About five years ago, however, my former mentor and fellow null (and, as it turned out, psycho hosebeast), Olivia, had made a concentrated effort to find other nulls. I never really got all the details, but she managed to dig up five more of us: two in Europe, one in Japan, one in Russia, and Jameson, who was now dead. It was one of the only useful, non-evil things she’d ever done, and I’d inherited all the contact information after her death.

I didn’t have much of a relationship with most of them—we had all needed to pledge loyalty to some faction or another, which made us wary of each other. But years ago, when Olivia was threatening Jack, I’d gotten desperate. I’d sent him to spend a few days with a Scottish null named Rhys.

I hadn’t actually spoken to Rhys on the phone since then, but we sent the occasional e-mail just to check in and . . . well, make sure the other was still alive. Mostly it was him making sure I was still alive. He had the most normal life of any null I’d ever heard of: he was in his forties, and he and his wife had adopted a couple of children, now in their early teens. Rhys lived in a fairly small town that didn’t have much of an Old World presence, so he worked a day job as a carpenter and only did null stuff when called upon. I got the impression from him that this rarely happened, partly because there were no werewolves in the British Isles.

Because of the Luparii.

He was obviously the right person to ask about this. I did the math, determined that it was only early evening there, and placed the call. I would have called either way, but at least I didn’t have to apologize for waking him up.

The phone rang twice, and as soon as I said hello, a thick Scottish brogue said, “Scarlett Bernard, lass, what’s the matter now? Are ye sending Jack my way again?”

That gave me pause. “Hi, Rhys. Why do you think something’s the matter?”

“Oh, because ye only call when ye world’s fallen in. What is it this time?”

I’d been planning to ease in with some small talk, but hey. “The Wild Hunt,” I said, as evenly as I could manage.

There was a long silence, and I checked the phone’s screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. “Rhys?”

“Aye. I’m here.”

“Do you know anything about it, besides the Grimm brothers’ folklore and the stuff on the Wikipedia page?”

“I know it’s very old, and that it doesn’t happen anymore, for which we should all be bleedin’ grateful,” he said.

“Um . . . it’s happening here, in LA. Tonight, I think.”

He chuckled. “Someone is pulling your leg, lass. The spell for the Wild Hunt’s been lost since—”

“Rhys, the Luparii are here,” I interrupted. “I’m told they found the scroll.”

Another long silence. Then, in a shaken voice, he said, “That’s impossible.”

I told him about Karl Schmidt and his flight from Europe.

“The Wild Hunt in the modern world?” Rhys said, sounding amazed. In an Oh no, we’re all going to die kind of way that made my stomach twist.

“Why? What is it? There are hundreds of different stories, and we can’t figure out which are real.”

He sighed. “It’s a spell—a very, very old spell, likely predating Christianity. It transforms a group of riders and their hounds into spectral warriors.”

“Spectral warriors?” I repeated, because . . . come on.

“Aye. I know how it sounds. But the Wild Hunt was how witches went to war against other Old World groups, including other witches. My own great-great-grandmother claimed she heard the Wild Hunt go by once. She had nightmares about the blowin’ of the horn and the bayin’ of the hounds, to her dying day. It’s evil magic, lass.”

“I thought magic wasn’t inherently good or evil,” I said.

“Maybe it isn’t,” he amended, “but this particular spell is evil. It alters a group of witches so that they canna be killed or harmed. The full spell changes their hounds and horses and everything, so the riders are able to pass through structures and kill anyone with ties to magic.”

Wait, that wasn’t what I was expecting. “Not humans?”

“No. Humans can’t even see it without special ointment. Only witches, werewolves, and vampires can see the Hunt, and only they can fall victim to it. And it doesn’t affect the physical world, other than the bodies of its victims. You say the Luparii came to Los Angeles to recover the scroll?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“All right.” Relief had crept into his voice. “You should still be okay . . . so long as they don’t get the sword as well.”

Oh, shit. “About that,” I began.

“Scarlett,” he groaned. “Don’t tell me they have Durendal too?”

“Okay, I won’t . . . unless Durendal is a magic glowing sword that can cut through anything?”

There was another long silence, and then I heard voices in the background—children and an adult woman. She must have asked who he was talking to, because he said, “Hang on a minute, lass,” and then the phone was muffled. I had a bad feeling I needed to prioritize my questions.

When Rhys came back, I hurried to say, “Rhys, wouldn’t nulls be able to undo the Wild Hunt magic?”

“I don’t rightfully know. The Wild Hunt spell predates us. But listen to me: I can’t help ye with this no more.”

That brought me up short. “What? Why not?”

“This is Scotland, girl!” he said defensively. “The Luparii have eyes and ears here.”

“I thought they were in France.” Dashiell had also said Portugal and Romania, but I wanted separate confirmation.

Rhys groaned. “Their headquarters are in France, but they have outposts in England, Germany, Romania, and Portugal,” he said. “They need room out in the country to train the dogs. They know about me, but they think I’m nothing, just a low-power null who picks up the occasional vampire job. If I get on their radar . . . I’ve got kids, Scarlett.”

I closed my eyes. “Rhys, can you just tell me—”

“I can’t. All I’ll say, and I say it with the best of wishes for ye: get out of Los Angeles. Wherever the Wild Hunt is, don’t be there.”

And he hung up the phone. I looked at it for a minute in amazement.

Well . . . shit.

Chapter 34

Kirsten hadn’t wanted me to come to her house, not that I could blame her. Her place is warded all to hell against intruders, and if I stopped by she’d have to redo all her defenses. Her daughter with Hayne, Ophelia, was at the house too, and the last thing I wanted was to put a toddler in danger.

We could have crashed Dashiell’s place, but Kirsten had apparently just redone all the wards there, too. Being a null is a pain in the ass sometimes. She and I debated it for a bit before deciding to meet somewhere non-warded.

Kirsten had suggested a place called the Los Angeles River Visitor Center, which turned out to be a sort of half-park, half-museum just northeast of Dodger Stadium. It consisted of fancy Spanish Mission–style grounds with rooms for conferences and a few exhibits on the history of the LA River. Mostly, it seemed like a really pretty place to have staged wedding photos or catch Pokémon or something.

But I had to admit, it was pretty, all wrought-iron fences and fountains and creeping ivy on stucco walls. As Shadow and I walked in—she probably wasn’t allowed in there, but I’d wait for someone to yell at me—I saw a handful of people wandering around taking photos or chatting next to a large map of the LA River. For the most part, though, the place was pretty empty. Apparently, this was not a popular destination if there wasn’t a wedding, which was probably why Kirsten had picked it.

I’d texted Kirsten upon arriving, and she’d replied that she would meet me in a little side alcove.

“You’re early,” she said with a frown as Shadow and I rounded the corner.

“I took your advice and called a null in Europe,” I explained. “I have a little new information.”

“Oh goody,” she said with a brittle smile. “More information.” She led me down an open-air corridor to a small building entrance. “One of my witches volunteers for the River Center,” she said over her shoulder, pulling the exterior door open. We went through a short, wide hallway to an unmarked door. Kirsten knocked five times, and I heard a bolt slide over.