“Who are the most prominent relic hunters in the region? Who would have the kind of reputation that would lure a man like Pastor Haywood away from his church?”

Her face twisted with disdain. I might as well have asked her who were the best pimps in the neighborhood.

“I would have said Waylon Billiot, but he died three or four years ago. Besides him Darryl Knox and Dakota Mooney. Darryl and Dakota used to be married. They had some kind of falling out, and rumors say Dakota shot him in the a… upper posterior. Now they can’t stand each other. There is also Mark Rudolph, who is extremely unpleasant. I’ll ask Gerald to give you a list. It may take him a couple of hours.”

“Thank you,” I told her. “I’ll come by later in the day and pick it up.”

“These are not nice, reasonable people, Knight Ryder. They are the kind of people who cross an ocean filled with monsters, climb into dark tombs filled with horrors, and then sell what they find to the highest bidder. They will shoot you for a dollar. If they decide that you are interfering with their business, they will retaliate.”

“Thank you for your advice.”

“Keep me in the loop,” Bishop Chao asked. “Please.”

“I will,” I promised.

Tulip trotted down the deserted street. Behind me towering poplars and oaks shielded the tall walls that guarded the houses of Tuxedo Park. Ahead lay urban ruins. After leaving St. Luke’s, I’d turned south and then east, on West Paces Ferry Road. Soon it would cross the New Peachtree Road, and I would turn right again, heading south to Jesus Junction.

Jesus Junction, otherwise known as the safest place in Atlanta, sat at the intersection of three roads, Peachtree, East Wesley, and West Wesley. It was a place where three churches formed a rough triangle: the Cathedral of Christ the King, the mother-church of Catholic Archdiocese of Atlanta, Second Ponce de Leon Baptist Church, and the Cathedral of St. Phillip, home to one of the largest Episcopalian congregations in the country. A good chunk of Buckhead lay in ruins, but Jesus Junction stood untouched, a beacon of safety among the chaos, the houses of worship protected from magic’s teeth by the faith of its congregants.

Pastor Haywood had worked with the Catholics before, and among all the Christian denominations, the Catholic church bought the most relics and offered the highest prices. If I were selling holy artifacts, I’d tap the Catholics first.

I had just passed the Atlanta History Center when I heard the jingling. It was an odd, disconcerting sound, as if someone had sharpened some metal coins and was now shaking them in a sack. I’d heard this before.

Tulip flicked her ears.

The jingling came again, insistent. Jingle. Jingle. Scrape of metal on metal, sharp enough to make you cringe.

Interesting. I brought Tulip to a halt. Let’s see what happens.

Two men stepped out into the road from behind the ruins of Regions Bank. The one on the left, six feet tall, with a beefy build and a gold chain around his tan neck, looked like a typical street tough guy, the kind who made his money collecting debts and carried brass knuckles in his pocket. He wore jeans, a tank top, and a custom pair of tennis shoes, handmade. A rifle hung off his shoulder. He was a large man, but next to the other guy, he looked like a child.

The second man towered over the first by a good foot and a half. Huge shoulders, barrel chest, weirdly long arms bulging with muscle. He wore stained camo pants tucked into giant yellow boots and a brown tank top that left his shoulders bare. A three-and-a-half-foot wooden club hung from his belt. Every inch of his visible skin was covered with dense red body hair, matching the greasy mane hanging from his head. His brutish face sported a permanent sunburn, except for the spots covered by his beard.

The two men strode to the middle of the street and stopped, blocking my way. The goon on the left wouldn’t be a problem. His swagger told me he was strong and likely relied on brute force and his mass rather than speed and training. The giant next to him was another story. He moved like a man half his size, with a kind of animalistic smoothness. Like a bear, seemingly lumbering but big and fast, and hard to stop once he charged. Not good. With a club, his reach was longer than mine by half a foot. With magic up, he wouldn’t have been a problem. But magic was down, and he outweighed me by at least a hundred and seventy-five pounds.

Jingle, jingle. Getting closer.

The smaller man unslung his rifle and pointed it at me. “Don’t move.”

I’d picked this road to avoid traffic. Buckhead used to be an edge city, an uptown anchored by a cluster of high-rise hotels, offices, condominiums, and restaurants, none of which had fared well since the Shift. It also spawned some nasty magic hazmat during magic waves. Like downtown and midtown, the area was a treasure trove for the reclamation crews, but downtown was safer, and so far, the city mostly left Buckhead to its own devices.

These two weren’t run of the mill bandits. This road wasn’t well used, and the persistent jingling told me they were a good way from home. Were they waiting for me? Why?

I could shoot them now with my bow, but there was a good chance I’d kill them, and any answers would die with them.

A huge dog trotted into view from behind the Regions building, thirty-five inches at the shoulder and slabbed with monstrous muscle. His chest was so deep and broad that his hindquarters looked like an afterthought. He gripped the ground with paws the size of melons. A single hit would crush a human skull. His head with wide oversized jaws sat on a neck thicker than my thigh. Long metal spikes thrust from his skull, running all the way down his spine to the long tail. His fur was a forest of blueish metal needles.

An iron hound. There was only one place in Atlanta it could have come from.

The beast saw me. His turquoise eyes focused on my face. He opened his cavernous mouth, flashing four-inch fangs, and snarled. The spikes snapped erect with a metallic screech. The dog took a step toward me and halted, brought up short by a thick chain wrapped around his throat.

A moment later its handler waddled into view. He was the smaller man’s height, but the giant’s weight, and he carried most of it in a beer gut. White, hairy, wearing denim overalls with no shirt. A machete hung in a sheath on his hip. He held the dog’s chain in his left hand, and a second chain, stretching behind the building, in his right.

The handler anchored himself, pulling the hound short, and yanked the other chain. A small body flew into view and landed at the handler’s feet.