Because after a moment on a velvet sofa with Constantine I felt wicked, made of pepper and fire and wine.

Leave it. You can’t trust magic. But you can trust me.

And there was that voice. I shuddered. I really needed answers.

I finally tracked down Isabeau at the camp outskirts, on the path toward the mountain caves where the Hound delegation was staying. The tattoos and scars on her arms and neck were visible in the flickering torchlight. So were the other three vampires standing in a half-moon around her.

They had no idea what she could do to them.

Aside from my mother, Isabeau was the best fighter I’d ever seen. She was quick and vicious and could work magic to confound you. But she couldn’t do any of that here, not in the Chandramaa’s territory. They circled her, snarling. I couldn’t help but compare them to Marigold and Spencer and even Toby, who hadn’t said a single word.

“We hear you’ve got double fangs, like the Host.”

Isabeau stiffened. “I have never belonged to Montmartre.” She put a hand on her wolfhound’s neck when he growled. “Non, Charlemagne. Attend.”

I rushed forward, flashing my triple set of fangs on purpose for the first time.

It felt good.

The vampires froze, staring at me. “Princess.”

I leaned closer, smiling savagely. “Go away.”

Their pupils dilated and they nodded mechanically.

“And be grateful I don’t make you bark like a dog,” I added.

“Yes, princess.”

They wandered away, looking confused.

Isabeau tilted her head consideringly. “This is new, n’est-ce pas?”

I nodded. “Kind of. Can I talk to you?”

“Bien sûr.”

“In private?”

“Yes, come this way.” I followed her away from the camp, toward the caves. The hundred tiny sounds of the tribes coexisting trickled away under the wind and the smell of approaching snow. I could hear dogs padding toward us and a drum from somewhere deep in the mountain. We stopped on an outcropping, high enough to see the stars over the treetops. I felt nervous, but in a good way. Like I might actually have control over my own future.

“I want to know more about the prophecy,” I said. “About me.” Snow drifted between us, melting when it touched the stones. Charlemagne barked and tried to bite the flakes out of the air. “Is there any way to magically see the prophecy? Or hear it? Logan told me you did that with one of the paintings in the royal caves. You made him see the moment it was painted.”

She frowned. “I suppose there must be.”

“But you don’t know how?”

She looked intrigued. “I can think of a few spells that might help, but not as clearly as you might like. And it would take some time for me to gather the ingredients. Two weeks at least.”

“I don’t have two weeks!” I said pleadingly. “Isn’t there another spell?”

“I suppose we could ask Kala,” she said. “She can do it.”

“She can?” I said eagerly.

“I say she can, not that she will.”

“Can we ask her now? Please?”

She blinked at my impatience. “I suppose so.”

I spun on my heel and darted into the nearest cave. She didn’t follow. I poked my head back out. “Well?”

She was smiling. “That cave leads nowhere.” She pointed to another cave farther down. “This way.”

If these were only the Hounds’ temporary caves I could only imagine how incredible their permanent space was. The walls were studded with torches, and the entrance was already painted with reddish ocher and decorated with dog bones hung with beads. Logan told me that after a dog died (of natural causes), their bones were turned into holy objects. I remembered finding a dogs-paw death mark, which we’d thought meant that Logan was dead.

A dozen dogs greeted us with wagging tails and the odd growl. Isabeau made a sharp hand movement and the growls died. We climbed down farther into the labyrinthine caves, into the smell of wet rock and incense. Tattooed Hounds with bone beads in their hair went still and silent at our arrival. Even the drumbeat stopped before I could see who was playing it.

Isabeau kept walking, looking the most comfortable I’d ever seen her, inside the quiet mountain with dogs crowding at her knees. She led us down rough-hewn steps into a deep crevice hung with beads. We had to squeeze into the damp darkness, rock scraping my shoulders and my hands until they bled. Then the crevice opened abruptly into another cave, lit with a single candle burning in a tin lantern dangling from the ceiling.

A woman I assumed was Kala, the Hounds’ Shamanka, waited for us on a fur pelt, a painted drum in her lap. Her hair was long and braided, and hung with so many bone beads that she clacked and clattered when she moved. Blue spirals were tattooed on the left side of her face and all the way down her arm. It was the same color blue of the dog-and-knot-work tattoo Isabeau had on her arm and the fleur-de-lis, on the side of her neck.

“Finally,” Kala said. “You’ve come.”

I blinked, startled. “You were expecting me?”

Isabeau smiled gently. “It’s difficult to surprise Kala.”

“Sit!” Kala barked at me. I was sitting on furs before I’d even registered the command. Isabeau slipped away before I could ask her to stay. Kala bared her fangs at me in what I hoped was a smile. “You’ve come to see, have you, my girl?”