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of the young, did not sound at all puffed after three quick flights in pursuit. Her partner caught up and looked at her from under his curly hair with something close to reproach. “You shouldn’t get upset over people’s disrespect for the Order”—he adjusted his emerald cloak and tilted his head—“especially after what happened at the ossuary this winter.”
    Sorcha’s stomach tightened, and she felt herself flush. “Actually”—she pursed her lips—“after what happened at the White Palace, the people of this city should trust us more not less. They treat us more like ratcatchers than protectors.”
    “We’ll earn back their respect and trust,” he replied with a certainty she did not possess. “Anyway”—Merrick touched her arm—“she is probably just jumping at shadows—most people are these days.”
    Sorcha smiled bitterly. “You’re right—it’s not like Rictun would ever knowingly send us anywhere that actually has a geist.” She did not give him his proper title; to her there had only been one Arch Abbot. Despite his treachery, the nowdead Hastler had earned her respect. Rictun, who currently sat on the Council in that position, was worse than a fool—and he had always despised her, for reasons she could not deduce.
    A cruel fool.
    “Yes, yes, he is.” Merrick probably didn’t even realize he had picked unspoken words from her head. Their Bond was not supposed to work that way. A topic they were both avoiding. “However, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be cautious all the same.”
    “I think we can handle one little shade, Merrick. We can’t possibly be that out of practice.” Still, she did turn and regard the attic with some caution.
    The world bloomed to life as her partner’s Sight enveloped her; it heightened her awareness and gave her own powers direction. As an Active, Sorcha was only too well aware that her life relied on her partner. Without him she would be a raging fireball with no direction that was more likely to hurt herself than a geist.
    Sorcha’s breath coalesced in front of her eyes. Outside it was summer, but the chill on her skin was as if the depths of winter had come again. It was a sign every human in the Empire could read.
    Her heart raced, and her skin ran with goose pimples, yet a slow smile spread on her lips. It had been far too long since she had done the job she’d trained for all her remembered life.
    Suddenly Merrick was at her shoulder, the only warmth in the room, and she was very grateful for it.
    Caution. Watch. Danger.
    His Sight meshed with hers again, and now she began to realize she should have stopped to question the widow a little more thoroughly. Their Sight was compromised in the attic—a low-level gray light flooded the space. It came from the number of weirstones used by the Tinker.
    Their shared Sight dipped and swayed as Merrick tried to compensate for the staining of the ether. A scuttling sound made his mouth snap shut. Rats were running from every corner, scrambling through the walls, and skittering down the drainpipe. Animals were more sensitive than humans and always fled in the face of the undead. The noise was unnerving—even to the trained.
    Leaving her partner to hold his position at the rear, Sorcha crept forward. Until recently the very idea of an unliving incursion into Vermillion would have been unthinkable; however, everything had changed since the battle in the ossuary. It had taken the Order back to the bad old days when they had first arrived on this continent. Now once again they were flooded with alerts of geist activity—both real and imagined. The new Arch Abbot Rictun had made sure his Presbyter Secondo gave only the latter kind to Deacons Chambers and Faris. So whatever chance had brought them here to an actual geist she was not going to question.
    They were bitter thoughts to keep Sorcha company as she scanned between crates, her hands steady in her Gauntlets. They were the holder of her magic and her