Kicking It

FORKED TONGUES

A Holly and Andrew Story

BY

RACHEL CAINE

It wasn’t the first time I’d woken up to a cross burning on my front lawn, but it was definitely not my favorite time, either.

The first I knew about it was the sudden violent movement of the bed as my boyfriend, Andrew, jumped out from under the covers. When Andy moved like that, I instinctively moved, too; I wasn’t battle-tested like he was, and I didn’t have gunslinger reflexes, but I could throw myself facedown on the floor with the best of them.

“Goddammit,” he growled, and twitched the curtains aside a little more. I caught a glimpse of firelight. “I’m about to shoot some sumbitches, Holly.”

I lifted my head from the floor, crawled to the window, and peered out through the bottom. Yep. Cross, burning on our lawn, and a beat-up red pickup zooming down the street, full of heroes wearing black ski masks, armed with cheap beer and attitude. “No shooting,” I told him. “This may be Texas, but we don’t like to have gunfights in the streets.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll just follow ’em home and shoot ’em in their own yards. That’s civilized.”

Andy’s voice was tight, and I couldn’t really tell if he was just being scorchingly sarcastic. After all, he’d been born into a different time—a time when it was perfectly okay to take your grudges all the way across town, and also to shoot up Main Street on a Saturday night, just because it was Saturday night. And if you lost your gunfight, you might be displayed in a stand-up coffin for a day or two with a sign around your neck as a lesson to others.

Andy was Old West at its best, and sometimes at its worst, too.

He’d been brought back from his long-ago death a while back, but he still hadn’t quite adjusted to modern life . . . and I was sometimes afraid he never would.

He was yanking jeans on now over long, lean legs, and his eyes were narrowed and glinting like stone in a hard-set face. Handsome man, Andy Toland—broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, an old-fashioned kind of handsome that had an interesting dash of mischief to it. And history. The scars on his chest, some still red, were a road map to a hundred tales, most of which I knew I’d never learn.

But he could hold a grudge. Oh, yes.

As he pulled his checked shirt off the hanger in the closet, I scrambled up and put a hand on his arm. That stilled him, just for a few seconds. Long enough for me to say, “No, Andy. Stay here. Stay with me.” It was a magic incantation, something I said to him almost every day—sometimes a murmur on the edge of sleep, sometimes caught on a breath during lovemaking. But it meant something to me, and to him.

He shot me a guilty look as he put on the shirt and quirked a quick smile in apology. “All right, I ain’t going,” he said. “Rubs me sandy to let them get away clean, though.”

“Hey, they did the hard work of building the damn thing, hauling it, sticking it in the ground, and setting it on fire,” I said. “It’s the least we can do to let them drive off drunk and run into a tree.”

He hugged me, his shirt still hanging open. “And that is why I love you, Holly Anne Caldwell. Because you’re just so saintly about it all. Hey, what is that you have on?”

“Nothing,” I said, and put my arms around his neck. “Why? You like it?”

“I think it suits you fine,” he said. “Wish I could take you back to that bed and tell you plain, but—”

“But the neighbors might be scandalized.”

“Mostly by the burning cross we left burning.”

I pulled away from him, reluctantly, and dressed quickly—underwear, because going out without it would scandalize the already-butt-hurt neighborhood, and then a pair of jeans I could afford to get dirty and a work shirt I normally chose for gardening. Thick work boots, too.

By the time I was dressed, had grabbed my cell phone, and went outside, Andy was already using our fire extinguisher on the cross. I called 911 with the report and took a cell phone picture before the fire was out completely, then a few more with the flash for good measure.

It wasn’t a huge cross; I guessed our harassers hadn’t been especially ambitious this time. But our neighbors were awake and watching, though no one came out. My house was in a quiet suburban neighborhood, one of those that kept the sidewalks clean and had association meetings about “bad elements.” I was not ignorant of the fact that I was one of those bad elements, especially since not one of those watching came out to see if we were okay.

Not one.

“Holly,” Andy said, in a much different sort of voice—a sober one. “Better come see this.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about at first; when you’re facing a five-foot blackened cross still giving off wisps of smoke, it does tend to command center stage. But then he pointed at the ground in front of it.

Punched into the lawn by a knife was a picture. I turned on the light on my cell phone and crouched, not touching it or the knife, to study it, and I felt my stomach withdraw into a tight little clench as I realized what it was.

It was a photo of a dead woman, staring up at the camera. Her throat had been slashed, and her mouth was open and bloody; it looked as if she’d been beaten before the final cut. Her eyes were open and empty.

And I knew her. So did Andy.

“That’s Portia,” he said. “God damn them. Want to tell me I shouldn’t have shot them on their porches now?”

No. No, I didn’t. But I took in a deep breath, dialed 911 again, and reported the photo.

I asked for Detective Rosen, to save time; he’d show up, where some of the others might not. They’d have all kinds of excuses—out on a call, unable to respond, batteries dead. But the truth was that after the particularly painful murder of one of their own, Detective Prieto, a significant portion of the Austin Police Department didn’t want to protect and serve people like us.

People like witches, I mean.

Andy nodded toward the cross. “We should get that thing down.”

“No,” I said. “Leave it up. Let them see it as it is.”

“Want me to set it back on fire, too?” His voice was too tight, and so were his shoulders. He prowled restlessly, back and forth, and I could feel the fury snapping off him like invisible lightning. Andy was a dangerous man in this mood. “Not taking this flat on my back, Holly. Not taking this any damn way. They want to come at us, they better come ready for hell.”

Moments like this, I wished that witchcraft worked the way it did in the movies . . . that I could just murmur some fake Latin and blow away bad things. But the tradition of it had come down through the ages, and it was not only hard, but each of us was limited in what we could do with it. Andy and I, we were potions witches; give us time and ingredients, and we could do everything from heal the sick to raise the dead and keep them walking. But potions took time, energy, and concentration, and they didn’t keep well.

Potions couldn’t help us with something like this. Might as well take a slug of whiskey to calm the nerves, and then break out the shotgun.

There were a few witches in the world capable of actually cursing someone, fast and with effective spells. I’d never met one, and they damn sure didn’t live in Austin, Texas. The picture of Portia proved she wasn’t one of them, either.

We sat down on the steps of the house, and Andy put his arm around me. We didn’t speak. I watched lights go on and off in the other houses and thought that this would, yet again, be brought up at the association meeting as a disruption. We were those people now. And while we lived in a time a bit too PC for pitchforks and torches, I could feel the tide of sentiment turning against us.

Witches had come out to the public in an odd sort of way, about ten years back. Two specialists had teamed up because they wanted to solve a murder. One was a potions witch, and the other was a witch who specialized in making shells—creating a perfect copy of a human, but without the spark of life. A potions witch—commonly called a resurrection witch, when they did what I do—could brew a potion that put the spark of life back in, and that was exactly what they’d done. Together, they’d brought back a murder victim from beyond, to tell the incredulous detective all about his murder. And who did it.

Other witches teamed up for the same purpose. Before long, unsolved cases were being closed right and left . . . but there was a hitch. Even the strongest resurrection witches—and I was among them—couldn’t keep a dead soul in a resurrected living body for long. We expended our own energy to seal the bond, and the dead . . . Well, death had its own gravity. Eventually, it pulled the soul away. The longer that soul had to stay, the more it, and the witch, suffered. So the logical recourse for the cops was to record the testimony of the resurrected, and play it in court.

Turned out that was ruled unconstitutional at the highest levels, and now testimony of the dead no longer counted. It still solved cases, but it was inadmissible. The business for resurrection witches had fallen off significantly, and although people still wanted their loved ones revived for a brief period, it wasn’t exactly a cash-heavy business.

I often felt that we’d revealed ourselves for nothing, really. As my dad used to say, no good deed goes unpunished.

Which explained the burning cross on my lawn.

A regular patrol car arrived without lights or sirens and parked at the curb under the pecan tree; the two patrolwomen seemed professional enough, and they interviewed Andy and me separately. Detective Rosen arrived about thirty minutes later, just after I’d taken a seat on the step again. Andy was still talking to the officer. He was holding his temper, but I could see it was an effort.

“Can’t keep him out of trouble, can you?” Ed Rosen asked, and sat down next to me. Even at this predawn hour, he was well dressed, in a gray suit and a tie. I never could get a read on Rosen’s mood; he always seemed completely closed off. I respected it, but it could also be off-putting at moments like this, when I badly needed someone to be on my side.

“Considering we were sleeping in our own beds, we’re doing our best, sir,” I said. “It looked like the usual nonsense, a truck full of drunk assholes with a cross and a Google map. The thing looks too nice for them to have nailed it together, by the way. I think they stole it from a church.”

“It takes a special sort of self-righteousness to steal a cross from a church to burn on somebody’s lawn,” he agreed. “Also, usually some alcohol.”

“Check that off your list. I saw the bottles in their hands.”

“Recognize anyone?”

“Ski masks,” I said.

“License plate?”

“Did you miss the part where I said we were in bed?”

“Then why am I here, Caldwell?” His voice had taken on a weary edge, and I realized he thought I was just taking advantage of the fact that we’d worked together a couple of times before. I missed Detective Prieto. He’d been surly and difficult, but I’d always known where he stood.

A lot of people thought it was my fault he was dead. They weren’t completely wrong about that. His murder had stirred up all kinds of trouble in Austin, and now, six months later, it was becoming popular to hate our witches. Churches were more vocal. None of us much dared to have a Facebook or Twitter account, which might be used to track us down; the digital threats made it almost useless, anyway. Considering that Austin had always been a model of tolerance and support, it felt like a last-stand situation to me.

“Come look at this,” I said to Rosen, and walked him over to the picture. He examined it as closely as I had, shook his head, and took some photos of his own. “The woman in the photo is named Portia. I don’t know her last name. She’s a foreseer witch, runs some kind of tarot-reading business.”

“Here in Austin?”

“I think so,” I said. “I’ve never been to her place. I met her at a conference.”

Rosen glanced up at me, and his gaze lingered. He had a long, rectangular face and a fringe of thick silver hair, with thick eyebrows to match. Kind of a silver fox, actually. “Witches have conferences? What do you do, exchange spells? Sell each other cauldrons?”

“Something like that,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood for mockery. “A woman is dead, Detective. So maybe you could stop judging and investigate?”

“We fully investigate everything that’s reported,” Rosen said. “Even when it’s a waste of time.”

“You think a dead witch is a waste of time?” That calm, quiet voice came from behind me. Andy had walked over to join us, probably drawn by the dark energy of our face-off. He did love a good fight. “Where I come from, the law had to pretend to do a little more work before they gave up, at least.”

“Where you’re from, the law was whatever the man with the fastest gun said it was. At least, that’s what the stories say.” Rosen studied Andy for a moment. “Can’t see it, personally. All this gunfighter bullshit.”

Thank God Andy wasn’t wearing a holster and a six-gun. I still saw the impulse travel through his body, the twitching of fingers on his right hand. And I saw the dark, uneven slice of the smile on his face. “Probably is bullshit,” he agreed. “I’d stick with that, Detective. But, hand to God, you’d best get to digging on Portia’s death, or I will.”

Rosen kept eyeballing him. “Is that a threat, Mr. Toland?”

“Not toward you, sir.”

So very polite, all this male aggression. “Do you need anything else?” I asked Rosen. I was regretting that I’d asked for him on this, but I honestly couldn’t name a single detective at APD who would have been any more receptive just now. “Because it’s been a hell of a night so far.”

“I’d expect it’s been worse for the woman in that picture,” he said. “I know my job, and I’ll do it. You two stay the hell out of everybody’s way. We don’t need amateurs cock-blocking us and blowing up the investigation.”

“You mean you’re going to do one?”

“If she’s really dead,” Rosen said. “Right now, I see a picture that might be a fake. Once I have an honest-to-God corpse, I’ll get to work. Other than that, maybe you ought to put a fence around your yard and get a big dog, unless you enjoy this kind of thing.”

“So you’re just going to file it and forget it,” I said. “Right?”

“Miss Caldwell, every hate crime gets reported to the FBI, and I’m going to flag it that way. So just quit punching me. It’s not a fight.”

He sounded tired, and in that moment I saw the strain in the tight wrinkles around his eyes. He’d probably been up for hours, and maybe had been just kicking off for the night when he’d gotten the call to come to us. Made sense he wasn’t thrilled to be here.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Bad night?”

Some of the tension left his body. “Yeah, bad enough. We had a teen girl missing over in Clarksville. Found her in a cardboard box behind a bar. Not a pretty sight. I’ve got a daughter her age.”

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know Rosen all that well on a personal level; he wore a wedding ring, but I knew nothing about his home life, if he had much of one at all. Some cops didn’t. On impulse, I held up a finger. “Wait here, okay? Be right back.” I dashed into the house and opened up a cardboard box sitting on the sofa in the living room. In it were small bottles with the printed label HOLLY’S BALM. It was magic, but benign and shelf-stable. Not my creation. Andy’s. And it was selling like hotcakes.

I grabbed a bottle from the carton and went back outside to Rosen. “Stress relief,” I said, holding it out to him. “No charge, and I promise, it won’t damn your immortal soul or anything. But it works.”

He looked at it with a frown, but opened the cap and sniffed. I watched the change come over him: pure, simple peace, flowing like air over his body. He let out a breath, capped the bottle, and said, “Well, holy shit. That’s good stuff.”

“It’s effective for up to six months once opened,” I said. “I figured someone in your position probably needs it more than most.”

He thanked me with another nod, more pleasant this time, and said his good-byes. They weren’t effusive, but I didn’t expect them to be. The patrol officers left soon after, and Andy and I wrestled the heavy, soot-encrusted cross out of the ground and dragged it around back. Our neighbor’s German shepherd took exception, but I wasn’t impressed. He hadn’t bothered to bark when the cross went up. “Rosen could be right about the fence and the dog,” Andy said. “Might be a reasonable step. Otherwise, I’m sleeping on the front porch with a shotgun. A little buckshot in their asses might move ’em on.”

“We’ll get a fence,” I said, and stripped off my blackened work gloves, which I dropped on top of the cross. “But you know what I want most?”

“What?” He opened the back door and pulled me inside the house and into his arms.

“I want you in my bed,” I said. “Not out on the porch.”

“You going to change into what you were wearing before?”

“After I wash off the smoke smell.”

“Join you in two shakes,” he said.

I looked back when I reached the top of the stairs, and saw that he had locked the door and was standing at the window staring out at the yard.

Detective Rosen had taken the dagger and the photo with him, as evidence. I didn’t know what Andy was looking at now. Maybe nothing.

“Andy?” I asked.

He dropped the curtain, turned, and said, “On my way.”

Whatever was bothering him, he seemed to have let it go. By the time he was in the shower with me, damp and soapy, neither one of us was wondering about the future very much.

It was a mistake. Obviously.

* * *

I went to work the next morning just as I normally did, albeit still smelling a little like smoke (you can never get that stuff off) and feeling gritty and raw on only about three hours of solid sleep during the entire night. Also feeling pleasantly buzzed by the very intense attention Andy had paid to my every need. So on balance, it evened out, at least until I finished my drive to work.

I turned the last corner, going on autopilot (as you do) and thinking about what I had waiting on my desk. I was an accountant—nothing too exciting or even too challenging, but it paid the bills and kept me in medical insurance, which even potions witches need. You can’t brew it all. I’ve tried.

I hit the brakes, because on the sidewalk in front of my building was a crowd. Okay, it wasn’t a mob, but it was at least thirty people, chanting and carrying homemade signs.

Signs that read GOD HATES WITCHES and FIRE THE WITCH.

I knew, with a sinking feeling, exactly who they were talking about.

My coworkers were having to run the gauntlet to get into the building, and were being handed neon-bright flyers (some were crumpled up on the ground, which made me happy). I was certain every flyer had my name, my picture, and some white-hot speculation on just how horrible and evil I was.

I realized that if I just sat in the car, they’d see me anyway, so I made the turn into the parking lot and pulled into a space at the back. Deep breaths.

I was preparing to face the lions, but then the phone rang. Saved by the bell, I thought. I was hoping it was Andy, but it wasn’t, and I wasn’t saved, either.

It was my boss, Heather. Heather said, “Hey, um, Holly? I think—maybe you should take some time off. Don’t come into the office, okay?”

“Really?” I felt shaky and cold, but I tried to sound clueless. “Why?”

“We have a little—situation here. HR and Public Relations are handling it, but everyone agrees that having you come in right now would really escalate things.” She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “I’m so sorry—you know I hate this, but there are . . . people out here. Saying bad things. And everybody’s very upset.”

“They don’t think it’s my fault, do they? Because I didn’t do anything!”

“I know that, and honestly, Holly, you’re great, but . . . let us try to sort this out. Just take a few days off. I’ll cover it. You’ll be paid for your time. Just . . . go home and relax, okay? I’ll call.”

She hung up without waiting for my answer. I didn’t suppose her directive was really optional anyway.

I put on my sunglasses, since I’d be driving into the sun, and circled the lot to get out. I considered running over a couple of protesters, but that would only prove their witches are evil point, so I didn’t. I gunned my engine, though. A little.

I got a whole mile before the enormity of it hit me. The feeling of having your skin peeled back and your insides prodded. The violation and betrayal of trust. It wasn’t logical, but somehow the feeling of being outed at work was horrifying. My private life had just been laid bare to people I had to deal with every day.

I pulled over to the side of the road and cried miserably for about ten minutes. Then I sucked it up, bought myself an ice cream sundae from a Mickey D’s in the same block, ate it in the car, and drove back home.

There were protesters in front of my house, too. Equal numbers to those at my office. Some had strollers and small kids with them, because screaming hateful insults is a family affair. They blocked my driveway when I tried to turn in, and one stupid woman actually put her toddler down on the concrete in front of my car’s bumper. She clearly hadn’t thought that one through. If I was as evil as she claimed, why wouldn’t I just keep going?

I hit the brakes.

Andy wasn’t home; I didn’t even need to check to know that, because if he had been, he’d have been outside with the shotgun, threatening to stand his ground. And that would only have made the situation that much more volatile.

I put the car in reverse and sped away, leaving a gaggle of protesters milling in the street behind me. If my neighbors hated me before . . .

After some thought, I drove to the police headquarters, where Ed Rosen had his office. If there was one place anti-witch protesters weren’t likely to gather, it was there. And sure enough, the coast was clear when I paid for my parking and went to sign in at the visitors desk. Once I had the right ID pinned to my jacket, I rode the elevator up with half a dozen others, savoring the relative quiet. Nobody gave me odd looks. It was like I was just . . . normal.

I had the feeling that was a sensation I would come to miss very soon.

Rosen was in his office and on his phone, frowning intently as he scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. When he glanced up and saw me through the clear glass wall, he frowned even harder. He got off the call fast, hung up, and yanked his door open to bark, “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t go to work,” I said. “Can’t go home. I’m being picketed. The only thing that’s missing is a bonfire and a stake.”

“Give it a day,” he said. “You were right about the woman. Her name is Portia Garrity, and she’s dead. Beaten in her tarot shop with—get this—her own crystal ball. Throat slit before she was dead. You want to explain to me what her superpower was?”

“She was a seer,” I said. “She saw the future.” He gave me a look of cartoon disbelief. I sighed. “Not her own future. Other people’s futures. She wouldn’t have seen this coming, in other words. Don’t look at me like that—I don’t make the rules, or I’d be able to turn you into a toad for looking at me like that.”

He shook his head, but didn’t pursue the point. “Apparently she wasn’t looking far enough ahead to put in a decent security camera system, either, so we have nothing showing who came in or out of the place during the day. Her last appointment on the calendar was at noon. After that, we’ve got no record of ins and outs until we broke into the shop after your little yard-related incident and found her dead on the floor. ME says she died sometime between two and four in the afternoon, most likely.”

“What about the knife?”

“Definitely administered the death stroke on the throat. As far as we can tell, the knife wasn’t hers, either. Looked old, probably some sort of antique bowie knife.”

Poor Portia. I tried not to think about her last moments, her confusion and horror, but it was all too real to me. As real as those people at my house screaming at my car. I’d been hated before, but as an individual. Those people out there hadn’t known me or cared to know me. To them I was a symbol and that was enough.

Had Portia been a symbol, too, to be beaten and slashed to death just for having the bad luck to exist? Or was it something else? Something worse?

It was also frustrating and frightening as hell to think that somewhere in that faceless, shouting crowd could lurk someone capable of doing this—to Portia, and maybe to me and Andy, too.

My skin tightened, but I knew I had to do it. I said, “I want to bring Portia back.”

Rosen must have suspected that was coming, because he wasn’t surprised. His eyes narrowed, and he was shaking his head before I’d even gotten the last of it out. “No,” he snapped. “Not happening. New department regs. No resurrections conducted with city participation or support. No payments to resurrection witches, either.”

“When did that happen?”

“After Prieto’s murder,” he said. “Guess you didn’t get the memo.”

As much as I resented it, I couldn’t blame them. Detective Prieto’s death had hit everyone hard, especially his fellow cops. “Fine,” I said. “All I need is a tissue sample from her body. You can do that much for me, Detective. I’m about to solve your murder for you, and you don’t have to tell anybody it ever happened or pay me a dime.”

I was afraid, really afraid, that he was going to blow me off completely. It was a risk, because he’d have to put himself and his job on the line for me to get that sample.

Prieto would have done this without hesitation. He’d have fussed about it and pretended to hate it, but he’d have considered solving Portia’s death way more important than his own career. That was part of why he’d been killed.

Rosen was very definitely not Prieto, and I read the very clear debate in his face before he finally, grudgingly nodded. “You’ll have the tissue sample tonight by courier to your house,” he said. “I don’t want to see your face again. Get the hell out and stay out. If you get a lead, you call me, but don’t come to this department again.”

As I walked away with what I’d wanted, the triumph was mostly wiped out by the steady, dispassionate looks of the other detectives in the office. Whether sitting at their desks, walking around, or getting coffee, they all looked at me with identically empty expressions and cold eyes.

Something told me that Rosen’s injunction barring me from this place might not be about his own moral objections to what I did; it might actually be for my own safety.

And that was genuinely disturbing.

* * *

I didn’t relish going home, but by the time I got there, the protests had diminished to only a handful of people wandering around with signs. They were keeping very strictly to the sidewalk, and not blocking my drive, so I opened the garage with the remote and parked as quickly as possible, then shut them out. I spotted my across-the-street neighbor standing on his porch, hands on hips, watching the scene with pinched-face annoyance.

There would be interesting dinner conversations all down the block tonight.

Andy met me at the door leading into the house and swept me with a comprehensive, full-body look. Not a sexy one. “You all right?” he asked, in that Texas drawl that let me know he’d been worrying. I nodded. “Guess you saw our new friends.”

“Saw them at the office first,” I said. “My boss said not to come in anymore. Andy, I think they’re going to fire me.” It was ridiculous to get teary-eyed over the loss of a midlevel office job, but it had been mine for a long time. My desk. My routines. And even if they hadn’t been friends per se, my coworkers. “Dammit. This is shit.”

He took me in his arms for a moment, and that felt better. A lot better. The tears were a brief little shower that passed in the warm glow of his body heat against mine.

“Thanks for not shooting the folks outside,” I said, and pulled back to study him. “You didn’t shoot anybody, right?”

“Nope,” he said. “Might’ve cleaned my shotgun a bit on the front porch, but the way I understand the laws around here, I wasn’t breaking any. Just cleaning my sporting equipment.”

Even in Texas, that might have been pushing it, but it had cleared off the less committed fanatics, and I kissed him on the lips for it. Hard. “No shooting,” I said. “Promise me.”

“Can’t promise, but I’ll try my best,” he said. “If you weren’t at work, where did you go?”

I sighed, kicked off my office shoes—no need for heels anymore, sadly—and flopped onto the sofa. Andy moved my legs, sat, and put my feet in his lap. Another thing I loved about him: freely given foot rubs. I might have moaned. “I went to see Ed Rosen,” I said. Then, “Ow. Yes, right there. Oh.”

“What did Austin’s Finest have to say?”

“They found Portia, all right. Just like in the picture. No leads so far.”

“You asked after resurrection?”

“Of course. The city’s not doing it anymore. New rules.”

“Well, it ain’t our rule.”

“Rosen’s going to send over a tissue sample,” I said. “Then we can get to work and make sure we know—”

I was cut off by the sound of our front doorbell ringing. Before I could even swing my legs away, Andy had slipped out from under and was at the front door, retrieving the shotgun that leaned right next to it. He pumped it, an unmistakable sound that would have carried right through the door, and said, “Who is it?”

“My name is Pete Lyons, sir, and I need to speak with you. Am I talking to Mr. Toland? Mr. Andrew Toland?”

Andy looked back at me as I came up behind him. “You know any Pete Lyons, Holly?” I shook my head. He raised his voice. “Ain’t a good time for callers. Maybe you can come by some other time.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” the man said. He had a deep, soothing baritone voice, an actor’s modulation and control. “I’m your city councilman, and I really need to speak with you, son. Please open the door.”

Andy’s eyebrows raised, and he mouthed, Son? at me in a scandalized sort of way that nearly reduced me to a giggle, but I managed merely to nod. He unlocked the door and opened it, pointing the shotgun one-handed and with pinpoint precision at the man who stood there.

He just about blocked the entire entrance. Lyons was not so much fat as solid. Tall—he towered over Andy by a good six or seven inches. He was built like a linebacker, all shoulders and hard bulk, but it was swathed in an expensive blue suit. He must have had his shirts custom-made, considering that neck size. Only in Texas would that suit have been paired with a bolo tie, complete with a big chunk of turquoise to wrangle the braided-leather cords. When he smiled, he revealed perfect veneer-white teeth in a tanned face that, despite its round cheeks, looked dignified and strong.

“I’d shake hands,” Lyons said, apparently completely unruffled at having double barrels pointed his way, “but yours seem busy. May I come in, Mr. Toland? Miss Caldwell?”

I put my hand on Andy’s shoulder, and he lowered the shotgun but didn’t take his stare off the man. “Come in, Mr. Lyons,” I said, and struggled to put myself in Southern Hospitality mode. I wasn’t feeling it. And I didn’t have my shoes on. “May I get you any iced tea?”

“I’d love some,” he said, and took a step inside.

That was when I noticed the boots.

They definitely did not match the suit. I supposed everybody was allowed an eccentricity, and these definitely were one. Some cowboy boots can play at dress-up, but these were a workingman’s boots, battered and scarred from years of hard use. They were brown, paled by the sun and water and wear.

They gave me the oddest feeling as they walked into my house like snakes slithering over the threshold. Andy, though, didn’t react, and I decided it was just my own nerves getting to me.

I caught sight of the die-hard protesters outside, lined up silently, waving their signs. One of them saw me looking, and pointed to the sign he was holding. It read THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A WITCH TO LIVE, with the Exodus citation below it.

Then he pointed at me, made a finger gun, and pulled the trigger.

I gave him the finger in silent reply, shut the door, and locked it. Then I turned back, with an artificial smile on my face, and went to the kitchen to pour three iced teas.

By the time I’d carried the glasses back to the coffee table and fetched the sugar and spoons, Andy had relaxed sufficiently to put the shotgun completely aside. Lyons didn’t seem to care one way or the other; he was sitting as if he were in his own home. “Miss Holly,” he said, and accepted the tea with a charming smile. The only thing the man lacked to make him look like an affluent oil baron was a thousand-dollar Stetson. “You’re too kind. It’s getting a mite warm out there.”

“Then you’d think those jackasses would go on home,” Andy said. “Hate to see ’em get some kind of stroke.”

“Now, now, those people are exercising their perfectly legal right to assemble and their right to free speech,” Lyons said. “Those people got convictions, and they’re not afraid to stand up for them. I respect that. I’d think you’d respect it, too.”

“In my time, men of conviction ran the risk of taking a beating, or a bullet,” Andy answered. “Ain’t got no room to respect liars, and fools who believe ’em. As far as I can tell, your world’s got no consequences for telling lies and making threats, and that’s toxic, mister. It lets cowards be bullies, and make no mistake, that’s what these folks are. Bullies. I’ve known heroes. They damn sure ain’t heroes.”

Lyons studied Andy for a moment, sipping his iced tea. Then he turned to me. “Is that how you feel about it?”

“I think someone stirred up a mob, maybe even using magic,” I said. “And put them to work to drive the witches out of Austin. And I think that someone is probably you, Mr. Lyons.”

The smile slipped, like a greased belt on an engine, and for a second I saw the cold, calculating man behind the good ol’ boy mask.

And I saw the power.

Witches aren’t superheroes; we don’t have Spidey sense or any ability to detect things beyond our particular specialties. But from time to time, some things are so powerful they make themselves known, regardless. Even a regular, normal person would feel it.

And Andy and I both knew, in that cold second, that what was sitting there sipping iced tea pretty as you please was not a human being at all. Not in any sense we could have named it.

I expected Andy to make a grab for the shotgun, but he was smarter than that. A shotgun wouldn’t do squat in this moment of revelation. Something like Pete Lyons sneered at mere human violence. We were small before him. Small and very fragile.

The smile came back. “Good iced tea, Miss Holly. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“What are you?” I asked.

“Your city councilman,” Lyons said, perfectly calmly. “I got elected earlier in the year on a platform of clearing out corruption, you might recall. Well, I found some. I’m getting rid of it, and making this city safe for decent folk.”

“I know what you are,” Andy said. His eyes were slitted and dark, and he was as tense as Lyons was relaxed. “Seen something like it before, back in the wars.”

“The Zombie Wars?” Lyons shook his head and laughed. “Old West romantic nonsense. Like you, Mr. Toland. Fables like that are the reason we don’t need witches and their filthy ways. Corpses killing innocents? Horrifying nonsense.”

I knew the story of the Zombie Wars, from the Old West time when Andy had originally lived and died; corrupted resurrection witches had tapped into power that nobody truly understood to launch that war, and the good witches of the time had sacrificed their lives to stop it. Andy had been the last, and he’d died ending it.

“Is it?” Andy asked. “Holly Anne, you ought to know, some bits of that war didn’t make it to the history books. Like where those original bad witches got all that power from. Was a man by the name of Hattan—Joshua Hattan. He was a demon-raiser.”

I felt a jolt, because there weren’t many witches who truly practiced anything like dark magic—magic that was in and of itself completely evil. But demon-raisers . . . they were the blackest of the black. That was a power that could not be used for good; it would taint any action, no matter how pure it seemed. It was the power of rot and ruin, decay and doom.

“I killed Joshua Hattan,” Andy said. “But it ain’t easy to dispel a demon once he’s in this world. Clings on like a stench to anything once owned by the witch that raised him up. You a collector of old things, Mr. Lyons?”

“Why, yes, I do happen to love those bygone days, Mr. Toland,” Lyons said. “Pity about the knife. I thought you’d pick it up. I suppose someone did, eventually.”

The knife. The old knife, driven through the photo, pinning it to the lawn.

“Forensic technicians,” I said. “Using rubber gloves. It’s toxic, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Well, that all depends on your definitions, I suppose. Let’s just say it opens a window that’s very hard to close. Never mind. I have other things.” He stroked the turquoise hunk in his bolo tie fastener—a massive piece of intense blue-green stone, shot through with thick black veins. It almost looked . . . organic.

But it was a distraction. “Ain’t the tie as worries me,” Andy said. “It’s you wearing a dead man’s boots.”

“You’re welcome to try to take them,” Lyons said. There was that smile again, warm and deceptive and deadly. “Can’t promise you’ll be the same afterward, though. Once you touch them, you’ll have to have them. I killed a man for them. Wore them walking away from his corpse, still warm from his feet. They change you. They give you everything you want.”

“They burn you black inside,” Andy responded. He didn’t seem afraid, or angry. He just studied Lyons now with what I could only think of as pity. “Ain’t nothing of you left in there, Mr. Lyons. So what’s your plan? Drive out the witches, kill what resists like you did Portia, then claim this city for your own?”

“City?” Lyons’s smile didn’t falter. “Thinking too small, son. Austin’s just some provincial little cow town. I’m taking the state. Then I’ll take the country. Wait until you see what’s coming, Andy. Just you wait.”

He drained the tea and put the glass down, then offered his hand for a shake. I stood up and retreated, well out of range. Lyons made the same gesture to Andy and got the same response. “Well, then,” he said. “Guess we all know what’s what. Thank you kindly for the tea.”

“Get out,” I said flatly.

He didn’t object, and he didn’t linger. He walked straight to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. He gestured toward the people on the sidewalk—a peculiar little circular gesture—and as if he’d flipped a switch, they all stopped staring at our house, began chatting amiably with one another, and headed toward their assorted vehicles.

“Tell you what,” he said, turning to face Andy and me. “If you two pack your things and leave town within twenty-four hours, I’ll be generous and let you live. If you don’t, I’m going to have to kill you both in a very bad way. Then I’ll bring you back to serve me in the next phase of my plans.” He tapped his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. “Good talk. See you soon, ma’am. Andy.”

I couldn’t stand that smile anymore. I kicked the door shut with a boom that must have shaken glass throughout the house, locked it, and leaned against it as my whole body started to tremble.

“Andy?” I gulped for air, trying to calm myself. “Andy, what are we going to do?”

And in that moment, when everything could have fallen apart, Andy said without a quaver, “We burn him down and salt his earth. Because that’s what needs doing.”

The ground seemed to steady under my feet. My shaking went away. I hugged him, and he hugged me back, and the magic between us—the magic that kept him here, held him in this time, in that reconstructed body—it felt strong as steel. It was love that powered Andy Toland. It was the exact polar opposite of what powered Pete Lyons.

Andy had a way of making things clear. Clear and simple. Not easy, never easy, but clear.

“How do we go about that, exactly?” I asked.

“We’re about to find out,” he said. He went to the window and peered through the curtains. The protesters had already vacated the street, and Pete Lyons was pulling away in his black Cadillac SUV, just as a courier van cruised to a halt in front of our mailbox. The uniformed driver got out and trotted up the walk with a small package and a clipboard.

Andy opened the door, signed, and accepted the package, and the driver left in under fifteen seconds, heading for his next delivery.

Inside the envelope was a small glass bottle. In the bottle was a scraping of skin.

Portia’s skin. Ed Rosen had come through.

“Let’s get to work,” Andy said.

* * *

Making the shell for a resurrection was a brutal process, requiring a ton of supplies, space, time, and energy. Like cloning, I would suppose, only vastly accelerated. The difference was that the body created was not alive; it was a simulacrum. Everything was in place, held in stasis for the moment that the spark of life entered it.

It also wasn’t something that I could do, or even help to do. So I left Andy in his private workshop, surrounded by supplies, his long steel table in the center, and went to take my mind off my worries.

I cleaned. Any spot that Pete Lyons had touched, I used a cleansing potion on it, brewed of rosemary and sage and witch hazel, activated with my own sweat and brewed with a spell. As I scrubbed, I saw the faint black stain of his presence become visible and then fade away.

The iced tea glass was a total loss, though. I handled it with rubber gloves, put it in a paper bag, smashed it to pieces, and then buried it deep in the backyard. It would kill the grass around it, almost certainly, but that couldn’t be helped. The sugar bowl suffered the same fate. I soaked the spoon in the potion and then buried that, too. The good, clean earth would absorb the darkness, eventually; earth magic was slow, but it was powerful.

When I was certain that everything was cleaned, and every window and door warded for protection, I started the resurrection potion. While that brewed, I made burritos. Hours had passed by the time I unwrapped a burrito and sat down in front of the TV to eat it.

I clicked on the local news—and was sorry I had.

“The controversy over the presence of practicing, for-profit witches in the Austin community continues to grow, with protests erupting at places of business all over the area. In Clarksville, a large crowd gathered this afternoon in front of this store, Magick Incorporated, known to supply local witches with materials used in their spells and rituals. As you can see, Jim, the police failed to contain the protest, which turned violent . . .” I watched, sickened, as the footage played of sign-wielding, screaming people throwing bricks at the windows of my favorite store, shattering the plate glass. They stormed in, pushing and stomping one another in their eagerness to destroy, and I caught a glimpse of Lois Herndon and her two employees being dragged into the street. “Two employees of the store were admitted to the hospital with non-life-threatening injuries. However, proprietor Lois Herndon suffered a massive head trauma and was pronounced dead at the scene.”

The news anchors didn’t even pause to shake their heads in mock sympathy. They just went on to the next story, which featured one of the protesters earnestly explaining why what they were doing was right and good, and of course they didn’t approve of the violence, but didn’t the Bible say . . . ?

The reporter seemed sympathetic.

I shut it off. I’d lost my appetite, too, though the burrito was delicious; I wrapped up the rest and put it in the fridge, along with the others. I couldn’t take anything to Andy, since he would be locked in the ritual for hours to come; any interruption, however well meant, would ruin the spell.

I went to bed cold and alone, and I dreamed of snakes slithering through the house, up onto my bed, and twining around my neck to choke me.

I woke to find Andy sitting next to me on the bed, his hand gentle on my forehead. Beyond him, the windows were still dark. The clock said it was four in the morning.

“She’s ready.”

* * *

I have to admit, this one was hard. Harder than most, because I knew Portia, at least slightly. She was an overweight, kindly lady who’d been vain about her dyed hair and her skin; she’d been obsessive about skin creams and wrinkle prevention, and given that she was lying naked, pale and still on the table, all her faults and flaws laid bare, it seemed a very sad memory to be holding. I tried to think about other things, like the way she laughed, shy and quick, as if afraid she might be caught at it.

This body didn’t hold the wounds of her death; it was her in the moments before the damage was done, as close as could be achieved.

Now for the hardest part.

Andy let me take the lead, because he’d done the tough work of making the shell, but he stayed close, in case of trouble. I opened Portia’s mouth, poured in the potion, whispered the words, and then sealed it with the kiss of life—infusing the potion with my own breath, my own will, my own energy. And through it, reaching through the other side to Portia.

I felt it when we connected; it was a physical shock, like grabbing hold of a hot wire. I felt myself spasm all over from it, and only long experience kept me there, my lips touching hers, as I felt her spirit traveling through the dark, writhing and clawing and fighting and screaming and then present, sinking into that silent form.

Her lips warmed beneath mine, and she took a breath like a sob, and I tasted death flooding out of her and into me, a taste like rancid meat and grave dirt. It was a natural part of the spell. That didn’t make it any better, and I swallowed convulsively, my eyes pressed shut, to make it pass faster.

By the time I’d managed to control myself, she was breathing normally, and her own eyes were fluttering open.

I helped her sit up. She was as clumsy as a newborn, and just as confused; the colors and sharp edges of the world sat hard on those resurrected.

I glanced at Andy, and he moved forward with a warm, soft blanket that he wrapped around her. She tried to help him, but her hands were still too weak to grip things firmly, so I took charge and held it for her, tucking it into a tasteful approximation of a toga.

“Portia,” I said then, as I took both of her cold hands in mine. I could feel her pulse. It was racing fast, very fast. I could also feel the magnetic pull of the dark inside both of us—a pull that would draw her inexorably back to it. There was no such thing as cheating death, in the end; there was only a way to fool it for a while. As a witch, she knew that as well as I did. “Portia, honey, do you know who I am?” Often they didn’t, even if I’d known them before. They had to be reminded, over and over. “It’s Holly Anne Caldwell.”

She licked her pale lips and said, “Resurrection witch.” Her dark eyes shifted focus, to Andy. “Mr. Toland.” That was a very good sign, I thought. I kept holding on. Physical contact helped, in the early stages. “Am I dead?”

That was a question they all came to, eventually. It usually happened right before the memories rushed in—the ones that death held back, at first, out of kindness.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m right sorry, Portia. Do you remember?”

That was the trigger. I felt it hit her through the link we shared. You can’t keep yourself truly separate in this kind of business; it’s messy and sweaty and intimate and personal.

I not only felt her remember it.

I felt it.

A crush of terror, blind and unreasoning terror. The smashing impact of a crystal ball on my upraised arm, shattering bone. Then again, on my shoulder. My ribs, breaking like glass. My skull cracking, then bursting.

And then, as life ebbed, the hot line of the cut across my throat. A sacrificial bloodletting, unnecessary except for ritual, because he’d already done enough damage to kill me. No, her. Portia.

She was staring at me with huge eyes, shadowed with horror. “I know,” she whispered. “What he did, what he did to me, I know—”

“Who?” I had to keep her focused. This was the hardest moment of all, harder even than the pain of her death. “Who was it, Portia?”

“You know,” she said. “It was the man in the boots.” She shuddered, and her eyes rolled up until the whites showed. “He isn’t a man.”

“No,” Andy agreed. “He’s a demon. Portia, you have the gift, and we need you to tell us. You know what we need to know.”

It was shocking, how suddenly her eyes rolled down to focus on his face again. “Yes.” The dark pupils expanded, consuming the brown around them until her irises were completely eclipsed. “There’s an abandoned train station next to the Amtrak station. That’s where he’ll be. But you have to get there fast.”

“Does he know we’ll be coming?”

“He made me tell him where you’d come to kill him,” she said. “Before I died. But I lied. I told him you’d kill him at your house.”

That made me cold, because she’d warned him we’d kill him in our house, and his response? Go to our house. Spit in the face of destiny.

That was just how confident our serpent was of his ultimate survival.

“Thank you,” I said, and I pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You’ve been very brave, Portia. You’re a hero.”

She smiled, just a little. “I just got murdered, that’s all. But you’ll get him for me, Holly.” The smile faded, and the darkness in her eyes grew to terrifying proportions. “Beware the dog.”

I couldn’t hold her, and I knew it. Some resurrections are like that—minutes, at best. I’d been able to manage more than a day only a handful of times—and one of them had been Andy Toland, resurrected from his Old West slumber, more than once.

But Andy, the most powerful resurrection witch who’d ever existed, had simply refused to leave that last time. And still he stayed, because of me.

Portia couldn’t. She said nothing more, but she silently begged me to let her go, and I did. It was as simple, in the end, as letting go of her hands. The bond severed itself in our minds at nearly the same moment, snapping like a thin silk thread, and her body sighed and sagged and Andy and I eased it back to the steel table. Empty once more, and still.

“I’ll see to her later,” Andy said. That, too, was something done by his brand of magic, not mine; he could unmake a dead body back to the tiny fragments of skin that had created the shell. In the hands of some witches that was a clinical, cold process, but not when Andy did it; he would see her put to rest gently and with respect. “We ain’t got much time now.”

“I’ll get the case,” I said. My potions case—a square leather bag with holders for vials, each one filled and labeled—contained all the secrets the two of us knew, and that was considerable. Was it enough? It was hard to tell.

First, though, we had to get out of the house.

Lyons had dispatched new emissaries—a different group, larger this time, simmering with ugly energy. They crowded the sidewalk and overflowed onto our lawn. Andy, without being asked, loaded the shotgun and extra shells, and strapped on his gunfighter’s rig, with two six-guns. He also put on his leather duster, and a cowboy hat he particularly liked.

Loaded for war.

I just settled for a good pair of sturdy lace-up boots, a leather jacket, and a bad attitude.

“Ready?” he asked me. I nodded, and hit the garage door opener. It rattled up, and I already had the car in gear, moving slowly but with purpose. I managed to get the garage closed again before anybody thought to rush the opening, at least, but that left us pinned, with the protesters swarming around us like angry wasps as we crept slowly down the slanted driveway.

They were climbing onto the windshield, the hood, the roof. Clawing at the doors and hammering on the glass. Something metal hit the windshield and left a mark.

“Go,” Andy said.

“I can’t!”

“Do it.”

We didn’t have much choice, but I felt sick as I nudged the accelerator. It was even odds someone would tumble under the tires, but somehow, miraculously, nobody did.

The car broke free.

As I accelerated, the crowd howled after us; those who’d crawled on lost their grip and tumbled off. One man raced faster than the others and threw a brick that bounced off the trunk and onto the back windshield, leaving an ugly crack.

But we were moving.

I let out a slow, trembling breath, and Andy squeezed my shoulder.

“Good job. Don’t get comfortable,” he said.

I didn’t.

* * *

The old train station was one of those places constantly under discussion around Austin—quaintly decrepit, decidedly in need of upkeep, and unused for fifty years, since the thunder of the road had killed the romance of the train. Amtrak now ran out of a smaller, more modern location, one with all the elegance of a cheap strip mall, as the older structure sat in limbo.

It had always struck me as full of darkness somehow. As we parked along the side, in its shadow, I felt it again, only stronger—that vile sensation of snakes and decay. I shuddered, zipped up my jacket, and joined my gunfighter lover on the station’s porch as he pulled off a stubborn piece of plywood to reveal an open, blackened rectangle of doorway.

The potions case dragged on my shoulder, but at least that left my hands free to use the flashlight. I shone a beam ahead, and it lit up a streak of dirty marble. We were entering at one end of the long main terminal hall, strewn with trash and the rat-chewed remains of the furniture that had once graced it. Some things had stood the test of time: the barred ticket cages, still flecked with gilding that looked surprisingly rich; the concrete arches, with an elegance that echoed a hundred years past.

But the whole place stank of rot and corruption, and I heard the hiss and rustle of disturbed animals. This place would house worse than rats and black widow spiders, though.

Portia was never wrong.

“One thing you ought to know about demons,” Andy said softly, as we moved forward. He had the shotgun in both hands, steady and controlled, and his attention stayed riveted on what was around him. “They ain’t all-powerful. A demon inhabiting a human body has to let it cool off, or it overheats and burns up. If he’s been using Pete Lyons as long as I think, he’ll have to let ol’ Pete rest a spell.”

“Here?” I probably sounded more appalled than I meant to, but . . . ugh.

“Here’s a good spot where he won’t be bothered. Pete’s married, got kids. Can’t trust anybody to leave him alone and unobserved at his home. Here, he’s safe.” Andy did a slow quarter turn, checking out a sound, but it must have been nothing to worry about, because he resumed forward motion. “He’ll have to rest without those boots on. Those are where the demon lives, when it ain’t in him.”

“Destroy the boots, destroy the demon.”

“May not be so easy,” he said. “But that’s the answer. Thing is . . .”

He broke off, because something echoed through the thick, fetid, empty space.

A growl. A thick, harsh one, ratcheting up in ferocity until it sounded like a chain saw howl.

“Thing is,” Andy said with unbelievable calm, “he won’t be unguarded.”

And that was when the devil dog opened its red eyes and stepped out of the shadows ten feet ahead of us.

It was massive—some kind of muscular attack dog breed, but bigger than anything I’d ever seen. Unnaturally bulked up. And those eyes were definitely not something that occurred in nature.

Andy didn’t need to mention that we were in trouble, and he didn’t have time to, either.

As the dog leaped for him, Andy dodged to his right, aimed, and fired both barrels as I dove left. I already had one potion out of my box, and now I dropped the flashlight, threw the potion vial to the gritty marble floor, and stomped on it. The glass shattered, and an explosion of light filled the room, white and clean. It lingered on every surface and angle, and gathered around the black dog as if drawn to him. He shook himself, but the swirls of light just thickened like fog around him.

Andy emptied two more shots into the dog, to no effect, and I opened the potions box, took out two more vials, and tossed them both to him.

He dropped the shotgun, grabbed both bottles out of the air, and smashed them together.

The smell of roses and incense filled the air, and something else, something as sharp as knives and as soft as feathers . . .

And the light around the dog rose up into a column, twisted, spread into wings, and as the dog snarled and snapped at it, it took on a breathtaking form. I could not exactly comprehend it, or see it directly, but the impression of wings and light and the stab of a golden spear burned through my closed eyelids.

The dog gave out a howl that pitched higher and higher into a scream, and rolled over and over on the floor, struggling to free itself.

It ripped loose of the light, and I saw its bloody eyes fix on me.

Beware the dog, Portia had said.

I had nothing else to fight it, but I wasn’t going down easy . . . not even to this hellhound. As Andy dove for the shotgun, I backed up to the wall, braced myself, and as the dog launched itself for my throat, I kicked.

The sole of my work boot met it right in the center of its broad, snarling face.

It yelped, landed awkwardly, and scraped claws on marble as it was pulled back into the blazing, sanctified light.

It went down hard, and lay there, pinned in place by what I could only think was . . . an angel. An avenging one.

Andy didn’t seem too impressed, even by a manifestation of heaven. He walked to me, opened the potions box, found what he was looking for, and poured it into the barrel of his shotgun.

Then he walked back to the pinned demon dog, put the barrel to its head, and fired.

The dog vanished in a cloud of greasy, filthy-smelling smoke. The angel faded with it, as if it couldn’t exist without its opposite; the smell of roses and incense lingered, though, after the terrible stench was gone. “Andy,” I said slowly, “we . . . we didn’t just kill an angel, did we?”

“Can’t kill either one of ’em,” he said. “But they’re both gone. That’s all that counts. Now come on. Lyons will be waking up.” We ran fast, dodging broken benches and fallen ceiling beams. The walls were black with mold, and roaches swarmed in dull hordes ahead of us.

We came to the end of the hall, and there, lying in the center of a ruined rotunda, lay Pete Lyons. He was still in his fine suit, flat on his back on a sleeping bag, and his battered cowboy boots were standing neatly together by his stocking feet.

He was already awake, and as we came to a stop, the circle of stone around him flared with hot red light. It looked poisonous, and Andy halted before he touched it. He extended the shotgun—and it hissed and melted where the metal touched the glow.

“You killed Fido,” Lyons said. He sounded different—hollow, somehow, and weak. Portia had been right; this was where he was vulnerable. But there wasn’t any way to reach him that I could see. The circle was an unbroken dome of crimson around him and the boots. “I’ll fucking eat your eyeballs for snacks.”

“You named it Fido?” Andy said. He tossed the melted shotgun aside, and I set the potions box down between us as he crouched to open it up. “Demons ain’t got much imagination. At least call the damn thing Spot.”

He combed rapidly through our bag of tricks, pulled out something, uncapped it, and poured. The silvery liquid sizzled and vanished on impact. No good.

Lyons was reaching for the boots. We had to break the circle.

Andy drew his pistol and fired. The bullets disintegrated on contact.

I tried another potion, then another.

And then I saw one tucked in way at the back—a mistake, really, jammed in with the high-powered attack potions.

Holly’s Balm: Andy’s calming brew, meant only for bringing peace to troubled souls.

I grabbed it, uncapped it, and poured the fluid on the surface of the red shield . . . and a white streak ran down where it touched the red. It had a glassy shine to it, and I yelled at Andy and pointed.

He fired at it, and the hardened shell . . . shattered. Popped like a red blood bubble, leaving spatter on the walls and on our faces, and it smelled foul. I wiped at it with my sleeve, but didn’t pause as I jumped the line.

Lyons had one boot in his hand and was fitting it on his toes. I almost reached for it, almost, but something stopped me—the memory of that feeling of snakes slithering on my skin. Fangs gleaming and ready to strike. If I touched it, it would own me, too.

Instead, I shifted my weight and kicked, hard. I broke Lyons’s fingers in the process, most likely; the boot flew off to smack against the far wall. I kicked its mate over to join it.

When Lyons tried to crawl after it, Andy stepped up, cocked his pistol, and put it to his head. “I wouldn’t,” he said. As always, he sounded way too calm. “Unless you want to see what’s on your mind, friend.”

Lyons froze, breathing hard, and I grabbed my potion box and ran to the boots.

They were moving. The pointed tips turned to face me, and worked into that battered leather was something living, a reptilian, vile face that stared back at me. Something that needed to go back to hell fast, because I knew it was capable of moving on its own now . . . capable of touching me.

And if it did . . .

I fumbled in my case and found what I was looking for; it felt hot to the touch, and I pulled the cap and threw it like a grenade, straight for the boots that were striding inexorably closer to me.

The potion ignited on contact with magic, and I reeled back from the fireball as it exploded . . . white-hot, a fury that held power of its own. The color changed, from white to a clear, fierce blue, and inside it the boots jittered, danced, kicked, and turned into snakes that writhed and bit each other in a frenzy of rage as the fire ate them slowly away into tubes of gray, inert ash.

“You bastard,” Lyons whispered. He was weeping, but it wasn’t in grief—it was bone-deep anger. “You fucking bitch. I don’t need the boots. I don’t need anyone else to take you down. I’ll burn every witch in this town, every one in this country. I’ll build a mountain out of your bones and piss on it—you hear me? I’ll end you!”

Andy took in a deep breath, then let it out. “That turquoise you got there on your bolo? It ain’t demon-touched. Only things you had to give you power were your knife, your boots, and your hate. Guess I’ll leave you the hate. You go out and try to make your case to people without those other things. We’ll see who wins in a fair fight.”

“You’d better kill me, witch!”

Andy holstered his gun. “Mister, you ain’t worth the powder it’d take.”

But he wasn’t above kicking Lyons right in the face when the man tried to lunge for him, and left him moaning in the fetal position on the floor with his broken teeth scattered around him.

“Fine job,” he said to me, and I smiled at him as I shouldered the weight of the potions box.

“You might just have to teach me to shoot for next time,” I said.

“Now, let me keep some advantage,” he said. “What with you not needing me for much else but—”

I kissed him. “But that?” I wiped some of the rotten red liquid from his cheek. “Never mind. I know what you mean. You’ve got demon crap on you. Maybe later.”

Lyons was still trying to make threats, but lying there in his blood and picking up teeth, bubbling tears and snot, he just looked like an angry, beaten old man.

Andy and I walked out into the clean, clear Austin evening, and drove home.

* * *

The protesters were gone. They’d left behind a mess of broken signs and rocks and glass, and spray-painted DIE, WITCH in red on our house, but none of them had lingered. I opened the garage door, and we parked the car. Andy took the potions case inside, and I went out to survey the damage.

The neighbor from across the street was on his porch. As I started to pick up some of the trash, he went inside, then came out again, walked over, and silently handed me a pair of work gloves and a trash bag.

He helped me clear it up. Not a word spoken until the very end, when he said, “I’ll be over tomorrow to help you clear that paint off the door. Can’t have that kind of thing in the neighborhood. Leaves a bad impression.” As if it were just gang graffiti.

I gave him a nod, fighting back tears. It was the briskest kindness I’d ever received, and the most meaningful. “Thanks,” I said.

“Well, we are neighbors,” he said, and shrugged. “You take care.”

The next day, Pete Lyons was on TV, red-faced and sporting spectacular bruising and missing teeth as he spouted off an insane rant about witches. He gained a few new fringe supporters; he lost the vast majority of those he’d assembled, who woke up feeling considerably less motivated.

At the next election, he was voted out by a massive margin, in a conservative district, in favor of a guy who advocated marijuana farming and open marriage.

And Austin PD? Started using witches again for investigations. Not right away, of course. But Ed Rosen was the one who got it rolling. He also bought a dealership for Holly’s Balm and became our top seller in the Austin area.

Oh, and for my birthday, Andy bought me a pair of cowboy boots.

Snakeskin.

It’s a good thing I love him.

STOLEN GOODS

BY

SHANNON K. BUTCHER

1

Simone Solange was reputed to be one of the world’s best thieves, but after watching her walk into the café, Marcus Brighton guessed that men would simply give her whatever she wanted without her needing to steal a thing.

She was utterly stunning. Her midnight black hair fell in glossy waves around the face of a temptress, lending a bit of softness to her strong jawline. Her long, lean body was encased in black leather clinging to curves powerful enough to cause even Marcus’s disciplined mind to sputter to a halt for a split second. Her stride was slow, almost sinuous. Every move she made screamed of confidence. As she saw him staring at her, her full lips, painted a shiny red, lifted in a knowing smile.

