What was that old definition of madness? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome?

Ash had traversed the same twenty or so square miles repeatedly since finding what he now referred to as the Arbor Vitae.

The tree was not the only plant growing in the vicinity. He’d found a stunted little cactus with a deep red fruit crown over its spiky and thick fleshy lobes. There was also something that resembled mesquite beans. They were growing in a shadowed crevice near a trickle of water running between two stones halfway down the slope.

The plants resembled flora native to France, but they’d evolved from their pre-Collision form into a useful edible. They had somehow adapted to grow in the barren environment of the wasteland.

But there was no explanation for this dramatic change.

Lord in Heaven, what does it mean? He cast his gaze upward, willing his maker to send him some guidance—a sign, anything. But there was nothing.

He kicked a rock. Why is there never a burning bush when you need one?

Ash was so engrossed in his search for clues that he almost missed Marcus’ signal.

It was a system they had rigged up years ago. As the warden of Bastille, Ash was required to traverse the length of the city and the fields they’d cultivated to the west, just inside the border walls. A klaxon was well and good for a disaster, but there were other non-life-threatening emergencies requiring his attention.

The signal itself was simple. Bastille had many foundries. One of the oldest and least used was in the city center. It was still active enough to have chimneys billowing smoke every day, but there was one that was never lit for metalwork. It was a small one that belonged to an unused office, one that, for reasons unknown to anyone but Marcus and himself, was well-stocked with kindling. Only the fuel they burned wasn’t the standard used across the city. This was weed gathered specifically for its distinctive smoke. It burned white with a blue tinge. The color wasn’t dramatically different, not enough for anyone unaware of the difference to take note.

Ash inhaled hard and took flight. He hadn’t been making any progress anyway.

He met Marcus on the roof of the foundry. His aide had been pacing a track in the worn shingled roof.

“What’s wrong?” Ash asked. The lines on his aide’s face were deeper than normal.

“We have a situation. A very serious one. Only, I can’t prove it—or I’ve lost my mind.” Marcus rubbed his face with his hands. “I really don’t know anymore.”

Okay, Ash was definitely overworking the poor man. “I trust your instincts,” he said. “Tell me what you do know.”

Marcus took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “I’ve been preparing for the elections. I put together teams of observers, both the public and covert ones, and began to search for places where everyone can vote.”

He stopped, waiting for his acknowledgment. Ash waved him on, trying not to betray his impatience.

“I was looking at a few buildings in the ninth arrondissement.”

Hmm. “Tulloch’s old district.” A factotum had taken over council duties there temporarily, until the elections, but the man was also a baker so oversight was minimal.

“Yes. One location I scouted was a former community center. I thought it would be a good place because it’s central, but the air was unhealthy—too much mold. The second possibility was an abandoned lycée, a former high school. Though it was not as convenient, the building was in better shape. It even had a working water pump. I decided on the school and sent a few people to clean the old gymnasium, but over half asked to be reassigned. They kept hearing strange noises from under the floorboards. Rumors of it being haunted began to spread. When I investigated further, I found this was a widespread rumor and not a new one at that.”

“The citizens of Bastille are a superstitious lot.” It was an unfortunate side-effect to having a populace who knew angels and demons existed.

True ghosts were rare. The vast majority of human spirits were eager to leave this plane for Heaven. Those souls headed in the other direction were swiftly claimed by reaper demons. The latter were responsible for most of the mischief associated with hauntings.

There was a certain class of sub-demon, ones too low to have a body, that amused themselves by scaring the piss out of anyone who came across them. Most were too weak to do real damage, but the highly intelligent ones could trick people into hurting themselves.

Marcus, aware of the truth of this, nodded emphatically. “Yes, well, I know how important your negotiations in the wasteland are, so I went to take a quick look on my own. I planned on asking you to come and bless the building if I confirmed a haunting.”

Comfortable with the knowledge Marcus could handle himself, Ash nodded in appreciation. “And?”

Marcus tapped the table. “Apparently, this school had a basement. The front end was full of debris and old unused furniture, but the back…”

He looked at Ash and squeezed his eyes shut hard. “It was dark, and there were voices. Human voices—not some weak lower demon whispering obscenities. It was people. But I couldn’t get to them. There was a heavy iron door in between.”

“You couldn’t pick the lock?” Ash had found that such a useful skill, he’d made sure the men under his command could open a basic padlock.

