"The Reaper, I assume?" Mr. Hassan says, his tone bemused.

I nod as he refills my glass of tea.

"Have a seat, boy," Mr. Hassan says, and he shuffles into the kitchen to retrieve a plate of basbousa.

"What the fuck, Lu," Ashen seethes in a fierce whisper as he looms over me. "You were supposed to follow me."

"You should know by now, boy. Fear is like the wind and ancient creatures are always ready with a sail to catch it. Especially vampires," Mr. Hassan calls from the shadows of the kitchen.

I'm not really sure what the fuck the old man means, but it sounds all wise and shit, so let's go with it. And it definitely confuses the hell out of Ashen, so when the Reaper meets my eyes I just gesture to the elderly apothecary as though he actually makes sense.

"Sit, boy," Mr. Hassan says, his voice clearer than it was before. Ashen narrows his eyes at me but the smoke disperses around him. The fire ripples and dies on his blade as his hand relaxes at his side. He sits in a weathered armchair across from me but glares, the fire in his eyes still bright.

What, it's not like I could go that far without this fucking thing itching my arm right off, I write in my journal, passing it to him then pointing at the tattoo on my arm. It does give me the wild idea that I could just cut my arm off, but reattaching limbs is a total pain in the ass.

"Not the point, vampire."

Mr. Hassan shuffles back into the room with the plate of basbousa and a fragrant cup of warmed blood in a ceramic teapot, spiced with cardamom and cinnamon and sweetened with honey.

"Here you are, azizati. You will feel much restored after you drink this," the old man says as he pours the concoction into a mug. I give him a sweet smile and flick my gaze to Ashen as the apothecary pats my hand with affection. "A bright soul in the Shadow Realm, plied with so much alcohol. Mukhjil," Mr. Hassan grumbles. He snatches a rolled up newspaper from a side table and smacks Ashen on the arm with surprising speed and strength. I barely manage to repress a snort.

"Lamaa faealt hadha?" Ashen asks, his voice incredulous.

Mr. Hassan whacks him again and this time I do chuff a laugh, but the old man doesn't notice. He's too focused on pointing the newspaper into Ashen's face.

"What was that for? For nearly getting this poor creature killed in your Realm. How many do you think are left like her, hmm? Really? Ghabi." Mr. Hassan throws the newspaper down on a coffee table and grumbles in Arabic as he shuffles over to the settee and lowers himself onto its green velvet cushions.

I look up at Ashen. I see contrition in his eyes but something more, like maybe shame, and loss. He shifts his gaze to the floor.

"Drink your tea, azizati. Do not worry," the old man says as he pushes the teapot closer to me. I take a long sip. It definitely helps, at least with the hangover. "And you, stop it or I will hit you again."

Ashen looks up to me and then to Mr. Hassan, a confused expression claiming his face. "Stop what?

"Convincing yourself you can't choose differently now because of the choices you made in the past. Convincing yourself you can never do better today than you did yesterday. Convincing yourself that better means letting go, not holding on."

I don't know what the old man is talking about, but Ashen seems to. He looks at Mr. Hassan for a long moment before his gaze lands on me and then falls to the shadows in the middle distance between us.

"Eat some basbousa and then ask me what you've come to ask me," Mr Hassan says to the Reaper, pouring him a cup of mint tea as a black and white cat emerges from the kitchen to jump onto my lap. Its purr is the only sound among us. Ashen does as instructed, eating his cake as I sip my drink, and I'm feeling better with every swallow. The Reaper and I glance at one another in the quiet moments, but one of us always looks away.

"We've come to ask you about Angelwing poison," Ashen says when he finishes his cake. He wipes his fingers clean with his napkin and sets the empty plate on the coffee table then gestures to the rows of long cabinets that line the living room walls. Mirrored shelves reflect glass bottles of oils and potions, canisters of herbs and powders. I'd be surprised if the famed Angelwing is among these shelves, but it's as good a place as any to start. "A pack of werewolves were in possession of Angelwing. They used it against me during my attempt to reap the Alpha for the Crime of Abomination."

"Crime of Abomination," the apothecary repeats with derision. He clearly thinks that's bullshit, and I don't blame him. I didn't think it was real either before I smelled that hybrid's junk in the morgue. "Who is the Alpha?" the old man asks, taking a sip of his tea.

"Semyon Abdulov."

Mr. Hassan nods. "I have heard of him. He started his ascent in the Ural Mountains. He comes from an ancient lineage, back as far as can be traced in werewolves."

"Yes. Did he obtain the poison from you?" Ashen asks. His gaze darts to mine before latching back onto the old man. I think he's wondering if I’ve been holding back something I know about Abdulov, but I really haven’t. I've always made it a point to keep my distance from the heart of werewolf ancestry, for obvious reasons.

"He did not. I haven't seen Angelwing in a thousand years. An angel must give first give their wing for it to be made, and it’s not as though anunnaki were keen to do so even in the days when they were abundant in these lands," the old apothecary says, and I can see the dismay in Ashen's eyes. "You said it was used against you? How did you survive?" Mr. Hassan asks. Ashen points to me and Mr Hassan's head swivels in my direction.

"Ruh shujaei," he says in a low voice. He smiles with fatherly affection and pats my arm. "The most misunderstood creatures, vampires are." He refills my cup of blood tea and pushes it into my hands.

Mr. Hassan, do you know who could have provided Semyon with the poison? Another apothecary perhaps? I write, and I turn my note toward him.

"No. I don't know of any others that have it. I did hear a years back of a powerful witch looking to pay handsomely to acquire it. Mila Karras was her name.”

“The name is unfamiliar to me,” Ashen says, glancing at me. I shake my head and he turns his frown toward his glass of tea.

“She kept a low profile. She died in an accident in Jerusalem last year. A spell gone wrong, apparently. Since then, however, I’ve heard nothing further about it, and there is little I don't know about the movement of the darker concoctions among the apothecaries. She would have needed an apothecary to distil the poison, but I’ve heard no whispers of such a feat. If there is any Angelwing left, I doubt it would stay in one place for long," Mr. Hassan says as he refills Ashen's glass of mint tea before replenishing his own. He places the teapot on the coffee table and sits back, steepling his fingers as he regards the Reaper. "There are other... activities... that abound, however. Movement in the Realm of Light."

"What do you mean?"

"Hidden portals once dormant, now awakening. Whispers of angels passing through. There is rumor of such a portal at Saqqara. I've heard tales among the immortals here of flashes of light at dawn. Of figures, coming or going."

Ashen and I look at one another. I fold my hand around my bike key. Saqqara isn't far. We can make it with plenty of time to spare before dawn.