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“Why would he tell you this?” Des says.

She doesn’t respond, but her fingers squeeze into the flesh of her upper arms.

“Answer him,” I say softly, my glamour forcing her to answer.

Still, she fights the words for another second or two, until they force themselves out anyway. “Children say whatever is on their minds. Even these ones. In this way, they’re not so different from ordinary children.”

“Why do you believe them?” I ask.

Her lips quiver. “Besides the prophesying? Because for years the nurses on rotation have been complaining of a figure that leans over these children’s’ cradles. And lately, I’ve started to see him as well.”

The back of my neck prickles. The Otherworld is chalk full of boogeymen, and this sounds exactly like one of them.

“What does he look like?” I ask, going off script. Up until now, I’d managed to pepper Des’s questions into the natural flow of the conversation, but now I abandon the rest of them altogether.

Gaelia shakes her head manically. “He’s just a shadow … just a shadow.”

“Where is he?” Des asks.

She shivers, not even bothering to fight our questions anymore. “Everywhere.”

Her words raise my gooseflesh.

“Do you know his name?” I ask.

“Thief of Souls,” she mutters. “Thief of Souls.”

“What does he want?” the Bargainer growls.

Her eyes meet ours. “Everything.”

Chapter 13

February, seven years ago

Tonight, Douglas Caféis bustling, a dozen different conversations filling the air.

I stare into my coffee cup. “Des, why haven’t you made me repay my debts?”

Des leans back in his seat, his legs kicked up on another chair he’s dragged over.

He sips an expresso from the world’s smallest cup, his hand dwarfing the tiny glass.

He sets the cup down. “Are you eager to, cherub?”

Under the café’s soft lighting, his eyes glint with anticipation.

“Just curious.” I search his face. “Areyou?”

“Am I what?” His attention moves casually over the rest of the room. I’m not fooled, just as I wasn’t earlier, when he deliberately took a seat in the corner of the room, making sure his back was to the wall.

Ever since Mr. Whitechapel reappeared with a few less toes and fingers and the Bargainer’s calling card on his chest, the Politia has been on the hunt for Des.

“Eager for me to repay my debts,” I say.

“If I was, then you would have already paid them.”

But whywouldn’the be eager? Based on the deals I’ve witnessed, I know Des is religious about making his clients repay him in a timely fashion.