elevator up to the top, where the doors open on an office that looks like a staged photoshoot for Forbes.

The modern, minimalist furniture gives the room a stark feeling, guiding the eye towards the massive window taking up the entire far wall. Its view of the Manhattan skyline, currently black against the pale dawn sky, is something out of a postcard. Facing the window stands a man I at first don't recognize. It isn't until he turns and I see his eyes that I realize who it is.

"Lucian?" I say, aghast.

"Aurora," he replies. His voice is as stiff as his posture in his bespoke suit, but hearing him say my full name makes me shiver strangely.

"Fancy shit," Reina says, gliding past me and into the office like she owns it. She gives it all an appraising look, an approving nod, and then flops into a chair. Row follows a bit more sedately, still yawning. I stay rooted to where I am, staring at Lucian. He looks intimidatingly good in that suit. Now I definitely feel under dressed. Carver nudges me forward encouragingly and I stumble over my own feet. I wouldn't have fallen, but Lucian is there in an instant to steady me anyway. I meet his stare and feel that awkward feeling in my stomach going to war with a sudden swarm of butterflies.

"I'm glad you're here," he says, and the butterflies are winning. "Although I was surprised at how quickly you accepted my invitation. I thought Carver would last at least a few days before trying to unload you on me."

He winks and I forget how speaking works.

"Unfortunately, circumstances changed," Carver says, putting a hand on my shoulder, which does help me recollect my senses. I clear my throat, focusing my stare on Lucian's tie so I can avoid being distracted again.

"Morana found us," I explain. "And delivered a literal engraved invitation to the door."

Lucian raises an eyebrow.

"Less an invitation than an order," Carver says. "She demands we return to Paris in order to present Aura to the court."

"Does she know?" Lucian says immediately, and I can see his shoulders tense under the fine sharp lines of his suit jacket.

"We're not sure," I tell him. "But if she knew what I was and where I was at, she could have just killed me in New Orleans. Inviting me to Paris feels more... performative."

"It may be a threat to me, rather than Aura," Carver suggested. "Her grip on me has loosened lately. She might be trying to re-secure it using Aura. Focus the attention of the court on her, and then promise to protect her in return for my continued cooperation. It is her usual racket."

"That does sound right," Lucian says, frowning, which puts a dignified crease between his dark brows. Damn, I really needed to stop getting distracted looking at him. "I take it you intend to go into hiding then?"

"No, we're going to accept the invitation," I say, squaring my shoulders. Lucian gives me a look down the length of his nose which I can only describe as disapproving.

"I strongly disagree with this decision," he says, attention switching to Carver. "I assume this is her idea? We can tie her up until she recovers her senses, you know. There's nothing in the prophecy against it."

Carver chuckles, shaking his head.

"Actually, I agree with her," he says. "This is an ideal opportunity to probe Morana for her weakness and possible clues to the location of Abehartach. With all the royal families present she will be distracted, showing off. She's always most careless when she's putting on a show. And we will have your help. We believe she doesn't yet know of our connection."

"I expected better of you," Lucian says, his glare icy. "You're supposed to keep her safe. Your location being compromised is one thing, but agreeing to this-"

"Her destiny is about more than remaining safe," Carver says defensively. "We cannot hide and expect Abe to fall into our hands or the rebellion to succeed without us."

"It won't succeed if you get her killed either," Lucian snaps. "Her safety should be paramount, always."

"Safety, yes, but, bordel de merde, she's a grown woman capable of making her own decisions!"

"Not when they're stupid decisions that endanger her life and the lives of everyone depending on her!"

"I tried to talk her out of it!" Raina shouts from the couch.

"Hey, calm down," I say quickly, stepping between them. "I appreciate that you're worried about me, Lucian, but Carver's right. I want to do this. I understand the risks. I think they're worth it."

Lucian's brown eyes are still icy, but he backs off, straightening his jacket.

"Fine," he says with a sigh. "If I can't be the voice of reason, then I will have to settle for doing everything in my power to make sure you survive this stupidity. What can I do?"

