Marrakesh, Morocco - 1969

Vika dodged the reach of an over-enthusiastic carpet-salesman with the grace of long experience, muttering under her breath with exasperation - not all of it aimed at the disappointed merchant with the sloped tarboosh cap who retreated rapidly back into the cool shade of his stall. She paused for the briefest of moments to push her long grey hair back from her face and took the opportunity to regret anew that she had neglected to cut the long locks short before she had found herself weaving her way through crowds in one of the many derbs of Marrakesh under the glare of the midday sun.

Here and there, patches of shade and shadow were to be found, thrown by the narrow, overleaning buildings or the cloths and clothes that hung overhead - but these precious spaces of cool and shade were already monopolized by weary, sunburnt and sweat-drenched tourists and those savvy local women who had gathered together to gossip in dialect while they kept eyes on running, darting children.

It should have been difficult to be unhappy in such a brightly coloured, buzzing place, but Vika, as per usual, proved herself the exception to any and all rules. She hated the sun, she hated the mosquitos that buzzed about her and she especially hated the tall, handsome, dark-haired warlock who had dragged her there and seemed to be hellbent now on leaving her behind. He was winding his path through the street-dentists and snake-charmers and dancers and pickpockets and they parted before him, as though there were a road laid out before him and all he had to do was follow it.

Vika was fortunate that her companion was so tall - she could still barely make out the tip of his inky hair above the brightly coloured turbans and the muted shades of the shawls worn by the crowd. Dialects of French, Arabic and Pashto rose above the heads of the crowd, buzzing and blending together into an indistinguishable tangle of emotion and words - although Vika spoke some of the languages, she would have been hard-pressed to discern any intelligble word.

She renewed her pace, unable to mimic the warlock's easy, languid grace as she ducked under the silks that curtained the street, dripping onto the heads of the crowds in shades of lapis lazuli and greenglass firefly wings and cardinal feathers. The air was thick with dust and smoke from backfiring engines, noisy motorcycles and the old men who crouched in doorways rolling dice and smoking hashish through gnarled pipes. Chickens and rabbits dyed baby blue and powder pink scratched at the bare ground and tangled underfoot, conspiring to break Vika's neck as she skirted an unfriendly goat with flinty eyes and caught sight of the snapping tail of her erstwhile companion's coat.

Her legs were long, his longer, and it took a few long moments of awkward jostling and half-jogging before she had caught up to him and resumed her original position - struggling to stay by his side as he moved, seemingly without rhyme or reason.
"Next time we go abroad," she snapped in stilted English, too tired to bother being polite. "We go to -" She cast around for a location that was not so warm or crowded. "Bishkek," she said finally, sounding determined. "At least they, like civilized peoples al, eat angry goat."

"Do you speak Krygyz?" Magnus raised a dark eyebrow effortlessly, as though he knew how much it irritated her when he did that, but did not bother to look at her as he spoke - he was glancing about him, taking in everything at once.

"Ооба, but I don't speak Arabic either," she reminded him with a scowl. "But that didn't stop you dragging me out here to the middle of the desert, did it?"

"Mundanes," Magnus said, almost as though he were addressing only himself. "You have no concept of geography, do you? The desert, I assure you, is quite a few miles away. Not even you should be able to wander away into it from here. Then again, you have surprised me before with the extent of your idiocy, so stay close. I have no intention of looking for you if you get lost - camel hire rates are ridiculous around here."

She ignored him as best she could, craning her neck in an attempt to discern any possible reason for their presence here. As wonderful and evocative as the entire place was, the scene was beautiful in an entirely human way. There were no faery stalls heaped high with bones and teeth in the dark corners of the markets; Vika was certain that the red liquid being proferred here and there was only wine, and a foul tasting wine at that; she knew that most of Lillith's Children had far more visible warlock marks than Magnus, and she could see no tell-tale shimmer of a glamour; no dark demon shadows skittered or crept between the crowd. The streets seemed to be entirely mundane.

Who knew? Maybe there wasn't a reason. Maybe this was her first, last and only vacation. Maybe Magnus considered a breakneck race through the sweltering derbs to be a relaxing holiday in the sun.

By the Angel, she hoped not.

She hit into Magnus' shoulder without realising that he had stopped. He was glaring at the crowd in front of him, his golden eyes more playful than she had seen for weeks - whatever thoughts that has clouded his expression and furrowed brow his brow had evidently been put asode or had spun from his mind like autumn leaves from the skeletons of trees. The few hours in the sun had already darkened his complexion, and the blue fire of his magic cast unusual, unfamiliar shadows on his face as he raised his hands, cupping them together. "I really do need to lea

rn to be patient," he told the younger girl in a confidential tone, and then he swept his hands apart with a dramatic gesture.
The crowd did not part, as Vika had been expected - rather, the crowd and everyone in it was shunted to one side of the street as though the entire world had tilted on its axis and sent them flying in the same direction, leaving the entire left side of the street clear for Magnus. Vika reached out automatically to steady an old woman who nearly fell, managing by some miracle to grasp her arm. "Magnus!" she snapped, but the warlock was already walking. With a hasty and garbled apology in stilted French to the old lady, who looked as though she couldn't process what had happened, Vika hurried after Magnus, who strode like he owned the place.

