Grayson was on his feet before the sound had even faded, his entire body shifting into a defensive posture. The demon prince was back, his eyes cold, his movements silent and predatory. He moved to the door, his hand hovering over the latch, his presence a dark, looming force.
He opened it to find a woman standing in the drizzle. She was older, her face a map of deep lines and weather-beaten skin, wearing a heavy wool shawl that smelled of peat smoke and old wool. In her hands, she held a clay pot of something steaming, the scent of wild garlic and rendered fat cutting through the damp air. She didn't look at Grayson's intensity; she looked at the flower Mailah had drawn on the map, which was still visible on the table behind him.
