we strolled past the tower, feigning nonchalance. Pedestrians buffeted us as we passed a décor shop and a pizza joint.
“We need a way to track them,” I muttered. “Zora’s artifacts only work on nearby vampires. We need a spell that works like a bloodhound …”
“Or we need an actual bloodhound.”
I stopped. A businessman shouldered past me, muttering angrily, and I shuffled closer to a shop window.
“Zylas can track them,” I exclaimed in a whisper, amazed I hadn’t thought of him immediately. “He can follow the blood scent.”
Amalia’s face brightened hopefully, then her scowl reappeared. She waved at the bustle around us. “It’ll be the dead of night before these streets are empty enough for you to walk a demon around in the open.”
The window beside me reflected my frustrated expression. I peered into the shop’s interior, then swung to face Amalia, my pulse racing.
“I have an idea.”
Chapter Twenty
“Okay.” I stepped back, hands on my hips as I surveyed my work. “Amalia, what do you think?”
Beside me, she folded her arms and pursed her lips. In front of us, the narrow alley ended in a brick wall and a row of dumpsters, and beneath the heavy gray clouds, the shadows were dense—the perfect concealment for our task.
My demon stood in front of the dumpsters, but he didn’t look very demony anymore.
A baggy black sweater featuring a blue sports logo with a killer whale covered his torso, and the hood hid his horns and shadowed his face. Equally baggy sweatpants covered his legs, pulled on over his armor. A pair of reflective sunglasses completed his disguise.
“Well,” Amalia drawled, “he sure looks like a slob. Where’s his tail?”
“He’s got it looped around his waist under the hoodie.”
Zylas tilted his head as though testing whether the sunglasses would fall off his face, then lifted his arms, the sleeves hanging to his fingertips. I’d bought an extra-large to ensure it would fit over his armor. He’d still had to unbuckle the shoulder piece, which was hanging against his side.
“Will this fool the hh’ainun?” he asked dubiously.
I tapped a finger against my lower lip. His skin was unusual—that reddish undertone to the warm brown—but nothing that would attract stares with only his lower face visible. The oddest thing about his appearance were his feet, bare except for the dark fabric wrapped around the arches and over the tops. He’d refused to put on the Crocs I’d bought.
Supposed I couldn’t blame him for that. I wouldn’t want to wear Crocs either.
“I think it’ll work,” I declared, tossing the bag from the sportswear shop into the nearest dumpster. “Let’s give it a try.”
Eyebrows raised skeptically, Amalia led the way out of the alley. I waved Zylas to my side and together we walked into the lunch-hour foot traffic. My pulse skipped in my throat but no one so much as glanced at us. Amalia did her “get out of my way” power walk, and Zylas and I strode in her wake.
I glanced at the demon to reassess his disguise and saw his wide grin. As unsuspecting humans walked right past him, he snickered quietly. Well, at least his disguise was working well enough to—
A passing woman did a double take, her brow furrowed and gaze locked on his mouth. Grabbing his sleeve, I hauled him past the lady.
“Stop grinning,” I warned him. “People are noticing your teeth.”
He pressed his lips together, hiding his pointed canines, but couldn’t fully suppress his amusement. Someone sure found the obliviousness of the human race funny.
Not wanting to risk a run-in with any Crow and Hammer mythics—they wouldn’t be as easy to fool—we wandered past the office tower’s front entrance. I followed Amalia with half my attention on our surroundings and half on Zylas. The hood shadowed his features and his sunglasses reflected my face.
“Can you pick up anything?” I whispered.
His nostrils flared. “I can smell them but it is old. Circle the building and I will find the newest scent.”
I passed that instruction on to Amalia and she angled toward an alley.
“Drādah.” His amused grin flashed as a group of young women in pencil skirts and high heels walked past us. “I have wondered … what are those?”
He flicked his fingers toward the street where traffic was slowing to a stop at a red light.
“Those are cars,” I supplied, his question catching me off guard. Sometimes I forgot how foreign this world must be to him. “Or, ‘vehicles’ I guess is the better term.”
“They are not alive,” he mused. “But they are