She came up to his table, spun a chair around, and lifted one shapely leg to straddle it. Deep red boots tooled with painstaking detail hugged her calves. The familiar flash of leather caught his attention for a moment as she settled into place across from him in a move that had him thinking about lap dances.

Suddenly the table seemed much smaller, putting her well within reach. He could smell the oncoming warmth of spring clinging to her riding leathers, along with a hint of wildflowers and even wilder woman.

“What did you bring me?” she asked in a voice made for sin. Low, soft, with just enough rasp to make a man imagine what she would sound like in the throes of passion.

“Just like that?” he said. “No introductions. No small talk.”

Her slender shoulder lifted in a negligent shrug. “Life’s too short for small talk. You’re Marcus. You want something from me. And I want something from you. Show me.”

Her words had his mind reeling for a moment before it caught back up with reality.

He opened the leather satchel he carried and pulled from it a deep red purse the exact same shade as her boots. Like the boots, the leather was tooled with intricate symbols that had taken weeks to get just right. The handbag was small enough not to get in the way but big enough to do the job she required of it.

Marcus slid it over the tabletop.

Simone hesitated for just a moment before reaching out to touch the leather’s surface. She drew the tip of one finger over the markings, following their winding path around the edge. “You’re right. It matches my boots perfectly.”

“I promised it would.”

She gave a dismissive snort. “Men promise me impossible things all the time.”

He just bet they did. Even now he was holding his breath, hoping that the work would live up to his hype. “Open it.”

She pulled the flap open and looked inside. A disappointed pout gathered her mouth, making it no less lovely. “It’s empty.”

“Is it?”

She looked up at him then, her smoky green gaze hitting him hard. He felt the breath leave his lungs and was momentarily unable to remember how to inhale.

Simone Solange was definitely as dangerous as her reputation professed.

After a second, she reached into the purse. “All that’s in here is this paper.”

“Good. Then it’s working as it should.”

“What is this?”

“A contract. History has given me reason to heighten my security against theft. The purse won’t work for anyone but its rightful owner. Which is me. You want the purse, I have to offer it to you of my own free will.”

“Tease.” She read the brief contract he’d left for her to find. When she was done, she hit him with that killer stare again, but this time he was ready for it.

Too bad being ready didn’t make a difference. He tried to play it cool, but her beauty was more than a simple distraction. It was a potent poison that flooded his brain with chemicals that rendered him stupid.

“This contract is only good for three minutes,” she said.

“Long enough for you to see that what I offer is real and to make up your mind. Unless you’re slow.”

Her gaze narrowed in warning at his jab. “Give me a pen.”

Marcus pulled one from his pocket. She took it, her warm fingertips grazing his skin. He couldn’t tell if the touch was accidental or not, but he was already hoping she’d do it again.

She scrawled her name at the bottom of the contract, leaving behind a signature as intriguing and curvy as the woman herself. “There. Now what?”

“The purse is now yours for three minutes. Look inside again.”

He’d made it a point not to touch the purse in any way. He didn’t want her to think he was cheating—not after the lengths he’d gone to to make sure she got what she wanted. He needed her cooperation too badly to make any mistakes.

Simone lifted the flap once more and looked inside. Her lips parted in surprise, and a small hint of excitement quivered along her mouth. She pulled out a throwing knife, heedless of the other customers nearby.

It glinted in the café’s lighting, its keen edge a testament of skill and patience. She briefly touched the angular maker’s mark at the base of the hilt, and if he wasn’t seeing things, her finger trembled slightly.

“I thought the blacksmith was dead. How did you get these?” she asked.

“You don’t need to know that. All you need to do is make up your mind. The purse and the knives in exchange for your help retrieving an object. The purse is exactly as you requested—only the owner can see the hidden contents.”

“It’s a neat trick.”

It was a hell of a lot more than that—it was weeks spent bent over his workbench, pouring everything he had into the project. “So, do we have a deal?”

“What are the terms?” she asked.

“Terms?”

“What am I stealing? From whom? How long do I have?”

“A few days at most.” The portal the Fractogasts were building was almost done. After that they would expand and open more building sites, and this chance would be lost.

“What’s the object?”

“A hammer.”

She lifted an inky black brow in question. “Why not just go to Sears?”

“It’s a blacksmith’s hammer. And it’s special.”

She absently stroked the surface of the leather purse. “How special?”

“Special enough that I included a set of throwing knives made by the hand of a craftsman who’s now dead.” Uttering those words without any hint of feeling cost Marcus a good chunk of effort.

“No hammer is that special.”

“It is when it’s in the hands of the Fractogasts.”

Her skin paled noticeably, making her smoky eyes look larger. “You know about them?”

“Unfortunately. They’ve stolen loved ones from me. As they have from you.”

“Don’t pretend like you know me, or that we should bond because of what those monsters did. I don’t bond. Ever.”

“Good to know. I’m not looking for a new BFF. Only a partner for a single job.”

“No, you’re looking for an idiot. If you’d told me that I’d be sneaking into ’Gast territory, I’d never have come.”

“You didn’t ask. You were too busy making demands on your price.”

“Which you exceeded because you knew you were asking me to risk my life. This isn’t like stealing a diamond necklace. They’ll see me.”

“Not in those boots.”

She went still and every trace of teasing feminine power trickled out of her, leaving behind a hard-core, pissed-off badass. “What do you know about my boots?”

“Everything.”

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the throwing knife. Her muscles coiled under black leather as she prepared to strike. “How? Who told you?”

If he didn’t appease her soon, he was going to end up with a knife in his throat. “No one told me anything. They didn’t have to. I was the one who made them—the one from whom you stole them.”

2

This was not a business meeting. It was an ambush.

Simone should have known better than to think that any offer this good could be true.

She looked around the café, searching for signs of which patrons might be Brighton’s backup. While several people looked at her, they were all wearing the same expressions of desire, apathy, or jealousy that she was used to seeing. Not one person here had that cold stare of a man willing to kill.

“I came alone,” said Brighton, apparently sensing her unease. “I’m not here to turn you in to the authorities. I don’t even want the boots back. All I want is your help.”

Again, too good to be true.

She didn’t bother snatching the purse away. The contract was good for only a few more seconds. After that she could no longer benefit from the purse’s inherent magic. It would be just another pretty handbag.

Apparently her sneaking into his mobile workshop and stealing the boots had taught him to be more careful with his wares. She only wished she’d known his name then so she could have seen this ambush coming.

The knife she’d taken out felt good in her hand. Its balance was perfect, the grip fitting her palm as if it had been made for her alone. The cross guard was small, but big enough that she could use the blade as a dagger if she wanted to get that close. Or simply had the misfortune of ending up that way.

There were two more knives just like it inside the purse—two perfect knives that would be lost to her once those three minutes were up.

She reached for the purse, but Brighton was faster. He slapped one big hand down on the leather and gave her a warning look. “Not unless you help me.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?” she asked.

“You don’t. At least not yet. But we both know you’re perfectly capable of killing me if you choose. And people are starting to stare.”

Simone palmed the knife and slid it into her sleeve. A quick glance around the room proved that Brighton was right. People were shifting nervously at the sight of the weapon, and at least two of them were on their phones. Maybe talking to police.

Time to go.

“Good luck, Brighton,” she offered as she headed for the door.

Marcus was right on her heels. “What about our deal?”

“What deal? You offered me a job. I’m turning it down.” She shoved her way out through the door. The cool night air sucked some of the heat of anger from her cheeks.

She made a beeline for her motorcycle, which was parked nearby.

“If you’re not going to help me, then give me back the boots,” he ordered.

She laughed as she mounted her bike. “Sure. I’ll get right on that.”

Brighton grabbed her arm. Until this moment, she’d pegged him for a suit. Normal, boring, law-abiding. Soft.

His hand on her arm was anything but. Strength radiated through his touch, shackling her biceps. She could break his hold, but not without getting off her bike and exerting some serious effort. And drawing a crowd.

“Please,” he said, his voice ringing with the kind of desperation she’d heard only from men who knew they were going to die. “I need your help.”

Simone looked up at him and instantly wished she hadn’t. There was pain in his eyes. Loss. Grief. She could have been looking into a mirror.

Her resolve started to crack, and damn if Marcus Brighton wasn’t smart enough to see it instantly.

“I have a place we can go and talk. Just give me a few minutes of your time. Hear me out. If you still think I’m out to get you, then I’ll find someone else. Somehow.”

The way he said it made her wonder if he even had a plan B. Maybe she was his only shot.

There’d been a time when that would have made her feel good, but now all she felt was sad. If she was his best shot, then he was in a world of hurt.

“Fine. I’ll listen. But I’m not making any promises.”

He nodded, breathing a sigh of relief. “My place is right around the corner. Big black RV. Follow me?”

She did, riding her bike along in his wake as he jogged away. The streets emptied out fast as they moved away from the university campus. He’d parked behind a neighboring office building that was closed for the night. Security lights gleamed off a massive RV that sat like a monolith in the vacant lot.

Simone paused as she rolled up beside the vehicle. Nothing was stopping her from riding away. She had one perfect knife in her possession. It wasn’t a bad haul for as little effort as she’d exerted. Sure, it was stealing, but any pangs of guilt she’d had about that act had been burned out of her years ago. Life changed. So had she.

“You coming in?” he asked from the doorway.

What harm could there be in listening to what he had to say? She really couldn’t think of anything he could have in there that would scare her, or any sticky situation she couldn’t handle.

Unless he had a Fractogast chained up inside, which seemed beyond unlikely.

“Why the hell not?” She sighed as she climbed in.

The place was littered with tools. Rolls of stiff leather stuck out from a wooden box. Bottles of dye were stacked neatly on a wall shelf, secured with bands of elastic. A workbench took up the space along one wall, and on it was a strip of leather held in place with wire loops. The length of the belt was nearly complete, making her fingertips tingle with the need to touch.

An array of metal stamps sat in a neat row. The ends of them had raised symbols, but those shapes bore little resemblance to the finished image worked into the leather. She could only guess what the belt would do, but whatever magic Brighton used to craft his wares was potent stuff.

He started moving toolboxes and bins of metal bits to make room on a built-in bench. “Sorry for the mess. I never have company.” He waved to the now free seat.

“I’ll stand, thanks.” By the door, with her fingers on the handle.

He tossed the purse he’d made to her specifications on the spot he’d cleared, and then stared at her. The light in here wasn’t as bright as it had been in the café, but even so, the intimacy of the small space heightened her awareness of him. One subtle sign that he was going to hurt her, and she’d tumble out through the door.

So far, all he’d done was stand there, watching her.

He had intense cobalt blue eyes, like sunlit glass. His hair was buzz cut, more a dark shadow than anything. Standing this close to him in such a small space, she realized just how big he really was. Not a hulking brute, but certainly more intimidating than he’d seemed in the brightly lit café with plenty of people around as witnesses.

Her hand slipped into her sleeve, letting the warm metal of the throwing knife ease her apprehension.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, once again surprising her that he’d read her so easily.

“Of course you’re not. At least not twice,” she warned.

“There’s no need for bravado. We’re on the same side.”

“You don’t know what side I’m on.”

“The Fractogasts killed your husband. They killed my parents. I’d say that puts us on the same side.”

How had he known about that? It wasn’t exactly something she talked about openly.

As she scoured her mind for some logical way that he would know her misfortune, she asked, “And which side is that?”

“The one that wants them all to burn in hell.”

He made a good point. “And they have this hammer of yours.”

“Yes.”

“And you think I can steal it back?”

“I know you can. I made the boots, remember? I know what they allow you to do, which means you’re perfect for the job. Unless, of course, you haven’t yet figured out all the boots’ tricks.”

That gave her pause. She knew she could walk around in them unseen. Also that they worked on the Fractogasts, unlike several other artifacts she’d come across. But what if that wasn’t the extent of their power? What if she wasn’t using them to their fullest potential? “Tell me what they can do and I’ll tell you if I already know or not.”

He smiled at her, and that smile carved out a cute little dimple in one cheek. “I don’t think so. Any lever I have to gain your cooperation, I’m going to use. You want to know what they do, you go after the hammer with me.”

“With you?” She laughed. “Even if I do agree to go on this job—which I haven’t—there’s no way I’m bringing along baggage they can see. I work alone.”

“Ah, so you haven’t figured out that power yet.”

She stared, unwilling to let him know that she had no clue what he was talking about.

“I’ll show you how it works if you tell me why you don’t want to help me.”

“Isn’t it obvious? I really don’t want to die. If the Fractogasts have your hammer, then it’s gone.”

“I made a promise to get it back—one I intend to see fulfilled.”

“What’s so important about it? What value can it possibly have that’s worth you trading your life for? Or mine?”

“They’re using it to build a portal. Once that’s done, they’ll bring more of their own kind here. Right now there are only a few of them, and you’ve seen the devastation they’ve caused. What do you think will happen if untold numbers of their kind can simply walk through a portal and end up in our own backyard?”

Since the night she’d escaped, Simone had made it a point to spend as little time thinking about those creatures as possible. It had been an act of willpower to keep her mind away from the evil puzzle they created. Like a tongue going to a newly chipped tooth, her thoughts always strayed back to them and why they might be here, over and over again until she was filled with helpless anger and debilitating fear.

“You can’t tell me that you don’t want to stop that from happening,” said Brighton.

“It falls firmly into the column of things labeled Not My Problem.”

“And that’s good enough for you?” he asked. “They kill someone you love and you don’t give a damn?”

A flurry of rage took over her limbs, giving them a burst of power. Before she even recognized what she was doing, she had Brighton pinned against a tiny strip of wall near the doorway to the bathroom. Her forearm was against his throat, and the single, perfect knife a fraction of an inch away from his eye.

“They took everything from me. Everything. When they were done with me, there wasn’t enough left of me to fight.”

He wasn’t scared of the knife. He didn’t try to push her away. He didn’t even blink. “You seem fine now.”

“Yeah? Well, looks can be deceiving.”

His chest expanded with a breath, making her acutely aware of just how much of her was pressed against him. Hard, masculine contours flattened her breasts. Her thigh brushed his, and the heat of him sank right through her riding leathers.

That small part of him was hers now, connecting them in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “If there’s anyone left on this planet that you care about, then you owe it to them to shut down that portal before it’s finished.”

He was right. She’d been running away for a long time now. At first it had been all she could do, but now that she’d healed—mostly—there were no more excuses.

She shoved away from him, breathing deeply to depressurize some of the intense vibes this man threw off. “Tell me about the job.”

She could almost hear his sigh of relief. Whether it was due to her moving the knife or because of her interest in the job, she couldn’t tell.

“There’s an abandoned warehouse a couple hours’ drive from here. They’re using it to hide their work, but I . . . felt what they were doing.”

“Felt?” She peeked over her shoulder.

He waved a dismissive hand and shook his head. “It’s this thing I can do—sensing the innate powers within an object. And the portal they’re building is powerful enough that when I got within a few miles, I knew what they were doing, and that the hammer was aiding their efforts.”

“So why not just get a bunch of explosives and blow the place to hell?”

“One, because gathering explosives would draw too much attention. Two, even if I had them, there’s no way I’d be able to get in and plant them without being caught. And three, chances are there are innocent people in there, being used.”

Simone knew all too well about that part. “You sure?”

“Something’s fueling their construction efforts. I really doubt it’s the local power and light company.”

“So you want me to go in and plant explosives?”

“No. I want you to steal the hammer. It’s one of the few tools around with enough juice to build something that powerful. If we take it away, then they have to stop building.”

“Until they find the next tool.”

“Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. You stealing the hammer was the best plan I could come up with that wasn’t going to get anyone killed.”

“With a plan like that, you need me for more than just stealing.”

He frowned at her. “You don’t like my plan? Fine. Give me a better one.”

“For starters, we could let someone else deal with it.”

“Who? The police?”

“Of course not. The Fractogasts would plow through them.”

“Then who?”

“I hear rumors about a group of people arming up to deal with the threat.”

“The militia?”

“Yeah. You’ve heard of them, too?”

“I am one of them. And we’re not a group of superheroes who are going to swoop in and save the day. We’re just people. Like you. We’re all trying to do what we can to fight back the invasion.”

“Well, hell. For a while there, I actually had some hope that someone was in charge.”

“Someone is in charge, but we’re stretched thin. It’s one of the reasons I reached out to you for help. If we’re going to have any chance of winning, we need more people fighting—people who know the score.”

“I don’t fight for free.”

“Why do you think I spent the last several weeks working my ass off eighteen hours a day to make that purse to your ridiculously demanding standards?”

The way he said it made her sound like a greedy harpy instead of a savvy businesswoman.

Luckily, the pang of guilt didn’t last long. “You’ll thank me for my high standards if I agree to do the job.”

“My offer is on the table. Do you want it or not?”

She wanted that purse and the knives. And if she was completely honest with herself, she wanted to kill every Fractogast she could get her hands on. Slowly.

The only downside was the risk. Not that she was risking much. The life she’d carved out for herself since Jeremy’s death hadn’t exactly been a happy, shiny place.

“Fine,” she told him. “I’ll help you. It’s obvious you’ll get yourself killed if I don’t tag along.”

Sarcasm honed a sharp edge on his tone. “I’m sure my death would cost you many sleepless nights.”

“I would mourn the loss of that purse. And the knives.”

“We can’t have that now, can we?”

“Nope.”

“So, you’re in?”

“All the way. But if you die doing something stupid, the purse is mine. Deal?” She held out her hand to shake on it.

Brighton wrapped his fingers around hers and held on tight. She felt warm, work-roughened patches of skin graze across nerve endings she’d thought long dead. A tiny little spark of feminine interest zinged along her palm and into her wrist, shocking the hell out of her.

How long had it been since she’d felt that? Too many years to remember, and every one of them had sucked.

Feeling like a dirty cheater, she jerked her hand away and wiped it on her thigh.

“I don’t have cooties,” he said, half grinning at her actions.

“You drive. I’ll follow behind on my bike.”

Well out of reach of Marcus Brighton and those magic hands.

* * *

Marcus spent the two-hour drive gathering his wits. Something he’d done had spooked Simone, and the last thing he needed was for her to be distracted on this job. Even if she did come up with some ingenious plan, they were still risking their lives.

He parked on top of a hill overlooking the industrial park where the Fractogasts worked. His windshield wipers cut through the fine coating of drizzle a passing rainstorm had left behind.

There were few lights below—only a red pool here and there dotting the darkness. Just enough for human eyes to function.

The passenger door of his RV opened and Simone glided into the seat next to his.

He made it a point not to look at her and distract himself with her beauty. Even so, the wild, spring-storm scent of her wrapped around him, demanding attention.

“This is the place?” she asked.

“Yes. I can feel the portal they’re building.”

“Handy trick.”

He spared her a quick glance. Her dark hair was pulled back and bound at the nape of her neck with a barrette. Power shimmered from the copper clip, but the trace was too small for him to figure out what kind of magic the hair adornment held.

“The device is nearly complete.”

“How nearly?” she asked.

“No way for me to be sure. Days? Hours?”

“Give me a minute to scout the place out. When I’ve found a way in, I’ll come back for you.”

She already had the door open before he grabbed her arm. Hot leather and firm, feminine muscles teased his hand, forcing him to fight the urge to let his fingers wander. He’d spent thousands of hours touching leather, enjoying its texture and suppleness, but never before had any surface intrigued him half as much as what lay beneath her biker’s jacket.

Simone stared at his hand as if she couldn’t believe he’d dared to touch her.

It took him a second to steady his voice so it wouldn’t come out as a prepubescent squeak. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Your willingness to restrain an armed woman seems to support the theory.”

He lifted his hand, but settled it on the back of her seat—close enough to stop her if she tried to bolt again. “You weren’t going to scout. You were going in there alone.”

A smile twinkled in her smoky green eyes and curled at the edge of her mouth. “Guess you’re not an idiot.”

“We go in together. You’ll never be able to pick out the hammer from all the other tools. And what if there’s something else in there that’s important? Something powerful? Can you sense innate magic within an object?”

“My skills tend to lean more toward sensing monetary value.”

“Money means nothing to the Fractogasts. Only power.”

She glanced away, and he saw her slender throat move as if choking back unwanted emotion. “We should go if we’re going to do this. We need the cover of darkness. The human shells don’t have great eyesight, and slipping by them is our only chance at getting in undetected. If you’re going in with me, I’ll need to know how to hide you.”

He held out his hand, palm up. “Take my hand. When you activate the invisibility power, I’ll vanish, just like your clothes and everything else attached to you.”

“That’s it? That’s the big trick?”

Marcus shrugged. “Touch first, activate second. If you weren’t such a loner, you would have already figured it out by now. Not my fault.”

“Are you any good with weapons?”

“Just one. It’s in the back.”

“Then get it. If things go bad, you’re going to need it. While you do, I’m going to set up our safety net.”

“Safety net?”

She waved away his question. “It’s a need-to-know kind of thing, and you don’t.”

“Just hurry up. We’re running out of time.”

3

Simone couldn’t help but think of her dead husband as she scouted for the best entrance. The building below was crawling with human shells—those drained of life. They shambled about, shuffling on failing limbs. Zombie puppets controlled by the Fractogasts.

Jeremy had been a shell just like them, and no matter how many times she told herself what she’d done would have been what he wanted, she still felt sick every time she remembered the feel of her blade slicing into the body of the man she’d loved.

A deep sense of loss flowed over her, leaving behind a fresh layer of anger. No matter how much time passed since that night, her rage never faded. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but her brain must have been defective, because losing Jeremy hadn’t gotten any easier to bear. All she’d managed to do was hide it better. Shove it down. Pretend she’d gotten over it.

It was the only way to survive in her desolate new world, where everything that mattered had been ripped from her. Who wanted to hire a thief who was always just one heartbeat away from snapping under the strain of her grief?

Then again, maybe those who were desperate, stupid, or slimy enough to hire a professional thief didn’t give a shit how unstable she was so long as she got the job done.

Which she did. Every time. And this one would be no different.

After she finished setting up their safety net, she hurried back to the RV on top of the hill and lifted her binoculars.

Red lights flickered below before steadying out in a constant glow once more.

Simone knew what that flicker meant. Some poor humans down there were being squeezed dry of every spark of magic coursing through them. As they died, the stream of power faltered, causing the lights to flicker.

Either that, or the ’Gasts were firing up something that sucked a lot of juice.

“Time to go,” she told Brighton as she lowered her binoculars.

He loped down the RV stairs, carrying the red purse and balancing a wood-chopping ax on one wide shoulder. The wedge gleamed under the moonlight, its edge honed to razor sharpness.

“Really?” she asked. “An ax?”

He slipped the haft through a leather loop at his belt. “Don’t scoff. It works.”

“Fine. Whatever. Just keep that thing swinging away from me. I’m not looking for a haircut. Or worse.”

He tossed the red purse toward her. She caught it and held it close. “You’re not worried I’ll just turn and run?”

“Not if you want the magic to keep working. It’s a gift. For the night.”

“Or if you die,” she reminded him.

His dimple appeared as a flicker of a smile came and went. “Sure, though I’m not planning on letting that happen tonight. Sorry.”

“How do you know I won’t just kill you?”

“Guess I don’t. You ready?”

His trust made her pause. After a too-long moment, she nodded, pulled her attention away from Brighton, and put it where it belonged—on the job. “We’ll approach from the south. There are fewer shells on that side. Plus there’s a light out, which will help.”

“Why should we care about the light? You have magic boots that make us invisible.”

“Yes, but they don’t do squat for hiding footprints. The pavement around the building is wet. Each step we take will cause water to wick up as we step away, making our prints shiny and visible for a few seconds.”

“Right. Guess I didn’t think about that.”

She transferred a few necessary items she carried to the purse and looped the leather strap across her chest. “Which is why you hired me—to think of the things a law-abiding citizen doesn’t.”

“Southern approach it is. What about when we get inside?”

“All you have to do is follow my orders. Do what I say, when I say, and we’ll get out alive.”

“You get off on being bossy, don’t you?”

She gave him a level stare—the one she knew could render most men mute. “No. When I get off, I’m a lot louder than this.”

His jaw went slack, but to his credit, he recovered almost immediately. He gave himself a little shake and repositioned the ax. “You enjoyed that far too much.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I love my work.”

And before he could call her out for her lie, she broke into a jog.

Simone skirted the edge of some trees and brush that hadn’t been mowed down for development. The air had cooled from the rain, leaving her fingers chilled. Her riding gloves were back with her bike, so she shoved her hands in her pockets while she waited for Brighton to catch up.

His footsteps were quieter than she would have expected for a man his size. The damp leaves and twigs covering the ground kept the crunch factor down, but his sheer weight should have caused sticks to snap underfoot.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the gleam of his ax as he moved in beside her. “I see three shells,” he said.

She pointed toward a stack of rotting wooden pallets. “There’s a fourth. The way he’s leaning makes me think one of his legs might be out of commission.”

“No shoe, either.”

“I don’t see any weapons.”

Brighton pulled in a deep breath, and the expansion of his chest made his jacket graze hers for a second. She didn’t know what it was about this man, but he demanded way too much of her attention.

“They don’t really need weapons,” he said. “Besides, fingers and toes are often the first parts to give out after the eyes. Most of the older shells couldn’t hold a weapon if they wanted.”

Simone had almost become like them, shuffling around, mindlessly doing as they were ordered to do. Intellectually, she knew that the shells moving around down there were not people. Whatever spirit or soul that had made them who they were had disappeared long ago. The thing that was left behind was hollow and empty.

But even though they weren’t human anymore, they still looked human. Their hearts still pounded. Their lungs still breathed. Whatever the ’Gasts did to them kept their bodies alive as well as any medical equipment around. At least for a while.

As she watched, the shell near the pallets took a step and fell over. For several awful seconds, it struggled to regain its footing, but its body was so degraded that every movement was awkward and weak.

A low, furious rumble emanated from Brighton’s chest. “I’m going to put them out of their misery.”

She shifted her position, bodily blocking his path. “No, you’re not. You go killing shells and the ’Gasts will know we’re here.”

“I can’t just leave them like that. I owe them the peace of death.”

“They’re already dead,” she told him. “Nothing left but meat and bones.” At least that’s what she kept telling herself.

“No one knows that for sure.”

“I do.”

She felt him go still. “How?”

That single, tiny word fell on her with the weight of the world. She wasn’t about to spill her guts to a man she’d just met, but at the same time, ignoring his question would only make him more curious. Instead, she gave him the vaguest answer she could. “I’ve gotten close enough to look them in the eyes. I’m sure.”

“Well, I’m not. And until I am, I’m going to end the suffering of every shell I find.”

“You do that, and we’re dead. No hammer, no purse, no living to fight another day. And worse yet, our bodies will be right down there with those shells, wandering around, bumping into things until some unsuspecting human comes along for us to kill.”

He stared down at her for a long time, his mouth tight with anger, his body vibrating with restraint. “I hate it that you’re right.”

“So do I.” Her hand settled on his arm in an uncharacteristic show of sympathy. She knew better than to let herself feel anything for him—even something as simple as concern. Chances were he wouldn’t survive long if he kept messing around with the ’Gasts.

And a man like Brighton had way too much determination to do the smart thing. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be here now, about to walk into a life-or-death kind of situation.

He covered her hand with his, his skin deliciously warm.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Brighton wove his fingers through hers, chasing away the chill that lingered along her skin. “Let’s do this.”

Simone activated her boots, willing them to layer a web of invisibility over both her and Brighton. Covering his bulk took a bit of effort, but she figured out how the ability worked pretty fast. It was similar to masking whatever she held in her hands, but on a grander scale.

A shimmering wave of warmth rippled across her skin—a familiar feeling. As she waited for the echo to die down, she swore she felt something else between the ripples. It was subtle, but it left the scent of sun-warmed skin and melting chocolate in its wake, and had the distinct feeling of acknowledgment to it. Almost like a homecoming.

If she didn’t know better, she would have thought that the boots recognized their maker.

Before the odd feeling could settle in and take root, it was gone, leaving her with a job to do and not much time left to do it.

“Stay quiet,” she told him. “Move slowly and follow my lead.”

Simone set a path toward the edge of the parking lot on the southern side of the building. None of the shells saw their approach, even though they left behind a path of trampled grass and weeds.

As they got closer, the scent of rotting flesh rose up like an invisible wall, making her falter in her tracks.

Brighton let out a quiet noise somewhere between gagging and a cough as his fingers tightened around hers.

She did the best she could to hold her breath as they slipped between the shells milling about.

Not only was the door on this side of the building cracked open, but it was broken. The handle had been snapped off—likely by one of the clumsy shells. No need for the set of lock picks tucked in the purse.

She waited until the shells were turned away, searching for signs of people approaching, then slipped through the door. It eased shut behind them.

Red lights gave the hallway a bloody glow. Smears of mud and worse dirtied the tile floor, proving that shells moved this way often. There were a few trails leading into the row of offices along this side of the building, but most of the filth went straight toward a pair of double doors about twenty yards away.

The doors swung inward, and what used to be a woman shuffled through, her sluggish steps sliding through the muck.

Her black hair had once been in a ponytail, but was now hanging askew with bits of leaves clinging to the elastic band. Several buttons on her blouse were undone, and the tail on one side was hanging over her slim skirt. Beneath torn panty hose, dirt stained her knees. There was a gash on one ankle that had scabbed over, but was swollen and red with infection.

Simone simply stared, all logical thought slipping from her head. In the space of a split second, she told herself half a dozen different stories about who this woman had been. A schoolteacher who’d devoted her life to children, an executive who’d taken the wrong turn while attending a business meeting out of town, a soccer mom on her way to pick up a kid from a friend’s house . . .

Simone wondered who this woman had left behind, and if those people who’d loved her even knew what had happened to her.

The shell kept coming. A few more seconds and she would run right into Simone and Brighton. And yet she stood frozen, unable to get past the loss the woman represented.

Brighton’s body quivered with anxiety. He gave Simone’s hand a squeeze as if to tell her to pull it together. She’d ordered him to follow her lead and yet here she was, not leading.

Still her mind reeled at the loss. How many lives had been shattered because of what the ’Gasts had stolen?

One second Simone was standing there, too overwhelmed to move. The next she was pressed against a cool door with Brighton’s bulk pinning her in place. He didn’t let go of her hand, which caused their arms to twist awkwardly between them. Her breasts flattened against his forearm. The blunt, wide edge of the ax dug into her skin. His thigh was wedged between hers, their clothes doing little to shield her from his heat.

Within the shimmering web that cloaked them from sight, she could make out his bulging jawline. Her nose was only inches from a thick vein in his neck, pulsing with his heartbeat. She could smell his skin and the hint of soap clinging to him.

For one insane moment, she wanted to snuggle right in and bury her face in the crook of his shoulder. Just like she used to do with Jeremy.

The thought trickled through her like ice water, making her body go stiff. She suffered through the stab of betrayal, accepting it as her due punishment.

“Stay still,” he whispered right into her ear, so close she knew the sound wouldn’t travel.

Simone forced her body to relax, forced her breathing to even out so that her frantic panting wouldn’t be heard by the passing shell.

The exterior door at the end of the hall opened and shut as the shell left.

Brighton’s heavy body eased away from hers, and he looked down at her with fury riding his features. In the red lighting, his eyes glinted with a fiery blaze. “What the hell was that? You nearly got us killed.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“It better not. I’m not dying in here tonight. Got it?”

Simone nodded and gave him a shove with her arm—just enough to get him to back off, taking his intriguing, distracting scent with him. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Before he could argue, she tugged on his hand, dragging him along with her.

She pushed the swinging doors open just enough to peer through a narrow crack. A low hum and the scent of ozone struck her like a slap in the face.

She’d been surrounded by that once before. Trapped, with no way to escape what was being done to her. That smell had shoved its way into her nose, stronger than the stench of rotting shells ever could be. She’d choked on it, knowing that she would die doing so—that the smell would stop only when she was dead.

Her body began to shake, and her breath became a constricted, terrified pant.

Brighton pulled her back from the swinging doors. His voice was harsh, conflicting with his grip on her chin. He tipped her face up so she had no choice but to look at him.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he told her. “You clearly can’t handle this.”

Simone dug deep, using her pride to fuel her recovery. She forced her lungs to relax, taking slow, even breaths. After a couple, she felt stronger, steadier. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not even close.”

“Go back if you want, but I’m finishing the job.”

His mouth went hard, but he gave a tight nod. “One more freak-out and I’m tossing you over my shoulder and carrying you out.”

She ignored his threat and slipped a knife from the purse. The reassuring weight of the weapon comforted her and gave her the confidence she needed to push the swinging door open again.

This time, she let the assault of sounds and smells hit her and pass right by. She focused on what she saw, forcing herself to think only of tactics. All that mattered was finding that hammer and getting the hell out. Simple. Easy.

The room on the other side of the doors was large, with high ceilings and exposed metal beams. Red light pooled in the center of the space, leaving the edges cloaked in murky darkness. A small number of shells wandered around a raised platform. Some worked to assemble scaffolding while others ran thick lengths of translucent rope along the floor.

In the center of the platform was an oddly shaped ring about twenty feet high. It was held upright by steel beams and heavy wires. A single section of the ring was missing, as if it had yet to be put in place.

On either side of the platform were two more of those oddly misshapen rings about seven feet in diameter. They stood upright, suspended by thick cables. Clear wires bristled from the outside edge of the ring, feeding into a heavy translucent rope that snaked up onto the platform. That rope pulsed with light at about the same pace as her heartbeat.

Inside each ring was a human, held in place by wide metal bands around the wrists, ankles, and waist. With every pulse of light in that rope, both bodies jerked as if hit by an electrical current.

Simone knew what that felt like—having her will ripped from her, bit by bit. Thoughts were stripped away. Pieces of her life taken. Second by second, the machine stole all the parts of her that made her who she was.

She had no idea what the Fractogasts wanted with those stolen pieces, but the second the machine she was in broke down, everything had snapped back into place, restoring her.

Not everyone was so lucky. Those who stayed strapped inside the machine until the process was complete came out as the empty shells surrounding this building, doing the bidding of the ’Gasts.

The same thing was going to happen to the two people only a few feet away.

The woman on the left was older, pudgy, with thin white hair. Her head was slumped forward, giving Simone no way to accurately judge her age. From the awkward angle of her neck, there was a good chance she wasn’t even conscious anymore—a small blessing.

The guy on the right was just a kid—maybe nineteen at most. His lean frame was tense as he fought against his bonds. His mouth was open as if he were trying to scream, but no sound came out—only a furious hiss of air, as if he’d lost his voice.

Simone knew there was no chance in hell of him breaking free, no matter how strong he was. Judging by the steady pulses of light flowing through the tubes coming from his ring, he hadn’t been there long. There was still a lot of fight left in him. For now.

The horror of what she witnessed sank into her, making her sick. These people were dying, and there wasn’t a thing she could do to help them. Not unless she wanted to be right where they were.

Again.

Escaping once had been enough of a miracle for her to know it wouldn’t happen a second time. And she’d rather slit her own throat than let those creatures use her again.

Brighton shifted his weight toward the Fractogasts’ victims. His body quivered with rage, and she knew that she had to stop him before he did something stupid.

With a rough pull on his hand, she got his attention, forcing him to look at her. Her voice was quiet, but hard. “No. They’ll kill you.”

Anger twisted his lips. Hot color flushed across his cheeks, and he seemed to grow bigger in his fury. “We have to save them.”

Her hold on his hand tightened. “All we can do is get ourselves killed.”

He looked over his shoulder, back at the victims. The light pulsing out from the woman’s ring was fading visibly as they stood there.

Once again Brighton surged forward, so she slipped in front of him and put her knife to his chest. “No. I won’t let you end up in one of those machines.”

Before he could respond, swinging doors on the far side of the room opened, and two Fractogasts lumbered in. They headed straight for the raised platform without even glancing at their victims, as if those humans were of no more importance than the walls or the floor.

They were easily nine feet tall. Spindly, with thin, reflective skin that showed off the structure of bones and tendons beneath. Their arms and legs were long, even for their frames, giving them a dangerous reach and leverage.

As she watched, one of them grabbed a piece of metal on a table six feet away without even having to lean. He fit that piece into the opening of the ring, completing it. The second one picked up two paddles connected to the translucent ropes and pressed them to either side of that metal plate until it began to glow, and white-hot sparks radiated from the structure.

As the light from the sparks hit the Fractogasts’ bodies, rainbows bounced off the tiny prisms that coated their skin. The effect was beautiful. Almost hypnotic.

The spiky, glasslike hair on their narrow heads picked up the light and transmitted it to the ends until they glowed with an array of colors. Like fiber-optic filaments, each strand captured a tiny glow at the tip, giving them each a mane of rainbows.

The deadliest creatures were often the most beautiful, and that certainly held true in this case.

As the heat built, a Fractogast lifted his arm and slammed a tool on the glowing metal. More sparks sprayed out, and beside her, Brighton shifted in agitation.

“That’s the hammer,” he whispered.

Simone looked closer and sure enough, in the fist of the ’Gast was a sturdy hammer. It looked more like a child’s toy in such a giant grip, but with each pounding strike, the metal section being added to the ring bent easily under the hammer’s force.

After only a few seconds, the hammering stopped, leaving the final section of the ring in place.

One of the shells picked up an armful of discarded, tangled wire and headed their way.

Simone pushed Brighton back, out of the way of the swinging doors. As soon as the shell passed, she darted forward, slipping through the door on the backswing.

They both made it through, but the disruption of the motion of the door was obvious.

One of the ’Gasts tilted its head to the side. Its tiny black eyes focused in their direction.

Simone held her breath, willing the gaze of the ’Gast to pass over them. Brighton’s thumb stroked across the back of her hand, silently offering her reassurance.

She knew they couldn’t see her, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t figure out she was there.

She checked the ground at their feet, searching for anything that might give away their presence. The dirt on the floor was too scuffed and smeared for her to make out any one distinct set of prints. If she and Brighton veered off into the dusty, unused areas, that might give them away, but as long as they stayed in the well-traveled areas, they would be fine.

She hoped.

The ’Gast let out a string of clicks, and several shells stopped what they were doing and shambled toward where she and Brighton stood.

Simone knew that if they stayed put, eventually one of the shells would bump into them by sheer chance.

Time to move.

She tugged on Brighton’s hand, pulling him forward, closer to the ’Gasts. By the time the shells made it to where she and Brighton had been standing, they were ten feet closer to the hammer. And to the Fractogasts.

She waited until the ’Gasts were convinced that all was well and went back to work before she rose up to whisper to Brighton. She was close enough that her lips grazed his skin as she spoke. “Boom in ten.”

He mouthed the question. Boom?

She put a single finger to her mouth, nodding.

Tension radiated from his body. Whether he was nervous because of the impending boom, or if it had more to do with him fighting his urge to save those poor souls, she couldn’t be sure. And she wasn’t about to speak more than absolutely necessary to find out.

The pair of small detonators in her purse were easy to reach, even one-handed. She flipped open the safety cover on the leftmost one and pushed the button.

A second later, a deep, rumbling boom shook the ground beneath her boots.

Brighton’s arm came around her, his grip strong enough to drive the air from her lungs. He spun her body, putting his own between her and the blast.

Immediately, shells began hurrying toward the noise on the northern side of the building. Both ’Gasts abandoned their post, shoving their human puppets aside as they funneled out of the room.

Within seconds the space was empty.

“What was that?” asked Brighton.

“Safety net. We’ll only have a few seconds before they figure out it was just a distraction.”

“You get the hammer. I’ll get the people.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but it was too late. He’d already let go and was at the side of the young man, unbuckling the metal bands holding him in place.

Simone released the effort it took to remain invisible so Brighton would be able to find her. She sprinted for the platform and grabbed the handle of the red-hot hammer.

He lifted the kid down and held him on his feet while he regained his balance. He tried to talk, but no sound came out.

“Just hang on,” said Brighton. “We’ll be out of here in a second.”

Brighton thrust the kid at Simone, forcing her to set the hammer down by her foot so she could hold the kid up without burning him.

He clung to her, and the desperation in his grip was one she remembered all too well.

Brighton stopped in the process of freeing the older woman. “She’s gone,” he said.

“Not for long. They’ll start her heart and lungs back up again as soon as they see she’s dead.”

The Fractogasts would reanimate her body, just like they had all the rest.

“Can you stand?” she asked the kid.

He nodded and braced his feet apart.

“Did you know that woman?” she asked.

He shook his head.

Good. She didn’t want the kid to have any more scars than he already would.

She pulled out a knife and went to the woman’s side. With one well-aimed thrust, the blade slid in between her ribs, severing a major artery near her heart.

The ’Gasts might have been able to keep bodies moving, but they couldn’t repair that kind of damage. The old woman would never be used again.

“Time to go,” said Brighton, grabbing the hammer from the floor.

She wasn’t sure if she was going to be able to cloak all three of them, but she was sure as hell going to try.

She took the kid’s hand just as another giant Fractogast lumbered out from a connecting hallway.

Reflexes honed from years of self-preservation had her hiding her presence instantly. The kid shimmered out of sight right along with her.

Brighton, however, was still visible.

The ’Gast saw him. Its beady eyes flared in recognition and it headed straight for him.

4

Marcus stepped in front of Simone and the boy as they vanished from sight. “Run,” he whispered. “I’ll hold them off.”

He briefly considered giving her the hammer, but it would have been visible, giving away her location. Assuming she was even still within arm’s reach.

Marcus hoped like hell she wasn’t.

As the Fractogast closed the distance, he pulled his ax from the loop on his belt, slid the hammer in its place, and rolled his wide shoulders. In an instant, all of the training his father had forced on him came roaring back.

A fluid strength filled his limbs, leaving no room for fear. He fixed his grip on the haft and swung like his life depended on it. Which was fitting.

The creature’s long arms gave it an unfair advantage. Marcus misjudged the ’Gast’s reach and took a heavy blow to the side of his head for the mistake. He was so stunned by the hit, he didn’t realize that he’d been airborne until he landed. Hard.

His shoulder rammed into the device that had just drained that old lady. The whole ring rocked on its cables, detaching luminous filaments in a shower of sparks.

His body crumpled to the ground, unable to move. His ears rang, and he wasn’t even sure which way was up.

Pain finally caught up with the trauma he’d just endured, and the left side of his body began to throb as if it were still being pounded.

Marcus took the pain as proof he was still alive, and pushed himself up, using his ax as a cane.

The ’Gast was almost within reach again. Another slug like the last one, and Marcus wasn’t sure he’d be able to get back up.

A quick glance around the room showed nowhere to hide. The darkened corners and the space behind a giant shipping container would only cage him and serve as a surface the ’Gast could bounce him off.

Running was an option, but for all he knew, he’d head right into another Fractogast and have two to deal with. Or a pile of shells. Those weren’t the kind of odds he’d survive.

So he did the only thing he could think to do. He backed up onto the raised platform to where the newly finished ring stood.

Energy emanated from the thing, blasting him with a wave of mental heat as he approached. The machine was powerful. Now that he was close, he could sense that not only had it been completed; it had also been activated.

This was the thing he’d felt before—the machine that would bring more Fractogasts to kill innocents. And it was revving up fast, getting ready to do its job.

A device this intricate and powerful had to be precious to the Fractogasts. He was counting on it.

Blood dripped along his temple. The steps leading up to the device seemed almost impossibly steep. He managed to climb them only by using the ax to steady himself.

He didn’t dare turn his back on the ’Gast. Inching backward took time, but as he got closer to the machine, the creature began to hesitate.

Rapid clicks poured from the thing’s mouth, so fast it almost sounded like the beating of insect wings. Marcus had no clue what it was saying, but the closer he got to the machine, the faster the clicks came. The steady stream of sound got louder, and the ’Gast came to a halt, holding up its elongated hands.

Marcus froze in place, trying to figure out his next move. Dizziness and pain made thinking almost impossible. As it was, they were at an awkward stalemate, and every second he held it was one more that Simone and the kid had a chance to get away. He didn’t want to do anything to mess that up. At least they could warn someone of what was about to happen.

Seconds ticked by. Two more Fractogasts entered the room. He couldn’t tell if they were the same two Simone had drawn away with her safety net or not. For all he knew, there were dozens of the things lurking in this building.

Between waves of dizziness, one thing became clear to Marcus: He wasn’t going to make it out of this alive. There were too many of them. He wasn’t fast enough to outrun those long legs. And even if he was, there were likely going to be a dozen zombie shells between here and his RV. Assuming Simone hadn’t already driven away in it.

The hammer was here. Once he died, they’d take it from his belt and use it to build another one of these machines. Unless he found a way to destroy the hammer.

There was no source of heat intense enough to melt the metal or even singe the handle. The most powerful thing in the room was the oddly shaped ring.

The area he guessed to be the control panel was completely alien. No buttons or levers. The only reason he suspected that the flat area activated the device was that he sensed a trickle of purpose coming from it that seemed to fit the bill.

Maybe if he slammed the hammer down on it hard enough, there’d be some kind of energy feedback that would shatter both objects. Or blow this place up, along with the Fractogasts who could use the hammer to build another portal.

It was a long shot, but it was the best option he could think of.

Marcus lifted the hammer to take out the panel when one of the ’Gasts screeched. He’d never heard the noise before, and it made him look up for a split second—just long enough to see two human shells dragging Simone’s unconscious body in by her boots.

Her dark hair fanned out behind her, sweeping through the muck on the tile. She was too pale, and a deep, bloody gash bisected her hairline.

The closest Fractogast picked her up as if she weighed no more than a doll. It held her limp body in one arm and wrapped its spindly fingers around her neck.

Its gaze swung back around, the message clear: If Marcus destroyed the device, the Fractogast would do the same to Simone.

5

Simone woke in the arms of the creature that had killed her husband. Maybe it wasn’t the specific one who’d drained Jeremy of his life, but a detail like that hardly mattered right now.

The Fractogast’s skin was rough, like heavy-duty sandpaper. There was no give, no cushion to its limbs, and they were cool to the touch. It gave off the faint smell of burning hair, and each small shift of its body made a low crunching sound that set her teeth on edge.

She’d never been this close to one before, and now that she was, she was reevaluating her initial opinion that they were beautiful creatures.

In a distant part of her brain that was just now waking up, she realized that she wasn’t afraid. Pissed off? Yes. Disgusted? Big yes. But there was no fear.

What could this creature do to her that was any worse than taking from her the man she loved, and killing their unborn child? Everything she loved had been stolen. All the thing could do now was kill her, and that was a pale comparison to the hell she’d already endured.

Her head throbbed. She felt the wet trickle of blood cooling along her hairline. A slow pitch and roll of nausea sloshed in her gut.

She tried to sit up to ease the queasiness, but the ’Gast’s grip on her throat kept her immobile.

“Simone?” came a voice she recognized.

Brighton. He was across the room on the platform, that hammer raised in threat.

“Hold on. I’ll get us out of here.” Confidence rang in his tone, making her laugh at the ridiculousness of his claim.

“Yeah, you get right on that. I’ll just be here, hanging out.”

The ’Gast holding her screeched, and gave her a hard shake. Her head nearly split apart with the sound.

“You leave her the fuck alone,” warned Brighton. “You hurt her and your precious machine will be in pieces before you can stop me.”

The machine—the one that was going to let more of these murderous Fractogasts crawl through. It was glowing and whirring like it had been fired up.

More people would die. More husbands. More children.

Like hell.

A fiery wave of anger burst in her chest, clearing away the fog that had left her passive and compliant. No way was she going to let these things win. Sure, maybe the idea of dying didn’t scare her that much, but what about that kid they’d saved? What about his mother? His father? They were afraid of death. They all had something to lose.

There were a lot of happy families out there, and Simone wasn’t going to let even one more of them get ripped apart by these creatures the way hers had.

She shifted in the Fractogast’s grip, moving just enough to reach the knife in her purse. She didn’t know if these things had a soft spot, but she was going to find out.

The ’Gast’s beady eyes were fixed on Brighton, like he was the only threat in the room. From somewhere across the space, she heard another of those grating screams, but the warning came too late.

She plunged her knife up, aiming for the ’Gast’s throat, right under its chin. The blade barely penetrated the skin, but it was enough of a shock to make the thing drop her like a hot rock.

Simone hit the ground hard. She tried to roll away, but the blow to the head had left her dizzy and clumsy. Instead of getting out of the range of those giant feet, she managed to make it only about two yards before she rolled right into the body of the old woman.

The shadow of the Fractogast’s foot passed over her. Brighton shouted her name in frantic warning.

Simone slipped another knife from her boot and leveled it just as the platter-sized foot came crashing down.

The blade skewered its foot, shoving the butt of the knife into her chest.

One of her ribs cracked. The ’Gast reeled back and toppled over. It landed in a pile of discarded metal. Something snapped as loud as a tree branch breaking.

When she looked, she saw that the ’Gast was still. Dead or disabled. She really didn’t care so long as it wasn’t coming after her anymore.

Two more of the things surged forward.

Brighton yelled, “Stop!” at them, raising his hammer a few more inches in warning.

They stopped.

“You’re going to run, Simone. The boots will make you fast. Hide you. I’ll be right behind you.”

“I’m not leaving you behind again.”

“Just go. Now.”

She’d already left him once to get the kid out. She could have kept running then, but something in her—something she had thought long dead—forced her to turn around. There was still some life left in her. Some goodness. Some fight.

A whole lot of fight.

She pushed herself to her feet, swaying. Bloody hair fell into her eyes. She didn’t bother to wipe it away. Every bit of strength she had left she needed to kill these fuckers.

Safety net number two was still in the purse. “Boom incoming.”

“What are you doing?” asked Brighton. “Get out of here.”

“I’m improvising. Be ready to run.”

“I’m not leaving until this machine is disabled.”

“We’ll disable it after we leave.”

“Explosives?” he asked. “It might not work.”

“Explosives always work.” If she used enough of them.

“It took a magic hammer to build this thing. It may also take magic to destroy it.”

“I’m all out of magical C-4. Sorry. We’ll have to take our chances.”

“Not this time, Simone. I’m sorry.” With that apology hanging in the air, he slammed the hammer down onto the machine.

Both Fractogasts screeched in fury and lunged forward.

Simone ran toward Brighton as she flung one of her throwing knives at the ’Gast in front. The blade bounced off its skin, but its attention shifted to her.

Brighton swung the hammer again, only this time, the machine’s pitch rose as if it were speeding up. Flickering lights inside the oddly shaped ring began to glow brighter, turning the charging ’Gasts’ skin to rainbows.

The effect sent a wave of dizziness spinning in her skull. She grabbed the edge of the raised platform where Brighton stood to steady herself. He was nearly within her reach now, but he was also in reach of the ’Gasts.

“Behind you!” she yelled.

Brighton ducked just as a massive backswing came whooshing in. The blow knocked the hammer from his hand and sent it flying her way.

Simone jumped, going higher than she ever could have without the magical aid of the boots. The hammer hit her in the chest, causing a flicker of pain to light up her brain.

Something in there was definitely broken.

When she landed, the pain made her stumble, but she held on to the hot hammer.

The machine’s whir became a scream. The spinning lights spun faster.

Brighton rolled off the platform and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her to her feet and out of the way of the next swinging blow.

One ’Gast was at the machine, its big hands moving in a desperate attempt to fix the damage Brighton had done. The other was coming for them, too fast for them to get away.

They backed up to where the dead Fractogast was sprawled.

Brighton ripped the knives from its skin and handed them to her as they kept backing away. “Give me the hammer.”

“You’re not going back up there.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

They squeezed between the wall and a metal shipping container. The ’Gast tried to reach them, but even its long arms weren’t long enough.

Simone stepped forward and stabbed at its fingers, just to give it pause.

“I won’t let you kill yourself,” she told him.

“Better me than someone else.”

“I’ve got a brick of C-4 in my pouch, all rigged and ready to blow. Let that do the work while we run like hell.”

“If I was sure it would work, I’d be all for it.”

The ’Gast tried again to reach them, this time from the opposite side. Brighton pulled her out of the way just in time to stop it from grabbing her by the hair.

He pulled the C-4 from her purse. She was too busy fending off the ’Gast to stop him, and hadn’t bothered to use the purse’s magic to hide it from him.

Within seconds, he had the hammer attached to the brick of explosives with a discarded length of wire. “I wish I had some duct tape, but this will have to do.”

He tucked the slim detonator in her pocket. “When I yell, blow it up.”

“Oh, no. I’m not blowing you up. You want to do this? We go together.”

She grabbed his hand and willed the boots to cloak them from sight. Then she pushed him out from behind the shipping container.

The ’Gast trying to cop a feel had its head turned away to extend its reach. It didn’t see that they were gone until they were halfway across the room.

Neither of them said anything as they hurried toward the screaming machine. Not that their voices would have been heard over that horrible sound.

The ’Gast by the control panel was still working as fast as its lumbering arms could go, but there was a change in its demeanor. There was no longer the quivering haste of fear. Instead, the thing was moving with excitement.

Brighton hadn’t destroyed the machine after all.

Through the oddly shaped ring and flickering lights, she could see movement. The space in the middle of the ring was darker than the rest of the room. The bloody glow of red lights didn’t touch it. Even so, she could see a mass of elongated arms and legs, sparkling with tiny crystals.

There were Fractogasts waiting on the other side of wherever that machine led. Lots of them.

As they approached, one spindly arm reached through the center of the ring.

A clicking cheer rose up, louder than the machine’s screeching parts.

The doorway was open.

Brighton ducked under that hand and jammed the brick of C-4 beneath the bottom edge of the ring. The hammer was wedged against the flickering metal, ready to become magical shrapnel.

A long leg appeared from the ring, and then a foot landed only inches from Brighton.

Simone tugged on his hand. If they didn’t go now, one of those things was going to step on them.

They jumped off the platform, coming face-to-gut with the ’Gast that had been trying to reach them.

She wasn’t going to be able to avoid a collision. There wasn’t time.

Brighton grabbed her around the middle and spun her away from the thing’s path. She had no idea how he’d managed the feat, but his grip shifted her broken rib and set her chest on fire.

A startled gasp escaped her chest.

The ’Gast halted in midstride and turned around. The few shells that had finally shambled back after being distracted by the blast headed their way.

“Run,” whispered Brighton.

She was still wheezing, unsure if she could make her body obey her commands. Not that it mattered much. Brighton was hauling her out with one arm, practically lifting her off the ground.

Her chest burned. Each labored breath was like a knife stabbing her side.

He looked over his shoulder, and she could feel the change in his stride. He went faster, forcing her to come along.

“Trigger the bomb,” he ordered. “Now.”

She looked back and saw spewing from the ring a steady stream of Fractogasts. More than she could count. Their limbs melded together like a pile of rainbow-colored pickup sticks.

They were clumped up, nice and close. But they wouldn’t be for long.

She fumbled with one hand to find the trigger in her pocket. With a flip of the safety cap and a single press of the button, the room behind them exploded.

Simone flew forward, going airborne. Brighton’s weight was at her back, and a second later it was on her back.

Her head bounced once on the concrete floor, and all the lights went out.

6

Two weeks later

Marcus winced in pain as he shifted his bag of groceries to unlock the back door to his RV. He still wasn’t fully recovered, but each day was a little better. He kept wondering if Simone was healing, too. Every attempt he’d made to contact her had failed.

A warm breeze grazed his skin, bringing with it the scent of spring. The isolated piece of land he owned wasn’t much, but it gave him a place to park, a faint sense of home, and room to work in peace. No one knew where he lived, which was exactly the way he liked it.

He pushed through the door and set his groceries down near the fridge.

“Hey,” came a sexy, feminine voice with just a hint of a rasp to it.

There, lying on his narrow bed, with her back against his headboard and her stolen boots crossed at the ankle, was Simone.