Marcus shook his head. “It was too complicated to open without proper tools. But the noise I made attracted their attention—at least, I think they could hear me.”

“Who was it?”

His aide threw up his hands. “I don’t know. My knocking got a faint response. But I could have sworn one of the voices was calling for help.” He passed a hand through his hair roughly. “I hurried back here for my tools. But when I returned to the school, the door was open. The room behind it was small and empty.” He broke off, his brows drawing together. “And that is confusing. If a person had been speaking, they would have been behind that door as close to me as you are now. I would have heard them clearly.”

“It could be a lower demon after all,” Ash suggested. Though most were stupid, there were always exceptions. A crafty one could have turned Marcus around.

“I would have thought so, except for one thing. The door,” he said. “It was old, but the lock was new—as if were added recently.”

* * *

Ash knelt to examine the lock. It was just as Marcus said. It was one of the sturdiest made in town, the kind used to protect their grain silos and the livestock barns in the Pigalle area. It was also new, manufactured within the last year or two.

There was also something Marcus hadn’t noticed about the door. The hinges looked out of place. The edges didn’t match the grooves in the doorjamb, as if the whole thing had been moved from another location. They had also been oiled.

A careful examination of the room beyond with his excellent night vision revealed a hidden access panel in a dark corner. Ash squeezed through it to find himself in a rough sub-basement room.

Great. Back in the catacombs, was his first thought.

But he was wrong. The sub-basement didn’t lead to the warren beneath the city. Instead, it dead-ended in a midsized room down a short hallway.

One glance was enough to kindle a cold anger in his gut. Not wanting to believe what he was seeing, he knelt, picking up one end of a pair of manacles. It was attached to the wall with a crudely hammered spike.

There were two other pairs.

Someone had turned this room into a prison. And judging from the fresh excrement in the corner, it had been recently occupied.

* * *

Ash tore through the city like a man demented. He’d never experienced rage like this. Not even in battle, when his blood lust had taken over, enabling him to mow down large swaths of the demon horde.

No, this was different. This was people. They may not have been the same ones he’d fallen to protect, but since taking up Raphael’s cause, he’d devoted everything to the people of Bastille. He’d bled for them. And now, they had betrayed him. Someone had been keeping captives without his knowledge or consent.

It’s not all of them, he reminded himself. That prison had been in a secret basement room for a reason.

His immediate thought had been to raze the council’s chamber at the Petit Palais down to the ground. But he didn’t know if one or more of the council members were behind this.

Despite his best efforts, violence was still a part of Bastille. When people were hungry and supplies were scarce, fights inevitably broke out. Theft and other crimes still plagued the city, particularly in the poorest arrondissements. They did keep a small handful of prisoners, but never for very long.

Murders were rare, and the perpetrators were executed as soon as he had proof of their crimes. It was the only capital punishment in the city, one he hadn’t carried out in years.

I may have to change that. Keeping prisoners without his knowledge or consent was the deepest betrayal. But first, he needed proof. He had to know if there were other prisoners.

Ash began to hunt in earnest, tearing in and out of abandoned buildings. He targeted the out-of-the-way places people could move in and out of without being seen.

In a city with thousands of abandoned and derelict buildings, the possibilities for hidden prisons were legion. Deductive reasoning might have saved a few hours of search, but self-righteous anger fueled his wings. It took hours for his brute-force technique to yield results.

The captives were being held in a small attic room at the edge of the Bercy neighborhood close to where the Bois de Vincennes used to be. There were two of them, a young man and much older woman, grey-haired and painfully thin.

The young man was terrified to see him. He crawled away, pressing close to the wall and gibbering nonsensically when Ash entered the room. The frail old woman was too weak to react.

He went to the female first, breaking the thin shackle that fixed her to the wall. She blinked cloudy opalescent eyes at him. Cataracts must have obscured most of her vision, but she still recognized him. A deep shudder racked her skeletal frame.

“Please. Have mercy,” she begged.

“I’m taking you out of here,” he said, careful to keep his voice low and even despite the rage burning in his chest.

How dare anyone do this to one of his charges?

He lifted the crone. She was too light, as if her bones were filled with pockets of air, like a bird. If she had been given food, it was barely enough to keep her alive.

“Who did this to you?” he asked.

Did they think the wrath of Heaven was a joke? Someone was going to answer for this.

The rheumy eyes clouded further, with confusion. “You did.”