Roan answered on the second ring, which told Lucien something about the kind of life the man led—the sort of readiness that came from years of expecting bad news to arrive without warning.

"Ezra." Roan's voice was low, gravelly, careful in the particular way of someone used to speaking on lines he didn't entirely trust. "It's early. This better be good."

"It's not good," Ezra said, pacing the length of the living room with the phone pressed hard to his ear, his free hand still tangled loosely with Lucien's, as though letting go even for a moment might undo whatever fragile progress they'd made since morning. "Lucien's lost yesterday. All...