Marcus paused in the act of reaching for the refrigerator’s handle, letting his shock settle.

She looked good. Safe. And sexy as hell garbed in a clinging leather bodice and complete confidence.

He hadn’t been allowed to see her after dropping her off at the hospital. He could tell by the way the staff was looking at him that they thought he’d been the one to beat her up. In a way they were right, which only added to how guilty he looked.

By the time they’d finished patching him up and he’d evaded all the questions he could about what had happened to them, she was gone. Against medical advice.

He was still angry over her leaving him to worry, and it came out in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Unfinished business.”

Anger evaporated as a string of interesting thoughts slipped through his mind, each one more inappropriate than the last. He didn’t normally let himself veer off into the gutter like that, but then again, most women weren’t built like Simone Solange—for both speed and comfort.

She slid from his bed, the move far too slow and sinuous for his peace of mind. Even with the faint bruises marring her cheek, and the pinkish scar along her hairline, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

And probably the most dangerous.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

She smiled, and her appeal went to eleven. “Not important.” She grabbed a box sitting on his bedside table and sauntered into the main cabin. “Here. This is yours.”

Marcus took the box, uncertain if he wanted to open it. After what he’d put her through, he couldn’t imagine there being anything good inside.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Nope. I’m not in the mood to fight a pile of poisonous snakes right now.”

She frowned. “You think I want to hurt you?”

“I got you hurt when I coerced you to take the job.”

She snorted. “Coerced? You’re good, but you’re not that good.” She opened the box, pulled from it the purse he’d made and shoved it at him. “Here. Take it back.”

“What? Why?”

“The purse for the hammer. That was the deal. No hammer, no purse.”

“Wait. You stole the boots outright and won’t give those back, but I give you a purse for risking your life and you return it?”

“I earned the boots. Stole them fair and square. And the one knife. The other two are in there.”

Frustration rubbed along his skin, not because she’d taken one of the knives his dad had made, but because she was completely insane. “Really? That makes sense to you?”

She shrugged, and the motion drew his attention to the line of her neck. A few bruises lingered there, too, reminding him of just how terrified he’d been when that Fractogast had grabbed her by the throat. “You lost something precious to you. If I’d been better, it wouldn’t have happened. Every time I look at the purse it’s going to remind me of how I failed.”

He took the cool leather in his hands. He’d spent so many hours working on it, his fingers tingled in memory. It was like that sometimes, with his best work—almost like the object recognized him.

Marcus looped the strap of the purse over her head. “Just take it. And when you look at it, remember how you saved that kid. How we got out alive. How we blew that machine up beyond repair.”

“But the hammer is gone.”

“And will never again be used by those fuckers. I’m okay with that.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Then get over it, because I’m not taking the purse back. I made it for you. I want you to have it, even if you have to consider it a gift.”

“A gift, huh?” She ran her finger over the pattern he’d tooled into the leather.

What he wouldn’t have given to have her stroke him like that.

“It’s been a long time since anyone has given me anything.”

“Good, then. It’s settled.” At least he hoped. “Want to stay for dinner?”

She froze, shedding all her natural, fluid warmth. “I don’t think so. Places to go and all that.”

He’d scared her. With an invitation to dinner. After watching her face down a room full of Fractogasts, that seemed inconceivable.

“I promise to be a perfect gentleman.” No matter how much willpower it cost him.

She stared up at him, biting her bottom lip. He could see her quivering on the edge of giving in, but as soon as her eyes lowered, he knew he’d lost. “I should go. Rain check?”

“Sure. You obviously know how to find me.”

“Thanks for the purse. I owe you one.”

“No, you don’t. After the beating you took, we’re more than even.”

Her smoky green gaze hit him again, and this time he actually swayed with the force of it. She was so unbelievably beautiful it made him forget that the rest of the world even existed.

Simone looped her arms around his neck, went up on tiptoe, and pressed a kiss against his lips. It lasted only a second, and it was completely chaste, but it still felt scorching hot and rocked him down to his boots.

His lips tingled, and he felt a stirring of power lingering just beneath his skin.

When she was done shifting the ground under his feet, she let go and took a small step back. “I always repay my debts, Brighton. Call me if you need me.”

“I don’t have your number. It took me weeks to find you last time. If you hadn’t responded to my online messages—”

She pressed one slender finger against his lips. “Call my name. I’ll hear you. You’re not the only one with special talents, you know.”

That’s when he realized what she’d done. That kiss had left him with a gift—the ability to summon her.

Marcus was blown away by her trust. “You sure you want to give me such power?”

She moved past him, heading toward the door. “Too late now. Just give me a few weeks for the rib to heal before you run into trouble again, okay?”

She left the RV, and it suddenly felt empty. Too empty.

He hurried down the steps, around to the back side of the RV, where she’d parked her motorcycle out of sight, and held out his hand. “Give it back.”

A look of complete, shocked innocence covered her lovely face. “What?”

“The belt you stole.”

She gave him a slow, sexy smile as she fished the belt out from the back of her tight bodice. “You’re catching on, Brighton. There might be hope for you yet.”

THE GIRL WITH NO NAME

BY

CHRIS MARIE GREEN

1

I woke up in a strange bed in a strange bedroom, and it took me only a few seconds to realize I had no idea where I was.

Or who I was.

Heart thumping, mind skittering, I surveyed the closed, heavy curtains and the blazing lights that I had evidently left on. Round me, paintings of trumpets, saxophones, and clarinets hung on the walls. I kept anticipating the numbness of sleep to wear off, yet . . .

No. So I closed my eyes again, giving myself more time. When that didn’t work, my pulse pounded faster, like feet running over an endless street. I sat up in the bed, covers swaddling me to the hips.

Brain. Surely my brain would kick in any moment.

Yet my head was still a near blank while I inspected myself: fully dressed, in a tight thin-strapped black tank with a skull and crossbones on the front, cutoff jeans shorts. But then I focused on my legs. They felt heavy, encased, as if . . .

I whipped off the covers, then gaped.

A pair of boots—and not any sort of boots I’d seen before now. (As if I even faintly knew what I had seen before now.) These boots came to just below my knees, and they appeared to be made of . . . vines. A dark green mass of attractively entwined strands, wrapping round calves and feet, as if I had just now stepped off nature’s catwalk.

“What the bloody hell?” I whispered, still staring. Was I in an old episode of The Twilight Zone? Wait—how did I know what The Twilight Zone was when I couldn’t even remember anything about how I had gotten here or where I was or what I was doing in these tarty, out-of-the-ordinary boots?

Slowly, one fact caught up to me: I had spoken with an English accent. Somewhat posh. A touch salty, perhaps. And if I knew it was an English accent, that meant I could at least remember something about my world. I knew things, but not important things . . .

I rolled out of the bed. The sheets were clean, tidy. Clearly, I was not a restless sleeper. In fact, it was as if I had slept the slumber of the dead.

For some odd reason, that thought weighed on me as I rushed to the window, yanking aside the curtain to discover that I was on the second floor of a house, dusk pressing down on a view of a street decorated with wrought-iron galleries. Below them, people meandered down sidewalks, some wearing flashy beads under the flickering lanterns and carrying plastic cups. A fence enclosed the yard, and across the way a corner market was boarded up.

I sprang to a nearby desk, grasping at a folder, the golden lettering on the front confirming my growing suspicions.

Hanover House. New Orleans.

I allowed myself to sigh. Here was my explanation, right before me. Today I had most likely gotten rat-arsed on the Hand Grenades and Hurricanes I knew they sold on Bourbon Street, and had stumbled back to my bed-and-breakfast room. I was on holiday, out for a good time. Liquor was the reason I didn’t remember a few pertinent details. Evidently I had destroyed key brain cells.

But then, why didn’t I feel as groggy or booze-bitten as I should have?

Instead of asking myself again the reason I could remember big-picture items such as how it felt to be hungover, I stumbled away from the desk, turning round, looking for a suitcase or a bag or anything else I had brought with me. Even a smartphone that could fill in my blanks. I searched drawers, under the bed, everywhere.

Again . . . nothing, unless you counted the unfurled paper clip on my nightstand.

Panic increasingly chipped at me as I told myself to think. Think hard.

Check your pockets, you git.

I did, but I didn’t have much luck there, either: merely thirty dollars.

The room was closing in on me. Even those boots felt tight. Too tight, as if they were gnawing at my skin. Unable to stand the sensation, I bent to remove them.

But . . . no zipper, no buckles. I attempted to draw the material away from my legs, but it was as if the boots were leeched on.

That couldn’t be. So I tried to wedge them away from me again, dropping to the carpet this time, pulling forcefully at them. My legs tingled, and I could have sworn the boots were a part of my flesh.

Impossible. Absolutely insane.

Resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, I told myself not to give in to the anxiety strumming at my nerves. But I had no name, no clue, no idea what to do next.

After a few breaths, I realized the front desk would have my name. What a fuckwit. So I stood, catching sight of myself in a mirror across the room. I was young, mid-twenties, perhaps. Sandy hair that was straight and cut to the shoulders. And my eyes were a clear green color, my nose slightly tilted, my teeth with a bit of an overbite. I looked clean, as if I had recently showered, so I couldn’t have had that rough of a day out on the streets.

At least I didn’t look as insane as I felt. I took a moment to freshen up in the bathroom—the proprietors were kind enough to have toothpaste and other toiletries on hand—then left the room, taking care not to lock the door since I couldn’t find my key.

Just outside my door, I found a middle-aged woman with dark skin and black hair worn short and flipped up at the ends. She sported a print skirt and a white blouse, and carried an armful of those hospitality baskets, as if she were an employee or owner.

At first, her smile welcomed me. But then she glanced at my boots and frowned. When her gaze traveled to the room number on the door, the frown only deepened.

“Hello,” I said, my pulse pounding. I would have wagered she’d never seen me before in her life.

“What’re you doing in that room?” she asked in a thick Southern accent. “It’s unoccupied.”

I recalled the unbent paper clip on the desk. I didn’t have a key at all, did I? I had the feeling that I had picked that lock, showered, then fallen asleep as sweetly as Goldilocks before the Three Bears had come home. Why?

I knew somewhere deep down that I didn’t want this woman to contact any authorities, so I smiled at her, assuring her that I meant no harm. She dropped one of the baskets and clutched at the other one’s handle with both hands, as if to swing it at me.

“Carlos!” she yelled, obviously summoning an employee. “Call 911!”

I bolted toward the staircase, and she wasn’t far behind me.

“Get back here, little girl! What did you steal?”

No time to answer as I easily flew down the steps. Very easily, but that had to be my adrenaline kicking in. I burst through the front door, sprinting out the gate to the street, where people had paused, watching the screaming woman emerging from Hanover House.

“Get back here, you shit!” she yelled.

But she sounded far off in the distance as I gained speed, the sidewalk spinning by under my boots, the buildings a blur as I pumped my arms, going faster, faster, faster—

No time to think about how I was managing to move so rapidly, because I heard a siren ahead. The law already?

I skidded, taking a right turn into an alley. Shadows enveloped me as I slowed, then crouched behind discarded crates, at the rear of a restaurant, judging by the seafood aromas coming from the back door.

As the siren faded into the distance, common sense caught up to me, and now I had a moment to wonder how I had been able to run so quickly. I had been literally zooming along.

I glanced down at the boots.

While I brushed my fingers over them again, they throbbed into my skin, as if they truly were a part of me.

I continued inspecting them while also listening for any sign of trouble round me. Soon enough, I was able to relax, but only somewhat, because I was still wondering how I could start backtracking in order to discover how I came by these boots. More important, I had the sense that they would lead to my identity.

Just as I was settling on which way to go next, a prickle of awareness brought me out of my questions. Someone near. Someone . . . watching?

Staying huddled behind the crates, I held my breath. Then I shivered as a shadow appeared across the alley, on the wall. A shadow that was sitting on top of the crates . . .

And it was aiming what looked to be a weapon at me.

It was as if my body took over, and without another thought, my hand zipped up to the shadow’s wrist. I grasped it, yanking it down from the crate with a strength I hadn’t known I possessed. I didn’t even stop to see who my attacker was as I disarmed it, a Taser clattering over the ground as I targeted a kick at the shadow’s throat.

But my attacker was nearly as fast as I was, and it had dodged, flipped to its feet, crouching, its hands in front of it, ready for another attack.

For a suspended second, I saw its entire black form, its electric-red eyes cutting through the falling night.

I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t, and as I automatically spun round and whipped out my leg to catch it square in the head with my boot, the creature did a back handspring.

Fuck this, said common sense.

I jumped into a sprint, my heart nearly exploding as I zoomed through the alley, took a corner, then began weaving through the drunks on the lantern-lit, karaoke-blaring street, feeling a splash of liquid on my arm when I upset someone’s plastic cup on my way.

What had that been back in the alley? And how could I make certain it didn’t follow me?

Light, I thought. Just head for a light.

I whooshed into the first doorway I could find, slowing down only when I was inside the building and trying to blend in behind what I realized was a rack of herbs and bottles of oils.

My heart was throbbing, my head swimming, my breath chopping when I heard a low, drawling voice behind me.

“Well, cher,” he said. “It’s about time you arrived.”

2

It was as if some sort of power had hold of me. I spun round toward the voice, one of my hands in a bladed position as I slashed at my target.

The man behind me jumped out of the way, as if he had expected my actions. But I wasn’t done. I hopped up and kicked out with my right leg, hitting him in the shoulder. He grunted, and when I followed up with a spinning whirlwind of another kick, he ducked, holding up his hands and laughing.

I settled into a knee-bent stance. He was . . . laughing?

“Whoa,” he said, smiling at me as if he encountered kung-fu psychos every day. “Didn’t mean to frighten you. Just calm down, darlin’.”

My pulse double-timed as he continued raising his hands in peace. He was no shadow attacker; he was definitely just a man. Most definitely. Tall, very tall, with longish black hair that he had pulled into a low ponytail. Gray eyes that burned against the toasty shade of his skin, eyes that pierced me and grinned at me at the same time. A long nose and full lips, broad shoulders and chest. Arms muscled under a black shirt with sleeves rolled up to his biceps. He wore jeans and black boots with silver tips on them and . . .

I stayed in that defensive position as I inspected him even closer. Was there something sticking out of the left side of his waistband, covered by his shirt? A firearm? My gaze traveled back up to his neck, where a leather strap held a pendant—a silver eye that gleamed against his smooth chest where his shirt gaped.

The Eye of Horus, I thought. The all-seeing eye. There went my useless memory again.

He cocked an eyebrow at me and gestured to our surroundings. We were in what looked to be the back room of a touristy voodoo shop, with carved juju masks and magick books on shelves and a ragged table to our right, half concealed behind a purple curtain. No customers round. No red eyes or shadow people to attack me here.

Another niggle tickled the back of my brain—was there something in this shop keeping that red-eyed creature from entering, and that was the reason it hadn’t followed me inside?

“Normally,” the man said, after taking a thorough look at me as well, “I would say that you’ve popped in for a quick reading, but I know better.”

Come again? “What do you know?”

“Quite a bit, except maybe not exactly what you’re searching for.”

I fit a few pieces together: the table to our right, this voodoo shop. “You’re a psychic who works here.”

“Yes.”

No time to waste. “Then—”

“I’m sorry, cher, but I can’t tell you your name.”

His statement was jarringly spot-on, and in more than a psychic way. Something tightened in my throat at this dead end, but I knew that I never cried. So I didn’t. “Then what might you tell me?”

He gestured toward the half-curtained table, inviting me to sit.

I shook my head. “I don’t have very much money.” Besides, New Orleans was full of shams, and he could very well be one. Everyone, even someone as clueless as I, knew that.

Yet something had been chasing me outside, so perhaps a short stay in here wouldn’t be amiss—only until I collected myself and decided what to do next. Wasn’t there a possibility, though, that if this man were a true seer, he might be able to aid me in discovering all that was lost to me? He knew I didn’t know my name, after all.

“The few dollars you might have on you mean nothing to me,” he said, looking me up and down again. He dwelled on my saucy boots before he sent his gaze back up my body, a slow, wicked grin claiming his mouth. “There are other ways to pay.”

I almost planted a boot in his face.

He was already laughing. “No. That’s not what I was saying.”

“It better not have been.”

He bowed slightly at the waist. “My name is Philippe Angier, and, as I mentioned, I have been expecting you.”

Should I trust him? This was a mystical city, full of twists and turns, so perhaps he could help. Also, he wasn’t awful to gaze at, so I decided to go with my better instincts and accept his hospitality.

He drew the rest of the curtain aside for me, pulled out a chair, and fixed the fabric so that it would block out the rest of the room.

“No,” I said, gripping his wrist, just as I had done with my attacker earlier. “I don’t want any surprises to creep up on me.”

He tilted his head, giving a long glance to his wrist, grinning that grin. I realized that I was still holding on to him when it wasn’t necessary. With my fingers burning, I disconnected from him and sat, but I did it sideways, in such a way that I could monitor the entrance to this rear room. I also managed to scoot the chair so my back was to a wall.

Leaving the curtain open, he sauntered to his seat. “Still on guard, are you? If you hear anything out front, I have an assistant working the counter there, so . . .”

“Don’t fret. I’ll spare her the karate chops.”

He gave me an entertained, touché nod, not at all fazed by my sharp tongue or my sudden appearance.

“You said you were expecting me,” I said, testing him. “Why?”

“A precognitive vision.”

“Really.”

He leaned back in his chair, surveying me again with that gray gaze. Lovely bumps crept up my arms.

“My visions are very real,” he finally said. “In this particular one, I saw that someday soon I would find a . . . different . . . sort of customer hiding near the love potions and herbs. I had time to come to terms with you.”

“Any con man would claim that.” But again, he had known that I didn’t have an identity.

“What if I told you,” he said, “that I sense these clothes you’re wearing are not your type?”

I glanced at the skull-and-crossbones tank, the cutoffs. The boots.

He laughed. “You had a sort of uniform you always wore . . .” His expression changed, from amusement to something serious. “You’ve come so close to death, more than once.”

I didn’t answer, but I thought of the red eyes outside. Had that been one of my near-death experiences?

He was still being vague, but then he narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re so alone in this world. No one to turn to, no one to go home to.”

It was as if he had punched me square in the gut. “I wouldn’t know.”

He leaned toward me, lowering his voice. “Do you trust me to tell you even more?”

No. Yet I wished to hear what he had to say, more than anything. I didn’t have many other options.

Resting his hand on the table—my, he had nice long fingers, didn’t he?—he turned it palm upward. “May I?” He gestured toward my hand.

Psychometry. Some psychics could get readings off objects or biotic things such as skin or hair. I knew that, too, as if it had been a normal part of my life at some time. I was getting the feeling that far stranger things had been a part of my existence as well.

I placed my hand in his, trying not to think about goose bumps or shivers. Trying not to think of how warm his grip was as he closed his fingers over mine.

A few seconds later, he took in a sharp breath.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Today,” he said, “you woke up just as alone as you have been for a while now, cher. In a room you didn’t recognize. You don’t know how you came to be there.”

His gaze softened. Pity. I recognized that well enough, though I suspected I had little tolerance for it.

“And . . . ?” I asked.

“And those boots you wear. They’re especially unfamiliar to you. They make you feel . . .” He seemed to search for words, then only came up with, “Powerful. Is that it?”

I nodded slightly, still reluctant to give too much of myself away.

He gripped my hand harder. “You come from so much darkness. That’s clear.”

“How so?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I see . . .” As he paused, his gaze unnerved me. “Fire. An explosion. Pain. Then, it’s as if . . .”

I must have squeezed his hand this time.

“I’m getting a symbolic reading, so you’ll have to interpret the images.” He furrowed his dark brow. “It’s as if you were shut into a coffin—one made of glass. Then you were freed, but there was still containment. Does any of that make sense?”

Not literally. But I felt contained right now by being shut out of the information we all take for granted—information we normally wake up knowing every morning.

“There’s even more fire after the coffin imagery,” he added. “But this time the flames nearly devour you.”

Now I was shaking my head. I couldn’t have lived the life he was describing on a realistic level. So what did it all mean?

He ran a thumb over mine. Comforting me?

Comfort. It might have been the first thing—or last—that I needed at this moment. But before I pulled my hand out of his, he looked grim, as if he had received one more vision.

“You’ve had an interesting night so far.”

“You’re referring to the ‘it’ that was chasing me earlier?”

“I wish I knew what it was. But I saw the burning eyes . . . the black shape. I think you don’t need me to tell you that it was dangerous.”

“Any hints about how to avoid it in the future?”

He nodded toward the shop in front. “Indeed, I know people who can help.”

“But I can’t pay you for any protection items or spells, remember?”

His smile was slight. “You didn’t run in here for the fun of it. And for me to deny you help would be terrible karma. Besides, it’s a slow night, even for March. I’ve been bored until now, cher.”

What was he saying? That he had assumed the mantle of white knight for a random damsel in distress?

I was torn. I had the feeling I could take care of myself very well, thank you, under normal circumstances, but someone was after me out there, in the night. I would be foolish to refuse help from the only savior available.

He pushed back from the table and came round to my side. “May I?” he asked, motioning to my boots.

Why not? I stretched out a leg as he bent down, and I tried like mad to keep those white-knight thoughts from crowding my head. When he ran his fingers over the viny texture of the boot, I restrained a quiver. It was as if I could feel his touch, even through whatever material these boots were made of.

“I’ve never seen anything like these,” he said. “And I get nothing on where you purchased them.”

I frowned at the word “purchased,” and I wasn’t sure why. Instinct again? But if it was instinct, it wasn’t a good one. I had broken into a bed-and-breakfast already. Had I also shoplifted these clothes and boots?

When Philippe smoothed a hand up the back of my calf, further exploring, I went tight between the legs. I almost shifted in my chair. And when he slid a finger into the top of my boot, brushing skin, I jerked away from him.

His gaze was fascinated now. “It’s as if they . . .”

“Are attached to me? I know. I tried to strip them off.”

“They wouldn’t budge?”

“Right.” Then a gobsmacking thought hit me. If these boots were as odd as I believed they were, was it possible that they had led me into this voodoo shop on purpose? Were they voodoo items?

I could tell Philippe was thinking the same. “You ran in here like you were part of the wind, and the way you fight, my darlin’? Are you sure these ain’t superhero boots?”

Gob. Smacked. “I’m not certain of anything.”

He stood, his hands on his lean hips, considering. Behind him and to the left, in another room where a curtain was pulled back from the entrance, a shelf of jujus and gris-gris and dolls stood, timeless, as if knowing the answers that we did not.

“These boots could be the work from an old, powerful woman in the area,” he finally said. “They call her Amari.”

“So I should see her.”

“I would say an unqualified yes, except for . . .” He looked at my boots. “They say Amari doesn’t sell any charmed objects.”

At that point, I concentrated only on the “charmed” part. “You think these boots are enchanted? That’s the reason they won’t bloody come off me?”

“I do get that feeling. But you have a bigger worry than that.”

Back to the “sell” word he had used. “If this Amari doesn’t offer charmed objects for sale, then how did I end up with the boots?”

What had I been up to? And, damn it all, was it possible that the red-eyed creature was trying to fetch the boots back for Amari?

Splendid.

“Is there a chance,” I asked, “that there’s another witch round here who sells clingy boots that make a girl run like the wind and sting like a bee?”

As Philippe turned the question over in his mind, I saw something in the room behind him, through the spaces of the shelves between the jujus and dolls.

Eyes. Red eyes.

He must have noticed my widened gaze, and he turned round. But I jumped out of the chair, my body taking over again, as if my mind had no say. I dove for what I thought was the gun in his waistband.

Yet he was no fool—he’d already drawn the weapon, firing at the shelf, wood and cloth flying every which way. A scream came from the front of the shop.

The red eyes disappeared. I felt Philippe’s hand on my arm just as I was about to dart away.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Trust him? Sounded good at the moment. “Sure. Why not.”

We made a break for the front door, his coworker peeking over the sales counter as we ran outside and he pulled me toward the edge of the sidewalk, where a motorcycle sat dormant. He hopped on, reaching in his pocket for a set of keys, then revved up the bike. I had already jumped on the back of the seat, my arm round his waist.

Shoving the revolver into my hand, he didn’t say a word as we took off into the night and I glanced over my shoulder, swearing that a pair of red eyes was fading into nothing on top of the shop’s roof as we roared away.

3

We rode until the city lights gave way to cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss as we veered off the main roads and found the side ones. Full night made everything eerie while Philippe the karmically proper psychic steered me into the middle of nowhere.

My wariness of him was still alive and kicking, but the man had given me his firearm. He had lent me the means to kill him, and that did wonders for my so-called trust.

Yet even if I hadn’t held that revolver, I had my boots. Just how much of a lethal weapon was I, myself?

We went deep into where the bayous ran, and he slowed the bike as we turned onto a slim road that paralleled the duckweed-thickened water. I didn’t want to think about what might lurk under the surface. Night creatures sounded off with chirping and croaking and clicks as a lone light came into view.

It belonged to a lantern from a planked cabin with a tin roof. When we pulled up to the stairs leading to the porch, I saw a rickety swing hanging from the eaves and a screen door that angled halfway off its hinges. Philippe cut the engine, but I didn’t dismount. All my inner alarms were screaming.

I held on to that revolver as he waited for me to alight. He hadn’t worn a helmet—neither of us had taken the time to don one—so his dark hair was disheveled, its long, loose strands roguish. He looked like a pirate who hid out here in the backwater.

“This is where the witch lives,” he said in his lazy accent as we both merely sat there, staring at the cabin.

“How do you know?” I wished he’d had the time to explain more about her to me before we had fled the shop.

“Rumors. And a vibe.”

I realized that he might be more than a psychic. “Are you also a voodoo practitioner?”

He laughed. “No. I only rent space in the shop for readings. But I’m well acquainted with everything in it. I haven’t been there long—only a few weeks—but I’m learning more every night.”

“What did you do before this?”

“Curious, aren’t we?”

“You don’t have to answer.” We needed to be getting on with this, anyway.

But it seemed Philippe liked my keen interest. “I was a carpenter. Still am, although business is slow. I’ve always had the seeing gift, just as my maman did, and I make use of it on the side for her sake.”

From the manner in which he said this, I wondered if his mother was sick or destitute. My heart beat an extra time.

He must have seen I was sympathetic because he brushed off what he had said. “My senses have been sharp lately, and that’s probably why, a week ago, I had the vision of you.”

“It’s fortunate you were prepared. I can’t say the same for myself.”

I finally stepped off the bike, and he put down the kickstand, then dismounted as well.

“So let’s find a way to get these boots off,” he said.

I prepared every apology I could think of, in case I had stolen the items. This was the best course of action, I kept telling myself. If Amari had sent an employee out to reclaim the enchanted boots, I was better off facing the music here and taking my chances.

“I hope we don’t need an appointment,” I said.

Philippe merely gave me a look, and I shrugged. Maybe I was a polite sort in real life.

Our footsteps echoed on the stairs, then the porch, and my boots tightened round my legs. Clinging, as if they wished to hold on to me and me alone.

I opened the broken screen, then knocked on the door. When no one answered, I knocked again.

“Nobody is home,” he said assuredly.

“How can you be . . . ?” I didn’t finish the question. “All right. So what do we do now?”

Philippe reached round me and opened the door, which was so warped that it took a shove from him. He sent me a smug glance.

I tried not to dwell on how he smelled of cedar or perhaps pine as he brushed past me. Either way, yum.

I walked inside after he did, glancing round. Dark, with only the slim lights coming through the slats of the shutters.

Reaching back toward the wall, I groped for a switch. When I flipped it on, it didn’t work. Chills fingered up my spine as I backed up to the wall, wanting to feel it behind me in the near darkness. I continued scanning the room, my eyesight adjusting. Meanwhile, I held up Philippe’s revolver, evidently knowing just how to use it, comfortable with it in my grip.

Boot steps thudded as Philippe moved toward the window. There was a sharp sound as he pulled the shutter cords, and the room lit slightly more with wan moonlight.

It allowed me to lock onto a form across the room that was draped by a sheet. I nearly squeezed the revolver’s trigger until I concluded that, based on the shape and the exposed gilding on one side, what I was seeing was a covered standing mirror. Another look round showed a second shrouded frame above a fireplace. When Philippe got to it and peered beneath the linen, he spoke.

“Someone doesn’t like looking glasses.”

And that wasn’t the only disturbing element in this small cabin. As I surveyed the area—the simple kitchen in the corner, neat as a pin; the cot on the other side of the room—I saw a table near me.

A table with bones spread over it.

My boots reacted sharply, like the ends of vines digging into me. I gasped, flinching as a sudden memory grabbed me: a woman’s voice saying, “There is a cost for these.” Then the feel of the boots sliding up my legs as someone put them on me . . .

I jerked out of the memory, and my skin . . . It felt as if it were puckered. Yet when I ran my free hand over my arm, my flesh was as smooth as always.

I wasn’t certain what I had just experienced, but I knew for a fact now that there had been some sort of cost for the boots, and if I had remembered this little nugget of information because I was inside this cabin, the price was no doubt still to be paid to Amari.

Had their powers lent me the speed and strength to run from the witch before I’d paid for them? Why couldn’t I remember?

Sliding down the wall to the floor, I pulled at the boots again, wanting them off. Now.

“What’re you doin’?” Philippe asked, coming to me.

“Trying again,” I said. “If she’s not here, then at least I hope the boots will be when she returns. I think that’s why I was led to you, by fate, by a spell Amari cast, or . . . I don’t know. The boots belong here. When I caught sight of those bones on the table, the boots responded, and I had a flash of memory. Someone told me there was a price for these, and I don’t think I paid it.”

Philippe blew out a breath, then ambled over to the table and reached for a bone. When he made contact with one of them, he froze.

“Philippe?” My voice seemed to echo in the cabin until his took over.

“Liberatio,” he said.

My boots shifted on my legs, as if restless.

“Say it again,” I whispered, my breath quickening. He’d felt a psychic vibe from the bone.

Louder now. “Liberatio!”

My legs jerked. Or, rather, the boots did. At a sensation of release, a loosening, I pressed my advantage, sticking my hand between my calf and the vines, pulling them away from my skin. When the boot gave, I dropped the revolver, using both hands.

“It’s working!”

He came to a knee next to me, pulling at my other boot. And when he uttered the word again, we managed to yank both of them off.

Freedom!

We leaned back against the wall, laughing. I had the urge to hug him or kiss him or . . . Whatever it was, I didn’t do it.

I said, “Those bones . . .”

“From animals. Amari must’ve used them for the spell that she put on the boots.”

I kept laughing. Now the witch could have her property, and I would get that red-eyed creature off my trail. That would leave me free to discover the rest of my puzzling life.

Dropping a boot on the floor, I said, “Who needs to run that fast or be Jackie Chan, anyway?”

Philippe’s laughter faded. “Yes. Who needs that?”

The way he looked at me now wasn’t with amusement, or with a pirate’s gleam in his moonlit eyes. He was serious about something I didn’t quite understand.

“I think,” he said, “it’s time we left, cher.”

Why did it sound as if he had been waiting to say that ever since I had run into his shop?

I didn’t have the opportunity to answer, because my skin . . . It had begun to do something strange.

Shriveling. Puckering.

I lifted my hand. In the moonlight, I could see my flesh changing before my eyes, as if it were . . . scarred from burns?

A scream welled up within me as the female voice in my memory returned. There is a cost for these . . .

What cost had she been referring to?

My instincts shuddered, telling me to put the boots on again. When I reached for them, Philippe intercepted me.

“Forgive me, darlin’, but I did mean it when I said that I don’t need you to be Jackie Chan.”

As the skin all over my body—my face, my neck, my legs—pruned and ached, he gripped my wrists with one hand and quickly picked up the revolver I had put down with the other. He aimed at me.

“I had to get those boots off you,” he said, “because when I started being honest with you, I couldn’t have you running so fast away from me that I wouldn’t be able to catch up. I didn’t need you to fight me with the strength those boots clearly give you, either. That’s why I brought you here.”

I felt like a mummy without its bandages by now, and tears clouded my sight. The boots—they hadn’t only given me strength and speed. They had kept me from this—scars from the fire Philippe had seen. He hadn’t been lying about what he had divined when he had touched me earlier. The evidence was obvious on me now.

“You’ve probably guessed already,” Philippe said, letting go of me and standing, “that there was more to my vision than you running into my shop, Lilly.”

The sound of my name washed over me like acid, burning from the inside out. I was withered, wounded, betrayed.

I was Lilly.

He kept waiting for me to take his hand. “Come along with me now. I won’t hurt you, cher. I promise.”

“What will you do with me?”

“Take you back to your family. I saw that they are searching for you, offering money I can use for my maman’s health. We’ll both be much better off afterward.”

“My . . . family?” Why did the word leave a bad taste in my mouth?

He merely watched me, as if his vision hadn’t told him any other details about my parents, or siblings I might have.

There was a different burning inside me now. A heat. A hatred. And it wasn’t directed at Philippe.

Deep down, where nothing made sense, I knew I couldn’t return to my family. Not at any cost.

“Lilly,” he said, “you’ve made good with the witch. If Amari was the one who sent that red-eyed thing after you tonight, then you’re in the clear. We can leave, and I will take you to safety, where people know you.”

I felt the burning again, but this time I saw fire. Felt fire even as my skin began to wither. Smelled the smoke choking me, looked into a pair of eyes that were so like mine as flames consumed me.

Had my family done this to me?

With a yell of rebellion, I kicked, sweeping my leg under Philippe so swiftly that he didn’t have time to react. He fell to the floor, the revolver skidding away from him. Even without the boots, I was on him in a lightning flash, using a wrestling hold to pin his legs with mine, my arms threaded with his so he couldn’t move.

In the dimness, I could see his stunned expression, but he was laughing softly. “Seems you don’t need those boots. I didn’t see that comin’.”

He used all his power to kick me off him, but I sprang back at him, wrapping an arm round his neck, using my other hand to pinch him between the shoulder and neck in a spot that made him slump.

“Well . . . played . . . cher . . . ,” he whispered as he passed out, tumbling the rest of the way to the floor and taking me with him.

I didn’t move for a moment. I wanted to make sure he was down. And he was.

My pulse steady, I took my hand from his sweet spot, but I didn’t roll away from him. I stole a moment, feeling his muscled back against my chest, smelling his carpenter’s wood-chip scent, wishing . . .

For what?

I pushed away, knowing in my core that I didn’t love. I wasn’t certain I could, although there I was, still looking at him, my head tilted, when I heard someone come in through the front door behind me.

“Oh, Lilly,” said the female voice from my memory. “What’ve you done this time?”

4

The witch was framed by the door, backlit by the porch lantern. She held on to either side of the opening, dressed in a beige robe with a sash round the middle. Long, frizzy red hair framed a face that was covered by a cloth that tied behind her head, covering her eyes. There were two subtle dark circles on the white linen, ghosts of where a gaze would be.

From behind the witch, a teen girl with dark braids hanging over her shoulders ducked under Amari’s arm. She guided the woman inside the rest of the way, then went outside, apparently leaving.

“Get them boots back on,” the witch finally said to me with a backwoods drawl. Amari had a young voice. Was it because she led a charmed life? Or was she as young as she sounded?

Marveling that the witch hadn’t commented on Philippe, who was still lying prone on the floor, I obeyed her. As soon as I slipped the boots over my legs, they leeched to me, coming home, it seemed. I sighed as I felt all my skin moisten, unwithering, returning to normal just like that.

“Can’t even make a house call without havin’ to come back to this shit,” Amari said with a head shake. “I knew you’d be a challenge. Warned you over and over again ’bout how them boots work, but you’re full of yourself. I’m hopin’ you finally learned somethin’, though, since you’re back here again like a tamed pup.”

Back here again?

She moved farther into the room, and I stood, intending to act as a guide, just as the young girl had done before she’d left.

The witch waved me off. “I know my way ’round my own digs. Besides, I have Jean-Marie to wait on me most times, though she’s left for the night. It’s part of her tutorin’. And I wish I didn’t have to explain that to you every time you slink back here.”

“I’ve been here before?”

“Well, you don’t often bring amours with you.” Amari gestured toward Philippe.

“Yes, about him . . .”

“He’ll be out for a while, judgin’ on what I know you can do with those skills of yours.”

Could she see, in spite of that blindfold, with some sort of witch vision?

She sat in a chair behind the animal-bone table, then gestured for me to take the one opposite. Reaching under the table, she came out with a small crystal ball, setting it down, gesturing for me to touch it. The moment I did so, the boots hugged my feet, not violently but with comfort.

“You haven’t been here for two days, Lilly. I was worried.”

Clearly, she hadn’t begun to divine me with that ball, or whatever she had planned. “I wish I could tell you what was occupying me. I woke up in a small hotel at dusk, not knowing where I was.”

“Nothing new there.”

Was I ever going to find out the reason?

Amari clucked, and I noticed that her mouth was lovely: red lips tipped up at the corners. A chin with a dimple.

“Child,” she said, “I don’t envy you, but them boots were the only solution when I found you out by the road a week ago.”

A week ago? When Philippe had that vision of me?

“You’d just come into town,” Amari said. “Stole some poor soul’s pickup on your way here from Lord knows where else. Some time ago—you’d lost track ’bout how long it was, I guess—you were in Southern California.” Cal-ee-fornia.

“What was I doing there?”

“If you’d write all this down in a journal, like I tell you to, I wouldn’t have to explain. You been dependin’ on me to always catch you up, but you’ll be doin’ some writin’ tonight, like it or not. Next time you come here, you’ll be readin’ that instead of listenin’.”

I almost told her that it’s hard to read without any lights in here, but I could always go to the porch, yes? I had high doubts that one argued with Amari.

Those blindfolded eyes seemed to look into mine. “I’ll tell you once more and once only. Burnt to a pitted mess, you were, but somehow you were alive and kickin’. Later, after I divined you, I found out why that was.”

“And?”

“Oh, I’m not going through that complicated story again. A woman gets tired, you know.”

Amari gripped the top of the ball, and I knew that I would be experiencing my tale through it.

But the witch wasn’t ready to give it over to me just yet.

“Your truck had run outta gas down the road,” Amari said. “You’d crawled the rest of the way here, ’cuz somewhere along the line, you’d heard that there was a witch outside New Orleans who healed folk. You were so wounded you’d almost run outta gas, too.”

“So you helped me?”

“That’s what I was born to do. Help, not hinder.”

My chest constricted. I wasn’t getting the sense that I had known people like this back “home.”

“The boots,” I said softly. “You used magic and healing to create those boots, and when I put them on, the burns . . .”

“Go away. When you take ’em off, you go back to bein’ burnt. Nature heals, Lilly. We’re all a part of it. We’ve only just forgotten.”

The boots . . . vines from the bayou. An enchantment from a white witch.

“I remembered something when I arrived here,” I said. “You had told me that there’s a price for these boots. I thought you meant money. I even believed that I might have stolen them from you.” I touched one boot, gently. It seemed to respond, pulsing under my fingers.

“Oh, they’s a price,” Amari said, laughing. And it was a nice laugh. A song, just like the ones the night creatures were singing outside. “You woke up without a memory tonight. Every night.”

I didn’t react.

Amari sighed. “That’s the price them boots demand. Nature, or them vines, give to you, Lilly. It give you health and healing, but it need to take, too, and every mornin’ them boots get spent, and they need your help to revitalize, just as you need them.”

“We’re both . . . parasites?” Living off each other?

“That’s a fair notion. When they take from you, they don’t drain you in the physical way. They take somethin’ stronger—from your soul. Some of your essence, your being.”

“My identity.”

“And your short-term memory. But like all livin’ things, they ain’t perfect. They leave specks of memory for you to cling to sometime.”

Like the instincts I had about what I was capable of doing. And they left me muscle memory, too, based on the martial arts I’d performed tonight.

I tried to bring everything together: I had no doubt been out and about last night, perhaps even the nights before, chasing my identity. When the sun had come up, my boots had needed sustenance, and I had broken in to the bed-and-breakfast to collapse. Until I woke up again, drained.

“I go through this every twenty-four hours?” I asked.

“That’s your curse. And your blessing. It’d be up to you to see what you’re eventually gonna make of it.”

“What do you mean?”

Amari smiled. “You’re about to see.”

With that, she bent her head to the crystal and my eyesight went black, plunging me into an emerging pool of visions so vivid that my adrenaline surged.

A foggy memory of a dark control room with a console . . . watching screens . . . An image of a fanged dragon, destroyed . . . heart breaking, a scream pulled from my lungs as I sank to the floor . . . An explosion, burning me as I crawled away from the destruction, still alive . . .

Then, staring up at a ceiling from a bed, bandages over my face except for my eyes. “You’re retired,” said a man, my father, as he fit a spindly device over my head and my mind went blank.

Coming awake again, this time by the hand of a woman who looked very much like me. A cousin? Doing her bidding, fighting for control of my body, winning, then losing . . . Then burning in another fire, not from an explosion, but a bonfire, punishment for failing the family, more screams as I ran and ran from the flames, rolling on the ground to put out the fire on my skin, near death . . .

Real life swirled in front of me again, and I realized that Amari had let go of the crystal ball. Her voice soothed me to calm.

“You were ramblin’ away on the night I found you, before I made them boots. How you used to be a keeper of a vampire called the dragon, how he died under your watch after some hunters blew up his underground home. You blathered about bein’ ‘retired’ by your family because you’d disappointed ’em so, and from what I guess, retirement was like death, a livin’ coffin.”

I remembered how Philippe had read me earlier, and mentioned a glass coffin.

I tried not to glance at where he lay on the floor, but I couldn’t stop myself. Philippe, who had helped me, but merely because I was a means for him to get reward money for his own family. A noble cause, to be sure, but one that conflicted with mine.

“My family did that to me?” I asked.

“And worse. From what I heard from you, they call themselves the Meratoliages, and they swore in ancient times to protect the dragon’s line of vampires. Not so long ago, they raised you from that retirement to go after the hunters who slayed him. They know the dark arts, and they were able to control you as a revenant. You didn’t take too kindly to that, and you burnt again. I believe, though, it was a sight better than that retirement of yours. Just judgin’ by what you said. I’d rather burn than be buried alive, myself.”

Now that she was telling me, it all seemed so very familiar. “Did your boots heal my mind, too? It sounds as if I didn’t have much of one when I was brought out of this retirement.”

Amari nodded, hands folded on the table again. “But there’s one thing them boots didn’t give you.”

“Powers,” I said. “I had them all along.”

“And they kept you alive tonight.”

Yes. Proof of that was on the floor, not five feet away from me.

I explained how Philippe had a vision of me. “He must have also divined that my family is looking for me. He said they were offering money.” I paused, my eyes widening. “There was a . . . thing. Earlier tonight. Dressed all in black, with red eyes. You didn’t send it after me?”

“No.” For the first time, Amari sounded troubled.

My boots thudded, shuddering through me, and another memory stirred: my old uniform as dragon keeper—all black, masked, with night-vision goggles. Red eyes.

My hunter was a member of my family?

I sat back in my chair. “Is it possible that the Meratoliages have sent someone after me themselves?” And was it also possible that the reason my attacker hadn’t come into Philippe’s shop was because Philippe had asked one of his voodoo friends to protect the area from anyone else who might want to turn me in? His psychic visions would have given him ample time to make such a preparation.

“Either you been runnin’ from your family for a few nights now,” Amari said, “or they just found out where you is. Either way, you best get your shit together before more hunters come for you. I can whip up a protection spell now that I know who’s chasin’ you, but if Philippe is right about there bein’ money offered for you . . .”

“A spell might not help.” I swallowed. “You’re not interested in a bounty?”

“Why would I be when I already live in paradise?” she asked, gesturing round the room.

I wanted to laugh, but stayed silent instead. Outside, a bayou symphony played in the dark, creatures out there swimming in the water, brushing against vines like the ones that had given me a second chance.

This was it, then. I had to make the right decisions tonight, before the family caught up to me. Meeting Philippe had changed my patterns, changed everything.

“Don’t worry,” I told Amari. “I intend to take care of my business before dawn.”

The witch reached under the table once again, then handed me a knife with a long, gleaming blade, almost as if she had already seen that I would be needing it very, very soon.

5

Amari put the protection spell on me before I walked down the road, just to set a bit of distance between her cabin and what I knew would be tracking me down before too long.

In addition to Amari’s knife, I had taken Philippe’s revolver with me as insurance. Since I had tested my powers out only tonight, a firearm felt right in my hands. I had the feeling I was capable of much more than wrestling a strong man into submission or putting that red-eyed attacker back on its heels, but this was no time to get cocky.

After I settled into a crouch on the side of the moon-washed road, my back to one of the trees that clawed over me with branches and Spanish moss, I wasn’t certain how long I waited. But it was a while, because the sky was paling now, and my boots were tapping at me, as if counting down to the time when they would take over, shutting my body down so they could take their nourishment from me.

Yet I had told Amari that I wouldn’t be returning until my hunter had come to me or I needed a bed to slump in.

As I waited, I tried to think of the reasons I might have had for leaving Amari’s cabin and striking out for the city the previous nights. Had one of my unfiltered memories come back to me, prompting me to pursue my family before they reached me? Had I remembered that they would come to wherever I was and I wanted to get to them first, before I forgot again?

Any way about it, the boots had a price, and I would gladly pay it, not only because of the burns that returned whenever I removed the boots, but because I feared I would be a nearly mindless revenant again, just as I had been before Amari had saved me . . .

As the bayou sounds halted for a moment, chills rolled over me. My boots clutched at my legs, and I kept to my crouch, surveying the road, looking to the darkness beyond the trees to see if my attacker was near.

I should have known how this hunter operated, though, and when I slowly looked above me to the bole of the oak I was leaning against, I saw those red night-vision eyes against a black mask.

It had slid down the trunk to get to me, and it was aiming a Taser again.

Before I could think about what sort of balance and stealth that had taken, my body blipped into action: I raised the revolver, shooting to kill. But the hunter was faster. The thing dodged the bullet, yet not all the way—it clipped the Taser, sending the stunner flying once more.

When the hunter used a hand to clamp onto my arm and then flipped me to my back, the breath blasted out of my lungs, my sight scrambling. All I knew was that I’d let go of the revolver, and I had only the long knife that Amari had given to me.

I went for my side, where the blade was hanging in a sheath from my belt loop, but again, the hunter anticipated me, stepping on my arm.

It spoke in an electronically altered voice. “Don’t fight, Lilly. The Meratoliages have been searching for you quite a long time. Just come along.”

An accent like mine. “Are you one of the family?”

A tight laugh. “There are more of us all the time. We’ve had to activate candidates we would have never considered before you brought the family to its knees.” It paused. “All we want, Lilly, is to have you with us again.”

“So you can put me to death.” I remembered the bonfire, the flames licking at me, the eyes of my family leader as she watched.

“No,” the hunter said. “If that was what we had in store for you, I would not have brought Tasers.”

I was still dwelling on the “in store for you” portion. Perhaps fighting wasn’t my best option at the moment. “If I went with you, what would happen?”

The hunter shook its head, as if it were telling me that it wouldn’t divulge that information. And as if it pitied me as well.

The pity rankled, and my boots dug into my flesh. A memory stirred, restless, wanting to bloom.

Were the boots trying to help me access a helpful memory? Were they giving up a bit of themselves for me?

I grasped part of the memory. A videotape I had found as a young girl. Meratoliages, gathered round a table, where a dead member of my family lay, his chest open as they prodded and poked . . .

The truth struck me—my family wished to see if I had deformities? They had given up on me and wanted to learn from my mistakes, so that they would never be repeated in another member as they pursued their dark arts and tried to raise the dragon to life again.

But I wanted to live, even if it was merely night by night.

I called upon my muscle memory to save me, swinging my body so that I somehow got one of my legs over one of the hunter’s, my other leg between its legs. Then I scissored, bringing the thing down with an electronic grunt of surprise.

It didn’t take long for it to hop to a crouch, yet I was already in one, my knife in hand.

Unfortunately, it had accessed nunchakus, and as it spun them and swung them over one shoulder and grasped the bottom handle in preparation to knock me out, I braced myself to duck—

A shot rang out, and the next thing I knew, blood slapped my chest and face, and one of the attacker’s arms was missing.

I dove to the ground as the hunter’s electric scream overrode all the night sounds. When I looked up again, it was writhing on the ground, clutching what was left of its arm.

I looked over to see Philippe with a shotgun still aimed at the hunter.

Amari, I thought. Was she okay?

He stalked forward, slowly and methodically, talking to me. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. What did you do to Amari?”

“Only borrowed this baby from her. Maybe tied her up and gagged her, too, so she can’t make any spells that might’ve stopped me. But she’s fine. Me, too. Thanks for asking.”

The hunter was groaning, and I was shocked to see that it was still trying to grasp for the nunchakus it had dropped on the ground.

Automatically, I flung my knife at it, and the blade stuck into its neck. Dead shot.

It stopped all movement, but next thing I knew, Philippe had put the shotgun on me. I smiled at him, hardly surprised. Money was money.

“How did you—?” I started.

“Wake up and grab her shotgun without her seeing? Cher, I played possum for as long as I could. I waited and waited until after Amari rolled me to the side of the floor and then went about fixing some dinner. Or maybe the witch knew I was destined to get away and she didn’t bother to fight fate.”

But there was another option—what if Philippe was part of my protection spell and that was the reason Amari hadn’t stopped him?

“What are you destined to do now?” I asked him. “Take me with you so you can collect the reward money from the Meratoliages?”

He didn’t say anything. I realized at that moment that Philippe Angier needed the money for his family, but he wasn’t a true-born mercenary.

“If you bring me to them,” I said, “they’re going to kill me. They’re going to tear me apart to see why I didn’t work.”

“That money could help my maman for the rest of her life.”

“I understand.” I saw the revolver not three feet from me.

“You don’t understand, Lilly. You—”

Just as I was about to spring for the revolver, his shotgun went off again. But he hadn’t aimed at me.

When I looked behind me, I saw the hunter sprawled on its back, a hole in its chest. We Meratoliages don’t stop, I thought, but Philippe had certainly put a halt to this one.

Just to make certain of that, I stood, went to it, and peeled off its night-vision goggles and its mask. A fall of sandy hair, just like mine, spilled to the ground. She even looked a bit like me.

I dug under her black turtleneck, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. I turned to him. “I suppose I should thank you, but I suspect you were only clearing the way to the money for yourself. You saw in your vision where the Meratoliages are?”

“Yes. And I would’ve taken you to them right away, except I thought those boots were giving you more powers than a human should have. But it wasn’t the boots at all.”

“No,” I said quietly. “It wasn’t.”

Even though he had the shotgun trained on me now, I wasn’t about to go with him. I threw caution to the winds and called on my muscle memory to get me through this.

I made a low run at him, as if I were going to tackle his legs, but instead I sprang, jarring the shotgun up. He didn’t fire it as the weapon flew out of his grip, and as I spun and kicked up, my boot thudded against his head. He crashed to the ground. I pinned him as I’d done before.

All he did was smile, yet it was a sad one. “The Meratoliages won’t stop. There’ll always be someone coming after you.”

I could see his face more clearly, now that dawn was threatening. Beautiful gray eyes and a mouth that looked . . .

I don’t know the reason I did it—I wondered whether I often gave in to impulse—but I bent down, pressing my lips to his. Warm, soft. My boots seemed to twine round themselves even more, as if hugging themselves. I felt the same sensation in my belly until I pulled away.

We locked gazes, and in that endless second, I knew that he was too good to trade me in for money.

“You walk away,” I said. “Hitch a ride to the main road. If you stay away from me, you might even get your bike back someday.”

“I’d better.” His voice was a whisper, as if he’d been affected by the kiss. But when he assumed that arrogant smile, I knew he would never say it aloud. “You’re a real survivor, Lilly.”

“You remember that.”

I wasted no time before pushing myself off him and grabbing the shotgun, plus the revolver. I even went to pull my knife out of the Meratoliage, thinking that I would ask Amari’s student to quickly come here and fetch the body before the animals got to it so the witch could put a stay-dead-forever spell on it, just in case. I didn’t think I had the time to drag it back before the dawn—and the boots—took over my body.

Philippe knew what came next. He stood, looking over the tips of the trees at the first signs of sunlight. “You’d better get.”

“You’d better get first.”

He nodded, then paused, grinning. When he bowed at the waist, as he’d done when I’d first met him in the shop, my stomach warmed again.

But then he began walking, down the road, out of my life. Or what I had of it until the sun arrived.

I began moving the other way, glancing over my shoulder once, only to find him looking back at me, too, still walking away, keeping his promise.

The foreign warmth in me wavered, making me wish he wouldn’t keep his vow, but I continued forward as the sun grew stronger. Then I ran the rest of the way toward the cabin, heading to a home for the first time in perhaps ever.

Heading toward my own destiny, whatever it might be.

THE DEVIL’S LEFT BOOT

BY

FAITH HUNTER

Liz tossed the rag into the dishpan and lifted it to take the dirty dishes to the kitchen. Seven Sassy Sisters Café and Herb Shop used heavy country china and good-quality stainless flatware instead of the cheaper stuff. The customers liked the quality and the homey atmosphere, but being busboy—or girl—was tough on her back.

“I’ve got it,” Cia said, and scooped the heavy pan out of her arms. “Share and share alike,” she added. Liz’s once reticent and introverted twin had been doing a lot of that since Liz’s injury. And it wasn’t necessary. So, okay, Liz got short of breath. And her ribs hurt sometimes. She was still healing, and no one could expect complete and instantaneous recuperation after having a huge rock land on her chest in the middle of a magical attack. By their own coven leader . . . and elder sister.

Grief welled up again, and Liz blinked furiously against the tears. Evangelina’s death had hit all the sisters hard, but the four witch sisters had felt her death most deeply because they had also lost a coven leader, and by the foulest means—addiction to demons. Although the actual cause of death had been a knife blade to the torso, the Evangelina they had grown up with and practiced their craft with for their whole lives had been dead for months before that.

Liz sighed, feeling the weakness in her ribs, a slow, low-level pain, and pulled out a clean rag to wipe down the next table. She was polishing the final booth, standing by the front door, when the flashy red Thunderbird wheeled up and parked. It wasn’t a practical car for Asheville, but it was memorable, and that was what the driver wanted—to be known as an icon in her hometown. Liz huffed out a breath and called, “Cia! Company. And not the good kind.”

Her twin was by her side in a heartbeat. “Is that Layla? Too bad we don’t have access to Evie’s demon. It could eat her.”

“Not funny,” Liz said. The demon had eaten a few humans before it was sent back into the dark. “Maybe she’s changed since high school.”

“Once a bitch, always a bitch,” Cia said.

“What’s that she’s carrying?”

“A baby goat? What the—”

The door opened, and their archenemy from their high school years stepped in, bringing with her a cold spring wind through the airlock doors. Layla’s face was as beautiful as ever, which made Liz stiffen and Cia narrow her eyes. Layla was black-haired and pale-skinned and skinny and graceful and delicate and feminine and damn near perfect. In high school she’d been the leader of a cadre of girls who had all been gorgeous and popular, most of them cheerleaders. Unlike the Everharts, all of Layla’s pals had been human. And most of them had been mean. Now, just like in high school, the twins stood side by side, facing their enemy.

The inner doors swished closed after Layla and she stopped, standing with the poise of a model, slender and lovely, wearing a Ralph Lauren leather jacket, tailored pants, and a pair of bling-studded Manolo Blahnik ankle boots that were droolworthy. She stared at the twins across the small space and across the years. No one spoke. When the baby pygmy goat under Layla’s arm started to struggle, she soothed it with a gentle hand, and Liz felt Cia stiffen. Layla Shiffen should not be gentle.

