Luke turned out to be a shy, quiet man with curly brown hair and soft, dark eyes. Like Tobin, he showed interest when Ro introduced me as a witch, and Ro was again quick to claim me as his.

"Don't worry," Luke murmured, studying the tofu burger on his plate, "I don't want another witch."

"Why don't you go home then?" Ro asked.

Luke merely shrugged.

We were seated around the small, square table in the kitchen. Tobin had served everyone a tofu burger and a helping of green salad, but the others had yet to touch their plates. I waited, too, wondering if daemons said blessings, until Ro nudged my leg.

"Are you just going to let it go cold, or are you going to eat?"

I looked at the others. It seemed rude to dig in before anyone else.

Ro rolled his eyes. "They're waiting for you, dummy. Witches eat first."

"Oh!" I blinked at Tobin and Luke. "Please don't. I'm hardly a witch. I—"

"Just eat," Ro commanded, cutting me off.

Excruciatingly conscious of the others watching me, I picked up my tofu burger and took a bite. It seemed only Luke was strictly vegan (Ro had told me his animal form was a small, spotted deer, of the sort native to the Indian subcontinent), and the rest of us had cheese and regular burger buns, along with lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickles. The tofu was seasoned as well, with tamari and black pepper, and grilled until firm. Surprisingly, it was quite good.

I expressed as much, and Tobin glowed at the praise. I could easily picture him as a dog with a wagging tail and bright, happy eyes.

To my relief, the others joined me after the first bite, and my discomfort soon vanished.

Tobin carried most of the conversation, telling us how his witch had abandoned him after nearly twenty years of service, trading him for a more powerful daemon, while Luke's had died a few months earlier after a long illness.

"Wait," I said, setting down my salad fork and turning to Ro. "I thought you said witches were immortal, or something?"

"Effectively immortal, and High Witches. It has to do with the strength of one's daemon. The more powerful the daemon, the slower the witch will age. The tradeoff is that witches who bond with high-level daemons lose their ability to procreate—with other humans, anyway."

He regarded me with interest, and I laughed.

"My mom was human, trust me. You think she'd have waited tables to work her way through law school—while raising a child on her own, no less—if she were anything else?"

Ro nodded at Tobin. "He works in the nightclub downstairs. Luke's a sales assistant in the record shop next door. Daemons gotta live. Appearances deceive, as you ought to know by now."

I frowned. "So, wait, that means you're a high daemon, right?"

He inspected his nails. "Of course. The more powerful we are, the less human we appear."

I studied Tobin and Luke. Tobin's canine teeth were a little long, but not impossibly so, and the only thing odd about Luke were his ears, which were a bit large and pointed, and covered by a soft fuzz. He kept them hidden beneath his curls, most of the time. Ro, on the other hand, would fit in at Halloween parties or Comic-Con, and few places else.

"I'm your average, common daemon," Tobin offered. "My witch aged pretty normally, and I thought he was cool with that. Then he, like, 'leveled-up,' or something, and then next thing I know it's 'hasta la vista, baby."

He waved a hand and took a large bite of tofu burger.

"I'm mid-level," Luke offered quietly. "Lisbet had just turned two-hundred, when..." He sniffed and pushed his salad around his plate.

"Were you close?" I asked.

He nodded. "She was one of the good ones. Called me by a name. Never hurt me. Never made me do things I didn't want to do."

That sounded like the bare minimum for 'good' to me, but I stayed quiet.

"She should have lived another fifty years, easily, but..."

He trailed off again, and Ro took over.

"Even the most powerful witches, with the most powerful daemons, aren't immune from accident, illness, or assassination. And those who escape such fates eventually tire of living, after a handful of centuries, or so. It's human nature: the soul grows old, even if the body does not."

Contemplating this I asked,"How old was my dad, anyway?"

"Not that old," Ro said. "He bound me when he was about your age, and that was forty-seven years ago—earth reckoning. He was around seventy, I think."

I tried to remember what my dad had looked like, the last time I'd seen him, but it was the memory of a child. Anyone above twenty-five is ancient to a thirteen-year-old, but I'd have guessed he was no more than forty, at most.

"Of course, his penchant for making enemies severely impacted his life expectancy," Ro said, and grinned, showing his sharp teeth. He hadn't touched his meal, having turned his nose up at the food in a manner very reminiscent of a cat.

"Do you have any idea who might have killed him?" I asked.

Ro's smug smile slipped a fraction. "No, unfortunately. This would all be a lot easier if I did."

"Right." I turned my attention back to my meal. I knew he had no reason to like me, but being reminded that you're a ball and chain is rarely fun.

"You should talk to Carmella," Tobin said around a large bite of food. "She knows everything. And if she doesn't, she knows who does. Fangs caters almost exclusively to metanaturals."

"Metanaturals?" I echoed.

