I'd like to say that I was fearless in the face of death, and stared Lucian down with dauntless courage, but the truth is I was terrified, and I'm sure it showed. I didn't know if he was about to blow my head off or not, but if he was, I figured I had nothing to lose (aside from my head), so I might as well do my best to convince him not to.

"Please—we didn't do this," I said, my voice trembling with fear. "We—"

"Quiet."

He didn't shout; rather, he spoke in a level, even tone, which was far more chilling. I think I'd have preferred it if he'd yelled.

Nodding to his two cohorts, he said, "Blakely, Hadid, clean this up. No traces. I'll take Harris and the daemon back to the manor. Meet me there when you're finished."

The two vestigers obeyed, and my terror level dropped a degree. Lucian might still kill me, but it seemed he wouldn't do so right away.

Taking the gun from my brow, he gestured with it, but kept it trained on me. "Get up," he said, and to Ro, "Try anything, and you'll be in the market for a new witch."

Ro glared, but kept his mouth shut.

Shakily, I got to my feet and Lucian herded us towards his car. He made Ro get in first, then forced me in after him. It was difficult, and sitting with my hands behind my back was far from comfortable. I winced against the pain in my shoulders and Ro hissed angrily.

Lucian got in the front seat, gun still in hand, and twisted to look back at us.

"Those cuffs are enchanted," he said mildly, "Try to use magic, or demonic power, and they'll sense it and release a stored charge. The result is not pleasant. You may choose to believe me, or test them and find out for yourselves."

Demonstrating his own confidence in the cuffs' effectiveness, he laid the gun aside on the seat next to him.

"So, it's been you all along, has it?" Ro asked, his voice cold with rage. "You know my name, which means you're the one behind the angelic cult. I suppose that makes sense: who would have imagined the chief vestiger himself would be part of the very thing he claimed to be investigating. And when Oscar got too close, you—"

Lucian snapped his fingers and Ro's words cut off abruptly. The gold collar at his throat glowed as if heated by fire, and sweat broke out on his brow.

"Oscar made a great study of obedience charms, as I'm sure you are aware. I helped him with that research more than once. Convenient, that you happen to be wearing one now."

Ro's lips parted in a gasp, and desperate words tumbled from mine.

"Please—please stop! Don't hurt him, I'm begging you! Ro has done nothing wrong, and I swear we—"

Ro hissed in pain and a thin wisp of smoke rose from beneath the collar.

"I think I told you to be quiet," Lucian said evenly.

I held still, lips pressed together and eyes wide, as Ro's face twisted with pain.

After several long seconds, Lucian lowered his hand, and the collar returned to its usual dull gold.

"Hopefully, that was enough of a demonstration," he said. "Fire is my element, and I have mastered it. I trust you have both taken note of that."

Neither Ro nor I spoke. Lucian nodded, apparently satisfied.

"Good. Now, we will discover the truth, and—guilty or innocent—you will each get what you deserve."

❧

It took nearly an hour to reach Lucian's grandiose home from Al's run-down offices, and neither Ro nor I spoke on the way. For the moment, Lucian held the cards. Maybe if he hadn't been wearing the collar, Ro might've been more than a match for the cuffs; maybe he still was, but I knew he wouldn't risk me getting caught in the crossfire.

No one spoke on the way; if Lucian was interested in hearing my defense, he didn't want to hear it yet, and I had a feeling that pressing the issue wouldn't help. As we drove down the long, narrow lane through green manicured lawns, through the copses of decorative trees, and over a bridge spanning a small stream, I realized how truly remote the place was. Even if I managed to escape, it would be a long walk back to town. Meanwhile, if Lucian meant to make us disappear, there were few more convenient places he might have taken us.

As the car came to a halt in front of the grand, columned entrance, a man in a suit stepped forward and opened Lucian's door for him. Lucian got out, gun in hand once more, and the man shut the door after him and then opened mine. He helped me out with placid efficiency, as if his master coming home with people in handcuffs was a perfectly normal occurrence.

I suppose it might have been, considering.

Ro refused assistance with a snarl and emerged with perfect grace, as if the collar and cuffs he wore were no inconvenience at all. I wished that were so.

Lucian led the way inside. The manor looked different than it had on the day of the wedding. Then, it had been decked floor to ceiling and corner to corner with ribbons and flowers, satin drapes, fountains of champagne and tables of fine food—not to mention full of people having a good time. Now, it was quiet, dark, and oddly bleak.

