One ring. Two. Three. Why would he ask me about Greg?

The phone clicked and a stern female voice delivered a practiced blurb, “Atlanta Chapter of the Order, how may I help you?”

“I would like to speak to Greg Feldman.”

“Your name?”

A faint note of anxiety pulsed through her voice.

“I don’t have to give you my name,” I said into the receiver. “I wish to speak to the knight-diviner.”

A pause issued and a male voice said, “Please, identify yourself.”

They were stalling, probably trying to trace the call. What the hell was going on?

“No,” I said firmly. “Page seven of your Charter, third paragraph down: ‘Any citizen has a right to seek counsel of a knight-diviner without fear of retribution or need for identification.’ As a citizen, I insist that you put me in contact with the knight-diviner now or specify the time he can be reached.”

“The knight-diviner is dead,” the voice said.

The world halted. I skidded through its stillness, frightened and off balance. My throat ached. I heard my heart beating in my chest.

“How?” My voice was calm.

“He was killed in the line of duty.”

“Who did it?”

“The matter is still under investigation. Look, if I could just get your name . . .”

I pushed the disconnect button and lowered the receiver in its place. I looked at the empty chair across from me. Two weeks ago Greg had sat in this chair, stirring his coffee. His spoon had made small precise circles, never touching the sides of the mug. For a moment I could actually see him right there, while the memory played in my mind.

Greg was looking at me with dark brown eyes, mournful, like the eyes of an icon. “Please, Kate. Suspend your dislike of me for a few moments and listen to what I have to say. It makes sense.”

“I don’t dislike you. It’s an oversimplification.”