Luke spoke up again in a soft monotone. "It's what we call ourselves—anyone who's not entirely human, that is. Humans call us supernaturals, or unnaturals; but 'super' implies 'more than', while 'un' implies not, or less. We don't see ourselves as such. 'Meta' means 'after, along with, among, above, transcending, other.' It better reflects the range of beings the term encapsulates."

I looked at Ro for a translation.

"Witches, daemons, vampires, were-beasts, ghouls, goblins, fae. You know." He flicked his hand dismissively, indicating an array of creatures I didn't know were real until just now.

I raised my brows at him. "I don't, actually."

"Hey! Come down tonight!" Tobin exclaimed. "I'll introduce you to everyone, and I can even get you drinks on the house."

"Not tonight," Ro interjected sharply. "Ellie's tired."

I frowned at him. "Ellie can speak, you know."

"Oh?" He raised an elegant brow at me, and his yellow eyes brightened, as at a challenge. "And what does Ellie say?"

Scowling, I considered accepting Tobin's offer out of spite. Then I imagined actually visiting a nightclub—'metanatural' or otherwise—and quailed at the thought.

I turned to Tobin, knowing my cheeks were bright with shame. "Not tonight," I said. "I'm a little tired."

Ro appeared smugly pleased with his triumph, while Tobin and Luke looked on in awe. I got the feeling few familiars would dare talk back to a witch, and wondered if I could find one that was less troublesome, once Ro was done with me.

The talk turned to other things; I heard half of what was said, and understood less than half of what I heard. The rest of my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of my father, and of my strange new reality.

Tobin served vegan chocolate mousse for dessert, which proved unexpectedly delicious, and then Ro and I excused ourselves—Tobin having steadfastly refused my offer of help.

"Tobin and Luke seem nice," I said as I shut and locked the door of our room. I knew a flimsy lock and a thin wooden door wouldn't keep much out, and that whatever magic kept this place hidden would protect me far better, but I felt safer for it, anyway.

Ro didn't answer, and when I turned, I found him watching me with a strangely intense expression—one that made me glad I wasn't a mouse. Even so, I retreated reflexively and bumped into the door at my back, flinching away from him as he reached a long-nailed hand towards my face.

He paused, raising a questioning brow, and I was again made conscious of his size. He was a lot bigger than me—in human form, at least. I held still as he reached for me again, brushing the pad of his thumb against the corner of my mouth. It came away with a little gob of chocolate mousse, and I blushed furiously as he licked it from his hand, yellow eyes still locked with mine.

"You're sweet," he said. "You should be careful who you trust."

"Like daemons I've barely known a day?" I shot back, glaring.

"Exactly," he hissed, leaning closer and pressing his hands to the door on either side of me, trapping me between his arms. "We daemons are a hungry lot, and tasty treats like you get gobbled up."

He leaned a little closer still, transfixing me with his bright yellow gaze. Immobilized, I momentarily forgot to breathe.

Abruptly, he drew back and turned away. Before I could decide whether I felt threatened, affronted, oddly aroused, or some combination thereof, he strode to the window, threw it open, and popped out the screen.

"I'm going out for a bit," he announced. "Don't wait up."

Air rushed back into my lungs, and I stumbled after him.

"Wait, what? Where are you going?"

"I said—out."

"Out where?"

"The window, obviously. Don't worry about it. I'll be back soon."

"Ro!" I grabbed at his arm, feeling the firmness of muscle beneath his sleeve. "You can't just tell me not to trust anyone, and then ask me to trust you in the next breath!"

"Good," he snapped, shaking free of my grip. "You're catching on. This is a cat-eat-dog world, Ellie, and nobody will look out for you but you. Watch your own back."

With that, he shifted seamlessly to cat form, jumped up to the windowsill, slipped through, and vanished in the dark.

"Ass," I muttered, shutting the window and locking it. "Watch my own back, indeed."

Turning, I surveyed the room. It was long and rectangular, with twin beds against either wall, two small dressers, and a little table with two chairs in the corner. Other than these few furnishings, it seemed the rest of the decorating was up to us.

I flopped onto the bed I'd chosen as mine and pressed my palms against my eyes. I was exhausted, and yet the nervous energy of latent emotional shock still coursed through my veins like the weak cousin of adrenaline.

Thoughts and memories drifted through my mind like a strange and macabre parade: my father murdered, Jamie's face—alive, and then dead; the thing I'd seen in the alleyway, Ro's yellow gaze as cat and man, and everything I'd seen and learned since Mr. Walters spoke those fateful words and fired me.

"Ellie?" Kyrie's soft call and quiet knock roused me from my unpleasant reverie. "May I come in?"

Rubbing my face, I suppressed a groan and sat up. I wanted to be left alone, and briefly considered not answering and pretending to be asleep, but decided against it. Kyrie and Janelle had basically taken me in off the street, and the least I could do was be polite.

"Just a second," I called, rising and going to the door.