“Boadecia Everhart and Elizabeth Everhart,” she said, the words sounding almost formulaic, her expression determined. “I require help.”

Cia crossed her arms and made a huffing sound. Liz dropped her rag and mimicked her sister.

The resolve on Layla’s face flickered. “I can pay. And I brought my own goat.”

Liz laughed, the sound slightly wheezing from her damaged lungs.

Cia said, “Help? For what.” It didn’t sound like a question—more like an accusation. Or a challenge. “And what does our help have to do with a goat?”

Layla shifted, her composure faltering again before her lips firmed in determination. “I need you to find my mother. The goat is for the sacrifice.”

“Sac—,” Liz started, then stopped.

“We don’t do blood magic,” Cia spat. She pointed at the door. “Get out.”

“But . . .” Layla’s eyes filled with tears. “But I need you. I said the words right. I researched how to say it.” She sobbed once. A real sob. Not like the fake sobs she’d used in the school play the year she had the lead in Romeo and Juliet. “I don’t have anyone else. The police can’t help. Or won’t. They say there’s no sign of foul play. They took a missing-person report and that’s all they’ll do,” she said, her words running together. “My mom’s in trouble. I know it. And I don’t know where to turn.” Tears fell across her perfect cheeks and dripped onto the silk scarf around her neck. “P-please.”

Neither twin reacted. They still stood side by side, staring and silent. Liz could feel the power building up under her twin’s skin, prickly and cold, like winter moonlight. It was slow to rise, with the moon beneath the horizon, but it was powerful magic, especially when she was angry. Their human sisters must have felt it, too. They stepped in through the archway opening from the herb shop, one with a shotgun held down by her leg. The other sister would be armed as well, non-magical, but deadly in the face of danger. One robbery was all it had taken for their human sisters to find a way to protect themselves. Liz shook her head at them, a minuscule motion.

“Big whoop,” Cia said. “I don’t like you. I remember too much.”

Layla’s face went all blotchy and red under her porcelain makeup. Her nose started running and she raised a wrist to wipe it, bringing the goat close to her. The goat butted her chin and made a soft bleating noise. She tucked the animal under her chin as if cuddling it and said, “Please. You have to help me.” She looked back and forth between them, her expression growing frantic. She clutched the baby goat to her chest. “You have to. It’s my mother.”

Liz felt Cia shudder faintly at the last word and knew that Layla had won, just like in high school. Nothing had changed since they were teens. “Son of a witch on a switch,” Cia cursed.

Liz sighed and waved their sisters off. Regan and Amelia both frowned, recognizing the woman and knowing her history with the witch twins. But they went back to the herb shop side of Seven Sassy Sisters, moving reluctantly and keeping an eye on the café. Both crises averted—magical and weapons fire—Liz dropped into a booth at the front window and pointed to the bench seat across the newly cleaned table. Liz had good reason to keep Cia busy and off the TV and Internet. Maybe this would do that. “Sit,” she said to Layla. “What’s your mother’s name and why do you think she’s in trouble?”

Layla sat, and settled the baby goat on her lap before reaching into her Bruno Magli Maddalena suede bag for a tissue and patting her face. Liz could almost feel Cia’s covetousness as her twin slid onto the bench seat, reestablishing the arm-to-arm, skin-to-skin contact. Of course, even if an Everhart could afford a bag that went for more than two thousand dollars new, none of the sisters would buy it. Maybe a vintage one in need of TLC and a little magical cleanup. Everharts were notoriously cheap. Covetous, but cheap. Liz nearly smiled.

“My mother is Evelyn McMann. She called me the day before yesterday on her way home from work. We ended the call when she locked the door behind her, just like always. It’s this”—Layla waved one hand in the air, as if searching for a word—“safety thing we do when Mom works late. She works for a developer, and late-night business meetings are common, as you might imagine.”

Liz had no idea what hours developers kept, but she nodded, understanding security measures.

“Her boss called the house the next morning. Mom had missed an important meeting. Which she never did. Never.”

Liz had to wonder if that had been a problem to Layla growing up. Maybe growing up second to the job.

“So I went by there. Mom’s house looked perfect, as always. Except her clothes, the ones she wore when we had lunch the day before, were scattered everywhere, like they’d been thrown. Carelessly. There is nothing careless about my mother. So I went to the police.” She wiped her face again. “And they made me wait until this morning to file a missing-person report. They think she was having a fling and took off with some man,” Layla said, her tone bitter. “My mother doesn’t have time for a man in her life. Trust me. She works fourteen hours a day. Every day. Always has.”

Cia nudged her, and Liz knew her twin was thinking along the same lines. Abandonment issues, much? It might explain a lot about Layla, growing up. Not that having issues made them forgive her. Not gonna happen.

“Her keys? Purse? Cell?” Liz asked.

“All on the floor with her clothes.” Fresh tears gathered in Layla’s eyes and she bent over the goat. It nudged her jaw and licked her chin. “I don’t know what to do. Can you help me? Can you find her?”

Cia and Liz shared looks that said, No. Yes. No. Maybe. No.

Layla eased the goat back into the crook of her arm, placed the expensive pocketbook on the table, and opened the flap. “I can pay.” She pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills and pushed it across the table toward them. Neither twin looked at the money, but they both saw it. More money than they made in tips in a month. Maybe two.

Cia’s magic rose again, like a wave at high tide, hard and powerful and angry. She leaned forward and said, “We can try. Trying is a flat fee of a thousand. Success is another two thousand. Nonnegotiable.” When Liz started to debate the amount, Cia said, “That’s Jane Yellowrock’s fee for a PI job. And she doesn’t have magic. And”—she looked hard at Layla—“if we get your mom back, the fee is required, no matter what shape your mom is in.”

Liz sucked in a slow, painful breath. Layla gasped, her face paling. The comment was blunt enough to be worthy of Jane Yellowrock herself, and the rogue-vampire hunter was honest to the point of being brusque. Cia meant that Layla’s mom could be dead. She was the gentler twin. Usually. Suddenly Liz remembered what it had felt like to be the brunt of Layla’s cruelty—the goading, the taunting. And that one time . . . In that single indrawn breath, the memory descended, full, complete, and awful.

“Boadecia,” Layla had hissed. “Stupid name for a stupid girl. Some people think the twins have some kind of power. I just think they’re ugly.” A shove, hidden from the teachers by the group of girls surrounding them. “Stupid and ugly. Ugly red hair and ugly freckles. When Mother Nature messes up, she messes up bad. She made two of them.” Another shove. A yank of hair.

The moon had been full that day, making Cia less stable, more reckless, like stormy waves on an icy ocean, pushed by a full-moon tide. Fear had grown up inside Liz, like frozen rocks hanging on a cliff face, ready to fall.

Not fear of the taunting girls, but fear of themselves, fear of losing control. Fear that one of them would erupt and pull the other into her magical reaction through the twin bond. Fear that they would misuse their gifts and pay the price. Then the bell had sounded. They had gotten away, barely, before one of them lost control and they hurt the girls.

Liz blew out her breath. Yeah. Okay. Cia was right. That girl who hurt them back in high school was the woman facing them. To an enemy, their services shouldn’t be offered as a gift freely given, the way they were supposed to be for one in need. “What she said. That’s our price.”

“No matter what,” Layla said. Her hands trembling, she counted out thirty hundred-dollar bills. “I pay up front. You do your best.” She stood, tucking the goat into the crook of her arm and soothing it with an absentminded caress.

“We need to see the house,” Cia said, her tone still hard. “We’ll need to take something your mother was wearing the day she disappeared. To do a working to find her.”

Layla opened her pocketbook and removed an expensive-looking pen and planner. She wrote her mother’s address down and tore off the sheet. Then she tossed down a business card, glossy and dark, with her contact info on it. “Call me.”

She turned on the heel of the Manolo and left the café, the icy spring wind whipping inside.

“She wanted us to sacrifice a goat kid.”

“She’s an idiot. She called us by our full names, as if we’re fae and can be commanded.”

“Not our full names,” Liz said.

“Nope. I’m not sure we ever told anyone our full names. But I’d kill for those boots,” Cia said.

“I’d fight you for them.”

Her twin gave her a hard slash of smile and said, “Good idea on Jane’s prices, huh?”

Liz nodded and opened her mouth to tell Cia that Jane Yellowrock was in town for the hearing about the day their sister died. About the day Jane had killed her to save human lives. But she closed it on the words. Some things needed to die peacefully, things like the memory of their sister being put out of her insane, raving, psychotic, demon-drunk misery on live TV. So far she had been able to keep the news from her twin. Why spoil it?

Cia handed Liz the address and card and said, “Let’s get set up for lunch. I have the kitchen, and while the soups aren’t demanding, the salads and bread are.” Cia sashayed toward the back. “As soon as we’re done here for the afternoon,” she added, “let’s go by the mom’s house and get this over with.”

“Evangelina never had trouble handling the kitchen,” Liz grumbled. “Why can’t we get the knack? We need to hire a chef.”

“On it,” Cia said from behind the kitchen bar. “Résumés in a stack.” She waved a sheaf of papers in the air. “Maybe we should have a cook-off.”

Liz snorted and headed to the back to wash the breakfast dishes. A café didn’t run by itself.

* * *

The Subaru idled at the curb as the twins studied the house. It was a small home in the Montford Historic District, two-story, traditional, steeply gabled, slate-roofed, painted in shades of charcoal, pale gray, and white. The windows were new, triple-paned replacements, glinting in the cold sunlight. The winter plantings were tasteful, and a batch of early spring jonquils pushed up through the soil on the south side of the house. The white picket fence was newly painted. The bare branches of a small oak tree stretched over the Lexus parked in the short gravel drive.

“Looks okay,” Liz said.

“Looks expensive.”

“Is expensive. Probably goes for nearly seven-fifty in today’s market.” Liz could see her sister adding the necessary zeros to her housing cost figure.

“We could buy a place,” Cia said. “Not this nice, but we could buy a place somewhere else. We have the money from Evie’s estate. If we combined it—”

“No way. When you marry that guitar-playing, long-haired hippie you’re dating and start having all the six kids he wants, what happens to me?”

“You get to babysit, Sis.”

“Babysitting I can handle. It’s life as a live-in nanny I’m not interested in.”

“That long-haired hippie is rich as Midas. If Ray and I get married someday, we’ll get our own place and you can have our house.” Cia sounded part smug, part smitten, part unsure, the way she always did when she talked about Ray, the country singer who had fallen head over heels the first time he saw her and who had made a habit of sending flowers and candy and presents to get her attention.

A red car passed them slowly. “She’s here.” Liz couldn’t hide the bitterness in her words.

The vintage T-bird rolled into the drive and nestled into the small space behind the Lexus. When their archenemy stepped from the car, she was once again holding the baby goat. And it was wearing a diaper. Cia breathed out a giggle, but oddly, Layla didn’t look ridiculous. More like a socialite with a chic, pampered lapdog. Lap goat. Liz resisted a smile.

“Does it look to you like she’s making a pet of the kid?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Cia said. Unspoken but understood was the phrase that’s weird. “Can you house-train them?”

“No. And they’ll eat literally anything and everything. Shoes. Fancy pocketbooks.”

Cia laughed softly and shared a glance, both of them imagining the scene of the goat eating the pricey bag. Layla screaming and stomping her feet.

“And their poop stinks. Like, really bad,” Liz added.

“I see a rude awakening on the horizon,” Cia said with barely restrained glee. “Hope it’s today so I can watch.”

They got out of their car and moved across the street to the house, Cia in front, as if to protect her weaker sister. Cia’s dress blew back in the slow wind, the shifting shades of color mimicking the silver-pinkish hues of moonlight on orchids. She wore a long vintage wool coat from the sixties, gray with tan lapel and cuffs, unbuttoned so the dress would show. Her red hair, dyed to a deep wine, was pulled into a chignon that looked smooth and chic. Her boots, never worn until today—never worn despite her boot fetish—struck the pavement with steady force. She looked classy and quirky and expensive, like the rich man’s toy that Ray might want to make her.

Cia hadn’t been wearing the Old Gringo boots, the coat, or the moonlight dress when they left the house this morning. The pricey buff-colored boots, hand-stitched with scarlet dragons climbing each side, had been Ray’s gift, one she hadn’t felt like she could wear, and she had kept them in the box, under her bed. Until today. She had put aside her uncertainty about accepting Ray’s present to show off to Layla.

Liz looked down at her own well-worn hiking boots, old jeans, and warm sweater crocheted by Evangelina last winter, before she started consorting with demons. It wasn’t often that the twins’ clothing choices were so dissimilar.

She frowned, not liking the change in her sister but powerless to affect it. The fear reaction to the loss of Evangelina had been stimulating Cia’s aggressive tendencies for months, and this close to the full moon, Liz was going to be able only to mitigate her twin’s reaction, not stop it. Getting through the loss of their sister would take time, and though it might be helped along by Liz getting well and strong again, that wasn’t going to happen overnight.

Liz followed in Cia’s wake, walking more slowly, taking in the house the way she had seen their friend—if their sister’s killer could be called that—Jane Yellowrock do. None of the perfectly placed rocks beside the drive had been moved out of position. No leaves had been allowed to catch in the nooks and crannies of roots and winter plants. The gravel beside the Lexus looked undisturbed, no signs of struggle anywhere.

The small front porch where Layla waited was freshly painted and the door was locked. Liz made sure to search for signs of problems, like, say, a size twelve boot print and a busted door, or overturned flowerpots. There was nothing. “Wait,” Liz said. She walked around the porch, tilting back the clay pots until she found the extra key. Brass, shiny, looking new, it sat on the painted boards, an invitation of sorts. It had taken her less than fifteen seconds to find it. If anyone had wanted inside, they could have unlocked the door and walked in with no trouble. Layla looked horrified, her eyes wide.

“I’m going to walk around the house,” Liz said, planting the key in Layla’s palm.

Cia stared hard at her for a moment and then nodded in understanding. “Yeah. Okay.” Leaving Layla—who entered the house without them—Liz led the way and Cia followed, her boots drumming on the carefully placed stepping-stones that ringed the house. The yard to the left side of the house was shadowed, chilly, and narrow, and the gate in the picket fence at the back edge of the house was unlocked. There were no broken windows or any obvious damage. The backyard was deeper than it was wide, and not fenced. Deer tracks and scat indicated that wildlife was welcome out back. The back door was closed, locked, and looked undisturbed. There were no broken windows that a kidnapper or burglar might have used.

On the south side of the house there was a small greenhouse filled with bags of soil, fertilizer, and yard tools, and a gate, identical to the one on the other side. It too was unlocked, with only a tiny catch. Near the front corner of the house was the patch of green pushing up through the soil, the jonquils looking cheerful.

“Nothing,” Cia said.

“Yeah.” They went back up the short flight of steps to the door and it opened before they could knock, Layla watching through the door’s leaded-glass window. She stepped aside and the twins entered, drawing together, as usual, in the unfamiliar place.

The air was warm inside, the heat at a comfortable level, not a lower setting. Most people might decrease the setting of the central heat when planning an extended out-of-town stay, and the comfortable temps seemed significant. Liz unbuttoned her sweater and tucked her hands into her jeans pockets, thinking about fingerprints. Even though she wasn’t looking, Cia put her hands in her jacket pockets, too. Twin stuff.

The house had wide-board hardwood floors, creamy painted walls hung with framed art, painted floor moldings and ceiling moldings. Ten-foot ceilings. Antique furniture juxtaposed with designer pieces. The living room boasted an Oriental rug in wine and blues to match the navy leather couch and burgundy upholstered chairs. The dining room sported navy-and-wine-striped fabric on the dining chairs and a floral rug under the antique table for ten. Perfect. The kitchen was clean, not a dish out of place on the granite-topped cabinets. The stovetop looked as if it had never been used.

Liz pointed up the stairs and Layla shrugged. The twins went up alone and found two guest rooms with a Jack-and-Jill bath between, and a sewing room/craft room/extra super-neat junk room behind a closed door. Theirs were the only footprints on the neutral carpet. Having learned nothing, they went back downstairs.

The house was free of dust, piles of mail, and accumulated rubbish. There were no coats tossed over chair backs. No shoes in a corner or slippers by the front door or gloves on a side table. No clutter. The framed art consisted of impersonal prints that a decorator might have chosen. There were no photos or mementos anywhere. No plants to water. No dog or cat bowls. The house was something for a magazine shoot, not a place to relax, to live.

Until Layla, still silent and watching them with curious and sober eyes, led them into the master suite. Which was totally different.

The suite looked like it had been hit by a whirlwind. The king-sized bed was unmade, the covers and comforter in a heap on the floor. Clothes were everywhere. A bottle of wine was open on a side table near a sitting area, a single long-stemmed glass beside it. Wine ringed the glass, partially evaporated. One glass. Not two, as one might expect if she’d met a man, had a tryst, and taken off with him, as the police seemed to think. Jewelry was in a pile on the bureau, diamonds and gold. A lot of both. The marble bath en suite was clean and untouched, Evelyn’s makeup in a white leather travel case, open but well organized, the contents in sizes accepted by airlines and strict travel security. Larger sizes of shampoos, conditioners, and lotions were arranged in a cabinet that Liz opened with a pocketed hand. Towels were perfectly folded, as were washcloths. Even the laundry basket’s contents were already separated, colors in one side, whites in the other.

“Everything is neat. As close to perfect as it’s possible to be and still be a real home. But the bedroom?” Liz said, making it a question as she walked back into that room.

“It’s never looked like this before. Ever,” Layla said grimly. “My mother is OCD about her stuff. Impossibly OCD.”

Another reason to think that Layla had not had a cheery childhood.

Liz took in the room’s disarray. The clothes on the floor seemed weird somehow, as if they had been dropped in a circle. As if Evelyn had stood in the middle of the room and turned slowly around, dropping her clothes as she undressed. Grabbing the bedcovers and pulling them with her, then dropping them, too. The fabrics and clothing formed a spiral.

To get a better feel for the layout, Liz stepped inside the bare space on the floor and turned around. Yeah. A spiral. Facing one corner of the room, Evelyn had started disrobing while turning in a slow circle, releasing her clothes in a nearly circular, doughnut-shaped pile. Coat, then scarf, gloves, jacket, shirt, bra, boots, dress pants, leggings, and undies, dropped in that order. “Except . . . ,” Liz said, studying the clothing, “there’s only one boot.”

Cia, who had been watching, walked slowly around the room, checking corners. Her hands still in her pockets, she opened the door beside the bath to reveal a huge walk-in closet. She flipped the light switch, illuminating the rows of designer clothes, arranged by color and season. “What kind of boot?” she asked.

Liz bent and studied it. “Christian Louboutin, a five-inch spike-heeled black suede boot with fringe down the back seam. Size six and a half. A right boot.” Liz almost smiled, feeling her sister’s desire through the air and the twin bond. Cia loved boots. Like, really loved them. It was a miracle she hadn’t worn her boyfriend’s gift until today. She owned dozens of vintage boots, which took up most of the closet floor in their rental house. And they both wore size six and a half.

“No single left boot in here,” Cia said, “by any designer.” The light clicked off.

Liz tilted her head, studying the fringed boot and the floor beneath it. “There’s something under it.” Using only forefinger and thumb, Liz lifted the boot and knelt to see the floor. Beneath the boot, there was a small spatter of . . . dried blood. The drops were so tiny she might have missed them had she not looked extra closely. But blood could mean either foul play or black magic used against the missing woman. And either one would mean that this was a police case—local human law enforcement or PsyLED, the Psychometry Law Enforcement Division.

They would have to give the money back. Liz drooped. She had, unconsciously, already made plans for that money.

Cia said, “Got something here.”

Liz looked up and found her sister standing in front of a glass case that displayed collectibles, expensive stuff like bronze statues and porcelain figurines. Cia was holding a short black ribbon, and from it dangled a small lacquered figure about an inch high.

Even from where she knelt on the floor Liz could tell it was black magic. Blood magic. Liz looked back at the spatter. Softly, she said, “Damn.”

“What?” Layla asked.

The twins looked at each other, communicating silently.

“What?” Layla demanded, a note of panic in her voice. The goat under her arm bleated in fright and pain; Layla relaxed the grip she had on it and set it on the floor. The baby goat thundered off on unsteady legs, its little hooves a tattoo of noise as it raced out of the room and down the hall. Probably scuffing the expensive wood. Evelyn would have a cow—to go along with her daughter’s goat. If she lived to see it.

“Tell me,” Layla said, calmer.

“You know how we said we don’t do blood magic?” Cia asked.

Layla nodded, drawing the lapels of her leather coat closed over her chest.

“Well, this is blood magic,” Cia said. To Liz she added, “Carved horn. It looks like a set of tiny carved elk horns, layered with blood from past workings.”

Liz set the boot back where she had found it and stepped out of the circle, orienting herself to the north by feel and the position of the sun beyond the windows. The figurine case was on due north and matched the exact spot where Evelyn had started to disrobe. As if the figurine case were the number twelve on a clockface, Liz moved clockwise through the room. At about two o’clock, she found another of the little charms, this one tacked to the back of a dainty upholstered chair. She lifted the charm just as Cia had done and studied the carved figure. “This one’s a tiny knife, carved from old bloodstained ivory.”

“What does it mean?” Layla demanded, her voice cold.

Cia moved to the number five on the clockface and lifted another charm. “This one is an owl, some kind of stone.”

“Bloodstone,” Liz said with a glance, feeling the stone resonate with her own magic. She took the next point, between seven and eight. There she found and lifted a charm that looked like a tooth. She held it in the light at the window and said, “A wolf tooth. A real one.”

Cia nodded and moved to the number ten. This charm, unlike the others, wasn’t hanging from a thin black ribbon. It was nestled in the pile of expensive jewelry Evelyn had been wearing. “Ivory again,” Cia said. “Probably walrus. It’s scrimshaw attached to her bracelet with a silver link.”

It all fit. And it was all bad. “The boot’s in the middle of the pentagram. There’s a splatter of blood under it.”

“Middle of what?” Layla asked. “How did you know where to find those things?” Inherent in her question was the accusation that the Everhart witches had put them there.

“They were on the points of a pentagram, the geometric shape that allows a witch coven to contain their power and safely do workings,” Cia said. “Once you discover the north point of the five-pointed star, you can find the rest based on the angles and the size of the working space.”

“High school geometry,” Liz said softly, remembering that Layla had been in their geometry class. The twins had excelled at geometry. Layla, not so much.

“The charms have nothing in common,” Cia said, “except the fact that they seem to have old blood on them. That lack of similarity of matrix—meaning that some are biological items that an earth witch might use, and some are stone—combined with the old blood, and the fresher blood in the middle, suggest that a blood witch set up a conjure in this room and triggered it.”

“Your mother didn’t run off,” Liz said. “Or at least not of her own free will.”

“Your mother was kidnapped by a practitioner of the black arts,” Cia said grimly.

“With a spell,” Liz said. “And if we’re reading it right, she was taken from the middle of this room.”

“What?” Layla said, pulling her coat tighter, the seams stretching, her face white. “Like, transported out? Like Star Trek?” Her voice rose. “You can do that?”

“We can’t,” Cia said.

“And we’ve never met a practitioner who can.”

“The police won’t believe it,” Cia said.

“No. But Layla will need to tell them. Get them back here, get them working a kidnapping case with witchcraft elements. They’ll call PsyLED and get someone in here to read the room with a psy-meter.”

“PsyLED? How long will that take?” Layla asked, seeming to understand that it would take far too much time. That her mother might not survive long enough for law enforcement to find her.

“We could do a finding,” Cia said with a faint shrug, holding Liz’s gaze, “like we planned.”

“It just won’t be easy.” Liz pointed to the clothes on the floor. “But the left boot is missing. She was likely wearing it when she was taken.”

“We could find the left boot with the right one. Give the cops something to go on.”

“Or figure it out before they even get started on the case.”

The twins turned to Layla as one and said, almost in unison, “It’s up to you.”

“What’s up to me?” she demanded.

“If we take the boot and keep working to find your mom,” Cia said, “or return your money and let the cops take over.”

Layla looked back and forth between them, her breath coming too fast between perfectly parted lips. “I guess my mother stands the best chance of being found with both the police and you working to find her.” On that happy note, the goat raced back down the hallway and skittered to a halt in front of Layla, her hooves dancing.

Her diaper filled the room with goat-poop stink.

Layla gagged softly.

Cia giggled.

* * *

The sisters couldn’t do the finding inside the house, not without both contaminating any remaining magical energies left over from the blood magic spell and also maybe having their own working skewed or corrupted by the black magic. More magic on the scene would tick off any PsyLED investigator. It might also alert the blood magic witch. To be safe, the twins had to start somewhere else, which meant interviews, phone calls, and computer research. They had seen Jane Yellowrock track down a missing person. They had an idea of basic electronic investigative methodology, if not access to the specialized databases that the security specialist used.

Rather than further contaminate a crime scene, the girls retired to Layla’s exquisite three-bedroom Weirbridge Village apartment. It was one of the luxury corner units, and like Layla herself, the apartment was elegant and refined. Unlike her mother’s place, Layla’s home looked lived in, yet was still spotless. Early training in perfection had paid off in a neat freak.

Though painfully worried about her mother—or maybe to keep occupied—Layla served them colas and pita chips and softened Brie with fresh grapes on the side. And gave them access to her electronic tablets and an older laptop and her phone while her stinky goat raced around the apartment on tap-tapping hooves that had to be driving the people on the floor beneath crazy.

Between talking to Layla, talking to Evelyn’s office assistant (in a phone call placed by Layla when they asked), and doing a bit of Internet research, the Everhart sisters discovered quite a bit. In just ninety minutes, they had a good solid lead on where to cast their working.

The property development firm that Evelyn worked for—Mayhew Developments—specialized in turning mountain properties into ski resorts, hotels, and vacation resorts. According to the county planning board, Evelyn was in the middle of helping her boss to develop some of his family’s property north of Asheville into what was expected to be his signature project—upscale, exclusive, lavish.

According to the assistant, the property had been in the Mayhew family for nearly 120 years, and once actually boasted a town, Mayhew Downs. All that was left of the town today were a few foundation stones and a graveyard. And, most important, the property was the last stop Evelyn had made on her way home the evening she disappeared.

“That has Bingo written all over it,” Cia said.

“So, you’ll go to the property,” Layla said, sounding uncertain.

“Yeah, and you’ll call PsyLED,” Liz said, eating the last grape, “and then the local cops again. Tell PsyLED that you’ve called the cops, and tell the cops that you called PsyLED. Competition will make them more likely to get in there fast.”

“When?” Layla asked. At the twins’ uncomprehending expressions, she said, “When do you go to the property? To do the working?”

“Dusk,” Cia said.

Liz thought about the season and the moon cycle and realized that the moon would be over the horizon at dusk. Cia would be at her strongest then. “Yeah. We need to be on-site an hour before that.” She pulled her cell, checked the time, and said to Cia, “Which means we need to leave now.” To Layla she said, “We’ll call when we know something. It might be just a directional thing or it might be a firm address. Or it might not work at all.”

“Okay. I’d rather go with.”

“No,” the twins said in unison.

“No observers,” Cia added. “Makes us nervous.”

* * *

The mountain view was spectacular through the bare branches, but the cold wind barreling up the steep slope was cutting. They weren’t wearing heavy clothes, but like most mountain dwellers, their vehicle emergency supplies included small blankets, which they wrapped around their shoulders while they surveyed the site, and an extra pair of sneakers and sweatpants, which Cia pulled on under her dress. The dress, sneakers, coat, purple sweats, and green plaid blanket looked moderately ludicrous, especially with the hot pink backpack on her shoulders, strapped over it all. Not that Liz would say so.

There weren’t many undeveloped places left around Asheville, especially not with so much open acreage. The nearly six hundred open, unforested acres were obviously perfect for a ski slope, and the old town would be rebuilt with classic rentals for boutiques, shopping, and restaurants. The small graveyard would be an attraction for people on romantic walks or more energetic hikes.

“Doesn’t it strike you as strange that this hasn’t been developed already?” Cia asked.

“Yeah. Kinda weird.” Liz pulled her blanket close against the cold wind and eyed the foundation stones and mostly rotten boards peeking through the weeds. “This property has been in his family for over a hundred years. Mayhew could have been making good money on it all this time, and yet he let it sit here, unused.” She pointed to an open area with a flat space between the young trees. “That looks like a good spot. Ground looks smooth and not very rocky. No trees, nothing to get in the way of making or holding a circle.”

Cia checked the tree height and the position of the horizon. The moon was just starting to rise and the daylight was going. “Okay.” She struggled out of the backpack and set it in the middle of the open space. Liz found a sturdy stick and jammed it in the ground in the center of the clearing. Tying a ten-foot length of string to the branch, Liz held the other end and walked a near-perfect circle, dragging one heel in the soft loam. Then she cut the string in half and walked a smaller circle. Building circles in the earth was second nature to a stone witch, but with Liz’s ribs still healing, the twins had switched their jobs around. Liz could start a circle, but when they had to dig a trench into the earth, Cia now had to finish it. And Liz kept her dismay at no longer building the circles in their entirety to herself.

Half of being a witch was knowing the math. Half was practice. Half was gift. And half was instinct. At least that was the way it worked being twins and having four halves. When they had come into their gifts, at puberty, within two days of each other, the sisters were painfully surprised to discover that they had different gifts. Liz’s gift had awakened two days before the full moon, and she was drawn instantly to the rock garden behind her sister’s trailer home. Not for the plants but for the stones. Granite from the skin of the mountain had formed a large nodule there, and Molly, an earth witch, had carried in soil and planted the rocky area with native plants and ferns. Liz walked out of her sister’s small trailer and stretched out across the rock as if sucking power right out of the mountain.

Three nights later, at the height of the full moon, Cia had been taken by her own gift. Her transition was more difficult. She crawled out of bed and disappeared. The next morning, Molly called in Jane Yellowrock to find her. Jane discovered Cia sitting in the middle of a stream on a downed tree, staring up at the night sky, transfixed by the waning moon. She had been scratched, bruised, had two broken toes, and was badly dehydrated, still caught in moon madness. Over time Cia had gained more control over her attraction to the moon and the power that flooded her when it was high in the sky. Well, usually. Liz still sometimes found her outside, staring up at the sky, but she was more often wearing slippers and a warm robe.

It had taken the twins months to come to terms with their very different gifts, but now they worked together like the gears of a clock (even when their jobs changed because of health issues), meshing their powers seamlessly.

With a small foldable shovel that she kept in the backpack, Cia scored the circles deeper, cutting them into the earth, while Liz found true north and put a lantern there—once Cia’s job. Any candles used outside would be extinguished, but the special hurricane lantern (with one mirrored side to increase and direct the light) was made to survive high winds. Liz lit the wick with a match, turned it so the flame was pointed toward the center of the circle, and placed cushions on the cold ground, then took the one that faced away from the horizon and the rim of moon. As she waited, she unbraided her hair and let it fall to her shoulders. Unlike Cia, Liz hadn’t dyed her hair, going instead for blondish streaks. Identical twins didn’t have to be totally identical.

Cia finished building the circles and sat across from Liz, facing the rising moon and letting her own hair down from the chignon. She closed her eyes and breathed, as the moon’s power refreshed and filled her. Liz took off her gloves and dug into the earth, placing her hands into the skin of the mountain, sending her gift penetrating deep, searching for great stones in the heart of the mountain, stones she could use to focus her gift. There were many here, broken and fractured and split, and others whole, rounded, and solid, made of magma that had pushed up and cooled. They were rich with power, energies so strong that they seemed to reach up and sizzle into her bones. Liz took a deep breath and the power flowed into the healing spell that Cia had set in place. Instantly the residual pain in her ribs was . . . gone. “Whoa,” Liz breathed.

When they were both settled, Cia opened the backpack and handed Liz her necklace—forty-two inches of large, polished nuggets strung on heavy-duty beading wire. Liz placed the necklace over her head and wrapped it around her neck, doubling it. Cia did the same thing with her own necklace, one made from moonstones that had been left out in the night air to charge with moon power. Both necklaces were new, and the twins were still getting used to them. Their old ones had been destroyed in the battle with Evangelina, when their elder sister had tried to kill them—and nearly succeeded with Liz, when the demon-smitten coven leader dropped a boulder on her chest.

Knowing her twin’s thoughts, Cia said, “Don’t,” her tone stern.

“Yeah,” Liz said, shaking off the dark feelings. “I know. Sorry.”

“Powering the outer circle.” Cia touched her necklace and then touched the ground. This was a simple working, and when the moon was high, they could draw on Cia’s power and muscle their way through it rather than do the math. Moon power was useless twelve hours a day and three full days a month, but anywhere near the full moon, outside, with the moon up, magic was so-o-o easy.

“Cuir tús le,” Cia said, which, loosely translated, was Irish Gaelic for begin. Her moon gift raced from her hands around the outer circle. Power flowed across them both like mist in the moonlight, chill, thick, intense.

Far more intense than it should have been. Both twins gasped. “Come to mama,” Cia murmured, delighted. “Oh . . . yes . . .”

Liz took a breath; the moon power flared against her lungs and out through her fingertips, into the ground and the stones below. The mountain seemed to sigh with satisfaction. “What was that?” she whispered, shivering with the might of it.

Cia didn’t answer, just let her head fall back so the moon could bathe her face with its power. The circle was strong and heavy, more like what a full moon circle had been back when they’d had Evangelina to center them and direct their gifts to a specific purpose. The power was so unexpected that Liz might have worried, but the circle was steady, with no indication of problems, like flares or weak spots. She shook off her momentary apprehension.

Night fell around them, gray with newness and soft with the coming spring. The air cooled and the updraft winds of nightfall blew across the clearing, lifting their red hair. It was peaceful, and if they hadn’t needed to work, they could have stayed like this for hours.

“Feels good,” Cia murmured.

“Yeah. I can tell. Just don’t get moon-drunk. We have work to do.”

“Mmmm. I’m good. Put the boot in the inner circle.”

Liz put the boot in place and Cia touched the inner circle. Her moon power flared and enclosed the boot. Liz put her hands into the soil and said, “Evelyn Janice McMann, a lorg.” The words a lorg formed the name of a working that had been in their family for centuries, a working holding the power for a seeking spell in the simple words.

“Evelyn Janice McMann,” Cia said, “taken by blood and darkness and death most foul, we seek you. A lorg.”

“A lorg,” Liz repeated. “We seek to know your place. Show us where you are.”

In the center circle the boot slid to the side, up against the slightly piled earth and the ring of energy. Liz opened her mouth in warning. Before she could get the single word out, the boot slid out of the powered circle. Which was not supposed to happen. Liz reached into the earth, pulled might from the buried, stony heart of the mountain, and sent more power into the inner circle, firming it.

Cia’s brows came together as she felt the imbalance and the resulting change of the power levels. “What’s happening?” she whispered.

There was a pop, like the sound of displaced air. And the inner circle was suddenly crowded, two people lying in the small space. Liz blinked. And the figures were still there. “Oh. Oh. Ummm, Cia?”

Cia opened her eyes and looked at the circle. She made a little breath of surprise. “Well. Would you look at that.”

That was a black-haired woman in a black nightgown, an older version of Layla—without a doubt her mother—and another woman, a copper-skinned woman wearing a dress from the previous century. Or maybe the one before that. They were curled up on a blanket like two puppies, asleep.

“She’s wearing a bustle,” Cia breathed.

“And the left boot we just called for.”

“And she has fangs. Big vampire fangs.”

The bustled vampire opened her eyes. Looked lost for a moment. And then she screamed. Cia lifted her hands to the moon and shouted, “Hedge of thorns!” The inner circle glowed red with silver motes of power. The warding sank into the earth, deep as the mountain’s heart, as Liz drew from the depths and pumped more power into it. The hedge drew in overhead, a long oval-shaped ellipse of power, as Cia wove it closed with moonlight.

The vamp dove at Liz, but struck the ward. She bounced off and screamed again, this time a high-pitched keening that hurt their ears. Then she saw the right boot—the Christian Louboutin, its five-inch spike heel angled away, its black suede toe not quite touching the hedge. She dropped to the ground, her hands pressing against the earth, and leaned forward until her nose nearly touched the hedge. “I want. Mine!” She tried to grab the boot and screamed when her hand came into contact with the hedge, its gray/silver sparks jumping out at her.

She looked at Cia and her fangs snicked back into the roof of her mouth. Her pupils stayed wide in scarlet sclera, however, and Liz thought she remembered that vamped-out eyes were a bad thing. Lack of control? A case of the crazies? A case of uncontrolled and unfulfilled hunger? Something bad, whatever it was.

“It bit me,” the vampire said, pointing to the hedge. “Make it stop. Make it go away.”

Cia moistened her dry lips with her tongue and swallowed. “Can’t,” she said softly.

The vampire pointed at the boot. “My shoe. Give it to me.”

“Can’t,” Cia said again.

The vampire cocked her head at a weird angle, like something a bird could do but not a human. She spotted the human in the ring with her, and pointed to the woman. “She was wearing them when she came to steal my land. I took them and I took her, but . . .” Bloody tears welled in her eyes. “But I lost one.” The vamp bent over Evelyn. Faster than Liz’s eyes could follow, the vamp yanked the woman into her arms, shoved her head back, and bit down on her neck. And started sucking. On the vamp’s feet were a pair of old, tattered, lace-up short boots from the nineteen hundreds. They had once been very fancy shoes. On the blanket beside her were other shoes, all expensive—made with lace, and woven with beads, satins, and tooled leathers.

Liz, still frozen in place, analyzed the vamp and their quarry. Evelyn was emaciated and paler than the moonlight, her skin a grayish hue. Black circles ringed her eyes. Her veins were dark blue in her pale skin, and her tendons stood out starkly in the dim light. She looked as if she’d had no food or drink in days, probably since she’d been abducted. Humans could live for forty-eight to seventy-two hours without fluid. That time period was based on their being healthy to start with, and not if they were being used as a juice box by a vamp. Evelyn moaned, a harsh sound full of desire and need. She was blood-drunk—the chemicals in vampire saliva and blood, and a vamp’s ability to mesmerize victims, were working like a drug on her mind. She had no idea where she was or what was happening. She wouldn’t be helping to save herself.

And she was caught in a magical trap with an insane vampire with a shoe fetish. In the circle, the vamp withdrew her fangs, curled around her prey, and closed her eyes.

Cia whispered softly, “If Evelyn dies, will she rise as an unwilling, insane vampire?” Liz didn’t reply, and Cia said, “We have to do something.”

Without thinking, Liz said, “Think she’d trade Evelyn for the other boot?”

Cia giggled, a slightly hysterical sound, cut off quickly. She pressed her hands to her mouth, as if to shut down the inappropriate laughter.

Liz shook her head, pushing away the horror and the realization that there was an important truth she had kept from her twin. Earlier it hadn’t mattered. Now it did, and Cia would be pissed. Her mouth dry, Liz took the plunge, saying, “We could . . . call Jane.”

“She’s in New Orleans. She’s too far away. We need to figure out who the vamp is and who to call to take care of this. Unwilling feeding, kidnap. It’s got to be against vampire law.”

“No. Jane’s in town. She’s here.”

Cia’s eyes found her across the circles, the feeding vampire, and her victim. “What did you say?”

“I said, Jane’s in town. For the inquiry into Evangelina’s death.”

Cia’s hair rose in an unseen wind. At the sight of it, chills ran down Liz’s arms and into the ground through her icy fingertips. “And you didn’t think I needed to know this?” Cia asked, her words low, full of threat.

“Do you remember taking the heavy dishpan out of my arms this morning?”

“What? What does that have to do with anything? I took it because you’re still weak.”

“And right now the moon is full. And you’re more powerful but less stable. So, just like you took the dishpan, I kept the news off and you busy so you wouldn’t have to deal with it right now. I was trying to help.” Cia didn’t reply. Liz said, “We’ve got two problems here. One—a blood witch who helped to kidnap a human female. Two—a vampire snacking on that human female. It’s our responsibility to take care of the witch. Jane takes care of vampires. It’s her job, and as the Enforcer for the master of the southeastern USA, it’s her responsibility.”

The power wind lifting Cia’s hair settled slowly, the dark red strands falling around her shoulders, which slumped. Her eyes filled with tears as she came back to herself, found her center, and put it all together. “Ohhh . . . damn,” she muttered. She took a ragged breath. “Evangelina was our responsibility, but we let Jane handle it. We were cowards. It was our job and we . . . let Jane . . .” Cia took a slow breath, Liz mirroring the action. Liz could almost see the moon power waver across the circle between them. “We let her kill our sister for us.”

Cia lifted a hand and pointed at the hedge of thorns ward, saying, “Ní mór fós i bhfeidhm,” which was Irish Gaelic for “Must remain in place.”

Liz felt the power of the mountain shoot up through the ground and the moon power smash into the earth, securing the hedge of thorns ward in place. Her sister’s casual use of power when working beneath the moon was a wonderful and frightening thing. But this time it felt wrong. Too potent.

“Something about this place,” Cia said, rubbing her upper arms against the chill.

“Yeah. This was too easy.”

“We actually transported a vampire and her victim out of her lair and into our circle with a simple find spell. I’m good and all,” Cia said, looking up at the black sky, “but I’m not this good.”

“Me neither.” They had until sunrise to figure out what to do. At sunrise the vamp would burn to death. And from the look of her, by sunrise, Evelyn would be long dead.

Thoughtfully, Cia closed the outer circle, and the twins walked to the car.

* * *

Back at the Subaru, they had a good signal and Liz dialed Jane on her cell. Cia went to work on her tablet, researching the property they were on to see if she could discover why the power levels were so strong.

“Yellowrock,” she answered.

“It’s Liz.” Jane didn’t say anything. Jane didn’t say much of anything at the best of times, and this couldn’t be one of them. “I know we need to talk about Evie, and about family and about . . . stuff, and all, but, well, Cia and I were hired to do a finding spell for a missing woman, who turned out to have been kidnapped in the middle of a blood magic spell, and now we have a psychotic vampire and her kidnapped dinner—that missing human woman—stuck in a hedge of thorns spell on the side of a mountain.”

Jane chuckled. She actually laughed. “Why is this funny?” Liz demanded.

“You Everharts are . . . interesting.” Which was marginally better than other things Jane might have said.

“Fine. You have any advice?”

“Yeah. Send your GPS to my cell. Stay put. Asheville’s heir and I’ll be there as fast as we can.”

“Liz? Don’t hang up,” Cia said, holding her hand out for the phone. Liz passed it to her, and Cia said, “Jane, we’re on a site that used to be called Mayhew Downs, about a hundred twenty years ago. That didn’t seem important until our magic was a lot more powerful than it should have been. So I went back online to the history site and discovered that there was this big mystery about the town in the 1890s. The town was fine one day. By the next week, all the inhabitants had disappeared. Which is weird, right?”

Liz heard Jane grunt an affirmative.

“So I looked through all the daguerreotypes on the site and one shows the mayor and his wife—who is a dead ringer—pardon the pun—for the vampire trapped in our circle.”

“Hold.” The cell muted. When it came back on, the background noise had changed and they were clearly on speakerphone. Jane asked, “How did you get directed to that mountain?”

“By a Christian Louboutin boot, a five-inch spike-heeled black suede with fringe down the back seam. Size six and a half. It’s a right boot, and it was left in the middle of the missing woman’s apartment,” Liz said.

“Huh. And how do you know the spell that took her was a blood ceremony?”

“Blood magic charms in her bedroom.”

“Hold,” she said again. A moment later Jane came back on and practically snarled, “Do not get out of the car. Do not go back to the circle. Send me the coordinates. We’ll be there as fast as we can.”

The connection ended, and Liz sent the directions before putting her phone away. Outside, the black of night was filled with shifting shadows and a pale gray fog. “Did the vamp empty the town?” Liz asked, as much to hold off the night as to communicate with her twin. “Where did all the people go? And why?”

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling it has something to do with why our magic was so strong tonight.” Cia reached over and took her sister’s hand.

* * *

A little over ninety minutes later, Cia nudged her and Liz came awake with a start. “Lights.” Three, no, four sets of headlights were winding up the mountain, a line of cars that—even in the dark—looked heavy and powerful. “Is that what I think it is?” Liz asked.

Cia said nothing, but her grip on Liz’s hand tightened.

The cars pulled in and parked in a half circle around them; the engines went off and the headlights went dark. There was nothing sinister in the positioning of the vehicles, but Liz’s palms grew itchy. Sitting in the Subaru felt vaguely like being at the end of a net that was about to close. Forms emerged from the cars, gliding forms that moved with a predatory grace. “Vampires,” Cia whispered.

“And Jane.”

The security specialist was dressed in black jeans, a black vest with a white shirt that gleamed in the moonlight, and a silver gray designer jacket. Black high-heeled boots made her even taller than her usual six feet, and her shoulders looked more powerful than Liz remembered. Jane had always been painfully slender, but she had packed on muscle. She looked good. And then Liz saw the holster on her chest and the knives on her thighs. And the silver stakes twisted in her long black hair, braided, upswept, shining in the moonlight.

She tapped on the window and Liz opened the door, letting in the chill night. The twins stepped out and closed the doors. The mountain was silent, except for the sough of the rising wind. The vampires were spread out around them, and Liz once again had the feeling of being prey.

“You Everharts discovered something the vamps want hushed up,” Jane said without prelude. “They’re willing to bargain for your silence.”

The sisters shared a glance across the car. Cia looked frightened and Liz held out her hand. Cia fairly flew around the car to her and slid an arm around her. Instantly Liz felt better. They were witches. They were wearing their necklaces, and the stones were full of stored power. Together they were stronger than this line of vampires. “We’ll bargain, but only if they can save the human woman.”

Jane looked at the vampires, at two in particular. Liz clenched inside. She had lived in Asheville all her life, and she had never been in the presence of the blood master or his heir. Now, the two stood together, staring at them—Lincoln Shaddock, tall and spare, and his heir, Dacy Mooney, short and round and blond, both of them as old as the missing mountain town . . .

“Ohhh,” Liz said. “The vampire in the circle. She’s an old rogue and she got free.”

Cia added, “And they’re responsible for what she’s done.”

“Yeah. Got it in one. Or two,” Jane said, making a twin joke. “Her name is Romona, and she’s deadly dangerous. She never came out of the devoveo, the insanity that vamps descend into after they’re changed, and she was supposed to be put down a century ago. Unfortunately, the mayor of Mayhew Downs, who was her husband and her maker, couldn’t do it.” Jane’s tone sounded tired, as if she had dealt with this before. “The last time she got free, she killed the entire town. The vamps hushed it up.”

The twins breathed in with shock.

As if she had shared their thoughts, Jane said, “But things are different now.” She nodded at the line of vamps, unmoving in the night. “They know they can’t let her go unpunished. They can’t let her maker go unpunished.” She nodded to another man standing silent and vamp-still beside Dacy Mooney.

It was the mayor from the daguerreotype. It was also the man who was trying to develop Mayhew Downs. Evelyn’s boss was a vampire. Everything fell into place with a little thump in Liz’s mind. It was all tied together. Mayhew had made his wife into a vamp. It hadn’t gone well, and he had kept her prisoner for over a hundred years. Mayhew was wearing silver chains at his wrists and neck. If the wind had been right, Liz was sure they would have smelled charring skin.

Jane finished with, “You need to know. Romona is a witch.”

Something clicked in Liz’s mind and she took a slow breath. Beside her, Cia put it all together as well. Her voice so low it was barely a caress on the night, Cia said, “Romona drained the whole town of Mayhew Downs. But she didn’t do it just as a vampire, she did it as a vampire witch. She put their blood and their death energies, the power of their souls, into the earth.”

“Yes,” Dacy said. “Then Mayhew decided to develop the land that she had made her own with the blood of the townspeople. When Romona learned about it, she got free.” Dacy shook the chain on Mayhew’s neck. “But he didn’t tell us. Romona couldn’t find him, but she did find Evelyn, his right-hand gal, and she took her.”

“The mountain is soaked with blood magic,” Jane acknowledged unhappily.

Cia squeezed Liz’s hand, communicating the message, That’s why our magic was so strong tonight. We mixed our magics in the working. We absorbed stored blood magic.

Liz squeezed back, thinking, It was like the mountain was . . . feeding us. And Jane knows.

Cia’s face went white, but her jaw hardened. “We’ll get purified. We’ll call a coven—” She stopped. They didn’t have a full coven anymore. Not with Evie gone. Not unless they brought in another witch on a permanent basis, someone they could trust with this knowledge. “We’ll find a way.”

Jane said, “The vamps have a request. By today’s laws, now that Romona has attacked a human, she’ll be brought to true death. By my hand. And they want you to agree not to talk about what you learned here tonight. They’re willing to pay for your silence. Vamps are always willing to pay,” she said, her tone grim and tired.

“Like we said,” Cia said, drawing on her power. “If they save Evelyn, we’ll agree to keep quiet. If they don’t . . . well, we’ll have to see.”

Liz smiled in the night. “And if they think they can make us, remember that blood magic doesn’t just go away. I’ve had my hands in the soil tonight.”

“And I’ve had my face in the moonlight,” Cia added.

As one, the line of vamps stepped back. Jane relaxed and laughed, her laughter flowing down the hillside, through the fog. “Good to hear.”

Liz realized that the tension she had felt in Jane was gone, replaced by something that was nearly jovial. “You’ve been worried,” Liz said, “that you were going to have to figure out a way to protect us if the vamps decided we might talk.” Liz looked at the blond vamp, standing beside her maker and master in the moonlight. “We’d have fried you to a crisp, lady.”

Both of the vampires looked nonplussed, and Jane laughed again. “Vamps and witches go back a long way. Vamps seem to have a . . . let’s call it a fascination with witches. Sometimes that makes ’em stupid.” Dacy frowned at that, but Jane indicated that the twins should lead the way. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

* * *

The vampires stood in an arc outside the unpowered outer circle, their faces white, still, pale as marble statues. The mayor was unchained and stood with them, Dacy’s hand on his shoulder. He was holding a Neiman Marcus bag, and tears ran down his face. “Do it,” Dacy said, applying pressure to his shoulder. “Do it or I will.”

The vamp walked to the hedge, where Romona sat, watching them, her eyes vamped out, blood on her face. Beside her, Evelyn lay in a boneless tangle of limbs. She was breathing, fast—far too fast.

Mayhew opened the shopping bag and lifted out a shoe box. The vamp in the circle was suddenly standing, her hands behind her back, leaning forward in that odd birdlike, snakelike motion that just looked so wrong. Her face took on an expression of sharp avarice. “For me, my darling?”

“For you, my love.” He opened the box and pulled out a pair of gorgeous shoes. Cia sucked in a breath of desire. “Those are ruby-toned Giuseppe Zanotti five-inch stilettos, encrusted with Swarovski crystals and beads. They sell for nineteen hundred dollars. Oh. My. God.”

Mayhew went on. “I’ll trade for them.”

Romona tilted her head. “Trade?”

“Shoes for the human.”

Romona glanced at the woman and said, “She’s nearly gone anyway. Yes.” She held out her hands. “Shoes. Mine.” Then she pointed at the black boot on the ground. “Mine too.”

“Yes,” Mayhew said, bloody tears on both cheeks. “Yours too.”

“Acceptable to me.” And Romona smiled, a nearly human expression, full of delight and a winsome mischievousness.

Jane pulled two silver stakes from her hair and nodded at Liz. She and Cia sat on the cold ground just outside the hedge of thorns. They buried their hands in the chilled soil and Cia said, “From blood and death and moon above, release.” Everything happened so fast, like photos that overlaid one another, shuffled in a strong hand. The hedge fell.

Romona leaped. Jane whirled the stakes out in dual backswings. Cia and Liz rolled out of the way. Romona landed on Mayhew, thrusting him back. Jane stepped across the falling bodies, her hands coming together and down, like a scissors closing. The stakes slammed through Romona. A shriek sounded, so piercing it was deafening. A death keening. Cia and Liz covered their ears in shock. Blood fountained up over Jane’s hands.

The keening shut off. Jane pulled the dead vampire away from her husband. He was sobbing, his anguish human and pitiable. Two other vamps reattached his shackles as Jane hefted the dead vampire to her shoulder and carried the body into the dark. Mayhew raised his face to the night sky and screamed his grief. The sound of a blade chopping echoed. Once. Twice.

Dacy knelt over the limp body of Evelyn McMann, a small knife in her hand. With an economical motion and no flinching at all, she sliced her own wrist and placed it at Evelyn’s mouth. The blood trickled in, and Dacy held Evelyn’s jaw until the human woman swallowed. Liz and Cia stood in the cold wind, arms around each other for warmth and comfort, watching the second-most-powerful vampire in Asheville healing their enemy’s mother. Evelyn reached up with two skeletal hands and gripped Dacy’s wrist. The vampire looked at them and said, “She will live. Your word, if you please.”

“We’ll never speak of this to anyone without your permission,” Cia said.

“We’ll never speak of this to anyone unless it means the life of another,” Liz amended.

“Acceptable,” Lincoln Shaddock said. Dacy picked Evelyn up like she was a baby and started for the cars.

Moments later Jane came back, from a different direction. There was blood on her white shirt. “We’re done,” she said. “The policing of Lincoln Shaddock for his clan is acceptable to Leo Pellissier, the Master of the City of New Orleans and most of the Southeast United States, including the Appalachian Mountains where we stand. Pay the Everharts.” She pointed to Cia and Liz.

Lincoln Shaddock removed an envelope from his pocket and extended it. Cia accepted it. The twins gathered up their belongings and raced to their car to find Evelyn asleep in the backseat. They were halfway down the mountain before they caught their breath. “That was wicked weird,” Cia said.

“Yeah. Let’s get Evelyn back to Layla and start studying up on how to get purified before the blood magics sink too deep.”

“Yeah. Good plan.” Cia tore open Lincoln Shaddock’s envelope and drew in a slow breath.

“How much?”

“A hundred thousand dollars. Combined with Evie’s estate, I think we just made enough money to put a huge down payment on a house, sister mine.” They started to giggle. Neither of them said anything about the hysterical edge to their laughter, or what it hid. Not yet.

* * *

When the twins left the elegant house in the Montford Historic District, Layla—sans makeup and wearing old jeans—was crying and hugging her mother, having wrapped her in a blanket in the middle of her bed. She was force-feeding her water and Gatorade and cucumber sandwiches.

“Like, who keeps cucumber sandwiches on hand?” Cia said as they walked out of the house.

“People who don’t know the value of leftover homemade soup and yeast bread from Seven Sassy Sisters.”

Cia said, “Oh, yeah. We eat, and then we figure out how to get the blood magics off us.”

“Done.” Liz took a slow breath. Her lungs and ribs didn’t hurt, not at all. She didn’t want to say the words, but couldn’t keep them in. “Jane Yellowrock might have saved our lives. If Romona had gotten free and drawn on the blood magic of the mountain . . .”

“Yeah.” Cia’s tone was grudging. “We’d have been her dinner.”

The silence after her words stretched, as the sisters got in the car and drove away. Cia finally said, “When you had the rock on you, the rock Evangelina threw at you when she was trying to kill us all? I tried to push it off. I couldn’t. It was too heavy. You weren’t breathing. Like, at all. Jane—in her cat form—pushed it off. She saved you. I think she saved Carmen that day, too. And she did what we couldn’t when she . . . ” Cia heaved a breath that seemed to hurt. “When she took care of Evie, too.”

Liz knew that “took care of” meant “killed.”

“Not because we didn’t have the power or the skills to handle Evangelina, but because Jane thinks, instead of being frozen by fear.”