The alley he had so unceremoniously put into disarray opened up onto the square that they had been seeking, lined by restaurants and shops and closed storefronts. A few of the larger cafes had tables and sparse seating outside - it took Vika a few seconds to register the fact that they were probably present to visit the huge, burly, bearded werewolf who sat nearest the square, rather than the two shawled women with delicate features who sat in the corner or the Moroccan businessman nearest the door.

"Cain," Magnus greeted, his usual Indonesian accent melting away and twisting into an unfamiliar New York twang Vika had never heard him use before. It suited him, if she was honest - big, brassy, larger than life. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

The werewolf straightened in his seat and Vika blinked as she realised just how huge the man was. Magnus was tall, but lean, and she was - well, tiny was not really an exaggeration. This guy looked like he would be able to break either of them in half with a stern gaze and a harsh word. If anyone looked like a cross between a biker and a grizzly bear, Vika thought that it would be this man - long black hair fell past his shoulders, grazing the pockets of the leather jacket that clad a chest roughly the size and shape of a barrel.

"Magnus," he rumbled, and Vika didn't feel that it would have been inaccurate to compare his bass tones to the growl of a Prague town tram. "Good to see you again." He extended a hand, and Vika found herself assessing it. Callused palms and leathery skim spoke of experience with physical labour, and a strange tattoo adorned his knuckle, half hidden by an embossed ring - not a rune, not quite. The werewolf's seemingly unwaverable smile faltered a little as Magnus ignored the proferred hand entirely, and he switched the subject. Swiftly. "And this is...?"

Magnus waved a hand airily. "Oh, call her whatever you want. God knows I do." He glanced at her. "Double espresso for me and some kind of alcoholic beverage for our friend here, Emily." Vika gritted her teeth and nodded. Crouching for a moment to pluck a smooth, flat rock from the ground, she entered the blessed shade of the restaurant. Somewhere in the darkness, a valiant fan buzzed uselessly and a radio spat out the latest race results faster than she could register.

She ordered the drinks through mime, pantomime and liberal pointing, and resolved for the hundreth time to bully Magnus into teaching her Arabic. She turned the rock over in her hand and handed it to the man as payment - he nodded and put it into the cash register without batting an eye. Once upon a time, Vika might have felt bad about the trick, but it wasn't as though Magnus paid her for her employment - she doubted he carried much money either, come to think of it.

She carried the tray back out to the midday heat - Cain nodded his thanks, mid-flow through some sort of explanation.
"-ybe three, four nights in a row now. Got everyone riled up pretty bad down in my neighborhood, anyway. They're after planting more yesterday and today, but I have my suspicions, and no one wants a repeat of what happened before. If you could do anything, Magnus, we'd be grateful."

Vika passed Magnus his espresso. He nodded. "Thank you, Betty," he murmured distractedly in Indonesian, and then held up a hand to silence the werewolf. "I hate to point it out, Cain," he added in that unfamiliar New York drawl. "But let's address the elephant in the room, shall we? I am the High Warlock of Brooklyn. Quite a nice title, I grant you. Certainly has a great ring to it, and it comes with plenty of perks . But the fact remains that Brooklyn is a long way from Marrakesh and I have nothing to do with Morocco - I wouldn't be here if you hadn't messaged me and said it was urgent. My fees are quite steep for a job such as this - why not give it to one of your guys? The local Praetor Lupus or your own High Warlock?"

Cain hesitated, before he nodded and slid a scrap of paper across the table. "Because of this," he said simply. Magnus glanced at the sheet. This time, both eyebrows went up - an expression of equal parts surprise, trepidation and glee. "I see," he said, keeping his voice so level that only Vika would be able to identify the change. Vika craned her neck in an attempt to catch a glimpse - a black mark, swirling matrix of dark lines, a...

"Rune," she murmured.

"Quite right. But not just any rune." Magnus looked at Cain, and his eyes were bright and glinting. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention." He stood - Vika scrambled to follow suit. "Jessica," he said. "We're going to need some shovels. Procure them for me."

"Why?"

"Because we're going to rob a grave now." He tipped his hat to the werewolf. "Stay well, Cain." He spun on his heel. "Come along, Igor. We have mauseoleums to raid."

"Just one mauseoleum," Cain called after him anxiously. "Singular, Magnus."

Magnus shrugged rakishly with a sly grin. "What happens happens."