Kyrie stood on the other side, her black eyes gleaming in the dimly lit hall. She held a small gift basket and carried a cloth bag on her shoulder.

"Good evening," she said in her low, soft voice. "I brought you some things, and the books from Janelle."

She moved past me into the room, setting the bag of books on the dresser beside my bed.

"Where is Ro?" she asked. The room wasn't large, and a glance was all it took to tell her he wasn't here.

I shrugged. "Who knows."

She looked at me curiously, but said nothing more as she unpacked the contents of the basket, lining them up on the dresser. I saw toothbrushes and soaps, and other small, thoughtful amenities, and it suddenly struck me that I really had nothing of my own.

"Thank you," I said, surveying the array of little gifts with genuine gratitude. "I honestly don't know where I'd be right now, if you and Janelle hadn't taken me in."

She nodded as she pulled the stack of books from the bag. "It is easy to take things for granted, until they are gone, and you have lost an entire world. The least we can do is welcome you to this new one."

Pulling the books from the bag, she laid them out on the bed.

"Janelle thought you might find this interesting," she said, handing me one.

It was thin, but large, like a children's picture book, bound in leather and inlaid with gold leaf. The embossed title read The Thirteen Thrones.

I opened it and leafed through.

It was a collection of brief biographies, describing the various Thrones. A full-page photograph accompanied each, along with their names and titles, and descriptions of their magical 'masteries.'

The people pictured were all well-dressed and dignified, posing like nobility, and none looked more than fifty years old. An animal accompanied each, which I took to be their familiars.

I flipped through quickly, and found the one that most interested me at the very end.

My father stared back at me from the page, seated on a strange, elaborate throne carved to look like it was made of vines. I was glad to see we didn't resemble each other, much. He had dark brown hair, smoothed back, and dark eyes beneath a jutting brow. His nose was strong and aquiline, and his mouth curved in a sharp, disapproving slant.

The caption read: Oscar Vile—Ivy Throne—Ascended 1975. Master of illusion, persuasion, and daemonic summoning.

Behind him stood Ro. Unlike the other familiars, he was in his more human form, though I barely recognized him. A gold choker encircled his throat, rows of gold rings lined his ears from lobe to tip, and gold bracelets adorned his wrists. More strikingly, though, was how ill he looked.

His long black hair was ragged and unkept, and his thinness spoke of starvation. His yellow eyes were dull, blank and empty, and face was expressionless.

"Ah, poor Ro," Kyrie said softly, lowering herself to sit on the edge of the bed at my side. "Those were bad times."

"Was he sick?" I asked. "Why does he look like this?"

"He is in pain," she said, leaning closer to study the page. "You see all the rings in his ears? And the bands on his throat and wrist? Each of them is a bond of obedience, and of subjugation to his witch's will. Most familiars don't wear them, or are given one, at most. More than two is considered cruel."

"Why does he have so many?" I asked, horrified.

"Because he is strong. Ro is no ordinary daemon. He is a prince: the jewel in your father's crown. To tame such a one as he was proof of great power."

"Tame?"

She took the book from me, lifting it into her own lap.

"Yes, your father was a 'daemon tamer.' He summoned them from their home realms, opening gateways to ours, and then entrapped them here. Once suitably 'tame,' a familiar could then be trusted to bond with a witch. A Vile daemon is a good daemon, was your father's oxymoronic motto."

"But I thought daemons came here by choice?"

She shrugged. "It is a choice with little alternative. Human witches are among the few sentient beings with the knowledge and power to open channels between dimensions, and to summon other beings from other places, and to bring them into this one. Finding a path on one's own is nearly impossible. And so, to be called by a human witch is both a fortunate, and an unfortunate fate."

"Called?"

"Yes. To summon a daemon, the summoner must know the daemon's name. That was Oscar's true business—to extract the names of other daemons from those he summoned. To my knowledge, Ro never gave one up, and at last he and your father reached an agreement: Ro would serve him willingly, and Oscar would never ask for another name again."

"Ro isn't his real name, is it?" I asked, studying the image as a strange pity seized my heart.

"No. To give his true name would be an act of deepest trust. He would only give it to one he trusted with more than his life, but with his heart and soul, as well."

She rose.

"I will leave you to your rest. Be well, and may you dream of peace."

She pressed her palms together and bowed as if offering a blessing, and departed.

I sat for a while longer, stewing in conflicted feelings. Ro confused me. He was both standoffish and overbearing, sharp-tongued and soft-handed. He claimed me as his, even as he kept me at arm's length. I understood a little better now why he did.

He had even more reason to hate my dad than I did, and it made sense he'd want nothing to do with anything related to him, which included me.

Feeling suddenly both lonely and exhausted, I set the book aside, went to the window and unlocked and reopened it. Then I fell into bed without even undressing.

Despite Kyrie's blessing, I knew no peace awaited in my dreams, as the image of Ro in the photograph followed me into sleep.