Liz blinked away tears and said, “Why didn’t you tell me? Now we have to forgive her for killing Evangelina.”

“Which is why I didn’t tell you. I’m not . . . I wasn’t ready to forgive.” Cia turned away, looking out into the night. “Maybe I’m ready now.”

“Yeah. Well.” Liz took a deeper breath than any she had been able to manage in months. “The blood magic? I think it healed me.” She took another breath. “No pain.”

“Crap. We used blood magic, just like Evie did.” Cia’s mouth pulled down. “And it felt good.”

“Addictive good,” Liz whispered. “I can feel the pull of the mountain even now. We are in so much trouble.”

“Yeah. But there is a silver lining. The totally cool Christian Louboutins Layla gave me—once I get the blood off them.”

Liz erupted with laughter, which was what her twin intended. “Us. She gave them to us.”

“Fine,” Cia said. “And the cash. Share and share alike.”

“Yeah. Like always. Even a blood curse we don’t know how to get rid of.”

“We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

HIGH STAKES

A Luc and Lindsey Story

BY

CHLOE NEILL

It was the curls that killed me. Those dirty-blond, tousled curls. They practically screamed to be run through by manicured fingers.

The manicure wasn’t the problem. Tonight I was sporting a complicated matte black and charcoal pattern that varied from nail to nail. It probably would have been more appropriate on a socialite than on a veteran guard of a House of vampires, but I’d decided a long time ago not to give up style for fangs. It was part of my credo, my firm belief that immortality should be dressed up and flaunted like a deb at her debut. I’d been a vampire for more than a century, and I was proud of my genetics. And from my blond hair to my favorite stilettos, I tried to show it.

But that was neither here nor there.

The problem was the curls, and the vampire they belonged to. Luc, the Captain of the guards of Cadogan House. I was a guard, which meant he’d been my boss for years. My colleague. My friend.

Now he was my something-more-than-that.

I was still trying to put a name to what “that” was.

Luc wasn’t having the same trouble, which was why he stood in front of me in my smallish dorm room in Cadogan House holding a glossy black shoe box and a pair of the sexiest boots I’d ever seen. Buttery black leather, nearly knee-high, with pointy toes and stiletto heels long and thin enough to be weapons on their own.

I stared down at them with obvious lust, but kept my arms crossed and my fingers away from leather I knew would be as smooth as silk. “You bought me boots,” I said for the fourth time.

“If the shoe fits . . . ,” Luc said with a crooked grin, which was just as effective as the curls.

“I don’t need boots.”

He gave me a flat look. “Since when did that stop you from buying anything? You have five pairs of black heels.”

“And I’ve explained this a hundred times.” I counted them off on my fingers. “Stilettos, kitten heels, patent, round toe, open toe. A girl needs options.”

“The point is,” he said, “I don’t care if you need the boots. I just want to see you in them. And clothes are completely optional.”

“But you didn’t need to buy me anything.”

“It’s not about need,” he said. “It’s about want. I wanted to buy them for you, so I bought them for you. There’s no expectation, Linds.”

I knew he was telling the truth. It was clear in his expression, in his magic, in the way he looked at me.

I was gifted—or cursed, depending on your perspective—with empathy. It was a rare gift for a vampire, and not always a welcome one. Every bad mood in the House leaked into my subconscious, and I’d had to learn to filter out others’ emotions or risk their overwhelming me.

So, yeah, Luc was being honest, and I could tell.

But it wasn’t that simple.

“Luc—,” I said, but he shook his head.

“I don’t want to talk about it again. I don’t want to talk about moving too fast or not fast enough.” He put the lid on the box, and the box on the bed, only a couple of steps away. And then he pulled his best cowboy move, putting a hand around my waist and whipping me against him.

He smiled cockily down at me. “I’m not afraid of your issues, Linds.”

“I don’t have issues,” I said. “And we need to get downstairs. Maybe we should talk about this later.”

“You’re a walking issue,” Luc said, nipping at my earlobe before releasing me. “Fortunately, you’re also a hottie and a very good guard.”

“I’m the best guard you’ve got.”

He shrugged carelessly, obviously trying to rile me up. “You’re all right.” He walked to the door, opened it, and gestured into the hallway. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Cadogan House was several stories of European opulence and vampire drama. Situated in the Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago, it was home to nearly ninety vampires. Or, more accurately, ninety vampires and the psychic stew they cooked up on a nightly basis. Their happiness, their sadness. Their angst. Their fear. I lived in a cauldron of vampire emotions, in a neighborhood of human emotion, in the third-largest city in the country.

Collectively, there were a lot of emotions out there.

I’d been a vampire long enough that I’d learned to turn down the volume, but each person’s mood still bobbed like a buoy in my brain. Little tricks kept me sane. For lack of a better word, “stuff” helped filter out the extra noise. That’s why my room looked like I’d been hoarding souvenirs from my hundred and fifteen years as a vampire. The knickknacks, pillows, posters, and other odds and ends worked like insulation, which was also the reason I spent so much time in the House basement.

Granted, I worked down there, too, but that was mostly a coincidence.

The first floor of the House held the offices and public rooms, and the second and third floors were primarily dorms. But the basement was where the magic happened. Luc’s Operations Room was there, as were the old-fashioned, wood-paneled training room and, my personal favorite, the House arsenal. Weapons galore . . . and even more insulation.

Luc and I headed into the training room. The other official guards, Kelley and Juliet, were already there and stretching for a workout, with Merit, the House Sentinel. She wasn’t a guard per se, but the job was close enough that she trained with the rest of us. Merit was a relative newbie to the world of vampires—only ten months out. She was finding her place as Sentinel—and as the Master, Ethan Sullivan’s, girlfriend—but she was still learning the moves. She’d picked up the moves of vampire sword fighting remarkably quickly, probably the perfect mix of Ethan’s vamp-genetics—transmitted when he changed her from human to vampire—and her dance training.

Ethan was also already in the room, shirt off and wearing the same martial arts–style black pants that Luc favored. While Merit, Juliet, and Kelley sat on the edge of the woven tatami mats that covered the floor, Ethan stood in the middle, stretching his arms over his head, flat stomach and abs tensing as he moved.

I couldn’t fault Merit for her taste in men. Ethan was tall, blond, gorgeous, and imperious as fuck. I appreciated the first three, but preferred a little less control freak in my relationships.

Luc slapped me on the ass and stepped onto the mats. “Eyes on the prize, sunshine.”

I rolled my eyes and took a seat beside Merit. With long dark hair and a fringe of bangs across her forehead, she was pretty in an almost old-fashioned way. Regally so, like a princess from a different time. It was probably appropriate she’d been studying medieval literature before Ethan made her a vampire.

“You did good, you know,” I said, gesturing toward Ethan.

“Oh, I know,” she said. “He reminds me at every opportunity. And with much detail.”

Apparently not to be outdone by Ethan, Luc unbelted his martial arts–style jacket and dropped it to the floor, revealing that perfect fuzzy chest, the very bitable nipples, and the lines of muscle at the base of his hips that ached for roaming fingertips.

I gave him a hard time. I knew it. We’d been friends for a very long time, and I didn’t want to lose that connection. In my experience, romance came and went. Attraction came and went. Yes, we spent a lot of time together. And technically, we were exclusive. But I didn’t want to put a label on it, something that would create expectations and lead us to hate each other when we couldn’t live up to them.

I was smarter than that; I wouldn’t let us fall into that trap.

Luc chose that moment to catch my eye and wink, which thrilled me—and made me feel guilty at the same time.

He looked over the small group and clapped his hands to get our attention. Not that that was necessary. His audience consisted of women clearly intrigued by the two bare-chested athletes standing before us, barefoot and ready to rumble. Who wouldn’t pay attention to that?

“Good evening, my minions,” he said, looking us over. “Tonight we’re going to talk evasive maneuvers. Escaping from enemies in hand-to-hand combat, as opposed to trying to get out of House patrol duty on the basis of ‘fang ache.’” He actually used air quotes. He also looked directly at me, because I’d been the one who’d tried the excuse.

Vampires had quick healing abilities, which explained why I’d been freezing my petite ass off on patrol a few minutes after the attempt.

“Now, it’s crucial to remember that evasive maneuvers—getting out of a grapple, breaking a hold—are all about physics. Using your opponent’s body weight and weak spots to your advantage.”

“And if that fails, just knee him in the grapes,” Kelley muttered. I bit back a chortle, but not very well. Ethan didn’t seem to mind.

“A time-tested strategy,” Luc said. “And if an enemy’s attacked you, he’s given up any complaint about the sanctity of his grapes.”

“Grape sanctity,” Merit whispered. “Sounds like the name of the world’s worst sacramental wine.”

“The human body has various and sundry pressure points,” Luc said, raising his hand to gesture, but pausing in midmotion, his eyes on the door.

We all glanced back and saw a girl in the doorway.

She wore jeans, a Loyola sweatshirt, and had a dark gray messenger bag slung diagonally across her body. She was tall and sturdily built, with long blond hair, pale coloring, no makeup—and absolutely no need for it.

I was so surprised to see a human in the doorway that it took a moment to peg her as family.

Human family.

“Ray?” I stood up and jogged to the door, my mind reeling.

Ray hugged me fiercely, enough to make me worry about whatever brought her here. “Aunt Lindsey. Thank God.”

I wasn’t actually her aunt; I’d been a vampire much too long for that. She was my great-great-niece—my sister’s great-granddaughter. I’d kept an eye on my sister’s family as they’d spilled across the country from our hometown in Iowa, including Ray, who was now a student at Loyola, on the north side of Chicago.

I pulled back just enough to get a glimpse of her face. Even if I hadn’t been empathic, it wasn’t difficult to catch the concern there. “What’s wrong?”

She seemed to suddenly realize she was in a room of vampires who were watching her curiously. “Could we talk somewhere?”

“Of course.” I glanced back at the group, planning to tell Luc I was stepping out. But they were already surrounding us like paparazzi around a starlet.

“Who’s this?” Luc asked, hands on his hips.

“This is Ray—,” I began.

“Rachel, actually,” she interrupted, apology in her eyes. “I prefer Rachel these days.” There was pink in her cheeks, but her shoulders were square. Whether Ray or Rachel, she was definitely my niece.

“Rachel is a relative,” I explained. “One of my sister’s descendants. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got a problem, Aunt Linds. And I think you’re the only one who can help.”

* * *

With apologies to the training group, Luc, Rachel, and I reconvened next door in the Operations Room. Rachel sat in a chair at one end of the large conference table, the messenger bag in her lap. I sat beside her, and Luc edged a hip onto the table across from us.

“Any niece of Lindsey’s is a niece of mine,” he said.

“Great-great-great-niece,” I clarified.

“That just makes you sound older,” Rachel said with a grin. It was my sister’s grin, or the hint of it that had managed to make its way through the generations. The look clutched at my heart, filled me with longing.

“So why haven’t we met you before?” Luc asked.

“I try to keep the family out of our drama,” I said, smiling conspiratorially at her. “It’s like a vampire soap opera around here. The Young and the Fanged.”

“That’s kind of the thing,” she said, tracing a nervous finger across the tabletop. “Something happened, and I’m not really sure what to do about it. And I think it falls in your territory.”

“Start at the beginning,” I suggested.

She nodded, fidgeted in her seat. “So you know I share a house near campus with my friends Emily and Georgia, right?”

“Right,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I remembered Emily and Georgia. Like most girls her age, she had a fluid roommate situation. But that wasn’t the point, so I nodded.

“I just finished a really massive lab project. I didn’t even leave campus for twenty-four hours. I got back home last night, and when I did, I found this.”

She opened her messenger bag and pulled out a magazine, which she placed on the table.

It was a copy of the Chicago World Weekly, a gossip magazine. With vampires being at our most popular, the Weekly kept paparazzi stationed outside the House and followed us around town. In this particular issue, my face stared back at me, my eyes hidden by dark glasses, and I was wearing stilettos and jeans that couldn’t have been any tighter or more flattering.

But the denim was hardly the point.

Someone had scattered thick red ink across the page, so it looked like my body was riddled with bullet holes. And scratched across the bottom of the cover was a message:

Dearest Rose:

Madmen know nothing, but I know everything.

Come home, Rose.

I pushed down a bolt of recognition—and fear. That was a name I hadn’t heard in a long time, hadn’t expected to see again, and shouldn’t be seeing now.

I pushed the magazine closer to Luc for his review.

“Where did you find this?” I asked her.

“On my bed,” Rachel said, nibbling her lip nervously. “In my house. Why, Aunt Lindsey? Are you in trouble? How did they know we were related? And who’s Rose?”

“I’m not in trouble,” I firmly said. “This is from someone trying to cause trouble. Someone from my past. They left it with you because they knew you’d come to me, and they knew I’d pay attention.”

“What kind of trouble?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Not exactly.” But it was serious enough that they’d mocked up a magazine and delivered it to my niece. I made a quick decision. “How did you get here?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, confused by the sudden change in topic. “I drove. Emily let me borrow her car. Why?”

“Because I want you to stay at the House for a few days while I deal with this.” I put my hand on hers, could feel her trembling with fear, and that killed me. My past, my issues, shouldn’t be used against her. That wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t how the game was played.

“Get your car warmed up,” I said. Her chaotic emotions—fear for herself, concern for me, and a small stitch of intrigue—bobbed at the edge of my consciousness. “Pull up right in front of the House’s gate. I’ll get my car and follow you back to the house. You can drop off Emily’s car and pick up some clothes.”

Rachel was a good girl—a smart girl—and she knew when to get moving. She rose and nodded, slinging the messenger pack over her shoulder. “I’ll be out front.”

I waited until she’d disappeared into the hallway before looking back at Luc.

“That damn magazine cover,” I said, a headache beginning to throb behind my eyes. “I should have known it would lead to something nasty. I should have been more careful.”

“You know what this is,” Luc said, his voice infinitely calmer than mine. But that was his job, after all—responding to crises.

“Just an idea.”

He looked at me for a moment. “This is about New York,” he concluded. “When you were still ‘Rose.’”

I nodded. I’d been born in Iowa, but the Midwest hadn’t been exciting enough for the vampire who’d made me, Delilah. She preferred the freedom and excitement of New York. New York vampires had rejected the Greenwich Presidium, our former European overlord, and the House system it spawned. In Delilah’s opinion, life was better with freedom. So I’d learned how to be a vampire in a coven that didn’t care about anyone else, human or vampire. We partied until dawn, drank bathtub gin in speakeasies, danced with writers and artists. I took my immortality to heart, and I tested the boundaries.

Luc and I had known each other long enough that I’d given him the flavor of my past in the Big Apple, told him about Prohibition, gangsters, jazz.

“I still can’t imagine you as a baby vamp in New York or otherwise. You have an old soul.”

“I have an old soul because I’m old,” I said. “I mean, you know, for a twenty-nine-year-old.”

“Of course,” Luc said lightly, but his eyes were narrowed with concern. “And the threat?”

That, I wasn’t ready to talk about. Wasn’t ready to think about. “It’s a long story, and I need to get going.”

“Then you can tell me on the way to Rachel’s house.”

“That’s not necessary,” I said, my tone clipped. I was shutting down, and I knew it. Shutting down and shutting him out, preparing to focus on the task at hand.

But Luc insisted. “Going without me isn’t an option.” He stood up and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair behind his desk. “Let’s go.”

* * *

“Tell me the story,” he said, when he’d gotten permission from Ethan for Rachel’s temporary residence at the House and we were on the road, skirting Lake Michigan as we drove north.

I hesitated. My past wasn’t exactly clean and shiny, and I didn’t like to talk about it. Rehashing the history wouldn’t do any good for anyone, as that magazine proved.

“It still affects you,” Luc said, with his uncanny ability to understand what I was thinking, what worried me. The skill was as irritating as it was relieving.

“It shouldn’t affect me,” I said.

Luc snorted. “That’s all well and good, sunshine, but I’ve got a glossy, paint-spattered magazine that says otherwise. Explain, or I’ll have to call Helen and ask for your personnel file and get all the gory details. And you know she’ll give it to me.”

Helen was Cadogan’s warden, a woman who had very specific taste in vamps. Luc was on her good side; I never had been. That made him right about my personnel file.

I nodded, keeping an eye on the road—and on Rachel’s taillights in front of us. “The first line of the note—‘Madmen know nothing’—is from ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’”

“The Poe short story?”

“The same. It was also the password for our favorite speakeasy.”

Luc nodded. “The Sapphire. That was you and the flower girls, right?” He’d taken to calling them that, the vampires I ran with. Violet, Daisy, Iris, and me, Rose.

“This has something to do with them?”

“They died,” I quietly said after a moment. “They got caught in the cross fire of a gangland feud.”

“Bullets don’t kill vampires,” Luc said.

“A couple of bullets? No. That’s not what this was. It was excessive. It was the first real violence I’d seen, and there was so much of it.”

“That’s when you came to Chicago,” he said.

I nodded. “Took a train and started over. And with your gentle and modest instruction, I learned discipline. I learned self-respect. I tried to put the past behind me. I guess that was naive.”

“Thank you for telling me that,” he said. “For letting me know.”

He sounded sincere, and he felt sincere. He hadn’t given me any reason to doubt him. But trust was a funny thing, and not something I knew much about. Not something I was ready for.

The question was, Would I ever be ready?

* * *

The girls’ house looked like most of the others on the block. Two short stories and a front porch held up by thick square columns. It had probably been built during World War II, when families lived here. Now it was home to three college-aged girls and, on one side of the porch, a well-used gingham couch.

We got out of the car and followed Rachel up the steps and into the living room, which had wooden floors, mismatched furniture, and plants that looked like they received as little sunlight as I did. The house smelled of age and fruity perfume.

“My room’s back here,” she said, leading us through a narrow hallway.

Rachel’s room, unlike the rest of the house, was spotless. Small bed. Nightstand. Bookshelf. Large chest of drawers with a mirror on top in a style that matched the rest of the furniture. Wicker baskets held well-organized odds and ends, and the bed was neatly made.

“Where did you find the magazine?” I asked.

“It was on the bed. I grabbed it, saw what it said, and got in the car.”

“Good head on your shoulders,” Luc said. He walked to the bureau, perused a few frames. “And what do we have here?” he asked contemplatively, then turned the photograph so we all could see.

There, in a faded black-and-white print that had seen better days, stood the four of us. I walked to him to get a closer look.

“You are a constant surprise,” he whispered, his eyes wide as he looked over the image.

I wore a sleeveless dress that hit my knees, covered in fringe that shimmied and shook whenever I sauntered in it, which I did with aplomb. The string of pearls, long enough to graze my abdomen, had been a gift from a particularly generous gangster. My hair was short and carefully curled into perfect finger waves that framed my face.

A trio of women stood with me. These were the flower girls: Daisy, Iris, and Violet. Our arms were around one another’s waists, our gartered right legs canted for the camera, Mary Jane heels on our feet.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, glancing back at her.

She flushed, just a little. “It was in a box of stuff I got from Mom—old family photos.”

“It’s definitely old,” I said. “It was a long time ago. And we should hurry.”

She nodded, then picked up a duffel bag and began filling it with clothes from the bureau. I watched her dutifully, but could feel Luc’s eyes on me. He was curious—about my past, and what I hadn’t yet told him.

But there was nearly too much to tell.

Rachel closed the bureau drawers and walked to a door I assumed was a closet. “Couple pairs of shoes,” she said, “and I think I’m ready.”

She turned the knob, and I heard the click.

My heart stopped.

“Rachel!” I yelled, leaping toward her and pushing her to the floor, covering her body with mine just as she pulled the door open—and the trigger snapped.

She screamed as a shot rang through the room, the bullet whizzing over our heads and ripping through a framed poster on the opposite wall.

Their sudden fear clawed at me, and I worked to keep my breathing under control. I am a professional, I reminded myself. But that didn’t stop the painful thudding of my heart. I looked up, saw the mechanism in the closet. It was a spring gun, an old-fashioned booby trap designed to injure—or kill—an intruder.

“Jesus!” Luc exclaimed, looking up from his crouch. “What the hell was that?”

“Spring gun,” I said, and his gaze flashed to mine, his question obvious: How did Lindsey know what it was, and that it would go off?

I stood up and glimpsed a hint of gold on the closet floor. Carefully, I moved closer. Beneath the spring gun, in front of a tidy collection of shoes, was a gold coin. I picked it up and smoothed my finger over the embossed image I knew would be there—the outline of a shamrock and the logo of the Green Clare.

I slipped it into my pocket.

“What did you find?”

“A calling card,” I said, standing up and helping Rachel to her feet.

Luc walked toward the closet to inspect the mechanism. “It triggered when she opened the door.” He looked back at me. “You heard it?”

I nodded. “I got lucky,” I said, but we both knew I was lying.

Rachel looked back at me, her eyes wide. Tears were gathering at the corners of her lashes, and her fear and shock permeated the room.

She was in danger because of me—had nearly been killed because of me. She shouldn’t have been part of this. Wouldn’t have been part of this, if the culprits had any sense of honor. You didn’t take your grudges out on innocents.

“Aunt Linds?”

“You’re okay,” I said, wrapping my arms around her.

“They tried to kill me,” she said. “They tried to kill me.” I could hear the shock seeping in.

“And the magazine would have been here for you to find,” Luc said, meeting my gaze over Rachel’s head. “Calling you back to New York.”

I pulled back, just enough to see Rachel’s face. My heart ached, and I pushed the ache down, focusing instead on the task ahead and the journey I was going to have to make. They were calling me back to New York, and I was going to answer.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” I assured her, “and everything is going to be fine.”

One way or the other, everything would be fine.

* * *

We drove back in silence, Rachel in the backseat. I checked her constantly in the rearview mirror, as if she could be snatched away. But she stared blankly out the window, the duffel clutched in her hands as if it were her last possession on earth.

Luc decided to call Chuck, Merit’s grandfather and the city’s former head of supernatural affairs. He agreed to talk to his Chicago Police Department contacts, have them clear out the house and find a safe location for the rest of the girls until we addressed the matter.

We parked and entered the House, and Helen met us in the lobby. She had the look of a futuristic military leader. Smart suit. Silver bob, not a single hair out of place. Her hands were crossed in front of her, her heels perfectly shined. I found her creepy.

“You must be Rachel,” she said with an efficient smile. “We’ve prepared the guest suite on the third floor. You must be tired. I can take you upstairs if you’d like to get settled in.”

“Sure,” Rachel said, but cast a glance back at me.

“It’s okay,” I said with a smile. “It’s a really nice suite. Better than any of our rooms, actually. You’ll be living the high life.”

Rachel smiled, just a little, which was probably the best I could hope for, considering she’d nearly been shot by an enemy of mine.

“Thank you, Helen,” I said, as she guided Rachel to the stairs.

I let them get a head start—giving Rachel a bit of distance—then started up after them.

“What’s next?” Luc asked, falling into step beside me.

“I have to go to New York. If I don’t, this will never be over. I go there and I face this, or Rachel has to look over her shoulder for the rest of her life.”

“You haven’t told me everything,” he said in a tone that allowed no argument, no possibility he was wrong. “Tell me the rest. And no skipping the good parts.”

I waited until we were back in my room, and then I closed the door and locked it.

I moved toward the closet and grabbed a duffel bag from the floor, which I put on the bed and unzipped. On my way back to the closet, Luc took my hand, stopping me.

“Hey,” he said softly when I resisted. “Talk to me, Linds.”

Making eye contact with him felt too intimate. The call at Rachel’s house had been too close, and I was walking a high wire of fear. One wrong move, and I might not be able to keep myself together.

“She’s my last relative,” I said. “The only daughter of an only daughter of an only daughter. I have to protect her.”

“Protect her from what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lindsey,” he began, but I shook my head, finally looking at him. There was concern and fear in his eyes, and it scared me. Those emotions were heavy, and they weighed on me more than any others. More than happiness, more than joy. I didn’t want the weight of his fear; I couldn’t bear it.

“It’s the feud, I think. With the girls.”

He nodded, crossing his arms. “Okay.”

“Violet—she was the youngest when she was turned. Only nineteen. She fell in love with a human gangster named Tommy DiLucca. He ran booze throughout the city, and he owned the Sapphire. He was in a feud with another gang over territory, over the liquor supply. That group was led by a guy named Danny O’Hare. He was a vampire, and a brute. Violent. Casually so. Tommy torched a truckload of booze from Danny, and Danny got even.”

“He killed them all?”

I nodded. “Humans and vampires both. We—the girls, I mean—were all at the bar. O’Hare kicked open the door, started shooting. Danny was angry. He was offended. He kept shooting until bodies were hardly recognizable. Until the girls couldn’t regenerate.”

“How’d you get out?” Luc’s voice was quiet now.

“The speakeasy had a priest hole, accessible through a trapdoor. That’s how I knew about the spring gun; they were illegal, but the crews used them for protection, to keep the booze safe. There were bottles down there—the old stuff. The good stuff. The pre-Prohibition stuff. I was nicking one when Danny and his men came in the door. I looked out—just enough for a peek—but stayed there until the shooting was done. I knew there was nothing I could do.”

“Of course there wasn’t,” Luc said, and his tone changed. “You think Danny saw the magazine, found out you’re alive, and wants to settle an old score?”

I pulled the coin from my pocket and held it out for Luc’s inspection. He looked it over.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a coin from the Green Clare, Danny’s pub. He gave them out to people he liked. Like a chit they could redeem for a favor. I found it in the bottom of the closet. I think he wants to finish what he started. That’s the only explanation. He thought I was dead, but realized I wasn’t when he saw this.”

“But the magazine came out months ago,” Luc said.

“And it would have taken time for him to figure out how to hurt me. And to find Rachel.”

Luc nodded, pressed a soft kiss to my lips, and released me. “What should I bring with me?”

I didn’t understand the question. “What?”

“What I should pack?”

“You aren’t going. I’m going alone.”

I felt his jarring concern. “What do you mean, you’re going alone? You need backup.”

I didn’t want to talk about backup. I didn’t want to talk about anything, so I didn’t.

I walked to my closet and grabbed clothes from hangers, which I stuffed blindly into the duffel. It didn’t really matter what I packed. It just mattered that I was going, and going alone. There was only one goal: keeping Rachel safe.

“This is my battle. I’ll fight it alone.”

But his emotions only spiked further, driving the headache deeper into my brain.

“Bullshit, Lindsey.”

I froze and slid him a glance. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re a good guard—a smart guard. You know better than to head off to New York to deal with someone who obviously is crazy and wants to kill you.”

“It’s too dangerous,” I said.

“And I call bullshit again. You know I can handle myself, and I’d be an asset. You’re shutting down. And that’s cowardly.”

I stared back at him, absolutely furious. “You’re calling me a coward?”

“I wasn’t, actually, but now I am. You know why? Because that’s exactly what you are. A coward. You’re pushing me away because you’re scared. Scared you’ll lose me. Scared you’ll lose yourself. Scared you’ll lose our friendship.”

“That’s a decent reason to be cautious.”

“You aren’t being cautious. You’re in denial.”

“We’re going to fight about this right now? Right now?”

Luc threw his hands into the air in obvious exasperation, the move sending a shock wave of magic through the room.

“When else would we fight about it, Lindsey? I thought we were over this. I thought I’d finally managed to scale the wall you’ve built around yourself. But apparently not. Because you want to go to New York—knowing you’ll have to face something big and nasty—by yourself. Because you don’t want me there with you? No,” he said. “No, you expressly want me to stay. You can’t even fathom taking me with you.”

“This isn’t about you. It’s about me.” I slapped a hand on my chest. “Me.”

“No,” he said, sadness in his eyes that made my stomach ache. “It’s about us.” He looked down, the pressure in the room changing so quickly I nearly took a step back from it. “I’ll tell Ethan you’re leaving.”

“This isn’t about us,” I persisted, but once again, we both knew I was lying.

“Good-bye, Lindsey,” he said. And then he turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar.

I blinked back tears, and blew out a breath to compose myself. It didn’t matter what happened here, with him. Getting back to New York and taking care of business—that’s what mattered.

I crouched, flipped back the rug that covered the hardwood floor, and pulled up a board I’d loosened many years ago. In the cavity, I’d kept a few mementos from my time as a vampire, including a folder containing information about Danny O’Hare and the Rookery, the neighborhood where he and Tommy DiLucca had held court. The Rookery held a good chunk of the city’s supernatural populations, and according to my research, it hadn’t changed much over the decades. Whether because of the sups’ magic or the humans’ fear, the Rookery and its occupants had been left to their own devices.

The neighborhood still housed the Green Clare, which according to state records was still owned by “William Daniel O’Hare.” It’s not that I’d expected O’Hare or anyone else from the Rookery to look for me after all these years—they hadn’t known I was alive, after all—but I was a Cadogan guard. Luc had trained me to anticipate and prepare, however unlikely the threat might be.

Tears threatening again, I zipped up my duffel and pulled the strap over my shoulder. “Take care of business,” I murmured to myself.

I kept repeating those words all the way downstairs, to the front door, down the sidewalk, and out the gate to the waiting gypsy cab.

Not once did I actually believe them.

* * *

Lights—red, white, amber, green—blurred through the fog as the cab sped toward the airport. I rolled the window down a crack, just enough to feel the stiff breeze on my face. That didn’t diminish the guilt about the fight or the lingering sense that I’d been wrong about the whole thing, but what was done was done.

And it seemed like Luc and I were done.

I wiped my cheeks, rolled the window up, and crossed my legs. I was a Cadogan vampire, a fashionista, a fighter. A woman who’d seen more in a decade of life than most humans saw in a lifetime. I didn’t need another warden—or someone who validated my existence.

And that’s what I kept telling myself.

I made it onto the plane—the last one out of Midway for the night—just before they closed the doors, and slid into my seat in first class. I’d saved enough money over the years that I could afford the upgrade. I’d checked my duffel, as it held the only weapon I’d brought with me, a small dagger that would fit neatly inside a boot.

Only half the seats on the plane were filled, and their occupants looked exhausted and slept soundly, heads pressed against windows or against the headrests of reclined seats. As they slept, I stared out the window, wide-awake and grieving. I watched the dark earth pass beneath us, cities glowing like amber circuits in the dark.

The airport was empty when we landed, except for a few stranded passengers and shop staff refilling their stock in preparation for the next day’s flights.

I grabbed a cab and headed toward the Rookery. It was a narrow, dark, and dingy rectangle of blocks near the East River, as close as New York came to Gotham. The cab dropped me off on an ominous-looking corner, steam rising from subway vents and the scent of smoke and decaying buildings filling the air.

The smell of the place hadn’t changed much, either.

It was late, and the sun was nearly on the rise. I would be nearly unconscious, and completely vulnerable to the sunlight, which meant I needed to find a place to rest.

According to the Web, the closest hotel was six blocks away. It was called the Wellington Arms, and a sign above the door read ALL SUPS WELCOME.

The hotel’s name was much more regal than its interior. The lobby was small and shabby, but clean. A man with chopped hair and a piggish face that only a mother could love sat behind a beat-up counter, watching hockey on a portable television with an antenna three times its size.

A bell on the door rang when I entered, and he glanced up and looked me over. “Welcome to the Wellington Arms,” he said, his voice nasal and accented. “Where all your wildest dreams come true. Can I interest you in the bridal suite?”

I reached the counter and dumped my bag on the floor. “You have a bridal suite?”

“Don’t this look like the kind of establishment that has a bridal suite?”

His voice was flat, utterly sarcastic, and I grinned for the first time in hours. “Not exactly. It looks like the kind of establishment that’s got bedbugs the size of my ass, though.”

He perked up an eyebrow and leaned over the counter just enough to take in said ass. “Eh, you’re small. That may not do ’em justice. I assume you’re looking for a room before the sun rises.”

“You assume right.”

“Fancy vamp like you can’t afford a nicer place?”

“Fancy vamp like me doesn’t need a nicer place. How much?”

“Hundred for the room. One fifty if you want a view.”

“Of what?” I wondered, thinking of the steaming alleys and rusting fire escapes outside.

“Our quaint neighborhood and its lush surroundings. Cash only.”

Fortunately, I’d grabbed some at the airport. I took six twenties out of my pocket and laid them on the counter. His eyes widened.

“One hundred for the room,” I said. “Twenty for your refreshing approach to service. An additional twenty when I leave if you never saw me come in.”

He grunted, but he was already sliding a trapezoidal plastic key fob and brass key across the counter. “You weren’t so fancy, guy might think you’re from around here.”

I snatched the key and lifted my hand from the cash, which he transferred to his pocket. “Guy thinks too hard, he loses his tip. Which way?”

He grunted, bobbing his head toward a dingy hallway to my left. I hefted my duffel and made my way to the room.

Like the office, the room was shabby but surprisingly clean. The floor was hard tile, the furniture and decor from an era when disco was king—lots of yellows, oranges, and greens thrown together in wild floral patterns. I wondered if there’d been a Mrs. Wellington Arms who’d picked out the furnishings while her husband minded the front desk. If so, she might have been a vampire, because the floral curtains were lined and carefully clipped together to keep out the sunlight.

I washed my face and brushed my hair and teeth, but kept my clothes on just in case my day was interrupted. I set the chain lock on the door and found two glasses by the sink, which I propped carefully in front of it. They wouldn’t strengthen the door, but they’d make enough of a racket to wake me up if somebody tried to force it.

Luc, I thought, would be proud of the slightly paranoid preparations. But that idea only made me more miserable.

“Task at hand,” I whispered to myself. “Focus. Complete the mission. Then go home and deal with whatever’s left.”

Speaking of home, it seemed a good idea to let somebody know I’d actually made it to New York. I picked Merit; she seemed the most drama-free option. I climbed into bed and adjusted lumpy pillows behind my head, then sent her a message.

IN NY, I texted. BEDDED DOWN.

It took her only a second to answer. GLAD YOU’RE SAFE. ANY NEWS RE: O’HARE?

I guessed word had spread. NOT YET. HE’S MY FIRST VISIT TOMORROW. GOT LAY OF LAND TONIGHT; OVERVIEW.

A few seconds passed before she responded.

AND LUC?

I could practically hear the hesitation in her voice. She wouldn’t want to raise an uncomfortable subject—that was Merit—but she was still a friend, and would have worried.

My fingers paused over the letters, loath to confess the truth. WE DECIDED NOT TO PURSUE RELATIONSHIP.

That sounded entirely logical. So I stuck with it.

But Merit wasn’t buying. YOU’RE ALREADY IN A RELATIONSHIP.

DEFINITELY NOT, I texted back, but an uncomfortable warmth spread through my chest. An emotional foreboding.

ARE TOO, she texted. YOU LOVE HIM. YOU RESPECT HIM. YOU SPEND ALL YOUR TIME TOGETHER—WORKING OR OTHERWISE. THAT’S A RELATIONSHIP.

That wasn’t true, I thought. Couldn’t be true. Because if it was, I’d made a miserable mistake.

* * *

The sun rose and fell, and I woke just as I’d slept, fully dressed, dagger at my side. I splashed water on my face and checked my phone, which was absent of messages, even from Luc. Though that absence was completely my doing—and my choice—it still stung. I’d become used to him. His jokes. His emotions. His presence. I’d given that up for a cramped hotel room and a run at a man who was threatening my family.

I opened the door, found a bottle of Blood4You, the packaged blood that most American vampires used for convenience (and assimilation) beside it, along with a note: “Have a good night, fancy vamp.”

“And to you, too,” I murmured, popping off the top and drinking the entire bottle in a matter of seconds. I was usually more careful about drinking blood regularly, but the travel hadn’t allowed for it, and I’d been too panicked yesterday to think about it.

Panic led to bad decision making, or so Luc had taught us.

And there he was again, invading my thoughts.

The lobby was empty when I walked through, the TV still blaring sports in grainy black and white. I put the promised twenty on the counter and my key atop it, and headed for the Green Clare.

The pub was hard to miss, short and squat among the multistory buildings in the neighborhood as it was. The street in front of it was marked by a vivid green Shamrock twenty feet from edge to edge. It was the only thing in the Rookery that wasn’t dirty, scraped, or peeling.

I opened the door, letting in a fresh breeze that blew around the scents of blood, booze, and smoke. Patrons, shocked by the interruption, turned to look suspiciously at me. Most were supernaturals, but their expressions and their magic were dulled by alcohol, their emotions equally passive. Fear and sadness lingered, not helped much by a jukebox that blared Delta blues.

I ignored their stares and headed for the brass-railed bar, where a barrel-chested man in his fifties was wiping down the counter.

“Drink?” he asked over the music, without looking up.

“No, thanks. I’m looking for O’Hare.”

He stilled and looked up at me, one absent eye covered by a grisly patch of skin. “Who’s asking?”

“Rose. He’ll be expecting me.”

The bartender looked me up and down, sizing me up. His emotions were relatively flat. He probably figured me for a vampire, but not much of a threat. If Danny was looking to finish his project, this guy didn’t know much about it.

And that only made me more wary.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “He’s in his office.” He gestured toward a hallway that led away from the bar.

“Thanks,” I said, and wandered through tables and gazes.

The hallway was painted black, and it didn’t smell any better than the rest of the bar. Restrooms were located to one side and a fire exit at the end.

That left only a single open door to my left.

I felt for the dagger I’d tucked into my boot, blew out a breath, and stepped into the doorway.

Danny O’Hare was a handsome man. Broad-shouldered, with a cheeky grin and a ruddy complexion. His eyes were blue, and they twinkled at the sight of me.

He sat behind a desk in a tiny office that was crowded with papers and stacked with boxes of booze. Ironic, I thought, that all that booze was legal now, but it had probably been bought with Prohibition money.

“And who of all people should walk through my door,” he said, with Ireland in his voice, “but a wild Irish Rose.”

“I’m not Irish,” I reminded him. “And you knew I was coming.”

I dropped the coin onto his desk, where it spun for a moment before settling flat again. I set the bait, and waited for his emotions to bob to the surface. But all I could sense was vague interest and childish enthusiasm. That was very much like Danny, who’d seemed to approach life like an adolescent bully. The world was composed of what he owned and what he didn’t own yet. Anything in the second category was fair game.

“I heard through the grapevine you were alive,” he said. “And I’ve seen your face in the glossy. But wasn’t me that asked you here.”

His voice had, as before, a singsong quality that belied his enthusiasm for violence. But nothing seemed dishonest. How was that possible? If he hadn’t called me here to take me out, to finish destroying those close to Tommy DiLucca—or my family, if he couldn’t get to me fast enough—then who had?

“Who’s looking for me?” I heard the mild panic in my voice and pushed it down. I was in control of my own fate. But it was Rachel’s I was worried about.

“Darlin’, times have changed. I don’t control the world as I used to. I’m a simple businessman, working my trade in this public house.”

I didn’t believe that, not for one second. He might be a businessman, but I doubted there was anything simple about it.

“You must know something,” I insisted, peeling off a handful of twenties and dropping them onto the desk in front of him.

His eyes flicked to the cash, just for a moment. “I have heard tell of a woman interested in speaking with you about that night.” He sat back in his squeaky chair, linking his hands behind his head, just like Luc often did, but with considerably more malice.

Confusion engulfed me. “A woman? Who? I don’t know any women from back then. Not who are still alive.”

“Alive or dead is a fluid thing these days, my Rose. What grim’s hand would be strong enough to pluck a flower in its prime?”

I saw only the flick in his eyes to the spot behind me to warn me of danger I hadn’t even heard over the music oozing from the bar. I had but an instant to glance behind me, to catch sight of the bartender’s face, before I felt a needle-sharp pain in my back.

The world went black, and gravity called me home.

* * *

I awoke to pain. A lot of it, and spread across my body. My vision was blurred, my head pounding, and I could taste blood.

Slowly, the world stopped spinning, and fabric came into focus.

The jeans I was wearing. I was sitting in a chair, looking down at my legs, my head hanging limp from my shoulders. My feet were below me, manacled by an impressive chain to a bare concrete floor that was dotted with blood, probably mine.

My shoulders ached, and my fingers were numb. My hands were behind me, my wrists tied together tightly behind the chair. Multiple zip ties if the biting pain was any indication.

I looked up and blinked back spots. A standing light was pointed at my face like an interrogation scene in a movie Luc would have enjoyed a little too much—and probably quoted from afterward.

Longing filled me, but I pushed it down.

First, stay alive, I told myself. Then you can think about feelings.

I heard shuffling ahead of me. “Hello? Who’s there?”

No one answered, but I heard what sounded like a children’s lullaby.

“Be still and sleep, my child,” she sang. “Be still and sleep, my child. For if you wake, the monsters will take you right to the Rookery.”

I squinted through the light at the darkness ahead, trying to gauge shapes and distances. “Who’s there? Show yourself. Danny? Is that you?”

But it wasn’t Danny. She stepped into the light, and the nightmare deepened. It was Iris, and too much the same as I’d last seen her.

Like a supernatural version of Miss Havisham, she appeared not to have changed clothes in decades. Her dress was torn, the fringe missing and bare in spots like an animal with mange. Her hair was flat and matted, and dotted with paste-jewel clips and brooches. Her skin was scarred and twisted, pocked in spots where bullets had undoubtedly penetrated.

Had she been here, in this place, for nearly a century? Hiding from the world, reliving what she’d seen? Had the violence, or her experience of it, sent her into madness? Not so mad, perhaps, that she couldn’t make a deal with the devil, pay Danny and his cronies to lure me here.

However she’d done it, how hadn’t I known? How hadn’t I saved her?

“Iris,” I said breathlessly, my mind suddenly whirling, a decade of history being rewritten, and guilt quickly piling up. “You’re alive.”

“And so are you, I see.” She reached out and slapped me, hard. My cheek sang with pain, and I tasted fresh blood again.

“I was in the priest hole,” I said. “I’d been looking for the brandy, remember?”

“You left me there. You left her here. And you walked out like you were something really special. Just the absolute bee’s knees.”

She threw a copy of the magazine at me. “All this time, you little bitch, I thought you were dead. Come to find out you were in Chicago. Hiding out and showing off. Showing your nice little tits for the camera. You left us there to die!”

“I thought everyone was dead, Iris. Everyone was dead.” Still, I searched my memory for any clue that I’d been wrong, that I’d left her there to be found by Danny O’Hare, or to crawl out alive. But I found nothing. There’d been only the smell of death, the absolute stillness of it, and the tinny sound of sirens in the distance.

I’d made a mistake. But Iris didn’t much care.

She slapped me again, this time from the other direction. My eyes watered from the sting.

“Tonight we’re going to replay that night.” She stepped out of the light, and I heard the glug of liquid flowing from a bottle. I sniffed and smelled alcohol.

The light dimmed as she stepped in front of it and tossed a glass of booze in my face. Gin, I thought, smelling it as it dripped into my eyes and cuts I hadn’t yet seen, sending a new surge of pain through already stressed nerves.

“Alcohol,” she said. “For remembering. The devil’s drink, which you enjoyed time and time again. And now you’ll be punished for it.”

She disappeared again, and my heart began to race. If she meant to replay that night, had she gotten a gun? Did she plan to shoot me here and now, like an animal?

Adrenaline swamping me, I shifted back and forth against the manacles at my feet and the ties that bound my hands. But neither budged.

I’m officially in a tight spot, I thought, wishing I’d gotten more of Luc’s lecture on evasive maneuvers before this particular crisis had begun.

“You were oblivious,” she said, stepping in front of me again, this time holding a feathered hair clip in her hand. She moved forward and pushed it into my hair, scraping my scalp in the process.

“I bet you didn’t even know that I loved Violet.”

I worked to concentrate against the pain. “Violet? You two . . . ?

“Were in love,” she said. “Not that you’d notice, busy as you were flirting and whoring with every man you could find. Another reason why you have this coming.”

I guess Iris hadn’t thought much of my life choices.

“I’m sorry she died, Iris. But I didn’t know she was alive. I didn’t know anyone else was alive. I thought everyone was dead. We were best friends. Do you really think I wouldn’t have come back for you if I’d known? That I wouldn’t have helped you out of there?”

She looked momentarily confused, and I thought I was getting through to her. But the haze of trauma and madness settled upon her eyes again.

She leaned forward. “You. Are. Lying. Everything that happened to me is your fault. It has to be.”

And there it was. She wanted someone to blame, even if there wasn’t cause for it. Even if she could understand what had actually occurred.

She’d gotten me here, and there was no doubt she intended to end the story tonight. But I needed time. Time to come up with a plan, and time to get free.

“You paid Danny?” I asked, trying to keep her busy while I struggled against the binding on my wrists. I could feel the plastic slicing into my skin, but pain was irrelevant. Survival was the only thing that mattered.

“Danny O’Hare’s a right son of a bitch,” she said, spitting onto the floor beside me. “He doesn’t much care what happened in the bar that night—the past is past to him—but he’s always willing to take a coin. So he found me a man, and that man did a deed. It took every last penny I’d scrimped and saved to make him take on the task, powerful as you are now. But it was worth it, wasn’t it? Because here you are.”

She moved closer, and I saw the glint of steel in her hand. A handgun, 9mm. I had little doubt she would empty it into my body, and that would probably be only the beginning of her plans for me.

Unfortunately, vampire strength notwithstanding, my restraints weren’t budging.

I’d been a vampire a long time, and I’d faced death before. I hadn’t often regretted much. But now, this time, I regretted. I’m sorry, Luc, I silently thought, sending the words across miles, as if he could hear me. I’m sorry I pushed you away. I love you. I love you more than anything.

The tears began to fall in earnest, but I wasn’t a coward. I looked up at Iris, met her gaze head-on.

Her hand shook, and she pointed the gun at me. “And now we’ll be even,” she said.

Shots rang out like explosions, and I instinctively braced for impact.

But I felt nothing.

Shocked to the core, I looked down. Spots of blood appeared on Iris’s dress, and she fell to her knees, clutching her stomach.

“Lindsey?”

That was Luc’s voice.

Dear God, it was Luc. He was here. He’d come for me.

He appeared behind her, in his uniform of jeans and boots, and when the gun clattered to the floor, he kicked it away and out of her reach.

“Jesus, Linds!” Luc raced to me, cupping my face in his hands and pressing his lips to mine. He pulled a bandanna from his pocket and dabbed at what I assumed was blood on my face. “You like to cut it close.”

At the same time, four men in black suits walked calmly inside. The one in front, who had a long, severe face and was reholstering the gun that had floored Iris, nodded at Luc. They picked her up, more gently than I might have, and began to escort her out of the room.

“Who was that?” I asked, perplexed, as Luc worked the manacles and zip ties.

“New York’s sup department. They have that business tied down.”

“Have them check the Green Clare, find Danny,” I said. “Ensure this is done. That Rachel’s safe.”

“Guys?” Luc said.

“On it,” said the long-faced man.

I looked down at Luc on his knees beside me, and could hardly fathom the fact that he was here, how lucky I was that he’d come, that I had a second chance, that I was alive.

But my brain did not pass those thoughts on to my mouth, which was still playing good ol’ commitment-phobic Lindsey. “I told you not to come!”

“Yes, you did,” Luc said. “I ignored you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“In which case, you’d be full of bullet holes, which I do not find attractive in a woman.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “How did you find me?”

“Your phone. I added GPS, remember? Jeff helped me do the tracking. He is unusually good at tracking.”

Jeff Christopher was a friend of the House, and an employee of Merit’s grandfather, who’d previously been city’s supernatural ombudsman.

I heard a series of snaps, and my wrists were free, sending fierce pain through my shoulders. When my feet were unchained, I put a hand on Luc to stand up.

“Um, no,” he said, leaning down and lifting me into his arms. I wrapped my arms around his neck.

“You’re actually going to carry me?”

“Without a doubt, Lindsey Rose.” He looked at me, his face furrowed with concern. “You’re all right?”

“I’ll manage,” I said, but tears still spilled. “I thought she was dead, Luc. I thought they were all dead. I never would have left—”

“Hush,” he said. “Hush. Of course you wouldn’t have left them. You’d have done everything you could to help them, to get them out of there alive. Even as young as you were. And even before my skilled tutelage.”

“You’re ruining this lovely moment.”

He laughed, just a little. “Come on, Rose. Let’s get you a bath. You smell like a walking gin and tonic.”

“I could use a gin and tonic.”

“I can make that happen.”

* * *

This time the hotel was considerably nicer. We skipped the Rookery for the Plaza, a present from Ethan and Merit to speed my recovery. I recouped in the shower, washing away blood and grime and gin.

When I emerged from the locker room–sized bathroom, my wounds already healing, I found Luc across the room, standing in front of a table and eating chocolate-covered strawberries from a silver tray.

I wore the only pajamas I’d packed, a lacy tank top and short set in a pale peach silk. Luc put down the paper and met my gaze.

The atmosphere was awkward, at best.

“I pushed you away,” I said.

“You did,” he carefully answered.

“You came anyway.”

He ran a hand through his curls. “I can’t shake you, Linds. As much as you push me away, I can’t shake you. I don’t want to shake you. I want you—all of you. If I can’t have that, then I don’t know . . .”

It didn’t matter that he didn’t know.

I knew enough for both of us.

I ran to him, jumped into his waiting arms, and wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. And then I kissed him like I might never have another chance.

“Don’t you ever . . . leave me . . . again,” I demanded between kisses.

“You told me to leave you,” he pointed out, between pulling me harder against his growing—and impressive—erection and nipping at my lips.

The kiss deepened, grew breathless. It wasn’t just love. It was need.

Tears slipped from my eyes with the realization—no, the admission—of how much I needed him, how much he centered me, how much better I was when we were together.

“I love you,” I said, pulling back and putting my hands on his cheeks, making him look at me and see the emotion reflected in my face.

And I felt it from him, too, magnified and illuminated. Not just because he loved me, but because—fully and finally—he trusted that I loved him back and that his heart was as safe in my hands as mine was in his.

He looked utterly awed. “Christ, Lindsey. I love you, too.”

We looked at each other for a moment, until his eyes dropped to my lips and we attacked each other again. I gripped handfuls of his hair, tugging until his throat rumbled in a growl, sending white-hot heat through my body. Luc fixed his mouth on mine—sucking, biting, tasting—and maneuvered my body until my back was against the wall and the friction between us had me on the edge of a brutal orgasm.

Without warning, it burst across my body like fire, and I called out his name with a shuddering moan.

“Yes,” he said. “I want more of you.”

My body still wrapped around his, he moved back to the bed and lay me down upon it. My clothing was gone in a flash. His quickly followed, and then his body was atop mine, hot and hungry and hard for me.

He cupped my breast in his hand, teasing and inciting me again, challenging me to go further. “More,” he said.

“I don’t have any more.” My voice sounded love-drunk, spent.

“Liar.”

I hadn’t been lying, but he made a liar of me. With a single, powerful thrust, he emptied me of doubt, his skilled hips proving that he could play my body like a virtuoso.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, watching as his eyes silvered and fangs descended, and arched my neck to offer him the truest gift a vampire could offer.

Blood.

He pierced, sending another wave of pleasure through me, groaning at my neck with the pleasure of it. His body moved faster, his hands still at my body—testing, teasing, lifting—until with a final, single groan he destroyed both of us.

Some seconds later, he collapsed beside me, but intertwined our fingers.

When my breathing returned to normal, I glanced at him. “How do we do it? How do we keep this safe?”

Luc smiled, a curl across his forehead, and nipped at my knuckle. “Just like anything else as a vampire,” he said. “We plan for contingencies, and we take it one night at a time.”

* * *

He’d gotten permission to use the Cadogan jet, which meant my second flight was significantly more luxe than the first one had been. Lots of creamy leather and offers from the steward for drinks, food, and reading material.

With Luc beside me, and a new kind of hope in my heart, it wasn’t the worst way to travel.

We returned to the House to find Rachel in the foyer, waiting impatiently with Ethan and Merit for my arrival. Rachel burst toward me and wrapped me in a hug, and I bit back a wince as well as I could.

“Thank God, Aunt Lindsey. I was so worried!”

“That doesn’t say much for my skills,” I pointed out.

“Which are impressive,” Luc murmured, a hand at my back.

Ray stepped back and smiled. “Uncle Luc said you’d be fine. And that was before he left to rescue you.”

There were so many things wrong with those sentences, I goggled.

“Uncle Luc?” I repeated. “And before he came to ‘rescue’ me?”

Merit unsuccessfully bit back a snicker, and even Ethan chuckled.

“Kids say the darnedest things,” Luc said, in his “Aw, shucks” voice, which he usually imagined would get him out of trouble.

“We’ll discuss that later,” I said good-naturedly, looking back at Rachel. “You’re all right?”

“I’m great. Everybody’s been really nice. Helen gave me a tour of the House, and let me use the library to study, which was great. And Merit let me try these little desserts called Mallocakes, which I’d never seen but will now be scouring the Internet for. But, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’m ready to go home.” She winced, and glanced back at Merit and Ethan apologetically.

“Even the finest hotel is second to sleeping in your own bed,” Ethan said. “It was lovely having you here, Rachel.” He glanced at me. “And good to see you back healthy and hale, Lindsey.”

“Liege,” I said with a nod, then looked at Luc. “Is it safe for her to go home again?”

“It is now,” he said. “Your friend at the Green Clare has been taken care of, and the CPD went through the house just in case there were any more booby traps.”

“Did he find anything?” I asked.

“Nothing at all. Targeted attack, mostly to get you to pay attention. Which worked.”

“It did,” I allowed.

“I told the town car to wait,” Luc said, hitching a thumb at the door, “in case Rachel was ready.”

“She is,” Rachel said, pointing to her bag nearby on the floor.

“In that case, I’ll walk you out.” I glanced at Luc. “Could you give us a minute?”

“Of course.” He held the door open and waited while Rachel and I walked through.

“How was your trip?” she asked.

“Educational, I think. The past is never quite what we imagined it to be.”

“That’s awfully philosophical,” she said.

“New York will do that to a girl.”

We reached the car, and the driver put her bag in the trunk and opened the door for her.

“I’m really sorry you got wrapped up in this,” I said. “It was something from the past I never thought would kick up again, and you got dragged into the middle. You could have gotten hurt because of me. I’m sorry for that.”

“Hey,” she said with a smile, “every family has its skeletons. It’s just yours are more likely to be animated super-ghouls or something.”

“I don’t think those exist.”

“You think that now,” she said, pointing at me. “But life usually proves us wrong.”

We exchanged a final hug, and she climbed into the backseat. The driver shut the door, tipped his cap at me, and the car disappeared down the street and into the darkness.

* * *

There weren’t many hours left before dawn, but Ethan gave Luc and me both the rest of the night off, promising he and Merit would keep an eye out for intruders. As that would require them to keep their hands off each other, I found the offer dubious. But it had been a long couple of nights, so I didn’t argue aloud.

Luc and I retreated to my room, where I offered a treat for the man who’d traveled half a continent to save me, even when I’d been sure I didn’t need saving.

He lay on the bed in boxer briefs and a smile. When I emerged from the closet, his eyes widened just as I’d hoped they would.

“You’re wearing the boots. And very little else.”

I put my hands on my hips just above the lacy undergarment that covered only what it needed to and smiled cattily.

“If we’re going to be in a real relationship, I figured we should get started on the right foot.”

“Damn right,” Luc murmured, holding out a beckoning hand.

For once in my very long life, I didn’t hesitate.

THE PARLOR

BY

LUCIENNE DIVER

“Tell me again how on earth you got talked into wearing booty shorts,” Christie said, with a laugh at my expense.

“Forget the booty shorts—would you take a look at these boots? I look like a fembot alien queen.”

