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Jack grinned, his own teeth sparkling in the lantern light. “He always looks like that.”

Darien pushed him away with a palm to the side of the head, sending him slamming into a werewolf twice the size of him. The wolf grumbled before shoving a laughing Jack back their way.

Kylar was still eyeing Darien. “We can make a stop,” he offered.

Even the simple thought of ripping off someone’s limbs electrified his blood, he had to admit, and he felt that bloodthirsty beast inside him begin to pace. But Darien said, “I always want to kill someone, but when I need to, I’ll let you know.” It was getting to that point, but he would hold back his Surges for as long as he could.

Kylar merely chuckled.

Darien scanned the endless maze of shops that stretched far into the distance. “How much further?”

“Could be a minute, could be an hour—never can tell in this place. Might want to keep that dog of yours in your shadow.” He lowered his voice, his eyes cutting to Darien. That ever-present glint of humor on his face was gone. “And whatever you got,” he said, now looking at Jack, “keep him hidden.”

“Why?” Darien’s voice melded with Jack’s as they asked the question simultaneously.

“Familiars have been going missing. They fetch high prices, and the sellers can’t keep up with the demand. See those cages?” He gestured with a brown hand to a tent nearby, where a surly-looking warlock puffed on a cigar, his round, ruddy face gridded by the shadows of steel bars as an assortment of hanging cages swayed around him. “Two nights ago, those cages were full. Every single one.”

“Of Familiars?” Darien pressed. He’d never heard of such a thing.

“Wearing glowing collars,” Kylar said. “Their people nowhere in sight.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Jack slowed down. He craned his neck to see better, firelight driving away the shadows of his hood. “You’re telling me—”

Kylar grabbed him by the sleeve. “Keep walking. If you look like you don’t have a purpose here, someone will turn you into a purpose of their own.”

“You’re telling me,” Jack continued, entirely unconcerned, “that someone’s found a way to steal Familiars?”

“Keep your fucking voice down,” Darien hissed.

Kylar stopped at a tin box of a shop with a red wooden door. The circular window in the center was made of bubbled glass too foggy with condensation to see through. “Familiar Spirits are the hottest item on the market right now,” Kylar said, grabbing the door handle, “and no one knows why.”

He swung open the creaking door and stepped inside.

Darien stood between Kylar and Jack inside the tiny drug-dealing business in Yveswich’s black market. The reek of hot tar made Darien’s eyes burn as they waited for the dealer to come back.

None of them said anything, though Jack had tried opening his mouth a few times, only to shut it after Darien shot stern glances his way. You didn’t talk in a place like this—not about anything personal, but preferably not at all.

Finally, the heavyset warlock returned. “Most I can do is thirty mil,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a meaty wrist.

“What do you mean?” Darien asked. “You’re out?”

“Right.” He set the bottle on the high counter—behind the wall of spells that protected him from clients. “That’ll cost you three thousand GM.”

“That’s three times the usual price.”

“Right.” He wiped at his forehead again. “You paying or no?”

Jack said, “Why’s your supply so low?”

“And why the upcharge?” Kylar added.

“The demand is high,” he said, eyes darting around, “and the ingredients are slim-pickings right now.”

“Will you be getting more?” Darien pressed.

“Depends on if anyone deals with the infestation by the tar pits.”

Jack and Kylar glanced at Darien. “What infestation?” Darien asked.