She rolled her eyes. “You’re determined to get me back into the world.”

“No, it’s not that. I want to help, but I don’t want to steal if I don’t have to.”

“Let’s go, then. I’ll reintroduce myself to my bank.”

It was hours of errands after that, but Mekera was efficient and knew what she wanted and where to get it. In addition to cheese-making paraphernalia, she picked up a few more outfits and plenty of food that wasn’t apples. When she finally got started on her tyromancy, most of the day had burned away.

In the pattern of the curdling cheese she divined the future, the complex patterns revealing truth to her far more clearly than my wands ever could.

She began with Fand: “She’s not on earth. A different plane. A castle surrounded by a fen. Lots of yew trees. Creepy.”

She’d taken up residence in the Morrigan’s Fen? At first I was surprised that the Fae living there would permit it. Those loyal to the Morrigan tended to attack first and never question it later. Then I thought of a reason why they might and privately bet that Manannan was there with her. Mekera confirmed it with the next cheese.

“He’s in the same place.” It made sense; now that the Morrigan was dead, Manannan had taken over her primary role as psychopomp, escorting the dead to whatever afterlife they had earned. The Fae there would accept him as the heir to the plane and protect him—and Fand as well, which I’m sure was her intention.

The last cheese was a longer process, since we didn’t have a name to look for. We instead needed to find a place in Normandy where someone would fall victim to sudden blood loss via the neck. That could mean we’d get a false positive—someone getting their throat slashed—but I was hoping slasher crimes weren’t all that common in Normandy. Or that there weren’t a large number of vampires there.

“It’ll happen in Le Havre,” Mekera said, after studying the curds. “I can get an address: Seven Rue de Bretagne. It’s not a house—some kind of business. But I don’t have a name for it.”

“When?”

“Very soon. Within the hour.”

“Anything about the victim? Male or female?”

“Male. Middle-aged.”

“Thanks! You’re amazing, Mekera. But I gotta go. I’ll be in touch. I hope.”

“What?”

“You’ll be fine. And I’ll pay you back!”

It was an abrupt leave-taking, but I didn’t want to miss Leif. I’d have to shift to someplace outside the city and jog in, no doubt, and when I checked the bound trees nearby, sure enough the closest one was miles out of town to the north.

“We have to move fast, Oberon,” I said once we arrived. “Stick with me and watch for cars when we cross streets.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked. “Is this going to be a duel?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe. It’ll be a reckoning.”

It took twenty minutes to get there, with a couple of quick stops to ask directions. The address turned out to belong to a restaurant that didn’t cater to tourists; one either spoke French there or pointed at the menu.

I walked right in with Oberon, shocking the sophisticants dabbing at their lips with linen napkins. “Mon Dieu!” one man said, so startled by my hound’s appearance that he dropped his fork into some delicate sauce, which splashed onto his lap. “Qu’est-ce que ce foutu gros chien fait ici?”

“Hey, did that guy just call me gross?” Oberon asked.

Yes, but that means big in French, as it does in German.

Leif wasn’t in the restaurant—a fairly decent affair, with twenty tables—though there were several middle-aged men enjoying wine. I pushed past a waiter and ignored the exclamations of the staff as I entered the kitchen. No vampire at the sous station; not hiding in the freezer either. The saucier got saucy with me and demanded that I leave, and I told him I was leaving so that he didn’t try to escalate any further. I made for the back door, shouty chefs with kitchen implements trailing after me, and burst through into a dank alley with a foul trash bin and a couple of scooters parked nearby. A thud on the cobbled stones drew my eyes to the right, where I spotted the blond-haired Leif Helgarson, who launched into a cover story in French upon being discovered: “Oh, thank God you’re here, this man needs help! He just—” He stopped and switched to English. “Oh. Hello, Atticus.”

“Is he still alive?”

“For the moment.”

I flicked my eyes to the trash bin. Behind a restaurant like this, they got emptied often and people expected a terrible smell. Great place to dump a body.

“A little fast food, easily disposable?”

He ignored the question and asked, “How did you find me?”

I ignored his question right back. “Let’s talk about why I went to the trouble.”

We were interrupted by the saucier coming outside to make sure I was gone. I shoved him back into the kitchen and slammed the door closed. “But let’s talk elsewhere. I’ve drawn attention to myself, and that’s not good for either of us.”

“Agreed. There is a quay along the Bassin du Commerce. We should find privacy there.”

“All right.” Switching to my mental link, I said, Keep me between you and Leif, Oberon. I don’t want him deciding to take a swipe at you.

“Whoa. You think he might?”

I don’t know. Let’s be cautious.

We walked in silence out of the area and to Quai Lamblardie, where pedestrian traffic was light as long as we stayed away from the bridge spanning the basin. Sirens announced that Leif’s victim had been discovered—most likely by the kitchen staff. And since they hadn’t seen Leif, they would probably pin it on me, unless the wine-soaked man could tell them anything about Leif. I doubted he would; Leif had probably charmed him.

The skies above Le Havre were clear as we walked along the quay, and in truth it was a beautiful night there. The Bassin du Commerce was a long and rectangular stretch of water designed to provide attractive reflections during the night and add value to the real estate ringing it, and perhaps to inspire romance between couples walking along it. Leif and I were not that kind of couple. I was inspired to punch him in the mouth, and he sensed it.

“Your heart rate is elevated and you are giving off many other signals of aggression, Atticus. Should I be worried?”

“Not terribly. I don’t mean to unbind you, anyway. Don’t give me a reason.”

“Never fear. Continuing this existence is my primary goal.”

“And what are your other goals? Do you wish to see me dead?”

“Of course not. As the famous Vulcan said on more than one occasion, I wish for you to enjoy extreme old age and economic bounty.”

“What? That’s not even close to how he said it.”

“Oh, I may have paraphrased. Does it matter?”

“Gods below, yes. You can’t go around messing up Spock like that.”

“A pity. I thought I had finally caught on to something ‘cool’ there, in the sense that beans are cool in the phrase ‘cool beans.’”

“Gah, just shut up.”

“But the sentiment is true. I wish you only happiness.”