The morning after our dinner with Jonathan Reeves, I woke to find Damon already dressed and on his phone, speaking in the clipped, urgent tones that meant he was handling multiple crises simultaneously. Through the windows of our bedroom, London's gray dawn light cast everything in somber shadows that matched my mood.
"Yes, I understand the risks," he was saying to whoever was on the other end. "But I need that information within forty-eight hours. Use whatever resources necessary."
I sat up in bed, pulling the silk sheet around me as fragments of the previous night's dreams lingered in my mind. The visions were becoming more detailed, more insistent. Last night, I had seen the Moon Goddess herself—not just in ceremony, but in her final moments, betrayed by those she had trusted most.
"Another investigation?" I asked when Damon ended his call.
