As I thought that, he said, “You are eighteen, right, babe?”

She giggled and replied, “Sure I am,” in a way that said both of them knew better. He knew what he was getting. He wanted what he was getting.

“So, uh, how much?” he asked.

“Fifty.”

“Isn’t that a little steep?” He looked down the alley. “I mean, I’m no expert, but this isn’t a night at the Ritz.”

“I can give you a night at the Ritz … for five hundred.” She tugged him closer. “Don’t be cheap. I’m quality goods. For men with quality tastes.”

He nodded and pulled two twenties and a ten from his wallet. She took it and stuffed it in her pocket.

“The problem, you see, is one of sociological evolution,” a voice said behind me.

I turned to see Patrick sitting on a trash bin.

“Yes, you aren’t the only one who gets the dramatic recreation version,” he said. “So much more interesting than merely reading the words, isn’t it?”

“You said something about evolution.”

He hopped off the can and started walking down the alley, away from the rutting couple. “Precisely. Look at the lamiae. How old do they appear?”

“Teenagers,” I said as I followed him to the street.

“In the modern period, yes. They’re teens—a stage of life that was created in the twentieth century to deal with the problem of prolonged adolescence.”

“Because in earlier times, you went straight from childhood to adulthood. Betrothed at twelve. Married at fourteen. Usually to a guy at least a decade older.”

“Which makes sense from a biological point of view. Nature isn’t kind to women. They’re at their most fertile in their youth. But times changed, and young women demanded more, not unreasonably. So society accommodated. Today, the average age of a first marriage for Western women is twenty-six. You have evolved, sociologically. The lamiae cannot.”

“Why not just change their glamour? Be twenty-five instead and hang out in singles’ bars.”

“Not all fae have that freedom. The lamiae have only two forms: the girl and the snake.”

“So they look like teenage girls, and they need to have sex. They’d find plenty of teen boys willing to oblige.”

“Boys are a poor source of what lamiae need. They’re too young, too unstable, still coming into their full life power. Ideally, the lamiae need regular and reliable access to adult men. And as society changed, that became increasingly difficult to get in any safe and acceptable way. They go from priestesses to ladies’ maids to prostitutes. From power and privilege …”

“To destitution and danger.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Our next stop was Rose’s place. The woman who answered Gabriel’s knock was obviously a relative of his. The same pale skin and the same black hair with the same widow’s peak. Admittedly, the tall and sturdy build flattered the male Walshes better, but Rose’s full figure denied any hint of masculinity. She had light blue eyes, too, though hers were darker, well within the realm of normal.

Rose doesn’t smile much more than her great-nephew does, but when she opened the door, she looked pleased.

“I saw the car,” she said. “I was hoping you’d pay me a visit.”

“Something up?” I asked.

She waved us into the parlor. “The cards suggest someone might be in a bit of trouble. Nothing serious—or I would have called.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Is it Ricky?”

She glanced over.

“If you saw them this morning,” I said, “you’re running on a bit of a delay. That’s what we’re here about: trouble involving Ricky, which involves fae and possibly the Cŵn Annwn.”

Gabriel said, “I’ll make tea,” giving me time to poke around the room. There’s always something to discover in Rose’s parlor. Today it was the underside of a turtle shell.

“Scapulimancy,” Rose said. “Shoulder bones are also used, as the name suggests, but I’d rather have that on my shelf. It was a method of divination in ancient China. Heat the underside of the shell until it cracks and then read the future from those cracks.”

“Huh.” I bent to examine the shell cracks. “This one seems to say that it’s destined to spend a very long time on a psychic’s shelf, where it will eventually acquire a thick layer of dust.”

Rose shook her head and waved me to the desk. We settled, and I told her what had happened and about my visit to Patrick. She pulled a few books off her own shelf. Hers were human folklore, which meant they only mentioned Lamia as the Libyan queen and lamiae as a Greek vampire or succubus subtype.

“What I couldn’t ask Patrick was about the Cŵn Annwn,” I said. “I heard the Hunt right before my vision, and Ricky didn’t.”

“Meaning it was another part of your vision,” Rose said. “Apparently. The Cŵn Annwn were hunting someone. What I saw suggests that this Ciro Halloran guy is killing lamiae. The province of the Cŵn Annwn is hunting killers whose crimes are connected to the fae.”

“In other words, Halloran would be a prime target.”

“And now that he’s disappeared …”

“You’re thinking the Hunt took him.”

“Right. Which means the next step is to confirm it with the Huntsmen, ensure that there’s no way of linking Ricky to Halloran’s death, and tidy up any loose ends. Case solved.”