To my agent, Kristin Nelson, for your guidance, enthusiasm, and for believing in the magic.

To my editor, Anne Sowards, for your sharp eyes, and for always taking the time to answer a new author’s questions.

And most of all to my husband, Derek. Thank you for your love, patience, and encouragement. You never doubted, and always believed.

Sorcerers weren’t normal, sorcery wasn’t natural, and Quentin Rand didn’t like either one.

Quentin had always made an exception for me, but just because you tolerated what a friend was, didn’t mean you understood what they did. Nothing explained to me what Quentin was doing breaking into the townhouse of one of Mermeia’s most infamous necromancers. Quentin was a thief—at least he used to be. And to the best of my knowledge, he wasn’t a suicidal ex-thief. Yet there he was crouched in the shadows of Nachtmagus Nigelius Nicabar’s back door, picklocks at the ready. While not the most efficient way to ask for death, it was one of the more certain.

I knew all about Nigel’s house wards. The human necromancer did everything he could to inflate his reputation, but he didn’t depend on it to protect his valuables. Magical wards were home security at its most basic, and Nigel had some good ones. But although they were nasty, they wouldn’t kill—rumor had it Nigel liked to save that pleasure for himself. I guess when you worked with the dead for a living, your idea of fun was a little different from everyone else’s. The city watch frowned on citizens taking the law into their own hands like that, but the watch was notoriously shorthanded in the Districts. They couldn’t prosecute what they didn’t know about, and I’d rather they didn’t know Quentin was here tonight.