At the end of a long hall, with wood paneled walls so dark they may or may not have been painted black, Lucian unlocked a door with a small golden key. Beyond it, I saw a strange octagonal room with small lights set into the ceiling in a ring, like inverted candles. The room was bare, and unadorned except for a complex seal formed of interlocking circles and many-pointed stars painted in white on the black floor. Lucian gestured at it.

"In."

I started forward, but he took hold of my arm.

"Not you."

I glanced at Ro and saw sweat dotting his brow, and cursed myself for having put that collar on him. If I'd trusted my instinct, we might not be in this mess at all. But what did I know? People kept telling me I was something special—a witch, or an angel, or whatever—but I was still the same insecure loser I'd always been: weak, like my father always said.

"It won't hurt him, will it?" I asked, as if I could do anything about it at that point.

Lucian glanced down at me. "Not unless I want it to."

I heard the unspoken part of this as, so you had better cooperate.

I nodded at Ro, and he nodded back with a slight smile. Behind it, and in his eyes, I saw all the things he didn't say aloud: that he didn't blame me, that this wasn't my fault, and that he was sorry for not protecting me.

Then, head held high, he walked forward and stepped across the outer rim of the seal. It lit up as he crossed it, and each of the inner rings lit as well as he made his way to the center. There, in the plain, innermost circle, he lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the floor, and shut his eyes, looking like a cat that had been forced to do something it didn't like, and had subsequently chosen to ignore the situation.

"Good." Lucian nodded in satisfaction. "That will hold him for now. And now," he turned to me, "for you."

❧

He led me back the way we'd come, to the great hall beyond the main entryway, and then up a wide, curving flight of stairs, like something from a Disney castle, but with a more 'evil villain' vibe—lots of black and dark red with hints of gold.

At the top, he took me down another hall—though a decidedly less ominous one—and finally to... a lounge.

At least, that's what it appeared to be: comfortably sized, and comfortably furnished with bookcases, reading chairs, several small tables, and a group of settees. There was also a fireplace and a full-sized bar, on which an array of bottles and various other ingredients were arranged.

Juxtaposing with the old-fashioned tone, there was also a large, flatscreen television, a speaker system, and a fancy stainless-steel refrigerator.

It was certainly not the torture chamber I'd been expecting, and I came to a halt in surprise.

Lucian gestured with the gun. "Have a seat."

I hesitated, and he pushed me towards a pair of reading chairs.

"Sit."

I crossed the room and sat down, perched on the edge of the chair with my hands still cuffed. Maybe this was an interrogation tactic of some kind—make me feel at ease, or something—but the gun still trained on me said otherwise.

Confusing me further, Lucian went to the bar and began mixing a drink. It was barely past ten. Maybe he was an alcoholic, I thought; maybe after a few stiff ones, he'd let his guard down.

He dashed my hopes when he came over, drink in hand, and held it towards my lips.

"Drink."

I shrank back.

He looked down his long nose at me, lip curled in a sneer. "It's not poison. If I wanted to kill you, I would have shot you. I will shoot you, however, if you refuse to drink."

"I know what happened to my dad," I whispered. "I'd rather be shot."

Something dark flickered behind his eyes, like a shadow moving in front of a flame.

"Of course you would know your own recipe. But we will save the questions for the moment. Come—it's not poison, and it won't harm you. Look."

He lifted the glass to his own lips and took a sip.

More confused than ever, I submitted as he held the glass to my lips a second time. The liquid was cold, and tasted like water with a dash of alcohol and a hint of something sweet.

He didn't even make me finish it, and set the glass aside half full. I eyed it warily as he sat in the matching chair, his posture relaxed and the gun held loosely in one hand, resting on his thigh.

"It's potent and well-tested," he said, noting my glance. "I trust its efficacy."

"Why don't you just question Ro?" I asked. "He can't lie."

"I did question him—extensively—after your father's death. He is adept at evading the truth."

"What if I lie?"

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "You physically can't. This potion blocks the part of your brain that handles deceit."

"So, it's just a drug?"

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic," he quoted. "If the existence of magic were widely known, it would be treated as a branch of science, probably—just another kind of energy to be unlocked. Fortunately, they are separate systems, and there are rules keeping them that way. But yes, you may think of this potion as a drug, though its power does not lie in its chemistry."

He watches me for a moment longer, his black eyes glinting in his pale face.

"Well, I think that's enough time for it to take effect. And to answer your previous question: since you can't speak a lie, then if you fail to speak at all for more than ten seconds, I will shoot you. Do you understand?"

I nodded. 

He arched a brow and I took it a nonverbal answer would not suffice.

"Y-yes. I understand."

"Good, then. Let's begin. Question one: who killed Oscar Vile?"