“I really find it difficult to believe we’re sitting here discussing Magoth’s genitalia,” I said, rubbing the smooth, cool wooden surface of the table. “It’s just a bit surreal.”

“Not nearly as surreal as this whole place is,” Savian said from where he was examining pictures of boats on the walls. He nodded toward one. “Henley Regatta 1923. Not quite what you’d expect in Latvia.”

I had to admit that the hotel wasn’t at all what I expected. The question of why an obscure Latvian hotel in the small town of Livs would try so hard to re-create a half-timber English country house complete with wattle and daub was answered by a red-faced, balding man who bounded into the bar from a back room.

“ ’ Ello, ’ello, I didn’t realize we had customers so early. We don’t do lunches here in the pub, just so you know. Those are done in the tearoom upstairs. All handmade pastries up there, nothing store-bought. My wife does the baking—she has a fair hand with pastries, too. You’ll not be finding a better scone west of the Thames.”

“We’re not hungry, thanks,” I said, leaning back so he could slap a paper coaster in front of me. “Drinks are fine.”

“Right, then. You do look a sight. Been out hiking, have you? We get lots of Americans coming here for the hiking, now that the Russians aren’t in charge anymore. Sisters, are you? You’ve the look of each other, that you do. Oh, but where are my brains today? I’m Ted Havelbury, ye olde host,” he said with a chuckle. “Now, I know what you’re thinking, I do indeed. You’re thinking that old Ted is a bit out of his natural setting, and you wouldn’t be far wrong there, but my wife’s mum was from the old country, and when she died and left us this inn, we thought, why not? The children were grown and had families of their own, so off the missus and I went with nothing but a wish and a prayer, as they say. But now, you’ll be wanting a few drinkies, won’t . . . er . . .”

Ted, who had been chatting merrily to Cyrene and me, nodded to Savian as he slid into the chair next to mine. Before he could finish his sentence, Magoth, in full snit, emerged from the bathroom, shoved aside Jim, and stomped over to stand in front of Savian. He glared down at the thief taker, who shot me a martyred look before heaving a sigh as he relinquished the seat.

“Er . . . ,” Ted said again.

“Our friend had a little accident with a stream,” I said, shaking out a paper napkin and placing it over Magoth’s lap. “His clothes were too soaked to wear.”

“Is that so?” Ted said slowly, his expression almost enough to make me laugh. “I don’t suppose he’d like to get dressed before he has a drink?”

“Tell the slave that I wish a bottle of 1996 Bollinger, chilled to forty-five point nine degrees, with one glass,” Magoth said in his most demanding voice.

“Slave?” Ted asked.

I leaned forward toward him, speaking in a low, confident voice I’d found worked well with mortals. “You’ll have to excuse our friend. He’s foreign.”

Ted eyed the naked, dirty, arrogant Magoth with doubt. “He is?”

“South American,” I said, mentally apologizing to everyone on that continent.

“Oh. Latin,” Ted said, nodding. “That explains it. Impetuous people. Excellent dancers, but impetuous.”

“I’d like a gin and tonic, my twin would like a bottle of lemon Perrier, if you have it, and Savian would like . . . ?”

“Brandy.”

“Hmm, 1996 Bollinger’s. I’ll have to check the storeroom for that. I think we have some left over from the New Year’s celebration. . . .” Ted took our orders with only one backwards look at Magoth before hurrying to the back room.

“You’d better pray no one else comes in here while you’re having your champagne,” I told him. “Because as soon as you’re done, you’re putting some clothes on. Jim, stop wiping your nose on my hand. You can have some of Cy’s Perrier, since she gets drunk if she drinks a whole bottle.”

“I do not get drunk! I never get drunk!” Cyrene said, outraged at the slur against her character.

“May eighteenth, 1921. Long Island, New York,” Magoth said, arching an eyebrow at her. “My house. Specifically, the garden. You, me, and three hundred of my closest friends.”

Cyrene flushed and looked away. “That wasn’t drunk. That was enthralled.”

“It was an orgy,” corrected Magoth. He thought for a moment, a smile erasing his pout. “A lovely, lovely orgy. Which resulted in the creation of the ever-adorable May, if I am not mistaken, and I never am about such things. Do you remember, sweet one? Do you remember being called into existence, and the exact moment when your life began, and your eyes first landed upon me?”

“Yes, I remember. I screamed.”

“Music to my ears,” he sighed dreamily. “I don’t suppose—”

“No,” I said hastily, and would have continued, but the sound of footsteps clattering down the bare wooden staircase to the basement arrested me.

A man paused at the bottom of the stairs, glancing quickly about the room, clearly about to turn around and go back upstairs. He caught sight of us, however, blinked twice, then turned and bellowed up the stairs, “Found her!”

“That doesn’t sound good,” I murmured as I watched a second man join the first. The pair of them walked toward us with unmistakable purpose—and scent.

“Demons,” Cyrene said, wrinkling her nose as the smell of demon smoke hit us.

“Wrath, by the looks of them,” Savian said, squinting at them.

Wrath demons, as anyone who’s ever been to Abaddon knew, were not the sort of beings you welcomed into your company. They were like mini demon lords, with substantial powers, and minions of their own.

“What do they want?” Cy asked.

“No doubt that cur Bael has realized what a mistake he made in expulsing me, and is summoning me back to restore upon me the rightful estates and titles which your twin’s carelessness so callously cost me,” Magoth said, watching the two men approach with an anticipatory glint in his eye.

“May didn’t do anything to get you kicked out of Abaddon,” Cyrene said, much to my astonishment. Normally oblivious to slurs made against me, now and again she surprised me by jumping to my defense. “That was your own doing, and you know it.”