The cold air hit me first, smelling of wet stone and the faint scent of gasoline from the alley beyond the high brick walls.

Rain clattered against the iron leaves of the decorative trellises.

Lucian stood near the center of the courtyard, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets.

He did not seem to care that the water was soaking the shoulders of his expensive wool coat.

Bishop padded over to him, but his ears remained pricked back toward me.

I stopped beneath the small canvas awning, shivering in my thin waitress uniform.

“Close the door,” Lucian said.

I reached behind me and pushed the heavy oak panel until the brass latch clicked into place.

The noise of the restaurant died instantly, replaced by the steady, heavy rush of the downpour.

Lucian turned around slowly.

His gray eyes looked like polished coins in the dim, yellow light of the courtyard lantern.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Mara Vale,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the sound of the rain. “I work the floor.”