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He was also asleep, or unconscious, his face still. Dark hair fell in waves to his waist.

“What is this?” I asked Cade under my breath. “Andwhois this?”

“Nashira sent him in October. He was meant to . . . persuade Ménard to sign the Great Territorial Act, then to stay on as a keeper in Sheol II.” Cade handed me the flashlight and gave one of the chains a tug. “Morning, Kornephoros. I brought someone to meet you.”

Kornephoros. That was a name that tasted of power.

The chains scraped and clinked. Slowly, I shone the flashlight at the Rephaite. His sarx was silver, warmed by the faintest undertone of copper.

“Fitzours.” The voice was deep and scorched. “Here you are again.”

Cade saluted. The Rephaite lifted his head, and his eyes, subdued by hunger, settled on me.

“Another red aura,” he said softly. “How perfectly you match. I hope this one is for me.”

“Absolutely not,” Cade said. “And you treat her like food at your peril.”

“Why, youaredefensive today, Fitzours. Could this be your mate?”

“I’m not his type,” I said. Cade pursed his lips.

The Rephaite looked between us. He bore a close resemblance to Terebell, with the same strong features—though his mouth, which had an amused set to it, was more generous than hers. A scar cleaved his chest from his left shoulder all the way down to his last rib on the other side. I should have sensed him as soon as I’d gotten here, but his dreamscape was little more than a watermark in the æther.

“Who are you, then, human?” he asked me. “Why does Ménard have you in his home?”

“You first,” I said. “Who areyou, Rephaite?”

“You have the privilege of standing before Kornephoros, Warden of the Sheratan.”

“Never heard of him. The only Warden of the Sheratan I know is Terebellum.”

“My Ranthen cousin.” Kornephoros reclined into his chains. “She gave up the right to be Warden when she chose the losing side. It is my title now. Just as it always should have been.”

“You sound very impressed with yourself,” I remarked. “I’m looking for a reason why.”

His lip curled. I had grown used to Rephaim over the past year —their stature, their auras—but, even chained to a wall, this one reminded me how brittle and mortal I was.

“Perhaps you do not need to introduce yourself,” Kornephoros said. “Could it be that you are Paige Mahoney, the dreamwalker who has tempted the great Arcturus Mesarthim into flesh-treachery?”

“How disappointing,” I said, “that someone of your clear importance should trouble himself with gossip.”

“But you are the human in question.”

“I am.”

“Paige Mahoney.” He regarded me with newfound interest. “I expected him to be drawn to someone taller.”

“Okay, first off, I am taller than average,” I said, nettled. Beside me, I heard Cade snort. “Second, the whole thing is a fabrication. Arcturus and I are allies.”

Kornephoros kept looking at me, relentless.

“I thought so,” he said. “The blood-sovereign is judicious in so many things, but even to discredit the Ranthen, it was unwise of her to tell what was so plainly a lie. Even the former Warden of the Mesarthim—a wanton traitor to his kind—would not stoop so low as to lie with a human.”

I doubt even his standards are this low.

My wrists began to ache. All at once, the underground shelter was the basement, and I was tied like cold meat, basted with my own vomit, and a red-eyed Rephaite was whispering in my ear.

“Have I upset you?” That charred voice brought me back to the present. “If you wish to cry, do. We Rephaim cannot weep. I find it charming.”