She eyed my knee-high boots with their three-and-a-half-inch Plexiglas stiletto heels and the rest in a silver so shiny I could blind passing motorists. The matching silver short shorts and halter top weren’t see-through, but only because they didn’t have to be. They didn’t leave anything to the imagination.

“They are kind of Hooters-meets–space brothel.”

I groaned, took a step forward, and nearly fell on my face. I should have insisted on hazard pay.

“Okay, enough fun,” I told her. “You’re supposed to be teaching me how to walk in these damn things and how not to kill customers for tucking tips into inappropriate places.”

“You should have just sent me in.”

I eyed Christie—five-ten, one hundred and twelve pounds of blond, blue-eyed runway gorgeosity. She was my best friend, and she was tougher than she looked—she had to be. But patrons of The Parlor would probably eat her alive.

“Honey, I can’t afford you.”

“True,” she said without a trace of gloat. She made more in one shoot than I made in two weeks of PI work . . . or longer when times were lean, like now. It’d be a wonderful thing to get on my high horse and say I didn’t take dirty, low-down, cheating-rat-bastard cases (my client’s words), but beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially after the memorable incident a few weeks past with the singing fish possessed by Poseidon, who’d gotten pissy with me and tried his best to flood me out, doing extensive water damage to my office and leaving me with a sky-high deductible and an insurance company that would barely return my calls.

“Anyway, all I have to do is get in, get surveillance photos, and get out.”

She gave me a once-over. “Where are you going to hide your camera?” she asked dubiously.

“Hair clip.” I showed her the gaudy silver bow I’d rigged.

“Better facial recognition if you hide it in your cleavage. That’s where everyone will be looking.”

“Christie!”

“What? It’s not like I’m wrong.”

* * *

My client—cheating-rat-bastard’s wife, Marta—was convinced her husband was having an affair. He was smart enough to keep it off the credit cards, but his huge cash withdrawals and occasional guilt gifts had painted her a picture. Spontaneous diamond studs were almost always a dead giveaway. But in this case, I wasn’t so sure. I’d tracked her husband, Gareth, all week, and until last night his routine had been that of any other mild-mannered professor. There were no rumors of closed-door meetings with his students, and the only late nights had been spent in the lab with his myopic male research assistant . . . not that that necessarily meant anything.

But last night he’d come here, to The Parlor. He’d pulled an all-nighter, but not at the office or the lab as he’d told his wife. When several hours had passed and he hadn’t emerged, I’d followed him in, inspired by boredom and curiosity.

I found a gambling club in serious need of a miracle makeover. The chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings looked like jellyfish, with little lights swimming among the tentacles, providing enough illumination for patrons to avoid tripping over their own feet but not enough to notice the stains or wear marks on the really gnarly carpet, patterned like a clown had scattered Technicolor confetti and it had stuck. Of Gareth there was no sign. He’d disappeared like a six-pack at the Super Bowl.

I haunted the restrooms for a while, waiting for my mythical boyfriend to finish his business and watching the ebb and flow, getting a feel for the club. The Parlor wasn’t the kind of place a man went for an illicit liaison—not unless he was courting one of the cocktail waitresses. From what I could see, it was much more about making time with Lady Luck. It didn’t have the flash and pop of a Vegas casino with shows and dancing fountains or the Old World glitz and glamour of a Monte Carlo establishment. The Parlor was for the hard-core gamblers. There was eye candy in the form of the waitstaff, even a few men who looked like Rocky from The Rocky Horror Picture Show in their tiny silver shorts. But mostly there was a club full of chain-smoking, chain-drinking patrons looking for another kind of score. My precognition sat up and took notice, sending a little jolt through my system, letting me know there was danger about. But what kind? If I weren’t working, would it warn me off a bad bet? Help me at the tables? Or was the temptation to try for a quick score exactly the kind of trouble I faced?

It was in poking around for the off-limits and VIP areas, trying to find my wayward quarry, that I’d met Red. Or rather, he’d gone out of his way to meet me. “Meet” being a euphemism, of course, for intercept and potentially subdue. I debated giving him the gorgon glare, freezing him in his tracks, but I couldn’t be sure I’d get into the VIP section and out before he would unfreeze, and then I’d be in for it. I’d save that as a last resort and see where bluffing got me.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked, stepping right into my path.

He was a mountain of a man, and it would have been hard to miss him even if I hadn’t been on the lookout for security. He was dressed much more subtly than the rest of the employees, in jeans and a short-sleeved black button-down shirt, which must have been specially made, because there was no frickin’ way a standard size could have covered those biceps. That didn’t stop him from leaving several buttons open to deal with his oversized pecs. He didn’t fill in the gaps with any gaudy chains. They would only have ruined the view.

But I’d seen Detective Nick Armani in full flagrante delicto, and while I couldn’t say that made me immune to Red’s charms, it did leave me able to form complete sentences.

“Miss? Well, thank God for that. I think if you’d ma’amed me, you’d have finished me off.”

He gave me a look of great confusion. I got that a lot. “The back room is by invitation only.” He forged on, standing between me and the curtained-off area I’d been about to explore. “Were you looking for something? Maybe I can help.”

“What does it take to get invited?” I asked, batting the one gift the gods had given me—my thick, dark lashes that looked like falsies and weren’t.

He grinned like he appreciated the effort, but not like it was having the desired effect. “You ain’t got it.”

He hadn’t given me the once-over, hadn’t consulted any sort of list, mental or otherwise. I’d looked for the telltale eye movement.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Look, you seem like a nice girl—”

I dove in before he could give me the speech. “Oh, please! I’m desperate! My no-good, lousy, cheating, thieving ex cleaned out our bank account, and we were already behind on the rent. If I can’t leverage my coffee-can money into enough to get caught up, I’m going to be out on my ass. I need higher stakes than the rinky-dink tables out here.”

He looked at said ass—or tried to, anyway. Since it was behind me, he had other real estate in the way, but he didn’t seem to mind. “You a gambler?” he asked.

“I am tonight.”

“Uh-huh. Those guys back there’d eat you alive. You ever waited tables?”

I eyed him back. “Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“That’s how I put my stupid ex through school, and now—”

“One of our girls just quit,” he cut in. I let the sexism of “our girls” slide right by, but it cost me. “You want to earn some extra money, we could use you. Tips are pretty good, I hear, especially if someone gets lucky. A hundred, two hundred a night sometimes.”

* * *

That was where the booty shorts came in. It was also how I came to be waiting for my drink order at a bar made of glass block like you’d see in a shower. It might have been cool but for the blue light behind it that had me expecting my Close Encounter of the Third Kind any minute.

Unfortunately, a guy seated in my section, whom I’d dubbed Mr. Musk—for obvious reasons—wanted a close encounter of his own. If he wasn’t careful, it was going to be with the heel of my boot. As satisfying as that would be, it wouldn’t get me any closer to payday, or to my quarry.

According to Marta, Gareth had called, claiming to be pulling another all-nighter at the lab. Tonight I was going to get intel for her on what he was really up to. I’d thought I’d have greater access as an employee than as a random mark off the street, but so far all I had to show for my efforts were blisters on my feet, bruises on my butt from men’s pinching fingers, and some seriously high blood pressure. I understood exactly why my predecessor had quit. I was counting the minutes until my first break, and then I planned on doing some serious reconnaissance. Already I was coming to know the patterns, and noticing that one of the bouncers disappeared frequently to deal with what I assumed to be overactive-bladder issues. But Red—he was the ultimate immovable object.

Until she walked out from the off-limits area. My precog went off like a slot machine that had come up sevens across the board, and Red actually stepped away from his post for a word with her. She wore big black aviator sunglasses that matched her shiny black dress, which was fitted at the top to show off considerable skin and then flared, longer in the back than in the front and with a kind of bustle or hoop to bell it out around her backside. She looked like Trinity from The Matrix all dressed up for a costume ball. Yet, strangely, it worked for her, probably because the power rolling off her in waves kept her from being overwhelmed by her couture, making it complement instead of clash. At a guess, this was her Parlor . . . And all the men and women merely players. Wow, it wasn’t often that my brain defaulted to Shakespeare. Macbeth at that . . . not a good sign.

I looked away as her gaze swept the room, for some reason not wanting to catch her eye. That precog again, warning me. I still didn’t know what the danger was, but I now had a crystal clear idea of where it emanated from. As one of the two harried bartenders leaned close to take my drinks order, I asked him first, “That the boss?” I twitched my head in her direction.

The bartenders got to wear skintight silver pants that were, if possible, even worse than the short shorts. This one had shot glasses strung on bandoliers across his impressive chest. It was the oddest look. Mad Max meets Starlight Express. His chocolate brown eyes flickered toward the lady in question. “Yup. What can I get you?”

“She looks like a hard-ass. And sunglasses in here—is she kidding?”

The bartender huffed impatiently. “Do you have drink orders for me or are you just trying to chat me up? I don’t have time for this.”

So much for my womanly wiles. Christie would be so disappointed.

I gave him my order rather than blow my cover, and I watched the lady work the room as I waited. She air-kissed those who greeted her, slid her hand familiarly over the shoulders of others—regulars, I guessed—who were too focused on what they were doing to pay her any attention. She stopped by a table or two, exchanging meaningful glances and sometimes nods with the dealers, and then she slipped back into the off-limits area toward the back, as silently as she’d entered.

I had to get back there, past Red and whatever other security there might be. I didn’t have what it took to make their invitation-only games, but I bet I knew who did. Apollo Demas. Actor, agent, and general pain in my ass.

* * *

Gareth never made it home that night, not even in the wee hours of the morning. A frantic Marta called me at six a.m., a mere few hours after I’d gotten off shift and wound down enough to sleep. In the old days, before I’d pissed off some of the greater gods, I might not even have heard the phone, but with my new unasked-for powers of perception, I reached for it before it even rang. The opening notes of Santana’s “Oye Como Va” played out as I struggled to focus and find the right fingering on the phone to accept the call. I did it with probably milliseconds to spare and said a groggy “’Ello.”

The tears came through first. “He never came home!” Marta wailed. “I know I called him a cheating bastard, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want him back. And I never called him that to his face. Do you think he’s left me? What did you find? Is she young? And pretty? And, oh, God, Tori, you have to help me. Tell him . . . just tell him . . .”

She broke up then, and the sobbing was more than I could take.

“Marta,” I said, semi-sharply, trying to cut through the tears. “Wait up a second. If I hadn’t gotten in after two a.m., I’d have called you with a report. I figured it could wait until morning, but now . . . Listen, he’s not having an affair. At least, I don’t think so. He’s gambling.”

She broke off in midsob and stunned silence reigned. “Gambling? But he’s way too smart for that.”

“Smart enough, maybe, to feel like he could beat the system or count cards or find some other edge?”

More silence. “Maybe. I don’t know. I wouldn’t have said he’d sneak out on me at all, but now . . . Oh, I know I shouldn’t have insisted on that Sub-Zero refrigerator, especially with our son needing all his crazy orthodontics. Did I tell you they need to reset his whole jaw?”

She hadn’t. We didn’t have that kind of relationship. But however Gareth’s gambling had started, if he’d made it to the invitation-only games, he was in deep. Maybe even to addiction level. Marta was right to worry.

“I’m sure he hasn’t left you,” I said with more assurance than I felt. If he was an addict, he might not leave physically, but his new passion and priorities might amount to the same thing emotionally. I struggled with how much to tell her. “He’s probably just on a roll or . . . something. The club is closed for the night, but I doubt that means anything for the backroom games. I haven’t been able to crack the inner sanctum yet, but I have a plan.”

“Oh, Tori, please, you have to get him out of there. We’ll get him into a twelve-step program. Whatever. Just tell him to come home. I’ll return the fridge.”

I almost smiled at that. At least Marta had her priorities straight. “I’ll tell him. Let me get my plans in motion. I’ll call you as soon as I can, but I’m not sure how quickly I can make things happen.”

“I’ll stay by the phone.”

So that was it. I was going to have to call Apollo. I’d known it since last night, and yet I’d hesitated. I already owed Apollo my life, and I knew just how he wanted to collect. Even if I wasn’t taken by a certain hunky police detective with midnight blue eyes and dark hair that fell half over them when he ruffled it in frustration, as he often did where I was involved, I would have known better than to get involved with Apollo. For one thing, there was his track record. Mythology was chock-full of his tragic loves. For another, I was pretty certain that I had nothing to offer him after his millennia of experience, and I knew that if . . . when . . . he grew tired of me, I’d be left bereft. Why let myself in for an unhappy ending I didn’t need my precognition to predict? (Not that it worked like that. I couldn’t actually see the future, sadly. It was more like I had an early warning system where danger was concerned.)

I looked at the clock. Six eleven a.m. Definitely too early to call Apollo. I debated it anyway and decided that I’d have a better chance of catching him in the mood to humor me if I gave him a few more hours of sleep. I could use more myself.

But those hours of sleep turned out to be more elusive than an invitation to The Parlor’s inner sanctum. After half an hour or so of tossing and turning, I gave it up and rose. My oversized Arctic Monkeys T-shirt was crinkled beyond belief, but there was no one to see or care, since Nick’s and my schedules weren’t syncing up at the moment, so I just pulled my wild mane of hair back into a scrunchie and booted up my computer. Undercover work was all well and good, but there was something to be said for public records searches. The owner of the club would be a matter of public record, and if the place had ever been featured in any kind of press piece, any partners or major players would likely be mentioned, maybe even pictured. A few keystrokes and all would be revealed.

And sure enough, there she was, in an old issue of L.A. Days, a free daily that was more advertisement than actual news. THE PARLOR IS A GAMBLE, the headline read. It went on to talk about how the club had been investigated as the common denominator in the disappearance of a couple of out-of-state businessmen who were seen to enter but never to leave.

“Which is just defamatory,” says club owner Ariana Weaver. “Of course they left. The police have been through The Parlor from top to bottom. If the men had stayed behind, someone would have located them. I don’t see where my mail goes when it’s picked up, but I trust that it’s not still hiding out in my mailbox.”

My heart started to beat faster, as if my body was trying to tell me what my mind was smart enough to figure out for itself—that this was important. There was a picture of Ariana, standing beside her glass-block bar, just as I’d seen her today, in the wraparound aviator shades, but this time in a black satin jacket with a hood lined in red pulled up around her face, making her seem mysterious, as if she had something to hide. Probably that was the impression the photographer had been going for, given the headline and the direction of the story. But the really telling thing was that she didn’t look a day older last night than she’d looked in the picture, and the article was dated fifteen years ago. I wondered what she was hiding behind those aviator shades besides maybe crow’s-feet.

I looked around for other news of the case and found a reference here and there to the missing businessmen, but as far as I could tell they’d never been found. For anything more in-depth, though, I’d be scrolling through old microfiche at the library. I didn’t think that was going to be necessary. My Spidey senses told me that The Parlor had been involved with the missing businessmen. Just like Gareth? I wouldn’t think that way. He would be found. I was on it.

I made a decision and picked up the phone to call Apollo. It rang four times and I’d resigned myself to voice mail when he finally answered and grumbled into the phone, “No. Whatever it is, no. Unless you want my body, in which case you can get over here and tell me in person.”

He hung up. Just like that. I’d never been good at taking “no” for an answer. Well, he’d issued the invitation. I did want his body, just not quite in the way nature—or Apollo—intended.

* * *

I’d been to Apollo’s home exactly once, when he’d saved me from a watery grave and I’d woken from oblivion to find myself unclothed, with a big, buff, nearly naked sun god sharing his body heat and quite willing to share a whole lot more. In his defense, I had been one step away from hypothermia and he had stopped when I’d . . . reluctantly . . . called a halt to things. I didn’t really want to tempt fate again by dropping in unannounced, but he’d left me no other choice.

I came with peace offerings from Duffy’s—pastries, croissants, chocolate croissants, those little bite-sized cherry and apple pies, and both coffee and espresso, since I wasn’t sure which he preferred. I’d loaded my bag down with every kind of creamer and sweetener known to man and hoped for the best.

The doorman, it turned out, not only remembered me, but succumbed to a bribe of coffee and cream puffs and let me into Apollo’s apartment without buzzing him, although he did consult a list first, probably of crazy stalker chicks to keep out and crazy hot stalker chicks who were allowed to disturb Apollo’s rest. I was glad I fell into the latter category, even if I didn’t agree with the final analysis.

I shut the door to the penthouse apartment behind me with a bump of the hip, since my hands were full, and heard Apollo cry out, but I couldn’t tell if it was at the intrusion or something in his sleep. I’d find out soon enough. I followed the sound and my memory toward his room. Light filtered in through semi-sheer curtains, but it hadn’t woken Apollo, who lay tangled in his sheets, his bedcoverings spilling all over the floor, as if he’d had a rough night. His deeply tanned chest rose and fell more rapidly than normal, and as I entered he thrashed about, still fighting whatever battle his bed linens had lost. I set my bag and coffee tray down on his entertainment center across from the bed and approached cautiously, well aware from my own night terrors that one good thrash could mean a black eye, and there would go my tips for the night.

I called to him softly as I approached, hoping to wake him from a distance. “No, Tori!” I heard him call, and thought I might have been getting through, but then he followed it up with “Don’t!”

As I reached the bed, he lashed out suddenly, grabbing blindly at my hand and yanking me down, then rolling on top of me to pin me beneath him. I looked up, half afraid, into his blind eyes and called, “Apollo, it’s me!” I grabbed for one of the hands that held me pinned and pinched him hard to snap him out of it.

It took another pinch before the veil of sleep cleared his eyes and he looked down into mine, and another second before I thought he was actually seeing me.

“Tori?” he asked. “What . . . what are you . . . Tori, you’re in danger.”

“So I gathered, but that was only in your dreams,” I said, trying to squirm out from under him, but his grip just tightened as he tried to make me understand.

“Lucid dreams,” he said, his turquoise eyes staring intensely into mine. “God of prophecy, remember? Did . . . did you call earlier?”

“I did.”

“Must have been what set me off.”

He rolled aside, but the sheets fell away just enough to reveal his assets . . . all of them. Apparently without a guest present he slept in the nude. So he had been acting the gentleman the last time I’d been here, at least by some definitions of it. I should have looked away. I tried, but managed only to avert my face. My eyes had a mind of their own. And what I could glimpse out of my peripheral vision . . .

“Enjoying the view?” Apollo asked, making no move to hide a thing.

“S’all right,” I lied. Damn, I’d forgotten the empathetic link his stupid “gift” had opened up between us.

He smiled at me over his shoulder and finally wrapped a sheet around himself towel style and went to check out my bribes. Maybe not the delicacies he’d been offered up on Mount Olympus, but pretty darn near the best L.A. had to offer.

He grabbed an espresso and both of the chocolate croissants and came back to bed. “I hope one of those is for me,” I told him.

“What do you have to trade?” he asked suggestively.

I growled and rose to help myself to one of the tiny cherry pies instead, biting it in half like it was his head. He laughed.

“Here,” he said, holding a croissant out to me. “I can’t stand to see you commit pastrycide.”

I bit into one of the croissants, closed my eyes in delight, and nearly sank into the bed, which was every bit as comfortable as I remembered. Hopefully, the sugar rush would hit soon and make up for my lack of sleep.

A pillow hit me upside the head, careful not to crush my croissant. “None of that,” Apollo said when I glared. “If anything’s going to pleasure you to sleep, it’s going to be me. Now spill. What’s going on that’s so important you had to beard the lion in his den?”

The lion’s den? Come to think of it, with that wild mane of golden hair, his tawny skin, and broad chest, it was an apt comparison.

I told him about Gareth, The Parlor, the invitation-only games, and the disappearances. Then I told him about Ariana Weaver. He got more and more thoughtful as the tale went on.

When I finished, he didn’t say a word, and I finally asked, “What?”

“I think you should drop the case. If it had anything to do with my dream . . .”

“Tell me about it,” I said gently.

“I saw fangs. You paralyzed, being sucked dry . . .” The haunted look was back in his eyes.

“Vampires?” I asked doubtfully. I thought about Ariana Weaver—dark glasses, dark clothing, a club that meant she’d be active at night and probably asleep by day . . . But I just couldn’t buy it. For one thing, she’d been captured on film. “Do vampires really exist?”

Apollo shrugged and the sheet he’d wrapped around his hips began to slip. “Depends on your definition. There are certainly things that go bump in the night. Some like the taste of blood. But I’m not sure that’s it. There was something . . . different . . .”

“Different how?” I prompted.

“Maybe if you’d let the dream play out . . .”

I stared down at the crumbs now decorating Apollo’s previously clean sheets. There was just no way to eat a croissant neatly. None. “So you’ll help me?” I asked.

He looked at me steadily. I could feel it even without meeting his gaze. “I’m trying, Tori. You told me to stay away, to give you and Nick a chance. I’m trying to honor that, but every time you pull me back in.”

“I know,” I said quietly, “but—”

“Have you tried calling the police? Having the wife file a missing person’s report?”

“Didn’t do any good the last time, fifteen years ago . . . if that was the last time. The men were never found.” Gareth wouldn’t be, either, not unless we found him. I felt it in my bones. “Will you help?” I repeated.

I looked up at last, and saw Apollo swipe a hand down his face. “You know I will. If the alternative is that dream coming true . . . I’ll help. But, Tori, you’ll owe me.”

That was the problem with gods, and what kept me from giving in to whatever was between me and Apollo. With gods, everything came with a cost. But in the balance of a man’s life versus complications for me, I knew which way the pendulum had to swing.

* * *

Since I couldn’t think of any good way to break into The Parlor during the day without getting caught, it seemed safe enough to call Detective Armani—Nick—and fill him in, just in case we were about to get in the middle of a police investigation or some such. He confirmed that Gareth hadn’t been missing long enough to officially launch an investigation and also unofficially confided that The Parlor had been named as a “last known” location in other cases that had led nowhere. I was ordered to be careful. And, if possible, to hang on to my waitressing outfit, because “That I have to see.”

Men. What was it about boots and booty shorts?

I promised, thinking of all the fun that would come after.

Then I had the day ahead of me to plan, to obsess and worry over my missing scientist. I had to hope that whatever was happening was on pause for the day, which I spent finding creative ways to hide lock picks, pepper spray, and an actual stiletto in the limited amount of fabric my costume provided. By nightfall I was as ready as I was ever going to be. Apollo had gotten himself invited into a game, and we had arranged for him to text or call me, his needy girlfriend, periodically to let me know what he’d learned.

We thought we’d planned for everything. We were wrong.

* * *

I arrived early for my shift, hoping I’d find some unguarded doorway or some other opportunity to poke around. To that end, I wore crepe-soled shoes, dark-wash jeans and a black T-shirt, the better for sneaking around. My stilettos and minuscule costume rested in a string backpack tossed carelessly over my shoulder. Anyway, there was no way I was walking the L.A. streets in them. Not unless I really wanted to make some extra cash and wasn’t too particular about the way I went about it.

But the doors weren’t open yet, even for employees, which meant I had to knock and Red had to eyeball me through the keyhole to approve my entrance. So much for stealth. Once I was inside, he announced, “You’re early.” And not like it was a good thing.

“Problem with that?” I asked. “I can be late tomorrow to make up for it.”

The right side of his mouth twitched at that, and I thought I might actually get a smile, but he fought it valiantly.

“Better not be. Boss lady wouldn’t like it.”

Boss lady. It was what my assistant, Jésus (pronounced Hey-Zeus), called me. Times like these I missed the hell out of him. I could only imagine his scathing commentary on the place. “Tinfoil bikinis? Really? It’s like The Wizard of Oz meets the deli counter. If I only had a style . . .” I could hear it now, like he was whispering in my ear.

“Speaking of the boss lady—,” I began.

“Yeah, she wants to meet you, too. There was a lot going on last night. She didn’t get to give you her blessing and the new employee orientation. I’m sure you’ll meet her tonight.”

Oh goody, goody gumdrops. I felt like someone had walked over my grave while I was still in it, very much alive and screaming to be heard. It was not a pleasant feeling.

I pasted a smile on my face as though I were looking forward to it.

“Since you’re here, you can help Tonio out behind the bar. He just got in a new shipment.”

Sure, it was Friday night. Had to stock up for the weekend. “No problem,” I answered. “Just let me get changed.” If I wasn’t able to sneak, at least maybe I could distract.

The waitstaff did have a tiny locker room at the back, and I’d been assigned a cubby along with my costume, but the room itself didn’t open onto anything but a bathroom with a few stalls so we didn’t have to take up those meant for customers. I’d checked it all out the night before. If there were any secret entrances or exits, they were well concealed. I looked again just to be sure that I had the place to myself, knocking on walls, reaching into unassigned and thus unlocked cubbies, but I found nothing and couldn’t stay long. I was expected out front.

I checked my cell phone before setting it down on the bench beside the bag, from which I pulled my shiny silver shorts. Apollo was supposed to call or text me every hour so that I’d know he was okay. There was a message waiting for me already.

ALL SET FOR THE GAME, BUT APPARENTLY THE FIRST RULE IS “NO ELECTRONICS.” WON’T BE ABLE TO TEXT OR CALL. IF I’M IN TROUBLE, WILL DO MY BEST TO RADIATE IT OUT THROUGH OUR LINK. SAME GOES FOR YOU. KEEP AN “EAR” OUT.

That feeling of someone walking over my grave escalated. Now I had two graves to worry about. Two graves and no plan but divide and conquer. ’Cause that worked out so well in horror films. At least there wasn’t any hanky-panky going on with us. That would have been the kiss of death.

My brain was doing what it always did under stress—bibble. I finished my quick change and left the locker room behind me, going back to the bar, where I was sure Tonio would give me something to do besides wait and worry.

Tonio turned out to be the bartender in the silver pants and shot glass bandolier from the night before. Without all that, he looked like a normal guy in a faded khaki Metal Mulisha T-shirt, jeans, and boots. His dark hair was spiked up and his chinstrap beard nicely highlighted the lines of his face. He had nickel-sized plug earrings in both ears, black on the outer rim, toxic green on the interior.

I was cutting lemon wedges when I casually asked him what had happened to my predecessor and why we were short-staffed. Was she yet another disappearance that could be laid at The Parlor’s door?

“Amber?” he asked. “She just ditched. Couldn’t take it anymore. I hear she got a job dancing somewhere on the Sunset Strip.”

“Did she give notice?”

Tonio gave me a “get real” look. “No one gives notice. It’s not that kind of job. Lots of turnover. Here one day, gone the next.”

I tried to look impressed. “Sounds like you’ve seen it all.”

“Been here almost a year.”

“Seems like they’d have you in the VIP room by now. Bet the tips are better back there.”

He studied me. “That what you’re angling for? I wouldn’t hold your breath. It’s based on seniority, and sister, you just got here.”

I gave him a cheeky grin, less effective since I wasn’t showing much actual cheek . . . not the kind most guys were interested in, anyway. “Honey, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve got at least five years on most of these girls. I get much more senior in this biz and they’ll put me out to pasture. I don’t have time to wait my turn.”

Tonio did smile at that and gave me a really good once-over. Up, down, and back to my face. I’d been told by an ex-boyfriend once that I was “good enough for television,” which in La La Land was like saying I had a great personality. Kickboxing classes and wrestling with Latter-Day Olympians had kept me in shape, but I wouldn’t be winning any wet T-shirt contests, let alone pageants. “Honey,” he said back to me, “don’t sell yourself short. I didn’t ask, so you don’t tell. You can pass for a twentysomething. Hell, I’d give you a tumble if you were my type.”

“You’d be on,” I answered, because he’d about made my day. “So, no advice for moving on up?”

“Keep the customers happy and don’t step on any more toes.”

“Oh, you noticed that, huh?”

I’d accidentally mashed Mr. Musk’s toes beneath my stiletto heels when he startled me by grabbing for something other than his drink one time too many. It would have been hard for anyone to miss the shriek he’d let out, but I’d been hoping. I was lucky not to have been fired on the spot.

“Don’t worry, hon. I’m sure he deserved it.”

That was that. But I had no intention of working my way up the company ladder. One way or another, I was getting behind the scenes tonight.

It was killing me not knowing what was going on back there, not knowing whether Gareth was okay . . . or Apollo . . . So when I felt that first spike of apprehension from him, I was ready to go. I handed my tray off to Stacy, another of the waitresses, and promised she could keep my tips if she’d look after my tables. I blamed feminine issues. She huffed, but didn’t turn me down, and as soon as I was free, I struggled to walk rather than run toward the invitation-only area at the back.

Red, of course, blocked my way. I stared straight into his eyes, gave him the gorgon glare, and put my force of will behind it, ordering, “Freeze.”

He stiffened, and I waved a hand in front of him to be sure it had taken. When he didn’t so much as blink, I stepped around him, my inner alarm klaxons blaring so loudly I could barely hear myself think. Like I didn’t know danger lurked behind that curtain. Steeling myself to push past the adrenaline-fueled fear that wanted to flood my system, I lifted the curtain to slip into the inner sanctum . . . right into the clutches of Ariana Weaver.

What use was an alarm, Apollo would ask me, if I didn’t heed it? A good question. One I hoped to live long enough to explore.

I stared into Ariana’s shades, hoping I’d be able to see the eyes behind them, but as far as I could tell, they were black holes. I knew I’d have no luck getting through to her, not unless I could knock her glasses askew, but she was holding me by the upper arms, and grinning, her lips curled up strangely to reveal fangs. Fangs. I’d never been agog before in my life, but this would probably qualify.

“Welcome to my Parlor, said the spider to the fly,” she crooned, and pincers came out of the sides of her mouth, explaining the strange curl. They clashed ominously and everything fell into place.

The Parlor. The bustle gown, all the better to hide an extended thorax. The dark glasses . . . If I knocked them off, I suddenly knew I’d find multifaceted eyes—spider’s eyes. Ariana Weaver . . . Arachne? Here? I’d expect maybe a dark cave somewhere, but L.A.? Of course, she was looking surprisingly human these days. The gods’ power had faded so much when their worship had waned . . . Maybe the transformative magic that had made her into a monster was waning as well. It would explain so much. But not what had become of the missing men. Had she spun them up in her web? Made a meal of them? Was that why there’d been nothing left to find?

“I’m no fly,” I told her, trying out my bravado. Inside, though, I was quaking. Of all the ways I didn’t want to die, becoming a monster’s meal was probably at the top of the list.

“No, you aren’t, at that. I saw what you did to Red. I have eyes everywhere, my dear. Eyes in the back of my head . . . or mounted on my walls. It’s all the same. I’ve never had gorgon get. It will be a new experience for me.”

Her tongue slipped out from between the mandibles that were distorting her speech. It was black as night, but surprisingly human in shape. It was a wonder she didn’t cut it on her teeth.

“Do you like games?” she asked.

Ariadne did, if I remembered my mythology right. That’s what had gotten her arachnified to begin with—or rather, given spiders their classification name, since she’d owned it first—Athena’s insult that Arachne would dare think herself exceptional enough to challenge the goddess with her weaving.

“Um, sure, as long as it’s a fair contest and the stakes are right.”

“What do you say to a life for a life?”

Fear scrabbled at my heart, gripping hard, squeezing until I could barely breathe. I’d sent Apollo into her lair. If anything happened to him, it would be all my fault.

She cocked her head at my reaction. I wished I could read her eyes. “Ah, I see, you thought I meant the Olympian. Yes, I knew who he was the second he reached out. Be assured, little gorgon, he is still playing my game. He hasn’t yet lost and so is not yet subject to my rules. However, his luck has just taken a turn for the worse. He will be mine soon enough. You see, in my Parlor, the house always wins. No, gorgon girl. I’ve had you checked out, as I do all new employees. I know who you are and that you’re here for the scientist—Athena’s own. His blood will be all the sweeter because of it, but he is hardly sporting. Now, you, my love”—she chucked me fondly under the chin, and it was all I could do not to recoil—“you, unless I’m very much mistaken, are a fighter.”

I glared at her, feeling those sunglasses like a barrier that even my screw you look couldn’t penetrate. A deal . . . my life for Gareth’s. As if I had a real decision to make. Without me, he had no chance. Still, it was a far cry from putting myself into Apollo’s debt for some guy I didn’t even know to giving my life for him. Hell, except for my retainer, I hadn’t even been paid for the job, and here I was facing death to finish it. Because I was pretty sure that’s what she was suggesting.

She watched avidly as all of this flitted across my face and stopped me with a raised hand just as I would have given her my answer. “But wait. I have just realized that I hold all of the cards. The scientist, the gorgon, and, soon, the god. I have no reason to give any of you up.”

“I’m not yours to hold. None of us are.”

“My dear, possession is nine-tenths of the law.” She gave me a shake, hard enough to make my teeth rattle. “And right now, I am in possession. So, we will make it double or nothing. Triple, even. If you survive, you all go free. If not . . .”

The alarm klaxons weren’t just screaming. They were about to shake apart. The house always wins. I strongly suspected that Ariadne liked to stack the deck. If she thought even for a moment that I would survive, she would never have made the offer.

“I can’t speak for Apollo,” I said, feeling him from a room away or more. He was aware of my distress. How could he miss it? And his own worry was creating a feedback loop I could barely stand. But we couldn’t read each other’s minds, and I couldn’t warn him or tell him to shut it, no matter how much I might want to.

“I don’t see that you have a choice,” she said with a truly scary smile.

She whipped off the glasses with a flourish and I flinched from her compound eyes and the million visions of my doom.

Red tore through the curtain just then, ready to hit something. He stopped cold when he saw me locked in Ariadne’s grasp, and a sick smile spread across his face.

“The Pit?” he asked, completely unsurprised by the sight of Ariadne exposed.

Ariadne continued to stare me down. “What will it be, my dear? Will you champion your companions or shall I arrange the scientist’s sudden death?”

As if there was a choice.

Red grabbed me and began to pull me away as Ariadne called to a minion unseen, perhaps on one of the many cameras she’d mentioned, “Rally the troops and tell them to place their bets. Challenge in ten!”

Ten minutes? Who were the troops? Her minions? Those betting on the outcome of the battle? How frequent an occurrence was this that she could pull it all together so quickly? Even though I was facing my own doom, the questions wouldn’t stop. Or the urge to investigate.

Red swept me into a freight elevator, and thick metal doors closed ominously behind us. He patted me down, stealing my only weapons—the pepper spray, lock picks, and even my hidden dagger. Once he’d secured them all on his own person, he took a key from his pants pocket and inserted it into a slot on the elevator panel, which opened up to reveal a second set of buttons. He pressed the button for the basement, I assumed—and my heart sank as we started to descend. My precog had gone past high alert and onto overload. My head rang like the inside of a bell, and the reverb shot all-points bulletins to my extremities and everywhere in between.

“Enough!” I yelled. I must have said it out loud, because the word bounced around the elevator and seemed to strike Red right between the eyes, if the look he shot me was any indication.

The alarm klaxons quieted suddenly, leaving me with a resounding silence in which to think. If only I was equipped.

Hard to plan when you didn’t know what you faced and were armed only with a reflective bikini and stiletto heels. Hey, if they put me in a giant microwave, I’d show them. I’d blow that sucker right out.

Somehow I didn’t think it would be that simple.

When the elevator doors opened, we faced a concrete bunkerlike basement, the kind where you might wait out a nuclear holocaust—the kind where no one could hear you scream. He dragged me by the arm down a bare hallway. I desperately wanted to freeze him again, then grab his key and get the hell out, hopefully with Gareth and Apollo in tow. But my alarms started to blare again, and I knew I’d never get out that way. Ariadne had the whole place wired. Probably she could even shut down the elevator remotely. I suspected the only way out was to play her game.

Red opened a door along the hallway, hurled me inside, and slammed the door shut behind me. It closed like a vault door, and I immediately felt like I didn’t have enough air, though I knew it was all in my head. The room was dark but for a single bare bulb too high to reach. To call it a room was actually giving it too much credit. It was more like a closet of poured concrete. There was a crack running down one wall, but it wasn’t even big enough to fit a pinky nail into, and it had been sealed over by spackle as white as bone. Even the single bump in the wall, a ledgelike projection probably meant to be a bench, was concrete, all smooth edges. It wasn’t nearly high enough to stand on to get at the bulb—not that I thought a few pieces of jagged glass would mean the difference between life and death, but you never knew.

The wait almost killed me all by itself. There were few things to do in that tiny concrete room but braid my wild hair as tightly as I could to keep it from getting in my way, panic, and kiss my ass good-bye. Only my ass and I didn’t have that kind of relationship.

The door didn’t open again. Instead, an entire wall slid back, directly across from the door through which Red had thrown me. I wasn’t ready for it when it happened. Or for the roar that rushed in along with the air. I blinked into the lights that blinded me and kept me from seeing what awaited me, but whatever it was, we had an enthusiastic audience. Spectators . . . hungry for blood. Mine ran cold.

I stepped forward, out of my little box, into a narrow corridor with high walls on either side—concrete, of course—that funneled me into a . . . I blinked, my eyes adjusting, but my brain slower to accept . . . a coliseum. Old-school. I stepped out onto a round concrete floor surrounded on all sides by stadium seating. It wasn’t huge—more theater-in-the-round than high school auditorium. The seats were more than half filled, but when I looked around, up toward the lights, I saw cameras as well and wondered if this was being live-streamed to a larger, private audience. I wondered again what I’d be facing and who would be the odds-on favorite. At a guess, it wouldn’t be me. Was there bidding on how long I’d take to die? How many I’d take with me? The manner of my death? I fought not to think like that.

Ariadne was up on a dais with a microphone. In the days of lapel mics and others so small that you could barely see them with the naked eye, this seemed like an affectation, but people in concrete houses didn’t have any stones to throw. I’d barely blinked it all into view when she began.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a very special treat for you! Today, our gladiator is something truly unique. The blood of the ancients runs through her. I have seen her in action—or rather, inaction—for here is a woman who can, quite literally, stop men in their tracks.”

The crowd hooted and cheered. One shout of “You go, girl!” was even in a feminine voice. I tried not to let it go to my head. An easy thing when it was spinning with so many thoughts at once. Ariadne had just outed me. Oh sure, most of her crowd probably thought it was showmanship rather than anything serious. And likely there was some kind of code of silence when it came to fights to the death, as in talk and you’re next. But still, a whole host of bloodthirsty and potentially dangerous people now knew my secret. If I ever went up against any of them, it would be without the element of surprise. I couldn’t even prove Ariadne wrong by keeping my power to myself. It was truly all I had.

“Now, my pets today are terribly hungry.” She raised a hand dramatically in the air and let it fall. A door slid back across the arena from me, and my knees almost gave out. There was skittering, and so many legs and bodies that I couldn’t tell one from another. All segmented, all arachnid. But they weren’t getting any closer . . . for the moment. A clear glass barrier was the only thing that held them back. Of all the ways to die, spider swarm had never even been on my radar, but now that it was, I realized there had to be at least half a million ways I’d prefer to go. And only one solution: I had to win.

“I had a meal prepared for them, but our gladiator has valiantly decided to stand in for him. If she wins, he goes free.” She gestured dramatically and yet another door slid open, revealing a man wrapped in a web like a cocoon. I wondered if he could even breathe with all the spider silk over his face. I had to look hard to see his chest still rising and falling. I couldn’t tell if it was Gareth, but whoever the poor bastard was, I was getting him out. Somehow. “If she loses”—the crowd cheered in anticipation—“not only are their lives forfeited, but I collect this sweet specimen of manhood to sweeten the deal.”

Red brought a hooded figure forward, but I could tell from the breadth of the shoulders and the narrowness of the waist who it was even before the hood was ripped away. Apollo, looking stunned. His gaze didn’t immediately drop down to me. He looked odd. Loopy. As if he’d been drugged. Or mesmerized. I couldn’t look for any help from that direction. Dammit, spider-woman would pay.

“Let the games . . . BEGIN!” she shouted, throwing her arm up and snapping above her head like a matador.

Just like that, the seething mass of spiders was released as the glass fell rather than slid away and they swarmed over it. A spike of panic drove into my heart like a needle jam-packed with adrenaline, like the heart-attack scene from Pulp Fiction. I saw movement over on the dais and risked taking my focus off the arachnid army just long enough to see Apollo’s whole body jolt, as if his heart had been goosed by my very own shot of adrenaline. He looked to me, fear and disbelief in his eyes, and I couldn’t risk seeing more.

The army was almost on me.

“Freeze!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, raking my gaze over them, desperate to get my point across. Some obeyed, but they were only shaken off or overrun by the others, who kept on coming. Furry, sticklike, black, white, and gray, some bigger than my hand, they raced for me.

Frantic, I hopped on one foot as I pulled off a boot and swung it like a bat, heel out, at the oncoming tide. I swept a few aside, but others immediately took their places. One clung to the heel and started a slow crawl my way. I yelped and dropped the boot, my one weapon. Probably not my brightest moment.

“FREEZE!” I yelled again. It was all I had, but a tone sounded at almost the same time, and I could barely hear more than the first letter of the word myself, as if someone had grabbed a tuning fork and hit whatever frequency canceled me out.

Legs reached out for my bare shin, and I kicked in a panic. Not gracefully, like I’d been taught in kickboxing. Not effectively. This had to stop. Already one spider climbed. Another leaped for me. I planted my bare foot and lashed out with the booted one, skewering the jumper, impaling it on my stiletto heel. Others were immediately airborne. I kicked, slashed, and whirled. In the groove now, but for as many as I knocked aside or impaled, others reached me, were climbing and crawling and biting. My bare foot was going numb. I didn’t know how long it would be before it was no good to me at all, before I lost my balance and fell to the floor, only to be overrun by spiders.

Not going to happen. I still had my reflective gear. If only I could . . .

I batted away the spiders that had crawled the highest and looked toward the stands, trying to catch Apollo’s eye.

“Apollo!” I yelled. “The sun?”

He looked desperately around, and I thought I saw him nod at me before something skittered across my face, and I squeezed my eyes closed in reflex, swatting desperately at the multi-legged menace. I heard something explode and forced my eyes open again. Another explosion, and glass rained down from the ceiling, from the inset lights there, and the light itself flared. I swatted and bashed and whirled, noting that my left arm wasn’t doing any more than flopping at that moment, but I had to expose enough of my shiny foil farce of an outfit to catch the light. I felt like a Dutch oven as I started to heat up. There were inhuman shrieks from the arachnids all around, and I whirled like a possessed disco ball, throwing off light and spiders in equal measure. I was smoking . . . literally. So hot I had no idea whether it was the lights on my shiny spots or a fever from all my spider bites. My leg gave out, and I went down hard, falling at an awkward angle, limbs not working well enough to catch me, but nothing jumped on my face, and in a moment I realized that the tone had ended and that the spectators were on their feet, roaring with elation or anger . . . I didn’t know. Didn’t care.

But I looked up at the dais and saw through swollen eyes Apollo, still standing, looking down at me with sadness and approval.

Arachne rounded on him, as if to take out her anger, but he clocked her right between the eyes, snapping the bridge of her glasses so that they fell to the ground along with her. Spider lady was down for the count, which I thought meant that I could finally pass out.

No, I couldn’t. There was still Gareth to save. I had to make sure . . .

My brain wasn’t working so well. I felt hot and slow and numb and hurt all at the same time, but I forced myself to sit and then to pull off my one remaining boot . . . clumsily. It took me three tries before Apollo was there to help me.

“You okay?” he asked.

It was a stupid question and I didn’t dignify it with an answer. Instead I pointed at the man cocooned in the web. He rushed to Gareth, and I saw him tear the webbing away, saw Gareth’s face start to appear and could confirm that it was the missing scientist. Then I passed out.

* * *

I woke some time later in Apollo’s arms . . . in Apollo’s bed, even, when he shook me awake with, “Here, eat this.”

I blinked my eyes open and realized only one was willing to stay that way. It didn’t matter. I didn’t need sight to know that what he offered was ambrosia and that it would heal me faster than any hospital. Also, that it was highly addictive, and that like any addict, I was always ready to quit, but not right now. Not when I needed it so badly. I didn’t fight it.

“Saved you,” I said a second later, through still-swollen lips. “That make us even?”

“Oh, did you now?” he asked, his gaze ridiculously tender. “And who put me in danger in the first place?”

“Splitting . . . hairs,” I answered.

“Uh-huh.”

“What am I doing here? Where’s Gareth?” Already, talking was easier, and if I wasn’t mistaken, my other eye was starting to open.

“The police raided the place before I could get him loose, so I grabbed you and got out. I knew if they saw you first, they’d insist on paramedics and the hospital, and I didn’t know if you had that kind of time or whether you could even recover from all the spider bites without the ambrosia. But I left the panel open in the elevator and Arachne’s own key in the lock so that they could find him.”

And the audience . . . What had they seen? How much of it would they believe?

He shrugged. “I was more worried about you.”

I was breathing easier now, and the numbness that had overtaken my body was starting to burn off like the morning fog.

“Thank you,” I said finally. It was long overdue. I was usually too busy being pissed off at him for something or other.

“You’re welcome,” he said, looking down at me with something a lot like love. But those he loved tended to meet bad ends . . . worse than becoming spider food. Turning into a tree or ending up with an arrow through the heart or the power to see the fate of Troy but not affect it . . .

I looked away, wondering whether Detective Armani had been in on the raid and what he’d think when he heard the tale of the fembot who’d kicked spider ass.

RED ISN’T REALLY MY COLOR

BY

CHRISTINA HENRY

This story takes place between the events of Black Night and Black Howl.

The envelope sat in the middle of my dining room table. It was creamy white, made of some kind of fancy paper that I would never be able to afford. My name, Madeline Black, was written on the front in beautiful calligraphy.

Beezle, my gargoyle, perched on my shoulder. We both contemplated the envelope in silence.

“So, are you going to open it or what?” Beezle finally said in his gravelly voice.

“I’d prefer not to,” I said.

“Okay, Bartleby. Then can we stop staring at it like it’s a bomb that’s about to explode and do something productive, like make dinner?”

“Dinner?” I asked, glancing at the clock. “It’s only one o’clock. You just ate lunch twenty minutes ago.”

“But the arrival of an unexpected messenger with a missive from your great-great-grandfather has disturbed the delicate balance of nutrition to energy inside my body, and now I’m starving again,” Beezle said.

“I’ve got news for you. There’s nothing delicate about your body,” I said, approaching the table. “And pizza is not generally considered a nutritional superfood.”

“I wasn’t going to say we should eat pizza,” Beezle said.

“Yes, you were,” I said. “If it’s not pizza, it’s wings, doughnuts, cinnamon rolls, Chinese food, or popcorn.”

“Ha!” Beezle said, floating off my shoulder on his little wings. “Popcorn is a superfood. It’s whole grain and everything. I think Rachael Ray or Katie Couric or Oprah or somebody said it was good for you. I’m making some now.”

“One bowl!” I called after him. “And adding half a pound of butter does not mean it’s still health food.”

I reached for the envelope with my right hand and turned it over. The coiled snake tattoo on my palm tingled, an exact match of the symbol pressed into the seal of the envelope.

The mark of Lucifer, my many-greats-grandfather.

I’d gotten the mark by using a sword made by Lucifer and tapping into some long-buried power inside me that tied me to his bloodline. I didn’t love having it. It identified me as one of Lucifer’s own, and there are many good reasons why an association with Lucifer is less than desirable. Starting with his list of enemies, which was far too extensive. And all of them liked to find ways to hurt him by hurting me.

Thanks to my unwanted family ties, I’d recently gotten sucked into a major diplomatic-mission-gone-wrong in one of the local faerie courts. In the process I’d managed to make a personal rival out of the faerie queen, Amarantha. I had enough on my plate without being chased down by angry fae every time I stepped outside of the house.

And now there was an envelope from Lucifer. I was sure that I wasn’t going to like what was inside. I tore the seal and withdrew the folded paper.

The paper was actually made of linen. Where does one even find linen paper?

I read the message inside, my eyebrows drawing closer together with every word. Then I tried to crumple the fancy linen into a tiny ball but succeeded only in making the letter look like it needed ironing.

I went down the hall to the kitchen and tried to slam the letter in the trash in a satisfying way. The expensive paper just drifted softly into the can.

Beezle was buried in a bowl of popcorn on the counter. And when I say “buried,” I mean he was actually buried. My gargoyle is about the size of an eight-week-old guinea pig. He fits in my coat pocket. So he can actually disappear into a serving bowl full of food—at least until he eats it all, which takes a surprisingly short amount of time.

He was facedown in the bowl. I could hear the sound of his stone jaws crunching away at the kernels on the bottom. The only visible parts of him were the claws on the tips of his feet. I grabbed one of those claws and yanked him out of the bowl, thus spilling popcorn onto the counter. He glared at me indignantly, swallowing the food stuffed in his beak.

“I’m in the middle of something here,” he said, flapping his little wings and wrenching his foot out of my grasp. He floated up to my eye level.

“Lucifer wants me to find the Red Shoes for him,” I said. “I don’t want to go on another mission for Lucifer that’s sure to go haywire. I don’t even know what the Red Shoes are.”

“What you don’t know could fill an encyclopedia. If people used encyclopedias anymore,” Beezle said.

I ignored him. “How am I supposed to find these things? And what makes these red shoes more special than any other pair of ruby slippers?”

“The Red Shoes are a legendary artifact,” Beezle said. “Nobody knows exactly how old they are, or where they originated. They are generally associated with the fae, but they didn’t make the shoes.”

“Oh, good. More faeries,” I muttered. “Why does Lucifer want them?”

“We-e-e-e-l-l-l,” Beezle said slowly. “Supposedly the wearer of the Red Shoes will be forced to dance without stopping.”

“Until?”

“Until nothing,” Beezle said. “Even if the wearer dies, or their limbs are cut off, the shoes will continue to dance.”

I had a horrible vision of amputated feet, still bloody at the ankles, gaily moving in the steps of a jig.

“So Lucifer is sending me after an ancient torture device disguised as attractive footwear,” I said.

“You’re surprised by this?” Beezle asked.

“No,” I said. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to get mixed up in any more faerie nonsense, do you?”

“Lucifer thinks it’s a good idea, or else he wouldn’t have asked you,” Beezle said.

“He didn’t ask,” I said through gritted teeth.

“He respects your strength. So he wants to test it,” Beezle said.

“I don’t test well,” I said.

“I don’t think you have a choice,” Beezle said.

“I have other stuff to do,” I said.

Beezle snorted. “Like what? Sit around and moon over your non-relationship with Gabriel?”

“I have souls to collect, as you well know,” I said, ignoring his jibe about Gabriel. My relationship with Gabriel was too complicated to think about. “Sacred duty as an Agent of Death and all that.”

“You have time in between soul pickups to investigate,” Beezle said. “You only collect one soul a day, at the most, and the rest of the time you’re at home driving me crazy when I want to watch Telemundo in the afternoon.”

“You can’t even speak Spanish,” I said.

“You don’t need to speak Spanish to understand telenovelas,” Beezle said. “They are awesome in any language. And most people think it’s a good idea to give Lucifer what he wants. Or else . . .”

“Yeah, I get it. Let’s not attract any more attention than I already have, right? I don’t even know where to start,” I said. “It’s not like Lucifer sent a picture of the shoes with that letter.”

“I can help with that,” Beezle said. He flew out of the kitchen, into the dining room and to the small table that I had set up as a computer desk next to the front door. He pushed the keyboard forward to make room for his belly on the table and then started tapping at the keys.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Best place for rumors is the Internet,” he said.

“You think the Internet is a reliable research tool to find the location of a mythical artifact?”

“It’s not a myth if Lucifer wants you to find it. He must know for sure that the Red Shoes are real. And you would be surprised at how many immortal creatures have Twitter accounts or hang out on message boards. Just because you’re too analog to enter the twenty-first century with the rest of us doesn’t mean that ancient beings disdain social media.”

“Just make with the Google,” I said. “You can mock my tech skills later.”

“What tech skills?” Beezle muttered, his claws flying rapidly from the keys to the mouse.

He had several browser windows open and clicked back and forth between them so quickly that I couldn’t begin to follow what was going on. I thought it wisest to back away slowly and wait for him to triumphantly present me with the required information.

Fifteen minutes later I stood in the kitchen, peering hopefully inside the refrigerator. No food had magically appeared there since the last time I looked.

“I got it!” Beezle said, flying into the kitchen with a slip of paper clutched in his little fist. “They’re right here in Chicago.”

“The shoes?” I asked. “Why would they be here?”

Beezle shrugged. “Because the creature that currently possesses them is living here temporarily.”

“And who—or what—would that creature be?”

“That would be Sammy Blue,” Beezle said. He seemed to enjoy teasing out the suspense.

“Are you going to tell me what’s so special about Sammy Blue?”

“Sammy Blue just happens to be an ambassador from Amarantha’s court. Her favorite ambassador, in point of fact. The one that she trusts with her most sensitive matters.”

Amarantha. Of course it would have something to do with Amarantha.

“So what’s this guy here for, anyway?” I asked. “Lucifer considers Chicago to be his territory and he’s not been very happy with Amarantha since she tried to have me killed. Isn’t she defying some ancient law about not crossing into another court’s borders without permission?”

“Technically, she’s not here. Her ambassador is. So they’ve got some wiggle room there, ancient-law-wise. Sammy is here to negotiate with some local witches. Amarantha apparently wants to retain their services,” Beezle said.

“Gee, you think she’s looking to get some spellthrower to put a curse on me?” I asked.

“Probably. That’s the kind of effect you have on people.”

“When I go to see Sammy Blue about these shoes, what are the chances that he’ll go into a berserker rage once he sees me?”

“Hmm,” Beezle said, tapping his finger on his chin. “You humiliated and disrespected his beloved monarch in a very public way. Then, when Amarantha tried to have you killed by proxy in the Maze you didn’t even have the decency to die there the way everyone else in history has done.”

“Yes, I’m annoying that way. I refuse to roll over and let some bully in a designer gown step on me.”

“It is annoying to royalty. They’re used to getting their way. Especially the fae.”

“In summary, diplomacy is unlikely to be an effective tactic for extracting the shoes from Sammy Blue.”

Beezle gave me an exaggerated look of surprise. “Was diplomacy even an option? I just thought you would do what you usually do—insult everyone present, break the furniture, set the building on fire.”

I had no snappy comeback for that one. Beezle had listed the extent of my skill set.

“What kind of a name is Sammy Blue, anyway? He sounds like a small-time drug dealer with a toothpick hanging from his mouth.”

“Sammy is short for some flowery fae name that starts with ‘Sam.’ I can’t remember it exactly. And Blue is a nickname that Amarantha gave him. See, Sammy likes to strangle people who make him unhappy.”

“He likes to see them turn blue,” I said.

“Yes,” Beezle said. “He likes to see them turn blue verrrry slowly. As in hours and days kind of slowly.”

“Great. So I’ve got to take the Red Shoes from a faerie psychopath who enjoys killing people by degrees and already has a reason to dislike me.”

“Pretty much,” Beezle said. “I’ll get your coat.”

I pulled on my black wool overcoat in defense against Chicago’s winter wind. Beezle put a scarf around his head, horns, and belly in a complicated wrap that made him look like a gargoyle mummy. His stony hawk’s eyes peered out from layers of brightly colored knitting.

I slung my sword over my shoulder. I had magical ways to defend myself, but I’d discovered pretty quickly that a pointy object is a great way to get someone’s attention.

We determined that it would be best if I did not attempt to contact Sammy Blue before going to visit him at his temporary quarters in a fancy Loop hotel. No sense in giving him warning so he could set a trap for me.

Beezle crawled over my shoulder and tucked into my inside coat pocket. I was certain he would promptly fall asleep, and sure enough, a few seconds later I heard the buzz saw rumble of his snore.