I talk strategy with the two of them for a while, hashing out the details of when Lucian will join us in Paris and what he will do when he gets there. Eventually Carver takes a break, leaving us alone. We stand together near the window, looking out at the city. It’s properly morning by now, the sky moving on from orange and pink into a steady blue.

“So what is this place?” I ask him. “Carver said you owned it.”

“I do,” he replies. “It’s an investment and accounting firm. We manage the finances of most of the major vampire families. Morana included, actually. Investing is where the court makes most of its money. Slow growth stocks become a lot more viable when you can live forever.”

“Shit, between this and all of Carver’s beautiful houses, I might have to start an investment portfolio,” I say, the very concept strange when my life was currently such a mess of vampire politics and prophecies.

“I would be happy to manage it for you,” Lucian offers. He’s quiet for a moment, looking out at the skyline, before he glances at me thoughtfully. “How are you doing? The fire, all this with Morana, are you handling it alright?”

“As well as I can be, I imagine,” I say with a shrug. “My life’s been pretty much upside down since I was turned. I guess I’m getting used to it.”

“So this business with trying to find Morana’s weakness,” Lucian says, frowning. “It’s not just a response to the stress? You aren’t just looking to get yourself hurt, are you?”

“No, God, of course not,” I assure him, shaking my head. “This just seems like the best option. Where do we go if we run? Where can we go that she won’t find us? How long do we keep running? And if she doesn’t know who I am yet, how long is that going to last? Shouldn’t we be trying to take advantage of her ignorance as long as we can? If we can get the upper hand on her now, before she even knows I’m a threat, it can only help us later.”

“Not if it gets you killed,” Lucian replies, and I can hear the deep concern in his voice. “Morana doesn’t need to know who you are to kill you. She doesn’t need a reason at all. She would do it just to upset Carver. Or because you annoyed her. Or because she was bored and you happened to be standing in arm’s reach.”

I look out at the skyline, frowning as I battle my second thoughts. I don’t realize he’s reaching for me until I feel him take my hand, fingers barely brushing mine at first. When I don’t pull away he lifts it, looking down at my fingers rather than meet my eye.

“I know our situation is… complicated,” he whispers. “Neither of us really knows where we stand right now. How much is destined and how much is up to choice. But I don’t want to see you die, Aura.”

He looks up at me and my heart rises to my throat, beating like a drum. I wrap both my hands around his, holding them loosely.

“I’m not being reckless,” I promise him. “I know this is the right thing to do. And I trust you and Carver to keep me safe. I won’t die, Lucian. Whatever there is between you and me, we’re going to have time to figure it out.”

Lucian smiles a little, and reaches out to brush the hair from my cheek.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” he says. Guilt and excitement leave my stomach in knots, all the heat in my body seeming to rush to the place on my cheek his fingers touched. Before I can open my mouth to reply, there’s a knock at his office door.

“Mr. Lucian,” his secretary says, “Your eight thirty appointment is here.”

“Ah,” Lucian looks suddenly at a loss and I can’t figure out why. He drops my hand abruptly.

An older man, early fifties but in good health, slips past the secretary into the room.

“Lucian! There you are!” the man says jovially. “You promised me breakfast this morning! Let’s go!”

“Of course,” Lucian says. “I just need a moment to finish up here.”

“Who’s this?” the man says, eyeing me with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I think I see suspicion there. I realize belatedly that he’s Kresova.

“A few friends from out of town,” Lucian replies, gesturing to include Carver, Reina, and Row.

“Well, introduce me!” the man says, laughing. Lucian clears his throat.

“Mr. Macpherson,” Lucian says. “This is Aurora. Aurora, Mr. Albert Macpherson. He’s been a client of my firm and a friend of the family for generations.”

“Who are you calling Mr?” Macpherson laughs. “I’ve told you to call me Al. And I’m a lot more than a family friend. I’m his future father-in-law!”