Around the back side of the buildings, in a narrow street filled with glove shops, handbag hawkers, and jewelry stores, a pair of pickpockets made the foolish mistake of trying to work me. I didn’t have a wallet, for one thing. They looked like brother and sister. The girl made appreciative noises over Oberon and tried to occupy my attention by leaning over him and letting her loose-fitting blouse fall away. It was impossible that she was unconscious of this—for one thing it was too cold for such clothing, so she was obviously trying to distract me. Meanwhile, her partner or brother kept moving past me and then circled back around. When I felt his fingers dip into my back pocket, I dropped and swept his legs. He landed on the cobbled stones, hard, and then I spun and pinned him, fishing a few bills out of his pocket. The girl shouted at me and then tried to discourage me by calling for help. I let the boy up and grinned at them both.

“You targeted the wrong man,” I said in Italian. “Run along now. I know you don’t truly want the police to look into this.” Without being prompted, Oberon laid back his ears and growled at them. They took off but cursed me soundly. I thanked them for the lunch money.

The few passersby who had seen the altercation had no trouble with me. Apparently, pickpockets were common in the area, and they gave me a couple of “Bravos!”

We completed the circuit of the block, returned to the piazza, and I slipped into Babington’s for some picnic food to go—they sold such things even in winter, because the days were usually much milder than this.

We sat on the Spanish Steps, a good distance above the tourists collected around Bernini’s fountain, and Oberon wagged his tail at a steady stream of people who wanted to pet him as they passed.

“People cannot resist me, Atticus. Are you seeing this? I am the Most Interesting Hound in the World.”

That’s indisputable, buddy.

“Hey, is that another hound down there?” He got to his feet and stared off toward the north end of the plaza. “It is! I think it’s Orlaith! Yes! And there’s Clever Girl!” I followed his gaze and saw a familiar red head and a staff. I grinned, stood, and called to get her attention. She waved back, and the hounds ran to meet each other in the middle.

“Atticus, I ate all my food already and don’t have any to give Orlaith! What do I do?”

Don’t worry, we’ll get some for her.

“Hey. Nice jacket,” Granuaile said, smiling at me as she climbed the steps, but then she halted, cocked her head, and the smile disappeared. Her arm raised and she pointed, waggling her finger around. “Whoa, what the hell? What happened to your little Mini Cooper beard?”

My hand drifted up to my chin. “Oh! I had to be Nigel in Toronto. Don’t worry, I’ll grow it back.”

“You actually went to Toronto? Sounds like a story. I expect we have plenty to catch up on.” She smiled once more and came up the steps, arms wide. “C’mere.”

Gods, it was good to see her. It was a pretty joyful reunion, having her in my arms again. I hadn’t seen her since Hal Hauk gave me the news about Kodiak Black’s death, and we did indeed have plenty of catching up to do. I watched the hounds on the steps, while she visited Babington’s to pick up some munchies for herself and Orlaith. Orlaith had been looking forward to charcuterie once she got to Rome, but since Oberon was there to play with and I promised she’d get the good stuff eventually, she wasn’t too upset about settling for a picnic selection of salami and cheese.

Granuaile had been busy while we were apart. Fjalar had removed— or rather burned away—Loki’s mark, and then she secured a divination cloak from the Sisters of the Three Auroras by fetching Świętowit’s horse from under the guard of Weles.

“I’ll be spending more time with the sisters,” she said. “I’m going to learn Polish for my new headspace and memorize Szymborska’s poetry.”

That was surprising. “Wow. I’m envious, because I never learned Polish, but if you’re wanting another headspace for plane-shifting…”

“Why not memorize something in Latin or Russian?” Granuaile finished.

“Yeah.”

“Because I want beautiful stuff in my head. If I put the Russian lit I’ve read so far into permanent memory, I think it would sour my sunny disposition.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “But at risk of souring it now, I should tell you that Fjalar’s dead.”

“What? How did that happen?”

“Brighid killed him. He was leading an army against the dark elves and he wouldn’t talk to us. Odin had told him to march on Svartálfheim and so he did, and Brighid made him an example.”

“Damn. So that was what they were talking about. They hinted that they might be going to Svartálfheim while I was in Asgard.”

“It’s all under a happy treaty now. But I think that Odin—and maybe even Brighid, the more that I think about it—engineered the whole situation to make the dark elves come to the table. It was cold-blooded and Machiavellian but in retrospect probably necessary. They weren’t very willing to talk at first. The Morrigan said we needed them on our side, and now they are. The bonus is that the dark elves promised never to take a contract out on us again.”

“Hey, that’s good news!”

“Especially since Fand escaped. Did you know about that?”

“No! When was this?”

“A few days ago. But hopefully that will be someone else’s problem. We’re both shielded from her divination now. And I know where she is. I’m going to tell Brighid and let her take care of it. I have enough on my plate as it is.”

I told her about my run-ins with Werner Drasche and how my attempt on Theophilus in Berlin was a near miss. Also that Diana was free of her prison but still supremely pissed at us.

“She made an oath to leave us alone and broke it immediately. Jupiter said he’d keep her from pursuing us from now on, but we’ll see.”

“So what’s on the agenda here?” Granuaile asked. “Did I catch you on a break, or have you even started any shit yet?”

“I was casing the joint,” I explained, then pointed to the warded buildings. “Look at those buildings in the magical spectrum. They have some strange wards on them.”

She did and then turned to me. “Yeah. Malina said there was something odd going on at the piazza. Said those wards are as much traps as they are for protection.”

“Ah, I was wondering how you found me here.”

“Yeah, I just asked where the weird was happening in the world, and she pointed me here. And look! You’re right next to it!”

“Very clever. Did she say anything else about those wards?”

“Yes. She said they looked kind of Rosicrucian but different somehow.”

“Rosicrucian? Shit.”

“What? Why is there shit?”

“Hey, whoa! It wasn’t me!” Oberon said, panic in his voice.

“Me neither!” Orlaith chimed in. Hounds never want to be blamed when shit happens.

We reassured them that we were speaking figuratively and did not suspect for an instant that they were to blame, and once they went back to nipping each other’s ears and getting petted by passersby, I explained in a low voice to Granuaile why I was worried.