I pushed out my wings and flew out the kitchen window. The wings are part of my Agent’s legacy. I can’t be seen by ordinary mortals when I’m flying. Which is a good thing, as I’ve noticed people have a bad tendency to kill what they don’t understand. Supernatural creatures can sometimes see me, and sometimes they can’t. I’m not really sure if it has to do with their magic or mine. It was unlikely I would be camouflaged from any fae I encountered, though.

Sammy Blue’s hotel was a five-star type near the Magnificent Mile, the sort of place frequented by celebrities and other people with a lot more money than I would ever have. As the doorman opened the glass door, I slipped in behind a woman wearing a silver fox fur coat and carrying several shopping bags. The lobby was more or less what you would expect—crystal and marble and silk, oh, my—and the air was redolent with the scent trails of many expensive perfumes and colognes.

Once inside I paused. I knew Sammy Blue was staying here, but Beezle hadn’t given me a room number, and this place was far too huge to wander around and hope I bumped into someone who looked fae-like.

I could retract my wings, go to the front desk, and ask for him by name. Of course, I was dressed as my usual grubby self—black boots, faded jeans, black sweater—and security would probably remove me on sight for dirtying up the lobby. At the very least the concierge would notify Sammy Blue of my presence in the hotel, and I definitely did not want to spoil the element of surprise.

Getting Sammy’s room information from the front desk computer was my best bet, but there were three people moving back and forth in that space, and all of them seemed to spend a lot of time consulting the computer. My window of opportunity would be limited to the length of time it took the clerk to collect a receipt from the printer or hand over a room key.

The tricky thing about being invisible is that, well, you’re only invisible. You occupy the same space, and people can certainly feel you passing or hear any noises you might make. The average person will assume they imagined a sigh, or that there is just a draft in the room. But I would have to be extremely careful. If I accidentally bumped into anyone and they raised a fuss, it would be impossible to get the information I needed.

I moved off to the side of the lobby, hoping to find some clear space to extend my wings. My thought was to hover above the desk until my chance arrived. There was a lounge/bar area off the main lobby and a little alcove with a chair tucked to the side of the doorway. I made for the alcove, automatically glancing inside the lounge.

It was a good thing I did, because I saw the faerie sitting at the bar. His face was a dead giveaway. I’d never seen a faerie that wasn’t more beautiful than the sun. His face could have been carved by Michelangelo. He was impeccably dressed in a designer suit, and was receiving plenty of admiring glances, which he ignored as he stared blankly at the television above the bar.

There was only one reason for a faerie to choose solitude in a room full of interested parties. He was waiting for someone. His seat faced the door, which looked directly out onto the lobby. No one could pass by without his noticing. I hoped I could slip in without attracting his attention.

I moved down the three steps into the room, prepared to run after him if he saw me and bolted.

Which, of course, he did.

He locked eyes with me when I was about ten feet from him. His eyes were a startling violet, really and truly purple, and for just a second I paused. And while I paused, shocked by his fae eyes, he shot off his barstool so quickly that any human watching him would know he was not of this world. I’d assumed he’d head for the lobby and take the first elevator up to Sammy Blue’s room, knocking over as many people as he could in the process. But I guess I was the only one who operated that way. He snaked toward the back of the lounge in between the fashionable people moving through the room.

The ceiling was way too low for me to fly, so I had to pick my clumsy half-human way through the room. Of course everything was complicated by the fact that I was still invisible, and while I could see other people they could not see me and get out of my way.

By the time I reached the back of the lounge, the faerie, of course, had disappeared. The only exit in sight was a door into the kitchen, so I pushed through it, ignoring the startled look of the busboy, who must have wondered why the door slammed against the wall when no one was entering.

I scanned the kitchen and saw the faerie at the far end, leaning his finger on the call button for the service elevator. The cooks and dishwashers ignored him, which meant he must have put a veil over himself. The only person in the room aware of him was me. He glanced over his shoulder, saw me there, and held up his hand like a policeman stopping traffic.

A wave of pressure hit me square in the chest and knocked me back into some shelves stacked high with dishes and glassware. Just about everything crashed to the floor, and all of the kitchen workers cursed loudly in unison, wondering how the hell that could have happened.

I blasted nightfire at the faerie, hitting him right between the shoulder blades. His face banged against the frame of the elevator as the nightfire burned through his fancy suit. The flame itself didn’t seem to bother him, but he’d definitely had his bell rung when his face crunched into the wall. I saw him shaking his head like a dog.

Unfortunately, my spell did not go unnoticed by the humans. Nightfire looks like blue fire and reeks of sulfur, unlike the faerie’s silent pressure wave. Two of the kitchen workers ran from the room, and the others dropped to the ground as the blue ball of flame just missed their heads.

Beezle poked his head out of my coat pocket. “Broken possessions. Check. Ball of flame. Check. Did I miss the witty banter already?”

“There’s still time,” I said.

Now that everyone in the room had conveniently ducked, I could stop messing about trying to tiptoe around the workers. I raised up on my wings, then gave one great flap and arrowed over the prep counter in the center of the room. Beezle tucked back inside my coat pocket, muttering something about his advanced age and my lack of care about his personal safety.

I had just about reached the faerie when the elevator doors finally opened, revealing a waiter returning to the kitchen with a cart full of dirty room service dishes. My quarry dashed inside the elevator, but I was right behind him. He tried pushing the waiter and cart out to stop me, but I managed to maneuver over the blockade and squeeze into the elevator just as the doors closed.

I ended up in the upper-left corner of the elevator, floating on my wings and holding my sword to the faerie’s neck. His chin was tipped up to me by the point of the blade and his eyes were furious. I blasted nightfire at the control pad and the elevator ground to a halt, the emergency alarm beeping.

“Make it stop,” Beezle said, his voice muffled inside my coat.

Another shot of nightfire made the alarm cease.

“Now,” I said, panting a little from exertion. I needed to lose about thirty pounds. It would make all this scampering after bad guys a lot easier. “Who are you, and why did you run away from me like that?”

“May eternal damnation be upon your house, spawn of Lucifer,” the faerie spat.

“I am not Lucifer’s spawn,” I said. “He’s my grandfather about eight million times removed.”

“A technicality,” the faerie said. “I will not cooperate with one of his bloodline.”

Beezle popped his head out of my pocket and peered over the lapel of my coat. “I’d cooperate with her if I were you. She has this sort of Wicked Witch/Incredible Hulk combo power thing where she smashes everything in sight and then when she gets frustrated she burns it.”

“I know well what Madeline Black is capable of,” the faerie said through his teeth. “I am a member of Queen Amarantha’s court, and I have observed her powers close at hand.”

“You’re one of Amarantha’s bootlickers, huh?” I said, lowering to the ground as I tried to place his face and failed. There were way too many courtiers at Amarantha’s castle.

“I am not a bootlicker,” the faerie said, drawing himself up. It was impressive the way he managed to look haughtily offended even though I held a sword at his throat. “I am Arkan, the Duke of Trium, second cousin to the Queen herself.”

“You’re a toady—that’s what you are,” I said. “You were sitting in the lounge keeping an eye out for me. You’re no better than an errand boy.”

“I think you’re insulting errand boys,” Beezle said.

“I was charged by my queen and by her ambassador with a mission and I will fulfill it,” Arkan said. “You are not to interfere here.”

“Who said anything about interfering?” I said. “Maybe I’ve got my own reasons for being here.”

“Do you think I am a fool, or that my queen is? She knew that once you discovered her aim you would meddle,” Arkan said.

Interesting. Amarantha was up to no good and she didn’t want me to know about it. Which certainly raised the question of why she had decided to do her dirty deeds right under my nose. Beezle asked before I could.

“If Amarantha didn’t want Maddy around, then why is she doing her badness in Chicago?” Beezle asked.

“You know very well that there is a magical convergence of energy here,” Arkan said. “Do not play the fool.”

I did not know very well at all. In fact, I knew nothing about it. Beezle, however, looked thoughtful. My home guardian is like a little gargoyle-shaped encyclopedia of all things supernatural. I could tell that he was putting two and two together and getting four.

“That’s why she needed the witches,” Beezle murmured. “She doesn’t want her fingerprints on it if it works.”

“What are you muttering about?” I asked.

“It’s almost the solstice,” Beezle said.

“So?” I said. “Lots of witches do stuff around the solstice. It’s a thing.”

“Lots of good witches perform spells around the solstice, yes,” Beezle said. “And so do lots of bad ones. Because the solstice is a time of life and death and rebirth, and thus has a lot more magical oomph than a regular old day.”

“Did you just say the solstice has ‘oomph’?”

“Yeah, so?”

I decided not to pursue it. “What does that have to do with Chicago?”

“You truly do not know,” Arkan said, looking from Beezle’s face to mine. “I have been a fool. If I had only waited to discover your purpose here . . .”

“You mean, instead of taking off like a maniac the second you saw me? Yeah, you blew it. Now someone tell me what Amarantha’s up to, because at this point I’m going to have to stop her just on principle.”

“Chicago is a special place, magic-wise. You know how all of the old rail lines from the east converged on the city and then went out west, and all the shipping went through here to the canal?” Beezle said.

“Yeah,” I said, vaguely remembering some of this from elementary school history.

He squinted at me like he knew I didn’t really remember, but then continued. “There’s a reason for that besides Chicago’s strategic location. Magical energy converges on this city in a big way. It’s the reason why so many supernatural creatures live here, and why so many witches choose to practice here. That energy amplifies existing powers.”

“Okay, I’m following,” I said. “Chicago makes magic bigger and better, and so does the solstice. And the two combined mean that practitioners will get more out of whatever spells they cast. But this can’t be the only place in the world that does so. There has to be another city with special mojo where Amarantha could have gone, someplace where I wouldn’t get in her way.”

“There is, but the others are a lot farther away from Amarantha’s kingdom. Plus, her son is here, so she’s already got ties to the local supernatural community. The only fly in the ointment is you. Sammy Blue isn’t here just because he’s Amarantha’s ambassador. He’s here because he’s got the Red Shoes,” Beezle said, looking at Arkan for confirmation.

I had to give the faerie credit. I never would have seen the flicker in his eyes if I hadn’t been looking for it.

“The solstice is a time of life and death and rebirth, you said?” I asked Beezle, trying to pull all the threads together in my head. “And Amarantha needs witches and the Red Shoes . . .”

I stopped, because something horrible had just occurred to me. “Whatever spell she’s casting needs a sacrifice. And they’re going to use the shoes to do it.”

Beezle nodded. “It’s got to be something big, because the person wearing the shoes will generate a lot of agony for the spell. The suffering of the wearer will help to power the curse.”

“Extra solstice points, extra Chicago-magical-energy points, and hours-of-torturing-a-sacrifice points,” I said, ticking them off on my fingers. “And when the curse goes, Amarantha doesn’t want her own magic to be on it. So there’s only one person she could possibly be after. Lucifer.”

Beezle patted me on the shoulder. “See? If you exercise your brain enough, this kind of thinking gets easier.”

“Amarantha is trying to cast a spell against Lucifer?” I said to Arkan. “I thought she was smarter than she looked, but I guess I was wrong.”

“Do not insult my queen,” Arkan said. “She is a thousand times the woman you will ever be.”

“That’s probably true,” I said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that she’s making a huge mistake by messing with Lucifer.”

“The Morningstar has insulted Queen Amarantha and the whole of faerie by claiming dominion over her court as repayment for the insult done to you,” Arkan said.

“So you’re acknowledging that there was an insult?” I said. “Because it generally is considered poor form to try to kill an ambassador, but Amarantha didn’t seem to agree with me.”

“Lucifer is not the emperor he imagines himself to be,” Arkan said as if I had never spoken. “He cannot even control the fallen of his own court. Look how Focalor conspires against him.”

“I’m sure that Focalor is suffering in a tiny cage surrounding by electrified bars right now,” I said. “Don’t you worry about Focalor. Worry about Amarantha, because nothing good will come of this, even though she’ll never succeed.”

“You think you can stop Sammy Blue? The ambassador has never yet failed in a mission for his queen,” Arkan said.

“There’s always a first time for everything,” I said. “And I am not going to leave and let some innocent be tortured by those shoes. So take me to your leader and all that.”

“You have broken the elevator,” Arkan said sulkily. “So thoroughly that the humans cannot even pry the doors open.”

I was suddenly aware of the clank of metal on metal and of several voices arguing just outside the elevator. By the sounds of it, they’d been there for many minutes without my noticing. I tend to get tunnel vision—and hearing—when I’m focused on a task.

“Veil yourself,” I told Arkan.

“Why should I?”

“Gods above and below,” I said. “I have never met a faerie that didn’t act like a spoiled child. I can’t believe your race has survived this long. You need to veil yourself because in a second I’m going to blast those doors open. And since I have my wings out I can’t be seen. But you can. So unless you want to be detained by humans and forced to answer a lot of questions about that mess downstairs in the kitchen, you will do as I say. Oh, and don’t try anything,” I said, waving the tip of my sword just under his chin.

“You would not dare kill me,” Arkan said. “I am a close relative of the queen. You would be forced to pay a blood price to answer for my death.”

“I’ve got news for you, pal,” Beezle said. “Whatever rules you think apply do not apply to Maddy. She’s got this thing about authority.”

Arkan looked uncertainly from me to Beezle.

“Perhaps you’ve heard that I killed two of Lucifer’s sons?” I asked. “Don’t think I’ll hesitate to take you out if I have to.”

“You are Lucifer’s spawn,” Arkan said. “You have his pride, his arrogance . . . One day someone will put you in your place.”

“Like I’ve never heard that before,” I said. “Beezle, watch him.”

I kept the sword under Arkan’s chin with my right hand and held up my left toward the elevator doors. The last two fingers of that hand were missing, the result of a battle that hadn’t needed to be fought. Lucifer claimed the missing digits would grow back, but that hadn’t happened yet.

I took a deep breath and drew upon the source of my magic, the wellspring inside me where all my power swirled. There were hidden depths there, depths I hadn’t yet begun to explore, depths where the strength of Lucifer’s bloodline would finally be revealed. I was frightened to use that power, afraid that it would bring me closer to the Morningstar’s circle. My great-grandfather had made no bones about the fact that he wanted me as his heir. My wants and Lucifer’s were two very different things.

But I’d drawn on some of that magic when I’d survived the Maze, and now that I carried Lucifer’s sword it seemed the power was closer to the surface than it used to be. I pulled on my magic, infused it with my will, pushed it out through the palm of my hand. The snake tattoo on my right palm twitched.

The elevator doors flew open in a shower of sparks. Three hotel employees stood there looking surprised. The one in the middle held a crowbar. He stared at the bar, and then at the doors, then back at the bar.

“Good job, Ed,” one of the guys said.

The other two men shouldered past him and into the elevator. I maneuvered Arkan out by gesturing for him to turn around so I could put the sword to his back. Then I poked him in the spine and pushed past the bewildered Ed and into the hallway. One of the men inside the elevator cursed loudly when he saw the charred control pad.

When we reached the bank of guest elevators in the center of the hallway I gave Arkan a nudge.

“Where’s Sammy staying?” I whispered.

Arkan did not answer.

“You know, I can just kill you now and find Sammy on my own,” I said. “It will take longer, but I’ll still get what I want.”

“Getting a little dark, aren’t we?” Beezle murmured.

I would do anything possible to protect the innocent, and despite my tough talk I would rather not kill anyone. But if it was necessary, I didn’t mind ridding the world of another selfish, useless faerie who was perfectly willing to participate in the torture of a human being just because his queen said so.

I waited. Finally, Arkan said, “The penthouse.”

I pressed the button for the up elevator and waited. When the car opened there was no one inside. That was good. It lessened the likelihood that Arkan might decide to take a human hostage to get away from me.

This simple mission was already a lot more complicated than I’d bargained for. It wasn’t just about Amarantha going up against Lucifer because her pride was hurt. It wasn’t even just about saving some innocent soul from a horrible death in the Red Shoes. If Amarantha succeeded in cursing Lucifer, then the contents of the curse itself wouldn’t even matter. She would be, for all intents and purposes, declaring war on the kingdom of the fallen.

The courts of the various races were carefully held apart by a series of accords and agreements and laws. This was to keep some very powerful and ancient creatures from tearing the planet apart while they squabbled over territory. If a court of faerie made aggressive overtures toward the highest court of the fallen, you could guarantee that a whole lot of people were going to get caught in the cross fire. That wasn’t acceptable to me, so I would do whatever I needed to do to stop this curse from happening in the first place. If I managed to snag the Red Shoes, as Lucifer had requested, then so much the better.

Of course, Lucifer probably had nefarious plans for the shoes himself. But I couldn’t worry about that right now. I needed to deal with the crisis at hand and then worry about the next crisis when it occurred.

A key was needed to access the penthouse via the elevator, and Arkan produced it after much grumbling on his part and threatening on mine. Beezle fell asleep again in my pocket, snoring away like a baby piglet. Pretty much all he does is eat, sleep, make smart comments about my poor decisions, and watch bad television.

The elevator doors opened on the penthouse. It was curiously quiet. I’d expected an entourage, maybe a bunch of witches hanging around preparing a spell. But there was nothing except a room empty of people but full of expensive furniture. A row of windows faced Michigan Avenue. I pushed the sword into Arkan’s back. “Move.”

We stepped into the room, my anxiety growing with each passing moment. This wasn’t right. At the very least Sammy Blue should have been waiting for Arkan to return. That is, unless . . .

“You’re Sammy Blue,” I said.

He turned to face me, those crazy violet eyes agleam with triumph.

Ah. There’s the trap, then.

I had only half a second to turn before the blow fell. I had an impression of something large and scary bringing its fist down on my head. My sword clattered to the ground, and everything went black.

I woke to the sound of murmuring chatter, people moving around the room like bees in a hive. The back of my head ached, and so did my ribs and stomach. I suspected that Sammy Blue had either stepped on me or kicked me a few times while I was out cold. I also felt vaguely like a blanket had been thrown over me, even though there wasn’t one.

I opened my eyes just to slits so I could peek around without drawing attention. Unfortunately, I was lying on my side on the carpet, my hands and ankles bound, and so all I could really see were shoes in motion. From the sound of the conversation I deduced that the witches had arrived. My trapped and tied state led me to further deduce that I was the sacrifice for which they’d been waiting.

If I’d thought it through all the way I would have realized they’d need me for the spell. They wanted to curse Lucifer, and nothing carries a curse better than blood. The blood of the victim, if you can get it, is ideal. I couldn’t imagine anyone with sense in his head trying to stick Lucifer and carry away a sample, though. The next best thing was someone from his bloodline. Wasn’t it convenient that his great-granddaughter was at hand?

I wriggled experimentally, trying to see if there was any play in the knots. There wasn’t. I considered trying to set the ropes on fire, then discarded that idea. I don’t have fine control of my powers. If I tried to burn the ropes apart, the whole hotel could go up in a giant conflagration and thousands of people could be killed.

Still, I’d managed to open the elevator doors without setting the building aflame, so maybe I could play Jedi and unknot the ropes with the power of my mind.

I reached for my magic—and it wasn’t there.

Or rather, it was there, but it wasn’t available to me. Now I knew why I felt like I’d had a blanket thrown over me. Someone had put a dampening spell on my power so I couldn’t use it. Well, it was nice for the bad guys that Sammy Blue had thought of everything.

Beezle’s reassuring weight was still in my front pocket. Either Sammy Blue had forgotten about him or decided that Beezle was no threat. It was true that Beezle was a threat only if you were a bag of candy that did not want to be eaten, but that didn’t mean that my gargoyle wasn’t useful.

“Beezle!” I said through closed lips. My back was pressed up against a wall and no one was near me, but a lot of supernatural creatures have better hearing than I do. I knew werewolves that could hear a pin drop on the other side of the continent.

My gargoyle did not respond.

“Beezle!” I repeated, trying to wriggle my shoulder so that the coat pocket my gargoyle was nestled in would move.

The only response was a long exhalation.

“Seriously? You’re still asleep?” I muttered.

Beezle could untie my hands and feet. Even without my magic I could still use my sword. If I could find it. Since Sammy was so thorough, I was sure he hadn’t left it within my reach.

I opened my eyes a little more. Nobody was paying any attention to me. The furniture was pushed against the walls. The curtains were drawn. Three witches stood around a circle on the floor. They were young and completely ordinary-looking. They might have been office workers or college students. There was nothing to indicate that they were about to use their magic to torture another human being to death.

They were walking through the process of the spell, and occasionally one of them would use a piece of chalk to add a symbol inside the circle. Sammy Blue stood off in the corner, talking quietly on his cell phone, his back to me. I noticed he’d taken the time to change out of the suit he’d worn earlier and put on a different one—one that didn’t have a hole in the back from my nightfire blast.

The thing that hit me in the head had disappeared. Maybe it was taking a nap in the bedroom.

My sword leaned against the wall near the elevator, just about as far from me as it could possibly be. I’d have to get untied, sprint across the room—difficult, as I’d just been conked in the head and probably had a concussion—grab the sword, fight off three witches and a clever faerie, avoid whatever giant monster had hit me in the first place, find the Red Shoes and escape from the highest room in the building. All this without my magic.

No pressure.

“Beezle!” I said again, as quietly as I could.

“Your gargoyle will not wake,” Sammy Blue said, sliding his cell phone into his pocket. He turned and walked toward me, looking altogether too pleased with himself. “The circle that surrounds you quashes your magic as well as his. And since he is so small and infinitely more magical than you, the circle keeps him asleep. So do not seek his help, nor anyone else’s. No one will come.”

I opened my eyes fully, and for the first time noticed the circle drawn around me. It was far enough away from my body that I couldn’t smudge it and break the spell. Okay. This was actually good news. It meant that if I could get out of the circle my power would wake up. Now I just had to get out of the circle.

Sammy Blue stopped just outside the circle, his violet eyes bright with anticipation. “My queen was correct. She knew that you would fall into a trap if you thought you were acting the heroine. It was pathetically easy to lure you here.”

“And now with the evil-villain monologue,” I said under my breath, then more loudly, “You didn’t lure me here. I was sent here for another purpose.”

Sammy nodded. “To obtain the Red Shoes, yes. My queen made certain the rumor of the shoes reached Lucifer’s ears. Then she sent me here, to your city. Lucifer predictably recruited you to get the shoes for him. So you see, it was all planned from the start. And you behaved exactly as my queen expected.”

“Smugness is not an attractive quality,” I said.

Sammy gave a short laugh, then crossed to a watercolor of Lake Michigan that hung on the wall. He moved the painting aside to reveal a safe. He punched in a code on the electronic keypad, and the safe door swung open. Before continuing he carefully pulled a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his suit and put them on. Then he reached into the safe and drew out the Red Shoes.

“I believe you were looking for these,” he said.

The moment I saw the shoes I felt an almost overwhelming desire to possess them. They looked like a pair of red satin ballet slippers, just like the red shoes in that old movie about the dancer. Ribbons trailed from the ankles, shackles for whoever was unfortunate enough to be tempted to put them on. An aura radiated from the shoes, a palpable sense of wrongness, and it blended with desire.

I realized that was the power of the shoes—not simply that they would hurt you but that you would want the hurt, that they would twist you and bend you and break you, but you would love it all the while, down to your last moment on earth, still dancing, dancing forever like the twirling ballerina in a music box. I could see myself there, spinning in joy and agony, my arms thrown to the sky, welcoming death.

No, I thought. I was an Agent of Death. Death did not dictate to me. I would not let my life end like this, a broken marionette for the amusement of Sammy Blue.

The effort it took to tamp down the desire for the shoes made me nauseous. It took every shred of will that I had to remember who I was, and why I was there.

I looked at the shoes, and then at Sammy Blue with clear eyes. Surprise registered on his face.

“Interesting. There are few who can withstand the call of the shoes. Your will is very strong. It must be, to have survived the Maze.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then smiled. “That strength will make the spell last longer. And that will give it more power, yes?”

He turned to the witches for confirmation. They had all paused in their activities to watch Sammy gloat over me. One of them, a skinny redhead in designer jeans, nodded.

“The greater the endurance of the sacrifice, the stronger the curse will be when it is completed,” she said. She looked at me as she said this, with no malice or guilt. It didn’t make a difference to her one way or the other if I lived or died. This was just a job to her.

The other two seemed to share her indifference. There was no help coming from that quarter.

It was down to me, as usual.

“Now,” Sammy said, smiling widely. His smile was getting crazier by the minute. He was definitely looking forward to this. “I think you need to change your shoes.”

The longing for the shoes rose up again, but I tamped it down. I shook my head. “Uh-uh.”

Sammy narrowed his eyes at me. My resistance was a benefit to them, but it was also a problem. No doubt they had counted on me wanting to put the shoes on voluntarily. Now someone would have to break the circle to get them on me, and that would mean I’d have access to my magic again, even if it were for only a moment. I could see him calculating rapidly. He turned his back on me so he could conference with the witches.

I had to do something. I couldn’t wait for Sammy and his three little sorceresses to figure out how to force the shoes on me. But the only thing I had at the moment was my will—no magic, no sword.

Your will was enough in the Maze.

The thought appeared out of nowhere. My will had been enough in the Maze. My magic had been taken from me there, and I’d survived. More than survived—I’d beaten it, and no one in history had ever beaten the Maze. Except me.

The snake on my palm twitched. My Agent’s magic wasn’t the only power inside me. The blood of Lucifer Morningstar ran in my veins. The well inside me was deep with magic, more than I’d even begun to touch. That magic made the witches’ circle seem like a toy, a toy I could break if I so chose.

The spell over me wavered. I felt it, like a radio signal breaking up. I drew up my will, concentrated on the place where I felt the spell breaking.

And I snapped it. Beezle grunted awake inside my pocket and poked his head out.

“Better stay inside,” I said. He ducked back under my lapel. I pushed the force of my will into the knots that bound me and, like that, they were gone.

I stood and faced Sammy Blue and the three witches. They were huddled together, not concerned about me at all. Too bad for them.

Before I’d learned I was the many-greats-granddaughter of the first of the fallen, I’d killed a nephilim called Ramuell. I’d done this by letting my power flow up through me, allowing the full force of it to blossom and become something I could not control. It had exploded out of me like a burst of sunlight.

All that had remained of Ramuell was a little pile of ash. Ramuell had been a creature of darkness, and the merest hint of the sun would have melted him anyway. But it’s not a good idea for humans—or faeries—to fly too close to the sun, either.

I drew on the power that lay buried inside me—the light of the sun, the light of Lucifer Morningstar. Instead of letting it explode out of me indiscriminately, I focused it on the four people in front of me, who all looked up at the same time.

And who all looked very surprised to see me standing there.

“Impossible,” Sammy Blue said.

“Your eyes,” one of the witches said. “There are stars in your eyes.”

“I know,” I said, and let my magic fly.

The air was filled with the light of the sun, a light like a nuclear weapon exploding. Four sets of arms flew up in the air to block that light, to attempt in vain to hide from it.

The Red Shoes fell to the ground.

I tamped down the magic that flowed crazily in my blood now, put it back in a box for another day. That power was too intoxicating—and too close to Lucifer for my liking. The light in the room returned to normal.

Beezle poked his head out. “So you managed to melt them all without setting the room on fire. Congratulations.”

“Yeah,” I said, a little breathless. I stared at the Red Shoes. They could be mine. I could be something great and terrible with those shoes. My enemies would suffer like none had suffered before.

I shook my head from side to side, pushing away the spell. Apparently the shoes had decided that since I wasn’t willing to put them on, they would tempt me another way.

It was disturbing to think of a pair of red ballet slippers with something like sentient thought.

“Are we taking those home?” Beezle asked, giving me a beady-eyed look that told me he’d guessed some of what had passed through my mind.

“Yes,” I said. “They’re what I came for.”

I looked around for something to cover my hands so I could carry the slippers. There was an empty plastic bag attached to one of the bags that must have belonged to the witches. She probably had a dog.

Had a dog. I’d just killed her, and she would never go home to her dog again.

My breath came in sharp gasps suddenly, my heart pounding. I’d killed a human. Three humans, as a matter of fact.

Beezle clambered out of my pocket and up to my face. He put his little clawed hands on my cheeks.

“They were going to kill you,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” I said.

“You had no choice,” he said.

I nodded, swallowing the tears that threatened to spill over.

“You’re still yourself. You’re still Maddy Black,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, getting hold of myself. “Okay.”

I picked up the slippers carefully with the plastic bag and wrapped it around the shoes. I jammed the shoes deep in my pocket. Their proximity made me feel a little sick. Then I picked up my sword and went to the elevator.

The giant whatever that had knocked me in the head rumbled out of the bedroom. He looked sort of like a troll, big and lumpy and gray.

He looked at me, then at the ash that remained of his master.

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” Beezle said.

The troll turned around and went back to the bedroom.

The elevator door opened, and I went home.

I went straight to my bedroom, took out an empty shoe box from underneath the bed, and placed the plastic-wrapped slippers inside. Then I tucked the box into an old suitcase that I never used because I never went anywhere and put the suitcase in the back of my closet. The menacing aura around the shoes was hidden from me, and the low thrum of nausea subsided. I went back downstairs to wait. Beezle was already camped out in the middle of the living room couch, watching an infomercial for some kind of ab machine. A giant bowl of potato chips sat next to him on the cushion.

I sat on the front porch in the starlight, the sky bleeding midnight blue around the edges as the sun rose, and I waited. I knew he was coming. I could feel him. The tattoo on my palm wriggled in anticipation.

And suddenly he was there, golden blond hair gleaming in the light from the streetlamps, hands tucked in the pockets of the long coat that hid his wings from mortal view. He was older than the moon and the sun, but he looked ten years younger than me. The only thing that gave him away was the ancient secrets in his eyes. He joined me on the porch, companionably slinging an arm around my shoulders.

“I hear tell that you have managed to quash another threat to my kingdom,” Lucifer said.

I shook my head. “I don’t know how you hear these things so fast. Do you have someone following me with a camera?”

“Perhaps I have a crystal ball,” he said.

“Perhaps you do,” I replied. I took a deep breath, girding myself for what was to come. I’d already decided as soon as I’d touched the shoes. Now I just needed to follow through.

“And I also understand that you have obtained the object which I was seeking,” he said.

“How about this?” I said slowly. “Finders keepers.”

Lucifer looked at me steadily. “You are not in a position to keep those shoes from me should I decide that I wish to take them from you.”

I was scared. Of course I was scared. Lucifer Morningstar, the first of the fallen, was just about the biggest and baddest thing going. As far as I could tell, the only thing stopping him from ripping me into tiny little pieces of confetti was his attachment to anyone of his bloodline, no matter how distant. But there was no way Lucifer could have good intentions for the Red Shoes. And Beezle kept telling me that Lucifer respected strength. So I gazed just as steadily back at him, and hoped he couldn’t see my fear.

“I can’t let you take them,” I said.

“And what will you do with them?” Lucifer asked. “How will you keep them safe? Once word gets about that you have the shoes in your possession, there will be creatures aplenty coming to claim their power.”

“I’m counting on two things to stop them from bothering me,” I said.

Lucifer looked amused. “And those two things are?”

“Your reputation. And mine,” I said. I might not be the first of the fallen, but there were lots of rumors about me, and I’d already proved more than once that I was no pushover.

“So you are willing to claim me if it’s convenient to your purpose, and otherwise you would disdain my offer?” Lucifer asked.

He’d implied more than once that he wanted me to be his heir, but I wasn’t interested in being mistress of all evil.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it,” I said. “I keep the shoes, and if anyone tries to take them from me I’ll just remind them who I am. And who you are.”

Lucifer laughed suddenly, his eyes sparkling. You could see when he laughed like that how he managed to tempt so many, to charm good people onto a path strewn with thorns.

“Very well,” my great-grandfather said. “Let us say that you will keep the shoes for me, then. For a little while.”

That was probably the best deal I was going to get. The shoes were out of Lucifer’s hands for the time being. Maybe, if I was very lucky, he would forget about them.

Or maybe not. Lucifer had been alive for a long time and he seemed to remember everything.

Still, it was a victory of sorts.

Lucifer rose and stretched, turned his face toward the east and the rising sun.

“You may find that those shoes will be useful to you someday, granddaughter,” Lucifer said.

I thought of the sick craving I’d felt when I’d first seen the shoes, and the palpable evil that surrounded them. I thought of dancing until you died, a puppet controlled by a will that was not your own. I don’t think I’d wish that fate on my worst enemy.

“Nah,” I said. “Red isn’t really my color.”

SNAKESKIN

BY

ROB THURMAN

These boots weren’t made for talking.

—TRIXA IKTOMI

This story, while part of the Trickster series, is a ten-year prequel and introduces several beloved secondary characters such as Zeke and Griffin. Enjoy.

There’re all sorts of sayings about shoes. “Don’t judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.” “I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” “It’s no use carrying an umbrella if your shoes are leaking.” The last you don’t hear much unless you travel, but it is as wise as the others—worth remembering. But on and on it goes. Full of good intentions, these kinds of sayings are. They’re something to guide people who have no common sense or thoughts of their own, my mama liked to point out. My mama—well, I’d long stopped fighting it—my mama was rarely wrong. Sometimes a tad misdirected, but wrong? I can’t say that she was.

When it came to shoes and sayings, I had a favorite by a brilliant man who had enough thoughts for twenty people. Mark Twain said it as he said and wrote many things, not many of which I could disagree with, not offhand. He knew the hearts and minds of humanity and the lack that lay in most. It was my new client’s shoes that made me think of this particular saying of his, a delicious one: “A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes.”

It was particularly outrageous and apt to describe this client—oh she was a liar, a talented one of spectacular degree. Her lies were a thing of glory that put the blue, blue heavens to shame.

And her shoes were almost as fabulous.

* * *

I lived in Las Vegas for several reasons, but one of them was it let me work. It let me do. And I needed to do, because if you don’t do, then how can you know you even exist? Boredom is the name of the game. Other people call it Russian roulette. You just keep pulling that trigger, click, click, click, and feel the excitement ramp up higher each time, all the while hoping that one of those pulls doesn’t propel boredom through your brain. Boredom was worse than any bullet for people like me. Adrenaline junkies—we couldn’t stand it when the fun stopped. When the fun stopped, life stopped, and boredom was that all over.

So I settled in Vegas, if only for a while; I wasn’t one to put down any permanent roots. I bought a bar for the background noise, the legal life, and then I did my true work.

I was never bored.

I could’ve gone to any city in the world and found clients, but Vegas is a shining star. People are so hungry there . . . for everything. I didn’t sell everything. I’m a businesswoman who knows her limits, but what I did sell went faster than spiked lemonade at a family reunion. Information was mainly what I offered, but there was guidance, too. You could call me a guidance counselor for adults if you wanted, or . . . I know: a life coach.

Now, sugar, don’t laugh like that. It’s unseemly.

Not to mention unhinged and a mite bit deranged.

Shoo with yourself and let me finish.

The bar paid the taxes and I made the real money sitting at a table with a beer or if I was feeling frisky, a mango margarita. I told those who needed telling; I steered those who’d lost their compasses; I offered relief to blistering souls. I had a fine and undeniably smug time doing it, too. Mainly it takes only the right word, a tiny nudge, and a whole lot of patience. Life had taught me how to manage all that plus more, and my mama taught me to hone it to an occupational skill.

But this time I didn’t think words would be enough. I was going to have to give over a little more than that. I might even lose more money than I made on this job. But that was all right. Sometimes you had to be the bigger-picture person and give to get. Let no one say that at the end of the day I wasn’t about the giving.

“Trixa Iktomi?”

I looked up at my brand-new client and gave her a smile as wide as the Mississippi River and pleased as punch on top of that. Holding out my hand to her, I said, “That’s me. Sit down, honey. As amazing as your shoes are, they’re not made for the sidewalk out front. I’m surprised you didn’t break an ankle.”

It was true. The strip of concrete in front of my bar, Trixsta, was a health hazard of cracks, splits, and the crumbling of time. The expensive snakeskin shoes she was wearing had four-inch heels and were made for anything except actual walking. They truly were gorgeous, though, even if the snake missing its hide would likely sorely disagree on that particular fact.

I loved shoes my own self. Whether they were spike heels, ass-kicking boots, or bright red sneakers when running was necessary—and in my business it occasionally was. I had a closet full, not counting the black spike-heeled boots I was wearing today, the ones my best friend said made me look like Catwoman on a bad-hair day. Wasn’t that hateful for no reason? I didn’t have bad-hair days. I had unique-hair days.

Of course this same friend described his last date’s strawberry blond hair as “orange.” Men. You couldn’t breed taste or tact into them for love nor money.

I should’ve known better than to ask him about anything as important as shoes.

“They are indeed something, aren’t they?” She took her measure of the bar—one regular passed out in a corner booth, one silently flickering TV, wood floors that had stains older than the legal drinking age—and then took my hand before sitting down opposite me at the tiny table. She extended one long leg to contemplate the black-and-white beauty of one of the shoes I’d admired. “Revenge for the whole apple thing, I like to think.”

The serpent and the apple . . . oh, I was going to like her.

Her smile was as bright as mine and more amused. “The husband that bought them for me would think that was blasphemy. He was a devout Catholic with no sense of whimsy, but a kind man. Very, very kind.” The amusement faded. “Even after a year I miss him. I miss everything about him.”

It was all I could do not to wriggle like a child watching her first magic trick. She told the best lies—a dark slice of night sky wrapped in a dazzling blanket of moonshine glitter. She was my kind of people and I’d known it: I surely couldn’t help but like her. Mrs. Elizabeth Rose Burke-Lane, and despite her name it wasn’t Shakespeare that made her smell just as sweet.

She sat with perfectly manicured nails the color of pearls resting on the table, discreet diamonds and a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg on her left hand. Because that’s the way it was. If you flashed a big diamond, you were common trash and might as well park your mansion in a trailer park. But with the colored stones, you could show off. Who doesn’t want to show off what they’ve earned—am I right? No matter how they’d earned it.

Rich brown hair lay long and far past her shoulders, so obediently straight that my own halo of black curls without a doubt made my head look as if it had exploded. I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind Elizabeth Rose’s explosion, either. Hers was different from mine. Mine was cosmetic—hers was internal. Genuine. It boiled inside her, searching for a way out, any way it could find. And if it couldn’t be free, then it would be as happy to pull something in. Something or someone to keep it company. No one, inside or out, wanted to be alone, did they?

It was in her large gray eyes, drinking you in as if you were the sun in her sky, her smooth, pale skin that defied the Vegas sun, the bird-in-flight eyebrows that were a Michelangelo arch of beauty. Her mouth shaded that perfect deep red that said expensive and secret instead of slutty. If I was to try that brand and shade, I would somehow manage to turn it into Bozo the Magic Clown crimson, but I still didn’t care. She was such a treat, such a perfectly hidden package of dishonesty and predatory energy wrapped in silk and shine, that nothing could ruin this day. I couldn’t wait to puzzle out what I could do for her.

People thought I hated liars. Wouldn’t I have to since I was so excellent at nosing them out? Wouldn’t it bother me to know that someone was lying to my face?

People thought . . . But the trouble is, people don’t think. Lying is an art. Poorly done, of course, that’s a shame and annoying as hell. But brilliantly done, bless, you just have to stand back and applaud the artist.

Elizabeth Rose was an artist. I’d heard the lies on the phone when she made her appointment with me, referred by a past client. Elizabeth Rose, with a husband one year in the grave, had said she needed my help. Not information, which was simple, but my help, which was something not many asked of me. I wanted to do right by her for that alone.

For asking, for being interesting, for chasing away the boredom, and for giving me a chance to watch an artist at work—for all that, I would definitely do my best to do right. If the money was good, that would just be a big, fat, juicy cherry on top.

Elizabeth I-am-certainly-not-boring Rose deserved my best.

“Elizabeth”—I didn’t do formal with any of my clients; that they could take or leave—“would you like a drink before you tell me about your situation? I can whip you up anything from a brandy to a mint julep, but unless you’re wearing a hat and watching the horses race, I wouldn’t recommend the second. Without the sound of cheering and the smell of money in the air, it just doesn’t taste the same.”

“The Derby.” There was a mist of memories clinging to her, the same as the smell of mint would. “I’ve been. It was wonderful.” The memories fled as she focused on me. “You’re from the South. I could tell, from your accent, but Derby . . . If you haven’t been, you can’t know, can you?” There it was again—that sun in my sky, only person in this world, this time, this moment pull in her gaze. Elizabeth was a pitcher and she was filled to the brim with charisma.

As only the cream-of-the-crop liars ever are.

“Honey, I’m from everywhere.” I spread my arms to indicate the vastness of that everywhere. “I never settle too long. Born to hit the ground running—that’s me.” I also knew Derby was more wonderful if you were rich and sitting in Millionaires Row and not rolling around drunk in a muddy infield. “Now, how about that drink?”

She put her hands in the lap of a dress that probably cost more than the Titanic and stopped as many hearts. It was as red as her lips and for a magpie moment I wanted it greedily for myself. I did adore red. “Thank you for the offer, but no. The sooner I see if you can help me, the better I’ll feel.”

It was finely done, how she didn’t sound at all like my grubby little bar glasses would never touch her painted lips if she could help it. You couldn’t hear it, not one bit. Elizabeth, I thought fondly, lovely and unloving Bethy Rose, we could be such good friends. Our girls’ nights would leave men crying in their drinks for months. You are such fun.

“Then, tell me, Elizabeth.” I took a coolly sweet swallow of mango from my glass, and if it was grubby, I didn’t notice. “What can I do for you, sweetie? You seem like you want something more than information or a little help. You make me sound as if I can change your life. Do something big.” I put the doubt in my voice—it never hurt when it came to the dollar price. But inside, I had no doubt.

Go big or go home—isn’t that how it goes?

Big I could do.

“Go on, Elizabeth.” I nudged her with a sympathetic curve of my lips and tilt of my head. “Tell me what you need.”

* * *

I was wrong.

Elizabeth was boring.

I hated being wrong almost as much as I hated being bored. Still, I could take her problem, one I’d heard too many times, and make the solution entertaining. Making my own challenge. And why not? Someone had to do it.

I sulked—it’s not pretty to say, but I did—drank my margarita, and read Elizabeth’s face as she carefully laid out what she wanted piece by piece, artfully jumbled, because she thought if I saw the picture of the puzzle clear and bright as the North Star, I’d think her vain.

She was.

I’d think her greedy.

She was that, too.

I’d think her selfish and malicious.

Well, that’s in the eye of the beholder.

I’d think her a sociopath.

As if she’d be the first to cross my door, shy little guppy.

I’d think her a murderer.

Don’t we all have our piddly faults?

I made out the puzzle despite her best efforts, and her best was very good. The secret was to not look into her eyes but beside them before wrinkles in her fine skin were hidden like bodies in a graveyard under a blanket of softening spring grass . . . or, in this case, by expensive makeup. See the forehead not smooth from a peaceful nature but unmoving from poisoned nerve endings. Linger on that beautiful dress that had the high neck to conceal the minute sag of skin and also behold the bra that defied gravity, physics, and Einstein himself in one hellacious hat trick.

I felt for her—I did.

I do lie—how do you think I spot the best so well?—but that isn’t one of them.

No one wants to get old. Or rather we wouldn’t mind getting old if only it didn’t show so much. In the past we prized age not for appearance but for its wisdom. In this technology-drenched future when knowledge appears like magic at the press of a few keys if you cared (no one cared), it was different. No, these days we’d put the aged in nouveau leper colonies if we could, to hide the sight and wisdom. How much wisdom can you fit in one hundred forty characters or less? Is that really an issue the modern world cares about?

“Like” yes or no on that question, please.

Sighing, more bored than before, I put down my empty glass and laid it out for her . . . if not quite in the way as she’d laid it out for so many. I did it in words while she used silk sheets. “Elizabeth, you’re making this harder than it has to be, sugar. All this?” I brushed my hand an inch above the table to indicate the threads of her tapestry of deceit that draped in invisible folds. “It’s lies. And they’re good lies, mind you. I may tuck a few away for future use,” or just to take out and covet as the shiny trinkets they were, “but in my bar you don’t have to tell me lies. You said your husband was Catholic. Think of this place as a confessional.” I winked. “Or better yet, a whorehouse. No judgments from me, none at all. You can tell me anything and you should. You’re paying for my service. If you can’t tell me what you really want, how can I give it to you?”

I actually could, but where was the entertainment in that? The only thing better than a great liar was forcing a great liar to tell the truth. We hate it like poison. We’re contrary that way.

Hate it she did, all the warmth draining out of her as quickly as if she’d turned off the lights with a flip of the switch. It’s harder to be a successful sociopath if you have to show your true face to the world. Not impossible, though, not at all—just a little harder. I had faith that Elizabeth could handle it. I had faith that Elizabeth had handled many bumps in the particularly crooked road in her life, much larger ones than simply telling me the truth.

Then again, bigger isn’t always better.

But me? I’m easy as pie to bare heart and soul to—I had said no judgments. Elizabeth, one liar measuring another, saw what she saw and took me at my word. She told me.

The truth hurts. The truth will set you free. Today the truth was a business transaction and nothing more. We shook on it. It was sort of sweet, her trusting me with her most precious hope . . . sweet, indeed, if not for the murder and all.

Don’t you look at me that way. You’ll make me giggle like a five-year-old.

Honestly? Judgments? Please. Do you think I’d have any clients at all if I made them?

Or if I did make them, didn’t keep them to myself?

Work is work. You do what you have to.

Or you do what you want to—sometimes it’s both.

“You can do it, then?” Elizabeth asked as I tapped a bronze nail against an empty glass and pondered the cost of paper umbrellas or little flamingo swizzle sticks. I switched my attention back to her and hid my irritation.

Could I do it?

That wasn’t a question. That was an insult. Of course I could do it. I simply had to figure out the most intriguing way to achieve it. “Oh, honey, you wound me with your doubts.” I forgot the glass, beamed at her, and put my fingers in my hair to give it a wild shake. It was good for getting the brain going. “It’ll cost you, though. Seventy-five thousand. No bargaining, no haggling. Payment on delivery. And it goes without saying, I hope, that I do a cash-only business.” Rich people like Elizabeth had forgotten about the quaint custom of haggling. They bought what they wanted and never cared about the price. I stopped bargaining with them a long time ago. They weren’t good enough at it to make it entertaining. Elizabeth had been rich long enough that while she hadn’t forgotten about it, she was disgusted by it. She thought herself too high and mighty, too good for the likes of that sort of thing now. Shame.

I guessed we couldn’t be friends after all.

“I’ll call you in a week.” I straightened from the less-than-ladylike slouch my mama had never been able to correct me of and stood to walk Elizabeth to the door, our herd of tall heels castanets on the floor. “It shouldn’t take longer than that.” Not to mention giving her time to gather up the money. Rich or not, or rich but not for much longer—either way it was hard to gather that sort of cash at a moment’s notice. Unless you’re keeping your money in a mattress, banks get possessive and are closefisted about handing someone seventy-five thousand dollars in cash. Write a check for a sports car if you want—intangible money—but handing over the real thing, stained with invisible blood and dirty with greed? They didn’t like that. They were suspicious. Why would you possibly need that much real-world money? For something illegal? For someone like me?

Banks. Hate ’em or hate ’em, they could smell illegal a mile away—when they weren’t the ones behind it. I gave respect where it was due.

“You’re certain about this?” Elizabeth had opened the spigot on her charisma again, and it was flowing like Niagara. Hopeful eyes, skin paled anxiety white as her diamonds, shoulders braced against a no—she was a living, breathing plea. See? All those naughty things society frowned upon, sins that crawled out of her mouth with snapping jaws and a thousand poisonous legs to pull you in, they were tucked away again as if they’d never been. She was good as gold as ever she’d been. I knew she had it in her.

“Sugar, I never break a promise.” I hugged her to see if I could get a peek at the label of that astounding dress, then patted her back and cheerfully shooed her out the door. “Don’t fret. It’s as good as done. Hand to God.”

Whichever god she wanted.

* * *

The week went by faster than I planned. I caught two boys, runaways from the system, I thought, devouring half of a Big Mac out of my back alley Dumpster. Each tried to push the other behind him for protection, and wouldn’t that break any heart? I worked on convincing them to stop eating out of alleys and get to work cleaning the bar for me. They were stubborn and it took some serious talking, but finally they were sleeping in my storage room on inflatable mattresses and trying to stop twitching every time I picked up a phone. I wasn’t going to report them. They were running, and sometimes even the most wholesome of heart and naively caring of folk couldn’t imagine they might have good reason to do so. There were times when running was the only option, when going back to a system that was supposed to protect them could conceivably end up being worse than living on the street.

Bad things happened. They happened everywhere, not just on the street. These boys had definitely seen the bad. Now I had them tucked away, safe and sound, collector of damaged goods that I was, and that was sorted for a while. Although the blond one—sixteen, or maybe younger—seemed to think I was a one-woman Mafia. He stared at me as if I were the Godmother of Las Vegas, impressed by my daily stream of clients wanting favors and information, wanting this and that, wanting the stars and the moon themselves. His friend, a younger redhead with the eyes of a feral wolf, didn’t care about my business. He ate the food I gave him and snarled when I patted his copper hair and called him Kit. He thought he was a wolf, but he was a baby fox deep down. I’d have to see about fixing him sooner or later.

So much to do.

Then came the health inspector, who wanted to shut me down for letting my pet raven help out at the bar. The bird was quick and clever when it came to pecking out a slice of lime and shoving it in the open mouth of a Corona. Lenny—short, naturally, for Lenore, as some clichés can be only good—was more likely to catch a disease from some of my more crusty regulars than the reverse. Health inspectors are stubborn, though. Some need a thorough talking-to in order to come around to a right way of thinking. This one, he was especially obstinate, his palm practically sweating for a bribe. I wasn’t averse to a good bribe now and again, but only when I was the one on the receiving end.

We talked in my cramped little office, and when was all said and done, he saw it my way. After I gave him a handful of paper napkins, he was out the door and my little bar was safe until next time. Griffin, my newly adopted blond stray, came out of the office later holding something in the palm of his hand. Wise in the ways of the street, he didn’t often look puzzled, but he did now.

“Trixa, I found this when I was cleaning your office.” Eyebrows in a confused V, he held out his hand like an offering. “I think it’s a tooth. Um . . . teeth.”

Sure enough, it was. Two bright white teeth with the best porcelain veneers money could buy and stained only a little with dried blood lay cradled between the teenager’s life line and his heart line. That did not make for a good fortune. I swept them out of his hand and deposited them in the garbage can behind the bar. “Sorry about that, sugar. I was sure I’d gotten them all.” Because two were far fewer than had originally littered the floor of my office. “Do you know that holier-than-thou ass told me his daughter needed braces and he’d let me keep the bar open if I helped him out there, as he was a good and charitable father that way?” I snorted and rested my elbows on the bar and propped my chin in a cupped hand, a hand with scraped and raw knuckles. “Course he couldn’t explain how his smile was so fake and pearly white if he couldn’t afford braces for his baby girl. Hardly seemed fair a father should take what he should be giving his child. It should make him feel guilty as hell.” My lips curved, sly and satisfied. “I do believe he won’t need to feel guilty so much now, having no teeth in his smile at all.”

Zeke, Griffin’s cohort and my little rabid fox, came up to us holding a mop. “Blood by the door,” he grunted, wholly unimpressed by the brightest red of bodily fluids. “Cleaned it up. Time for lunch?”

I had given the man napkins, but I supposed napkins could soak up only so much blood when you’re abruptly missing all your upper teeth. Now I needed a new mop and lunch for the heathens—my minions in the making. I patted them both on the head. Griffin flinched automatically and Zeke growled.

Again, so much to do.

* * *

Not that I forgot Elizabeth and how she wanted her life changed. It was a busy week, but just as work is work, a project is a project and a thing of grace and beauty. I talked to people and they talked back. As the song says, you can have friends in high places and you can have friends in low places. I have friends in all places, from good to bad and all flavors in between. I gathered my information and I threw my spare hours into fixing Elizabeth’s problem just as I promised.

There were supplies I’d have to gather, unusual but not unheard of, a different kind of artist to find to shape certain materials—and I had less than four days to get that done. It would require some traveling and I asked my friend Leo to watch the bar for me . . . and my two new acquisitions. Leo would tell you he was a Native American and you’d have no reason to doubt him, given his waist-length black hair and copper skin. But Leo didn’t like to talk about the north and Leo didn’t like to talk about ice and Leo might be inclined to stab you with the tap to a beer keg if you brought up anything related to Vikings or mythology. And when the rare storm came over the city and it thundered, Leo would go out in the rain to flip off the lightning. I’d known Leo a long time. Leo had earned his issues, so I didn’t laugh at him scowling at the sky in the rain . . . not too much, anyway. Especially since he agreed to help me out, as he always did.

He gave Griffin and Zeke a look both jaundiced and resigned when he showed up. “Are you going to clean them up and give them away to a good home on craigslist?”

I gave him a swat on his ass, which was swattable in the best ways, and a kiss on his cheek. “Behave. You were once my stray, too.”

There was an unimpressed lift of eyebrows. “If you mean that I saved your ass and your life and subsequently you began sending me a constant stream of requests for information and favors, then, yes, I was your stray. I don’t know how that evaded me so long.”

“Fine, fine, fine.” I waved it away. “We were both each other’s strays. Now, don’t encourage the boys with your less tolerant ways. They don’t need you teaching them that the best way to get a tip is to pound a customer’s head against the bar. They’re good boys.”

Griffin gave a guilty droop of his shoulders at that, while Zeke looked irate at the very thought that he was good, and Leo went with amused. “If they were that good, Trixa, you wouldn’t be so invested in them.” I’d learned a lot about lying from Leo, but he’d also taught me that the truth, at times, can be more inconvenient than any lie. Before I could get my panties in a bunch and work up a good outrage—I loved a good outrage—Leo smacked my ass this time. “Go. I’ve got it covered here. Enjoy your project.” His teeth gleamed with the last word, and brought a smile from the wolf within him. It was the same wolf whose growls Zeke imitated, but didn’t really have it in him to be. Not just yet.

But puppies do grow up.

With things in hand—I wouldn’t say stable or good or trustworthy, but in hand nonetheless—I left. I had a long way to go. Maybe I’d fly. I loved to fly . . . the world distant below, heaven just as distant above, and you had a chance to own everything between. I’d been in Vegas less than a year, but the roots were already cramping. I still had things to do, though, and at this moment . . .

Elizabeth was first on my list.

* * *

When traveling is in your genes, you tend not to carry things with you. It was why I liked all the shinies of the world. I knew eventually I’d have to leave them behind and find new ones wherever I landed next. If I didn’t, I’d get so weighed down that one day I wouldn’t be able to take a single step, much less run or fly. So I treasured my trinkets and gewgaws, as Mama called them, as much as I possibly could. It made them all the more precious for the short time I had them. Sometimes, though, you come across something so perfect and special you can’t just leave it for strangers to find and loot. Those things you squirrel away, hide them from greedy eyes. Safe-deposit boxes would be nice, but as I’d noted, the banks don’t trust you, so why should you trust them?

That’s how I ended up in an old rock cellar with the house a hundred years gone. I’d sealed this particular precious thing very carefully wrapped in a hundred layers of silk and tucked away in a stone box buried in that cellar where no one could find it or touch it or even see it.

I do hear you, you know, judging me? No, I don’t have delusions of pirates, doubloons, and gaudy treasure chests.

I’m not a peculiar strain of hoarder, either.

Why are you making that doubty, pouty face?

I am not a hoarder.

I’m not.

Truly.

Pinkie swear.

Ha! You caught me. I really, really am.

