The Weeping Nymph was a bar that catered to those who preferred subterranean gloom. Nyles pushed through the heavy door, the scent of stale beer and mildew wrapping around him. Nyx was at a corner booth, a half-drained glass of murky liquid in front of her. Her face was pale under the bar's sickly green light.
"I got a lead," she said without preamble, her fingers tracing the condensation on her glass. "A pawnbroker in the Veiled Market. He had a locket of Seelie make, about three hundred years old. He said a human sold it to him two days ago. A nervous guy, smelled like cheap cologne."
"Let me guess," Nyles slid into the booth, the phantom pain of the psychic attack still echoing in his skull. "He described Mark."
Nyx nodded. "Pawned it for a fraction of its worth. The broker boasted a
