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rejection of his every advance has merely emboldened him.” Vayl lowered his head. “No, it has crazed him,” he corrected himself grimly.
    I remembered. I stood absolutely stil so I could clearly recal the moments when I’d discovered that donating blood to Vayl had given me the power to walk in his memories. I’d seen Roldan’s first attack on Helena. Defending her had felt so real that even now I wanted to bury my fists in the wolf who hadn’t died in that first battle but had, evidently, stalked the girl for years after. And who, unlike any other Were I’d ever heard of, had survived long past the 150-year mark to put himself at the top of the our Most Likely to Vaporize the World list.
    I said, “Even if Roldan wasn’t after Helena, could he stil be jonesing for revenge on you?” Even after all these decades?
    Vayl nodded. “I do not believe his surname is Jones”—
    puzzled glance at Cole as his “valet” slapped himself on both cheeks to maintain his composure—“but given our history, I think it entirely possible that he and his pack are hatching plans to kil me even as we speak. Al they need is my location. Which, I assure you, madame, is an absolute secret.”
    On the other end of our receivers, Bergman emitted what could’ve qualified as a silent scream, except we heard a sort of echo, like a kid’s attempt to make crowd noises into a microphone. Then he said, “Astral? Here, kitty. Let’s check those grenades, okay, girl?”

CHAPTER THREE
    Cole and I folowed Vayl back toward the riad, walking a couple of steps behind him like the obedient servants he expected us to be. The closer we got to the Djemaa el Fna, the more people we met. Black-haired, brown-eyed men dressed in colorful caps and the choir-robish jel abas that Vayl had insisted on wearing as pajamas, smiled and wished us a good evening. Tourists with one hand on their wal ets and the other clicking pictures either nodded or ignored us completely. Maybe they couldn’t be bothered with socializing when Marrakech demanded so much attention, its original builders somehow infusing an exotic beauty into everything from mosque minarets to bathhouse floors. Its current citizens added to the color with displays of intricately woven rugs, mounds of ripe fruits, and materials dyed in vibrant colors that dared the sun to fade them. The variety, volume, and availability al increased the closer we got to the square. Which, considering how much Vayl went for hunting nowadays, we’d be smart to avoid.
    Another quiet evening inside. Sigh.
    Maybe I’d cal Cassandra and check on Jack. (By now maybe he’d forgiven me for putting him on yet another airplane and, even worse, sending him away from al the action. Because demons get their kicks infesting canines, and I couldn’t risk my favorite malamute around Kyphas any longer).
    Cassandra would probably bring me up to speed on her and my brother, Dave’s, wedding plans. And then I’d ask the inevitable question. “Stil clueless?” And she’d say,
    “I’m sorry, Jaz,” because by now I didn’t expect her to hit anything but dead ends in her search for the cause of Vayl’s massive memory lapse.
    I tried to cheer myself with the sight of Riad Almoravid, its wal s rising out of the street like a mini fort coated in cotton candy. A former vil a remodeled for tourist stays, it contrasted starkly with the neglected homes we’d left behind. Here an elegant awning offered us instant shade so we could more comfortably admire the white molding that hung like lace from the double arches that formed its entrance, or rest our sun-blasted eyes on the cool beauty of the smal garden that fil ed the area between riad and sidewalk. Like the courtyard, it was packed with greenery, huge pots ful of starlike blooms, and a fountain that always reminded me to hit the bathroom ASAP.
    Vayl hardly noticed. He glanced at the double doors, the arch above which had been fil ed with triangles of green glass, and said,