“Lovely,” said Magnus, passing on.

He turned down a side alley leading away from the main body of the market, and then again to a dead end. The flicking of his ear was still there, this time followed by a tug.

His hands lit with magic, and he spoke to the empty air. “I’m flattered, but perhaps it’s best we drop the coyness and talk face-to-face.”

No one answered.

Magnus waited a few beats before letting the flames die in his hands. He walked back to the entrance of the alley. No sooner had he stepped back into civilization than he felt a hard yank on his ear. Someone was staring at him very intently.

“Magnus Bane! I thought it was you.”

Magnus turned toward the voice. “Johnny Rook! What are you doing in Paris?”

Johnny Rook was one of the rare mundanes who had the ability to see the Shadow World. He was usually based at the Los Angeles Shadow Market.

Magnus surveyed Johnny unenthusiastically. He wore a black trench coat and sunglasses (though it was night), with short Caesar-cut dirty blond hair and five o’clock scruff. There was something slightly off about his face: Magnus had heard a rumor that Johnny had hired faeries to permanently magically enhance his features, but if it was true, Magnus felt Johnny had wasted his money. The man was also known as Rook the Crook, and he was committed to his aesthetic.

“About to ask the same of you,” said Johnny, avidly curious.

“Vacation,” Magnus said noncommittally. “How is your son? Cat, is it?”

“Kit. He’s a good boy. Growing like a sprout. Quick hands, very useful in my line of work.”

“You have your child picking pockets?”

“Some of that. Some passing on trifles like keys. Some sleight of hand. All sorts. He’s multitalented.”

“Isn’t he about ten years old?” Magnus asked.

Johnny shrugged. “He’s very advanced.”

“Clearly.”

“Looking for anything special at the Market? Perhaps I can be of service.”

Magnus closed his eyes and counted to five slowly. Against his better judgment he said casually, “What do you know about the Crimson Hand?”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Culties. Worship Asmodeus.”

Magnus’s heart gave a hard, spiky thump. “Asmodeus?”

Johnny glanced at him sharply.

“Not a name you hear every day,” Magnus added, hoping that was enough explanation.

It was a name Magnus had heard oftener than he liked. In what Magnus hoped was total coincidence, Asmodeus was the Prince of Hell who had fathered Magnus himself.

Would he really have set up a cult in the name of his father? They were not exactly close. He couldn’t imagine having done so, even as a joke.

Would he have to tell Alec that Asmodeus was his father? Alec had never asked who Magnus’s demon parent was and Magnus had no desire to tell him. Most warlocks were fathered or mothered by ordinary demons. It was Magnus’s bad luck that his father was one of Hell’s Nine Princes.

“Asmodeus?” he said again to Johnny. “Are you sure?”

Johnny shrugged. “I didn’t think it was some big secret. That’s just what I heard somewhere.”

So it might not be true. There was no point telling Alec, Magnus thought, if it might not be true. Tessa hadn’t mentioned it, and she certainly would have if she’d thought the cult worshipped Magnus’s father.

Magnus breathed a little more freely. Alas, Johnny had a sly look on his face that Magnus knew all too well.

“I might know more,” Johnny said casually.

Magnus snapped his fingers. A small yellow bubble shimmered up from his fingertips and expanded until it enveloped them. The background noise of the Shadow Market died, leaving the two of them in a sphere of complete silence.

Magnus sighed heavily. He’d been here before. “What’s your price?”

“The information is yours for the low, low price of a small favor, owed by you, to me, to be determined in the future.”

Johnny gave him a big, encouraging grin. Magnus regarded him with what he hoped was a patrician air.

“We all know where an unspecified favor ends,” he said. “I made a vague promise to help someone once and spent seven months under an enchantment, living in a dryad’s aquarium. I don’t want to talk about it,” he added quickly as Johnny started to speak. “No nonspecific favors owed!”

“Okay,” said Johnny, “how about a specific favor, delivered now? You know of anything that would, say, divert the attention of the Nephilim away from something? Or someone?”

“You doing something the Nephilim wouldn’t approve of?”

“Obviously yes,” said Johnny, “but maybe more now than before.”

“I can get you some ointment,” said Magnus. “It discourages attention away from the person coated in it.”

“Ointment?” said Johnny.

“It’s an ointment, yes,” said Magnus, a little impatient.

“You don’t maybe have anything you can drink, or eat?”

“No,” said Magnus. “It’s an ointment. That’s how it comes.”

“I just hate being all greasy.”

“Well, that’s the price you pay, I guess,” said Magnus, “for your constant criminal activities.”