I held the wondrous thing I hadn’t seen in ages in my hands, heard the river in the distance, heard the rustle of trees so green it made Vegas look like a boneyard. I felt the bite of the chilly air and watched a single ray of sun set my iridescent hands alight like a thousand burning rainbows.

Yes . . .

If this didn’t change Elizabeth’s life, nothing would.

* * *

Finding a bootmaker wasn’t difficult exactly, although these days when ninety-nine percent of footwear is made of the devil spawn of plastic and some sort of biohazard offspring from China, they are few and far between. To find one willing to do the work in two days, and with the material I was providing, would surely make these the most expensive boots Elizabeth had ever worn. Marie Antoinette had diamond-encrusted shoes that were less expensive, but it would be worth it. I’d made a client a promise, and while I broke promises if I had to, I, as I’d told Elizabeth, never broke one related to my work. I had standards . . . just ask my health inspector.

I called home to make sure my boys, all three of them, hadn’t in fact set the bar on fire. Leo snorted, told me Zeke bit a customer but that he had it coming, get off his back already, and hung up on me. He was having a good time. I could tell. Sometimes Leo needed a distraction to keep him from returning to his bad old ways. It was why I poked and prodded him so much. Leo had been my first fixer-upper and he was still a bitch in upkeep, but he was worth it. He’d be good for Zeke and Griffin. There wasn’t anything they could do that would faze him, including burning down the bar.

After that, I killed time on a beach in an only mildly scandalous scarlet bikini and watched as a man—with far less manscaping than needed for the Speedo he was wearing—strutted up and down, flirting (he would say flirting, anyone else would say sexually harassing) with anything female and/or remotely approaching legal age. Later I laughed in the water, tasting salt, as a horny dolphin humped the guy into a near drowning. All right, perhaps CPR was involved and it was a close call, but as concerned as the lifeguard was, I didn’t see any women on the beach crying tears for the pervert. In fact I saw a few waving and taking pictures of the dolphin-love in progress. That and a few banana daiquiris, and my day was finer than frog hair . . . which is something I say only when I have a few banana daiquiris in me. One doesn’t want to be too much like their mama.

The next day I went to the zoo, where I saw a man climb into the lion enclosure shouting that like Daniel in the lion’s den, the Lord would send an angel to save him. I’d always personally been of the belief that those lions Daniel was tossed to simply weren’t hungry that night. But I might’ve been wrong, as the zoo lions looked well fed, almost plump, not hungry in the slightest, and they ate this faithful follower before a single employee could get inside.

You live and you learn.

Well, to be more accurate, I lived and I learned. Our Daniel was less fortunate.

What if I bought a stuffed lion toy as a souvenir on my way out? It reminded me that there were seize-the-day moments all around. Cages, no matter the size, didn’t change that—not for us lions, anyway. Then it was time to pick up the boots, gift the maker with honey-drizzled chatter over the masterpiece they were—and that was an understatement—a kiss on each cheek for the artiste, a very large payment, promise of future business, and finally it was time to go home. I couldn’t wait to see Elizabeth’s face, for her to see what could’ve been a boring job turned into a work of art that I knew we’d both appreciate.

* * *

Or not.

“This is it? These are supposed to be the answer to my problem? How exactly is this going to do anything, you stupid bitch?”

Elizabeth wasn’t quite as lovely or the embodiment of grace when her face was splotched red with rage, her mouth twisted with derision, and her hand slapping the table hard enough to kill a spider—the bird-eating, plate-sized South American kind.

“Bethy”—that’s what they’d called her before she’d married money, when she lived down in the trailer park where her mother worked two jobs and her father was in the wind—“if you call me a bitch again, I’ll solve your problem in an entirely different way. One that will involve prison and police, because I know all about you. Why, I had to know all there is to know to get you what you wanted, didn’t I? But while I said I made no judgments, sweetie, I never once said I tolerated disrespect.”

Her mouth snapped shut, but the anger still boiled under her skin. I could almost see it, looking for a way, any way, out. Her eyes flickered to the full champagne bottle on the table, and for a second I could see her picturing how nicely it would splatter my brains on my favorite silk shirt. I wasn’t surprised by that. That’s who Bethy was. Who she’d always been. She’d told me what she wanted—a rich man to marry who would conveniently die with or without her help, made no difference on that score to her. I said happy to deliver and named my price. Her price. Semantics.

What she hadn’t told me was her path to that want and desire. It was paved with the very same: four rich, older men who died not long after marrying Bethy Rose, the girl who’d polished up her accent, sanded away the trailer park from her skin, made herself into something a shallow person would want to own and pay to own it. Shallow or not, every one of those four men had been kind to her, as kind as they had it in them to be. They’d done their best to make her happy. Not everyone’s best is equal in all ways, but if you give your all, even if you have less to give than the more saintly, you still tried. It still counts. That made Bethy the murderer of four innocent, if not particularly bright, men.

I sold information all the time. I know how to do my research.

I’d found Bethy’s pattern and I found out the root of her problem. It was never enough. First a rich man and then a millionaire and then a multimillionaire, but, oh, times were hard and millions weren’t what they used to be when you’ve grown accustomed to maids and pool boys and drivers and country clubs and Learjets. Bethy spent it all and had to find herself a new husband. Trouble was, best effort expended or not, the men she wanted were as shallow as I’d said and Bethy wasn’t twenty-two anymore. Or thirty-two. Or forty-two. Billionaires are a special breed, and an old horny billionaire is going to want a young thing with tits done by Dr. Double D and the only lines on her skin the ones shown by her Brazilian wax. Bethy couldn’t compete with that, not anymore.

She asked me for a man who would see her as beautiful (which she was), to not be so shallow about the age yet stupid enough to be obsessed with her within a week and marry her within a month. It would be nice if he had a heart condition and died promptly on his own. One honeymoon had taken care of that for her before, but if that was too much to ask, she’d handle it. She’d handled it three other times and no one had ever caught her out.

Save for me.

“So, little Bethy Rose from the trailer park on Pike’s Hill,” I poured her a glass of the champagne, “keep your trash talk to yourself and let’s celebrate. I found you the perfect man, who matches all your qualifications save a minor one. He would love you instantly in all your ways and”—I laid the newly fashioned boots across her lap—“he has a highly documented fetish for women in boots. You are his ideal woman, Bethy, but every good con still needs a hook, and these boots are yours.”

Her anger dissipated, leaving her as pink and flushed and dewy as her middle name. “Oh.” Now she ran a hand over them and basked in the sight. After all, this was a woman who loved her thousand-dollar black-and-white snakeskin shoes and these boots—they made those shoes look like Kmart ninety-nine-cent flip-flops. The scales lay so flat you could barely see them as anything that had ever been separate from one another except for the color. Every color that existed was there. It wasn’t the bright explosion I’d dug up in another country. No, now it was a subtle watercolor wash that shimmered in a milky opal cascade. The first mermaid rising on the waves of the sea to drown a sailor would’ve been made of this. It was mystery and magic and impossibility with the mists of an Eden morning keeping it safe.

I filled my own glass and touched it to hers. A bell rang and somewhere an angel ripped off his wings in despair. “Satisfied, Elizabeth?”

She kept her hands on the boots, grasping pincers, and gave me that first smile from a week ago—that love-me-because-I-make-it-so smile. “If he’s all you say, I’m more than satisfied. I do get to keep the boots, yes?”

I smiled back, happy and bright, warm with the feeling of a job well done. “Bethy, I knew I was never getting those back from you again.”

* * *

On the drive in my sporty little red car to Hoover Dam, I told her about her new beau—she laughed when I called him that, but I thought he’d like the old-fashioned label. His name was Dennison Phillip Jameson—the rich do love their three names—he’d been born with a trust fund and not a silver but a platinum spoon in his mouth, had inherited even more when his parents died, and had owned several construction companies, mainly to keep busy. That’s why he’d be waiting for us at Hoover Dam. The construction companies had been sold off for even more unnecessary cash, but the man had never given up his love of a thing well-built. Originally from San Diego, monthly trips to Hoover Dam had never been out of the ordinary for him.

He was old enough that death wouldn’t be a problem for Elizabeth and, best, she looked just like his mother had in her prime, and the man had loved his mother a little more than was necessarily proper. With her face and his rather vanilla fetish for snakeskin boots, Elizabeth could’ve been made for him.

Things tend to work out that way when I’m on the job. It’s the universe showing its love of balance. I only help it along.

We drove over the dam and parked in the small lot. I waited until Elizabeth pulled on the knee-high boots. Her dress was a subtle harvest gold today and the gold in the scales picked up on it. “You look like the sun, Bethy Rose. The rising sun. He won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

“You’re positive he’ll be here.” She brushed her hair back and her inner light doubled. She was, sad to say, gifted beyond words.

Pity.

“I am absolutely certain he’s here and waiting. He’ll be where he can see the water. The man loves the water.”

He’d have to, now, wouldn’t he?

We took the elevator up from the visitors’ center and steered clear of the enclosed area to walk to the open space where it was all sky and rock and the bluest water I’d ever seen. The dam itself was the white of a bleached bone, and that was appropriate. The last dab of paint to a work I’d labored over for a week.

“Where is he?” Elizabeth glanced around, but there was no one there. There had been a few people wandering about, but they were gone now. Gone very quickly. Sometimes people know somehow . . . They sense a minefield before they step in it. They turn and they go. And sometimes if I don’t want to be seen, people don’t want to see me. They, too, turn and go. Elizabeth and I were alone . . . well, excepting her one true love she was already saving up the potassium chloride for.

I leaned against the concrete that served as the barrier between me and nothing but hot, dry air. “Elizabeth, this is the desert. You haven’t lived here forever, I know, but have you been curious enough to drive out once in a while? See some things? You see Kokopelli all the time in the tacky little gift shops too good for the likes of you, I know. Kokopelli.” I shake my head and raise my face to the sun. “Glory hog and a whole lot handsy when he’s drinking. But forget him. Have you ever heard of Crow?”

“Coyote?

“Iktomi?”

I slid my gaze from the sun to her sudden frown and narrow-eyed blink. “Iktomi, that’s your last name. Is this a trick? Are you trying to rip me off?” So vicious the words now. So changeable, my Bethy Rose.

I laughed. “I would never rip you off. I’m giving you exactly what you want, a dead rich husband. But I am tricking you. You’re the first one to say that to me in so long.” I laughed again, stood and spun in a circle with arms wide. The sky spun with me, blue blue blue. It was once a deeper blue, the sun larger in the sky, and you could walk for years and not see a living person. The days do pass.

I stopped spinning, bounced on my heels, and grinned. “I have lots of names, sugar, so many I’d waste a good year telling you them all.” I put a finger to my lips. “But I’ll tell you a secret. They all mean the same thing.”

Trickster.

I liked Elizabeth because she was a good liar. She was my reflection in a mirror—hazy, as I did have six thousand years of practice on her, but she’d have made a good baby trickster . . . if not for her blindness to the balance. If you can’t see it, you can’t live it, and you can’t enforce it. Tricksters were created to bring balance and wisdom. Elizabeth had come to me a little late and too far gone for wisdom. But she also wasn’t stupid, my Elizabeth. She was a survivor, and so she thought to turn and leave. Thinking and doing, though, they don’t always go skipping hand in hand. As much as Elizabeth wanted to flee, she was caught firmly in the wheels of justice.

It was the balance for her.

“I’ve been so many myths, so many shapes, so many things, Bethy, you can’t imagine.”

This week alone I’d been an oversexed dolphin to teach a Speedo-wearing idiot a lesson he’d never forget. Great, great fun, that one.

I sat on the concrete barrier and told her a tale. “In Australia there was once a trickster called Dhakhan.” There were hundreds, thousands of tricksters, and I’d been them all. “Dhakhan was gorgeous, and I say that with all due modesty. A serpent covered with rainbow scales like a thousand sultan’s jewels. Does that sound vain? I probably was vain then; forget the modesty, swimming in the mountain lakes showing off like you show off your snakeskin shoes.” I kicked my feet back and forth lightly and remembered. “I watched over the people there, but where there are people there are bad people. Sometimes I had to punish the wicked. The murderers. Murderers like you, Elizabeth.” I patted the concrete beside me, and her mouth moved soundlessly as she walked over stiffly, fighting every step with all she had in her, before sitting down, wholly against her will, beside me.

Unfortunately for her, what she had accepted from me couldn’t be beaten. Her will was nothing next to it. It controlled her as she’d once controlled four stupid, stupid men.

“I stayed there a while—in Australia. It was like a vacation, a place so beautiful you could hardly look at it. But after ten years or so, I shed my skin and took it as a sign. Unless I wanted to mature into a new Dhakhan, it was time to go—to be something and someone else. And Coyote has always been my favorite—I won’t lie. But I hid the skin I’d shaken off. I knew I’d use it someday. There’s a great deal of me and my will left in that skin. There’s a great deal of justice in it. Now about that husband.” I leaned and looked down at the water below. Very far below.

A hand clamped tight on my wrist, but Elizabeth was still without her words, pretty or foul. Dhakhan had never been a form of trickster that tolerated idle chitchat from the guilty, and she was now wearing part of that form. “That’s okay, sugar. I’ll talk for you. Dennison Phillip Jameson. He was single, he did have a thing for women in boots, and he had all the money in the world, and you do sincerely take after his mama. He would’ve adored you. And as an extra bonus just for my favorite client of the week, he’s already dead—that’s how you wanted him—the sooner the better, right? He jumped right about here ten years ago.” A shame, no doubt, but he’d picked a nice place for it. “He was a sad man, but I think you’ll cheer him right up. They never did find his body. If things work out right, yours will wash up beside his and then it’s heavenly bliss in a tangle of bones and boots.” I smiled wider. “Sorry I couldn’t work you in a wedding cake. It would’ve been a nice touch.”

She was trying to say no; I could see it framed in her lips and the whites of her straining eyes and the fierce shaking of her head, but I didn’t hear a whisper. “Sorry, darlin’, these boots weren’t made for talking. They’re made for one thing only. Justice. Now go on. Go give your new dead husband a kiss. One from me, too, you hear?”

She stood stiffly, arms flailing. I ducked and backed away. Bethy Rose was a fighter with a helluva amount of stubborn resolve, that was for certain. Too bad for her that there were things you couldn’t fight and things you didn’t want to accept but had to. You don’t have to agree with justice—no, you do not—but that makes no difference.

One way or another, justice will do with you what must be done.

Elizabeth’s boots took her over the edge, climbing and dragging her along step by stilted step. It was done with a bit less grace than I’d hoped, but away she went all the same. She flew through the air like Icarus. She flew too high with the wings of murdered men and finally was felled low. I felt that discarded part of my self that she wore in boots of gold, scarlet, jade, sapphire, indigo go with her, back to the water where it belonged. I liked to think I heard her hit, heard the splash, but it was far and the wind was loud. That was all right. I’d never forget the picture it made, anyway. I never forget the good tricks or the good days. This was both. The sky was blue as ever and I waved at the crow that flew overhead. Maybe I knew him or her. You never know.

* * *

What?

You’re still here? Lesson not learned yet?

I told Elizabeth that I made no judgments? “Do I remember that?”

Of course I remember that. I can’t believe you’d ask. Yes, I did lie, but I also kept my promise to her, didn’t I? I delivered as I said I would. Oh, sweet Lord above. Keep up.

I lied about deciding the verdict. I always lie about that. I’m surprised Elizabeth believed me. I expected better from a liar as good as her.

I’m not so surprised you believed.

Better start believing. I not only do judge. I am a judge. Also jury and executioner.

Think about that the next time you’re tempted to buy a pair of snakeskin shoes or boots.

You never know who that snake once was.

Or is.

Remember, Mark Twain said that a lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes. A trickster can make it all the way around and steal truth’s shoes before the laces are tied.

And we are everywhere, finger-painting the world red with the blood of the wicked.

Wait.

You’re not wicked, are you?

Sugar, where are you going?

Well, be that way. Bye-bye, then.

For now.

See you soon.

Sooner than you think.

Smooches.

RUBY RED

A Darque Files Story

BY

KALAYNA PRICE

Set in the world of the Alex Craft Novels

I shucked my singed jacket and dropped it on the cheap hotel carpet. Ruined. Damn. My pants weren’t any better. The acrid scent of scorched leather engulfed me. Wrinkling my nose, I considered stripping and hitting the shower without acknowledging the man sitting in the obligatory armchair found in every hotel room across the country. The blinds were open behind him, which allowed him to read the document in his lap with the final rays of evening sun.

“You could have warned me about the fire elemental,” I said as I checked the condition of my boots. Salvageable.

Derrick Knight, my partner and fellow investigator in the Magical Crimes Investigation Bureau, looked up for the first time and grimaced. “You’ve handled elementals before.” He frowned. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No.” I unlaced my boots. They had a little scorching, but would clean up okay. “But if you want one Briar Darque, extra crispy, I know where to look.”

“I didn’t know about the fire elemental, Briar.” The words lacked both sympathy for my situation and amusement at my last statement as Derrick went back to reading the document in his lap.

Well, if he was going to sit in my room and ignore me, I was losing the charred pants. I stripped and tossed the pants on the floor with my jacket. The charms in the clothing had protected me from the flames, but damn, I was really going to miss that outfit. Now I’d need to tweak the spells worked into my backup jacket.

Across the room, Derrick cleared his throat. I turned, still pantless, and found his gaze locked on his document—desperately so, judging by the tightness on his face. He’d seen me half-naked—or worse—before, but I took pity on the guy and grabbed a pair of yoga pants from my luggage.

Derrick was doubly wyrd, which meant that on top of normal witch powers, he had two abilities he couldn’t completely control. It was rare to have two wyrd abilities. And in my business rare usually meant one of two things: The MCIB recruited you or they sent someone like me after you.

The first ability was premonition, and as he’d recently celebrated his thirty-first birthday without going bat-shit insane, he was considered to be well above the curve. The second ability was more difficult. He had been born with touch clairvoyance, which was why it was cruel for me to show off a lot of flesh around him. The clairvoyance was a little spotty, but when he touched an object or person, half the time he flashed into their history or memory. Occasionally useful on cases, it was typically only a hindrance to, well, living. Anything he planned to touch had to be either new—thus no strong events or emotions tied to it—or his. Which meant he always carried a pair of gloves, he brought whatever he might eat with him to restaurants, supplied his own bedding at hotels, and special ordered his clothes. And skin to skin contact? Nope, definitely not. With all the travel, my dating life was minimal. His dating life? About nil. Of course—who knew?—maybe he had a long-distance thing going on. We didn’t really talk about personal stuff.

I glanced at him once I’d pulled on the pants and then stopped. “Oh, no. You’ve got that look.”

He didn’t bother asking me which look—he damn well knew.

A case.

I stepped to the bed and meticulously removed my weapons, checking each before placing it with the quickly amassing collection spread over my comforter. “I guess any chance of us getting our promised vacation is slim?”

“If we keep catching emergency cases, probably.”

Right. I held the title of investigator, but my real job was to intervene when a witch went off the rails and the shit hit the proverbial fan—that typically involved a witch pulling something out of one of the other planes of existence. I’d already eliminated two elementals and arrested a witch who fancied himself a summoner since my attempted vacation began. Couldn’t the bad guys take a break long enough for me to take one?

Removing the last of my knives, I left the bed and my rows of weapons as I moved to the open space in the room. Taking a deep breath to center myself, I spread my legs to a shoulder-width distance before hanging my torso downward so I could hug my legs in a deep stretch.

“So, what’s the case?” I asked, still upside down.

Derrick flipped back to the first page of the file. “Recently there was an outbreak of what was originally assumed to be an unknown contagion that reduced the victim from healthy to comatose in under twelve hours. A virus or bacteria has been ruled out as the cause, and it is now clear that a spell is responsible for the victims’ conditions.”

“So I’ll be looking for an unknown witch who for whatever reason is causing an epidemic.” It sounded easy enough. In fact, it probably should have gone to a different team—a team not on vacation.

“There’s more,” Derrick said as he flipped a few pages. “There have been reports of ‘smoke creatures’ in the shadows at night.”

Despite his finger quotes, I couldn’t help repeating, “Smoke creatures? What are we talking about? Air elementals? Djinn?”

Derrick shrugged without looking up. “I haven’t found a more concrete description—just that they have magical signatures consistent with a human witch, so they fall under our purview.”

I processed that as I changed from stretching to yoga and moved into warrior pose. “They have a sensitive working the case?”

Derrick shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard. All these readings came from detector charms. Also, I visited the hospital and gathered what information I could about the victims. I’m working on a time line to find where they might have encountered our unknown witch.”

“You started a new case before I’d tied up the last?”

“I looked into it just a bit while you were out.”

Out. Yeah, out meant I was risking my life hunting bad guys Derrick encountered only through research done at a safe distance. But Derrick had his job, and I had mine. And I wasn’t complaining. After all, mine came with a kick-ass crossbow, top-of-the-line weaponized spells, and a killer wardrobe—well, the last had had some recent casualties, but I’d remedy that the first chance I got.

I nodded to my partner, showing I held no hard feelings.

“It sounds like you’re still in the first steps of reconnaissance.” Which meant I wouldn’t be hunting yet.

Maybe I’d get a day or two of vacation after all.

* * *

I didn’t get that vacation.

The next night I found myself sitting in a parked rental Hummer wishing there was a Chinese take-out place nearby. But no, the case put me in Central York. According to the signs, the town was a “Suburban Paradise.” I could see why someone would make that claim; Central York was mostly houses. Streets and streets of rainbow-colored houses and perfectly manicured lawns turned the town into a carefully designed grid of homes. The “rebels” in the town had added an extra flower bed to their yards, making them stand out fractionally. Home Owners Associations were bad enough, but to move anywhere in this town you had to practically sign away your personality. This place looks more like Suburban Hell.

Of course, Central York wasn’t entirely houses—there was a community tennis court, a golf course, a park in the town center, one retrofitted movie theater, a post office, two government buildings, a couple of delicatessens, and three diners. That was it. Definitely no Chinese—or any other decent takeout—and I guessed only enough jobs for a fraction of the population.

They must commute. After all, Central York, while it might have been granted the status of a town, was really just one developer’s wet dream in downtown New York City. In Central Park to be exact. No one fully understood how the Magical Awakening seventy years ago had caused areas all over the world to unfold and reveal more space. Magic. I shook my head. However it occurred, it was an undeniable fact that if you walked around the outside of Central Park it was exactly the size history books claimed, but if you walked through the center you wound up in Central York.

The police scanner on my dash crackled, as the dispatcher announced a domestic dispute. Two cars responded, and then the scanner went quiet again. I’d been parked for several hours and this was only the second call I’d heard all night.

“Wow, it’s dead here,” I said to no one in particular. I had my windows open, but there was no one on the street to hear me. It was like the sidewalks had rolled up at nightfall. Was there a curfew or—“Have the attacks scared you into your homes?”

There were smoke creatures in the shadows after dark. Not that I’d seen one. Yet.

That was why I was hunting tonight. We didn’t have enough intel on the creatures, and Derrick couldn’t dig up more. Short of a premonition hitting him, the only way we would learn what I was facing was if I bagged one. So, I hunted. Rather passively, unfortunately.

I’d rather have been on the street, but I had no idea how to track the creatures yet. No idea of the territory yet either as the places they’d been spotted appeared random. Which left me only one option—follow on the cops’ trail. So I waited, the Hummer parked to save gas instead of cruising the streets.

Efficiency. Great in theory. In practice I was bored. And my ass was falling asleep. I wanted to be moving, to be doing something. Anything.

I considered the neighborhood around me. I could roam, just a little ways, but I wouldn’t be able to respond as fast if the dispatcher put out a call about the creatures. I glanced from the neighborhood to the scanner and back again. “You couldn’t pay me to live here.” The monotony made the place so very boring. Of course, that same trait gave the residents a certain anonymity, and I excelled at going unnoticed. What with my average height and build and average shade of brown hair and eyes, people tended to forget me as soon as I was out of sight. And that was without adding in my various obfuscation charms. Shaking my head, I amended my earlier statement. “Okay, maybe you could pay me to live here. But I’d have to travel. A lot.”

That trivial decision made, I double-checked the charms and weapons I had on me. It was typically a calming activity, but tonight it didn’t cut through my impatience.

“Come on,” I said, shooting the scanner a hard stare.

As if my glare had power, the scanner crackled again before the dispatcher’s voice filled the Hummer.

“Attention all cars in the vicinity of Blossom and Noir, an unknown entity was spotted at—”

Finally.

* * *

I spotted the telltale blue lights that indicated I’d reached my destination long before the GPS could announce I’d arrived. The Hummer didn’t have lights or tags—obviously, as it was only a rental—but I still pulled it as close to Robin Street as I could. Then I parked in the middle of the street. Who was going to ticket or tow the Hummer while we chased a creature of unknown origin?

After jumping out of the vehicle, I forced myself to walk, not run, toward the largest gathering of cops. You don’t run toward groups of freaked-out people with guns. The situation rarely ended well. Some of the officers looked up at my approach, but it was the two plainclothes Anti–Black Magic Unit agents who moved to block my path.

“I’m sorry but this area is currently restricted. Please—,” a tall agent with ruffled blond hair told me. But I noticed he didn’t actually look at me; his attention was on something over my left shoulder.

Cutting him off, I pulled my badge and held it above my head. “I’m Inspector Darque from the MCIB.”

The intersection went silent at my announcement. Now the agent looked at me.

“Thank goodness,” a rookie cop said, breaking the silence.

I glanced at him. His caramel-colored skin looked slightly washed-out as if something had scared the blood from his face. He also barely looked old enough to be wearing a uniform. I gave him a smile and a wink as I pocketed my badge. After all, we were both paid to take risks, but I was paid very well to take the more extreme ones.

“Bring me up to speed,” I said as I approached the two ABMU agents. There were grumbles from several officers who clearly considered the scene theirs, but I was dealing with a magical enemy. Many of the officers were probably plain vanilla human norms without a drop of magic in their blood, maybe a few were witches, but the agents were guaranteed to be witches and were experienced in dealing with corrupt magic.

The tall agent looked me up and down, and the crinkling around his brown eyes told me he was less than impressed. He didn’t offer his hand, but said, “I’m Agent Tayler and this is Agent Kelvis. We have agents and officers on the other end of this street as well. The creature was active when the first responders arrived and they managed to get tape enchanted with a barrier spell laid and activated, so we hope we’ve trapped the creature. Unfortunately, two of the officers and one pedestrian were hurt before the barrier went up.”

I raised my eyebrow and shot a doubtful glance at the barrier tape. It blocked the road and would have prevented a car from gaining entrance to the side street, but what would stop the creature from just stepping off the road and walking around the barrier? I knew practically nothing about what was plaguing this town, so I held my opinion to myself. For now.

“You said three people were injured? Can you describe the injuries?” Sometimes I could learn as much or more by what a summoned or created creature could do than by seeing the creature itself. The important word there being sometimes.

“I don’t have to describe them,” Agent Tayler said as he started toward the mass of parked cop cars. “They’re still here. A hospital is something the residents are fighting to have built. Until then, the ambulance has to make it here from the city. Lucky for you though, because the boys are still resting in their car.” He pressed his lips together and then gnawed at the top lip as he released the bottom. “So what do you think these creatures are?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t seen one yet.”

Tayler nodded me toward the vehicle closest to the barricaded street. I headed in that direction, anxious to check on the wounds and then pass the barriers to search out the creature. If it’s still here. Stopping beside the passenger door, I grabbed the door handle, pulling hard.

Locked.

I knocked on the window, but the man in the seat didn’t move. He was sitting with both of his legs tucked to his chest, his face buried in his knees with his arms hugging his legs while further obscuring his face. Neither the civilian in the backseat nor the officer in the driver’s seat appeared any more inclined to open the door than the passenger. The man in the back lay in a fetal position, his gaze locked on the ceiling. He didn’t even blink when I pounded on the window.

“Agent, do you have a key to this car? And why are these people alone and sitting if they’re injured?”

“For the latter, you’ll see soon enough. No to the former, but I’ll see if someone else does.” He all but marched toward the crowd of officers. It was a highly controlled tantrum, and I assumed he’d been the agent in charge before I showed up. For dealing with the creature or the witch who’d brought it into this town, my badge trumped Tayler’s. Some people just didn’t take that well.

One by one, the officers glanced at where I stood, shaking their heads. Then one officer stepped forward and made his way toward the car and me. It was the young officer who’d spoken earlier. I was glad to see that he wasn’t quite so ashen anymore.

“Hello, ma’am,” he said, ducking his head in a small bow.

“Please don’t call me ma’am. My mother is a ma’am.” I paused. “You don’t really think I’m that old, do you?”

“Oh, no ma’a—Inspector. In fact, I’d love to take you to dinner while you’re in town.”

Now that surprised me. I eyed the kid—okay, he was definitely a man, but he was a very young one. And a cute one. But he was simply too young—I’d feel guilty if I started a short affair with him. Still, I was flattered. And I had to give him credit for his nerve. He might have been uneasy about facing a magical creature, but I had walked in and taken over the scene, and he’d asked me out before he even knew my first name. Ballsy.

“Thanks but—” I stopped. The kid’s gaze had dropped from my face, but he didn’t look like he was undressing me with his eyes. It was more like he was navigating a particularly hard puzzle. I glanced at the bandolier of vials slung across my chest, each vial containing a nasty magical cocktail. Then there were a set of throwing stars as well as two sets of throwing daggers—all enchanted—and my tactical belt filled with more vials, customized spelled darts for my crossbow, more weapons I’d picked up over the years, and some basic necessity charms like a spell checker and a lie detector. And that was just what was visible where my jacket gaped open. It was part of my regular hunting attire, so I rarely thought about how unusual so many weaponized spells could appear. Which is why my weapons and gear are hidden by spells. He shouldn’t have noticed them.

Except he had.

“What do you see?”

The young officer jerked his gaze upward, as if he’d only now realized he’d been staring in the general area of my breasts. He cleared his throat, and if he’d had a lighter complexion, I would have sworn he blushed. “I, uh, I was looking at your weapons—the spelled ones. I’ve never seen a . . . display like that. But, uh, you needed the key to the cruiser.”

He held it out. I accepted the key but shook my head. “You’re not going to slip away that easy, kid.”

“Russell.”

“Huh?”

“My name, it’s Russell. Russell Lancaster.”

I nodded to acknowledge the name. A few minutes ago I wouldn’t have bothered remembering. The last two minutes had changed that. But there was still one more test. I pulled a vial from my bandolier. “What can you tell me about this?” I asked as I passed the vial to him—carefully.

“Whoa, this . . .” He made a face and moved the vial so he held it between two fingers. “It feels like fire, only hotter. More destructive.”

I didn’t try to stop the smile that tugged at my lips. It was a real one after all, and those were rare. Russell stumbled back at my expression. It may have been a real smile but it must have been one of my more predatory. The vial shook in his fingers and I grabbed it from him before he dropped it. Now that would have been a mess.

“You’re a good sensitive,” I said, taming my smile into something I hoped looked professional. I didn’t do professional often. “Are you interested in a little work on the side? I might be able to use you on this case.” Or I might not, but it was always good to have a sensitive waiting in the wings.

“Sure.” Russell leaned back, one hand moving to his belt. “Let’s swap phones and program our digits.”

Not happening. I carried only an emergency phone with me on hunts. It had one programmed number: Derrick’s. Two people call in, Derrick and my boss back at MCIB. No one else. It was a safety precaution. A phone going off at the wrong time could prove deadly in my profession.

I did have a regular cell back at the hotel, but I wasn’t about to give Russell the number. I had enough trouble with my mom calling me at all hours—she could never keep up with which time zone I was in—I did not need random calls from a rookie officer with the CYPD.

“How about you just write down your number.”

Russell’s posture deflated, but he was smart enough not to try to insist. Pulling out a small memo pad from his pocket, he scribbled his number and handed it across to me. I glanced at it long enough to ensure it was legible before tucking it away. With a nod, I ended that portion of the conversation and turned back to the task at hand.

The victims. Then the creature.

“Stick around, Russell. Your sensitivity to magic might come in useful as I examine these guys,” I said, and unlocked the cruiser door, unsure of what I’d find inside.

I stepped back from the officer who’d been in the driver’s seat of the cruiser. “I don’t see a mark on her.”

“They’re all like that,” Agent Tayler said, joining me in the street.

The female officer’s gaze didn’t lift with our words. She just continued to stare blankly at the ground. She didn’t even bother to wipe her tear-soaked cheeks, which glistened in the streetlights. She just stood there as if she were empty. The biggest response I’d received from her had been a half shrug when I’d asked where she’d been hurt.

Still, all of that was better than the two men—they were so locked away in their own heads that I hadn’t been able to talk either out of the car. I frowned, thinking about what Derrick had told me about the hospitalized victims.

“These guys are headed toward catatonic, aren’t they?”

Agent Tayler nodded in answer, and we stood in silence.

Damn, what kind of creature is haunting this town? I shook my head. I hadn’t encountered anything like this before. Of course I was getting only portions of the picture. A few more pieces and maybe I’d start recognizing something.

“You sensing anything, Officer Lancaster?” I asked, glancing at Russell.

His face filled with opposing lines as he scrunched his brow while frowning. I started to tell him not to hurt himself, but stopped before opening my mouth. He was a big boy. Surely he knew the limits of his abilities.

After a moment he huffed out a breath and stepped back. “It . . . I can’t explain exactly. It is kind of like they have magical . . . holes.” He shook his head and again stepped back. “Something was taken.”

Yeah, their will to exist. I didn’t say it aloud though. No point stating a guess. If I was wrong, that was all anyone would ever remember.

Nodding, I turned on my heels and headed toward the barricade. Agent Tayler and Officer Lancaster both hurried to keep up. Tayler I expected, but it was time for the officer to go back to the other cops unless he wanted a crash course in monster hunting. He seemed to realize that as well because his steps became shorter, slower, until several yards stretched between us.

“Hey,” he said, stopping completely, “when should I expect—”

I cut him off. “If I need a sensitive, I’ve got your number.” I turned to Agent Tayler. “I’m going behind your barricade. Will you or your fellow agents be joining me?”

Tayler’s eyes narrowed, making them small and dark in the moonlight. He’d taken the question as a challenge, which, admittedly, it was. Of course, all he saw was an average-looking woman in leather—he couldn’t see that I was armed to the teeth.

He met with his partner, exchanging words too quiet for me to hear. Then he said something into a two-way radio before turning back to me.

“Ready?” I asked, already knowing the answer before his sharp nod.

It was time to go behind the safety point. Now, just to hope their little trap had caught something.

* * *

Well, as I suspected from the beginning, it was a badly constructed trap. Or maybe they were just unlucky. Either way, the ABMU guys—a third had joined us from the opposite barricaded entrance—and I searched every dark inch of that street.

I held my spell checker out in front of me, focusing on the shadows. The small bead in the center didn’t light up—neither, I noticed, did the two ABMU agents’ detectors. The irony of the situation was that the spell checkers had a range of only a foot or two and could tell me nothing more than if a spell was malicious or not, but back behind the barricade was a sensitive whose range was likely several yards and who could not only sense the nature of a spell, but also what it did, if Russell was half as good as he appeared to be. As the tool was available, I was sorely tempted to use it, but I didn’t want to put the kid in danger. It wasn’t his job to hunt monsters. It was mine.

Once it became painfully clear there was nothing to find, I put away my spell checker and said good-bye to the agents. They stayed behind, still searching. And I hoped they would find something—I didn’t actually think they would, but best of luck to them. If they made any discoveries, either Derrick or I would learn of it soon enough.

I cruised the streets of Central York for an hour or two, watching the shadows. I saw nothing unusual and no more sightings were announced by the dispatcher. As late rapidly changed to early, I turned the Hummer around. This town didn’t have a hotel, so I had a ways to go before I would reach my bed. The hunt would just have to wait until tomorrow night.

This case might take longer than I’d hoped.

* * *

I stopped in front of the connecting door between Derrick’s and my hotel rooms. Our habit was to keep the doors open when we were awake and working a case, but his was still stubbornly closed. Considering I was the one who’d spent the last three nights out on fruitless hunts, he should have been up before me. Hell, even when I wasn’t hunting through the night he was up before me. There was only one situation in which he slept in: when he had a premonition.

Using a simple spell I carried in a ring, I unlocked the door and entered Derrick’s room. The curtains were drawn tight, casting most of the room in deep shadows. The only light poured out of the doorway where I stood; it was just enough to frame Derrick’s form in the bed. At a glance I knew I hadn’t woken him, and I stole a moment to admire the toned flesh on display. We were partners, so I’d never let him see me look at him like that, but damn, the man was gorgeous. The sheets were his—sultry red—and as usual, he slept in the buff.

He’d had a rough night if the twisted and fallen sheets were any indication. Of course that left only more—as in nearly all—of him on display. My gaze stole several moments to glide over the sleek muscles of his back, down to the half-covered outline of his ass, and then onward over the sheet until his strong legs reappeared. He was a thing of beauty—and that wasn’t just my relationship-starved hunger talking. Constantly traveling for cases wasn’t conducive to finding—or keeping—a boyfriend. With a sigh I also noted the signs of distress in my partner’s sleeping form: the way one arm covered his face, the shimmer of sweat on his skin, and the clenched fists.

Walking across the room, I opened the blinds, filling the room with light. He still didn’t wake, so I headed to the bathroom next. I grabbed his bottle of painkillers from the sink and a pint glass. The first I opened and the second I filled half full of water.

“Hey, Derrick. Wake up,” I said as I reentered the room.

No response. Not even a shift in his sleep-heavy breathing.

I tried again, with the same results. While this much flesh on display made for good eye candy, it also prevented me from shaking him awake. Not that I hadn’t been in this situation before.

Setting the open pill bottle on the bedside table, I dumped a bit of the water in my palm, let it run down my fingers, and then made a flicking motion. Water droplets flung from my fingers and Derrick jerked backward with a loud inhalation.

“What—?” Derrick blinked several times before groaning and running a hand over his eyes and down to the dark stubble forming on his chin. “I had a premonition.”

“I assumed that much,” I said, moving the painkillers and glass closer.

He took both with a nod of thanks. Then he dumped several pills onto his palm, not bothering to count before tossing them back and washing them down. Wow, the premonition must have been intense.

I considered waiting in the room for him to tell me what he’d learned—though it may have nothing to do with our case—but he’d no doubt appreciate a chance to dress. If he had any important information, he’d hurry.

I was halfway through cleaning and reassembling my crossbow when the doors dividing our rooms opened and a now clean and dressed Derrick emerged.

“So,” I said, setting down my crossbow so I could give my partner my full attention. “Did your premonition pertain to our case?”

“Yes, but you aren’t going to like it.”

* * *

Sometimes Derrick’s visions were specific. This time? Less so. All he knew—or at least, all he shared—was that I’d find out something important at the No Bull Vegetarian Diner. He didn’t know when or how I’d learn this crucial info, but he said solving the case hinged on my presence in the diner.

The idea of more waiting, possibly a lot of waiting, didn’t appeal to me, but how could I argue? Premonitions weren’t something that could be fudged—it was the future. You try to change it, and the vision already took that into account.

Which was why, two hours later I was sliding into a corner booth at No Bull. I hadn’t been sure if I was on a recon trip or a hunt, so I’d played it safe and went full hunt mode. That included all my obfuscation spells, which while I wasn’t exactly invisible—true invisibility charms tended to have a high fail rate—I might as well have been. I was cloaked with a spell that wrapped shadows around me, a look-away charm, and if anyone did manage to see through those, I had a spell that made me even harder to remember than normal. I’d also activated my muffling charm.

The diner wasn’t huge. It had maybe a dozen booths along the front, a handful of tables in the center, and a milk-shake bar to one side. The seat I’d chosen gave me a decent view of the whole place, with all its shiny chrome and cartoonish art in the style of Roy Lichtenstein. The booths and tables held only a scattering of patrons, but the milk-shake bar was packed. And a milk shake sounded good, but I resisted. I was on a stakeout after all.

The bell on the door tinkled softly and a young couple entered. Their eyes skittered over my booth without stopping before they picked a booth halfway between the door and me. A dumpy-looking waitress in a salmon-colored uniform took her time waddling up to the couple. I watched as she took their drink orders before heading toward the kitchen and I gave a mental groan. There was nothing sinister or suspicious about this place or the people in it.

Not yet, at least.

* * *

The dinner rush started a little before six. No Bull filled quickly, a line forming at the front. No one questioned the empty—looking—back booth. With the crowd came a second waitress. Unlike the one who’d been on the clock since I arrived, this girl was all energy and smiles. She danced from table to table as she took orders and delivered food. I was rather surprised considering she was wearing totally impractical footwear for a waitress. I hated the term “do-me heels” but I couldn’t think of any other description. They were bright red with four-inch, pencil-thin heels, and they didn’t match her uniform.

As I was looking for anything unusual or out of place, the shoes were suspicious. And they were the only unusual thing I’d seen so far today.

This seriously can’t come down to a pair of stilettos? I’d been hunting shadow creatures for half a week and they were somehow tied up with a giddy waitress who liked heels? It didn’t seem credible, and yet, I had to find a way to confirm or eliminate her as the unknown witch culprit. Which means I need to get my hands on those shoes.

The bell on the door chimed again, and I tore my gaze off the waitress. I’d intended to study the new patron, but I already knew this one.

Derrick.

He didn’t bother looking at the patrons, but, if I judged his studying gaze correctly, he evaluated the room as a whole. He turned in my direction and headed past first one, then two, three booths until he stood at the final booth. He slipped into the seat across from me and then twisted so he could rest his back against the wall with his feet in the aisle.

Without looking in my direction he said, “With the wall behind it and with this being the only booth without a panel window, this is probably the most defensible place in the room. It also has the best vantage point.” He ran a hand through his short hair, further mussing it, and then shot a smile in my direction. “So, drop the charms and tell me how brilliant I am, Darque.”

I deactivated my charms and spells.

“Eh,” I said, swiping a hand casually through the air, “I guess you’ve learned a thing or two working with me the last few years. What are you doing here, Knight?”

He shrugged and picked up a menu, his hands already gloved. “I thought I’d come help you with your surveillance.”

“In our five years as partners you’ve never once joined me on a case.” That earned another shrug from him, and apprehension gathered like a winding spring in my chest. “What else did you see in that premonition?”

Whatever he was going to say was cut short by the appearance of our waitress—and not the happy one as her section was the opposite half of the diner. I ordered a strawberry milk shake but Derrick passed on both food and drink. That didn’t improve our waitress’s mood.

Once she’d gone, I turned toward my partner. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Did you see the other waitress’s heels?”

“I’m guessing you haven’t suddenly become interested in fashion, so are you asking because you think they might be pertinent to our case or because you know they are?”

“If I’d seen anything else that would help you, I’d tell you.” He frowned. Then he swiveled back around in his seat and rose. “This was a mistake. Enjoy your hunt.”

“See you back at the hotel.”

He stared at me, shaking his head. “Here, take this.” He handed me a small disk on a chain. It was the materials he used for healing charms. Was I going to get hurt or was someone I was with going to be? He’d never given me a healing charm before I was injured before.

I lifted an eyebrow but the waitress returned with my shake before anything else could be said. I thanked her dismissively and then thought better of it.

“Hey, what’s her story?” I asked our waitress as I nodded toward her coworker.

“Who, Vicky?” She scowled at the other woman and Derrick sank back into his seat. “You’d never know she took a bottle of pills and washed them down with vodka just a couple weeks ago. Had to have her stomach pumped. Then she gets released and she comes back here and flutters around.” She wiped her hand on her apron before turning back to me and leaning closer, as if we were discussing some conspiracy. “I tell you what—I don’t know what they gave her at that hospital, but I want some.”

“Is she a witch?”

The waitress stepped back, giving me a stunned look. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

I shrugged and picked up my milk shake. She took the hint and waddled away from the table. As I sipped silently, Derrick nodded at me.

“What, you thought you were the only one who could gather intel?” I asked as I set down the shake.

He ignored that, twisting to look over his shoulder at Vicky, the perky waitress. “She really is very happy. How sad is it that happiness is part of what makes her suspicious?”

I couldn’t disagree. I also had a hard time imagining her being responsible for more than a dozen hospitalizations and for releasing shadow creatures. Every patron she served seemed happier for having interacted with her.

Derrick ran his hand through his hair again, making more clumps stand on end. “What do you plan to do?”

“Short of walking up and plugging her with a sleeping charm, I can’t think of any way to check the shoes for spells.”

“Yeah, that would be about as discreet as dropping a house on her.”

He said it while I was in the middle of sipping my shake and I barely choked down the half-frozen liquid around my laugh. I covered my mouth to cover my half laugh, half cough. Once I’d recovered I steered the conversation away from movie references and back on topic.

“I need a spell checker with more range,” I said, but they didn’t exist.

Actually they did, and I had access to one. He just happened to have two legs and walked around.

“Let me borrow your phone.”

My partner lifted an eyebrow but didn’t question or argue as he handed me the phone. I pulled out the slip where Russell had written his number and punched it into the phone.

I didn’t need a spell detector if I had a sensitive.

* * *

Officer Russell Lancaster arrived in record time. He wore a goofy smile as he crossed the diner, but it fell from his face when he noticed Derrick.

“Inspector,” he said, nodding at me and giving the word a chilly formality. He stood at the edge of the table, his features caught in a tide shifting between embarrassment and confusion.

Derrick was sitting sideways on his bench, taking up the entire thing, so I scooted over to allow the young officer to join us. He did, but his movements were disconnected, uncertain.

“Officer Lancaster, this is my partner, Inspector Knight. And vice versa.”

Russell held out his hand but, no big surprise, Derrick didn’t take it. Even with his gloves on he never shook hands. Instead he gave the young officer a sharp half wave. I could all but hear Russell’s teeth grinding from the perceived insult, but it wasn’t my place to reveal that my partner was wyrd.

“Anyway, here’s the issue,” I said and then laid out a very brief explanation of why we wanted to know about Vicky the waitress’s heels.

He looked doubtful, and I wasn’t sure if that stemmed from a lack of faith in his own ability or if he just couldn’t picture the bright young waitress as guilty. Still, he didn’t argue but nodded when I finished and closed his eyes so he could concentrate.

After several long moments he shook his head. “There are a lot of charms and active spells in here. I, uh, might also be a little too close to you, Inspector. Your arsenal is a little overwhelming.”

Right. I really should have thought about that.

“You’ll have to get closer to her then. Why don’t you go flirt with her?”

Russell gave me a stunned look.

“Maybe it’s just the smile, but she is very pretty,” Derrick added.

“Not as pretty as you,” Russell said turning large chocolate-colored eyes and his own smile on me.

Derrick tried—and failed—to cover his laugh behind a cough. I shot my partner a scowl, but I wasn’t insulted. I was very aware of how ordinary I appeared. I used it to my advantage as often as possible. And while I was flattered by Russell’s attention, there was business to be done.

“You’re cute, but you’re what? Nineteen? Trust me—that would never work.” I paused, giving him a moment to accept my words. “Now, there is a job on the table, and I’ll pay you, but don’t think a heart is up for grabs.”

The disappointment played across his features, but after a moment he nodded. “Buy me dinner. That will be pay enough for using an ability I can’t turn off anyway. I’ll be right back.”

He headed for the waitress in the fetish heels and I sipped my rapidly melting shake. Derrick and I both watched as he approached and her already brilliant smile lit up an extra degree. Now those two would make a cute couple. If she wasn’t evil.

Russell returned after a few minutes and sank into the bench beside me. I expected him to give a report of some sort—he was an officer, after all—but he sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty tabletop in front of him.

“Are you injured?” After all, the creatures could wound with no physical trauma; maybe the waitress could, too.

“No. Nothing like that. She was nice. Very nice. I just . . .” His face scrunched, his lips pursing and his brow crinkling. “You were right—the shoes are spelled, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what the spell does.”

Not a good sign for the waitress.

“You did well. Here. You said you wanted dinner?” I passed him the menu, and then sat back in the booth as I considered what to do next.

The waitress wasn’t currently hurting anyone, so no need to make a scene and drag her out in front of the patrons. I’d wait until the diner closed. Also, just because her shoes held a complex spell didn’t mean she was guilty, but it was damning enough that I’d have my crossbow at the ready when I approached her.

Russell’s food arrived and the table fell into silence as he ate, Derrick thought about whatever the hell was bothering him, and I considered the capture I’d make tonight. It wasn’t exactly companionable silence, but it could have been worse. Then Russell’s fork fell onto his plate, food flying off it and skittering across the table.

“Something’s happening. A spell.” Skipping subtlety, he lifted a shaking hand and pointed.

Right at the waitress.

The lights from a truck streamed through the large panel window in front of the table where she stood. It illuminated her and the patrons at the booth in front of her in an eerie yellowish tinge as their shadows stretched across the tiled floor. The waitress stood inside the shadow of one of the men and where her and his shadows met, the darkness quivered, like I was looking at oil instead of the absence of light. It could have been anything, or nothing, but—

“What is she doing?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the comingling shadows.

“I—” Russell shook his head and tried again. “I don’t know. But I don’t like the way it feels.”

That was enough for me. “Move.”

He didn’t move fast enough. I vaulted onto the table and hit the floor running. A flicker of stored magic called my crossbow to my hand, and still moving, I lifted and fired. The blue foam bolt hit the waitress in the temple, the spell inside splashing onto her. She went down, hard.

All talking stopped for one suspended moment, making the diner silent aside from the jukebox. Then chaos erupted. People screamed and cursed. Most jumped out of their seats, rushing for the door until they’d created a bottleneck jam.

“MCIB,” I yelled, holding the badge over my head. It didn’t help. It rarely did in situations like this.

I used a touch of magic to send my crossbow back to its holster, and then I shoved my way through the crowd, trying to reach the waitress and her victim. A small pool had opened around the girl, keeping her from being trampled. Which was good—I preferred to take the human elements of crimes in alive. Unfortunately the man whose shadow she’d . . . well, I didn’t know what she’d done to it, but it hadn’t looked good, was gone. Damn it.

I jumped onto the booth bench and searched the crowd. The man was already outside. Double damn.

“Hey, Knight,” I yelled, hoping my voice carried over the panicked outcries.

Derrick, unsurprisingly, hadn’t entered the melee. Instead he stood against the back wall, arms crossed over his chest as he remained well clear of anyone who could accidentally touch him. He watched the madness with a rather apathetic expression, but his head jerked toward me when he heard his name.

“Can you get her secured and processed? She’ll be down several hours unless someone dispels my knockout spell.”

At his nod, I jumped from the booth and pulled an evidence bag from my pocket. If I were following procedure—or being intelligently cautious—I would have pulled on gloves and cast a circle before trying to remove Vicky’s heels, but I needed to catch up to the man she’d worked some unknown magic on. And I needed to find out what that magic was. With that in mind, I grabbed the shoes and pulled them off feet covered in welts and blisters.

“Damn, I’m even more surprised that you could walk.” How could she have smiled like she did when she had to be in agony? Not that such a question was what I needed to be focused on right now. I shoved the shoes in my bag, the spells on them all but crackling when the magic-dampening spell in the plastic touched the red material. I sealed the bag and then ran for the door.

Some of the panicked patrons scuttled out of my path, but many didn’t and I spent priceless seconds trying to shove through the crowd.

“Darque, activate your charm,” Derrick yelled from the back of the building. He’s the premonition witch. I covered the small pendant with my palm and channeled just enough magic into the healing charm to activate it. Then I continued to elbow my way through the crowd.

By the time I made it outside, the victim had vanished. I ran for my vehicle, scanning people and cars as I moved. There. The man was in a silver sedan, already in line to make a right out of the parking lot.

I jumped into the rental Hummer and reversed the large beast, forcing it to turn a little tighter than it liked. I did it without smashing any other cars, so it was a success. The sedan had already turned. Damn. I didn’t bother with the line but took the Hummer over the sidewalk and onto the grass—it was an off-road vehicle after all. I made good time with my improvised private turning lane, but still not fast enough to spot my target. Which means a little aggressive driving is in order.

The Hummer had a lot of pickup, and I pushed its horsepower as I swerved and darted around other cars while the speedometer needle continued its climb. It took only a mile for me to spot the silver sedan, and only a minute to catch up. I slowed as I approached and flashed my lights, trying to signal the driver. He didn’t turn off the road. Swerving around him, I opened my passenger window waved, yelling for him to stop.

The small car sped up.

Damn it. Just because he didn’t know I was trying to help him didn’t mean he had to be so stubborn.

As I gave chase, I considered shooting him. I could probably bounce a metal bolt in such a way it would pierce the glass and spill its contents on the driver without actually hitting him. There were a lot of variables though, and while I could get away with a lot in my job, even I would get in trouble for shooting a victim for his own protection. Besides, I had no way to control his car. He’d likely end up in worse shape than the victims already affected by the waitress’s spell.

Behind me, three sets of blue lights throbbed in the growing darkness. Well, that’s just peachy. The lights grew brighter as the cops drew closer until they completely filled my rear window. “You’re driving Impalas and I have a tank of a Hummer; what exactly are you going to do?”

Apparently just follow me and hope I pull over. Well, I would as soon as the silver sedan did. Which meant we made a nasty gang of cars flying down the quiet road at breakneck speeds.

Finally the sedan made an abrupt right. I’d been waiting for the move but it still left me wrenching the steering wheel. The Hummer shuddered as it slid into the turn, at least one tire losing contact with the ground. Oh, you really turn on a dime, don’t you? Just don’t flip.

It didn’t.

I swung it back on the road, still following the silver sedan. Behind me, two of the cops made the turn. I wasn’t sure what happened to the third, but I imagined he’d be joining us soon.

The sedan pulled into the vacant parking lot of a golf course, but even though his car stopped, he didn’t get out. I gave him points for picking a public place to stop—if you think someone is a crazy killer you shouldn’t lead them to your house—but I took away points for it being empty. The clubhouse ahead of me was dark, the course and parking lot lit only by security lighting. I put the Hummer in park but I didn’t cut the engine.

Behind me, the two remaining cop cars skidded to a halt and the officers poured out hot, guns out and ready for action. They barricaded themselves behind their open doors as four guns pointed at the Hummer.

I pulled my ID and badge out of my pocket, unrolled my window and held both my hands—one open to prove I was unarmed and one holding my badge—out of the car.

“I’m MCIB,” I yelled through the window and hoped they could hear it over their adrenaline. “I’m unarmed and I’m coming out. Don’t shoot.” I double-checked that my weapons were hidden under spells and then twisted my arm so I could open the Hummer from the outside, never letting my hands leave the cops’ views. No one shot up my door, so I took that as a good sign and slid out of the vehicle.

Still no shots, but the cops still had their guns drawn.

“I’m Magic Crimes Investigation Bureau,” I told them again and they looked from one to the other. Finally one of the older men made a waving motion and his partner ran forward, his gun still out but at least pointed at the ground and not me. When he reached me he held out his hand and I handed him my credentials.

“She’s legit,” he said after studying the badge and ID extensively.

With his announcement the other cops dropped and holstered their guns; they kept them unsnapped though, as if they expected to need to draw fast again soon. I ignored the implication.

“So he’s a suspect?” one officer asked, pointing at the idling silver sedan.

“Actually, a victim, but I don’t think he realizes that fact yet.” Still, I’d learned a long time ago not to allow a victim carrying an unknown spell to wander around unobserved. You could tie up a case only to discover a new problem had spawned. “He needs to go to a magical containment ward at the hospital.”

The cop glanced from me to the sedan before shrugging and approaching the car. The driver didn’t immediately unroll the window let alone get out. It took the officer knocking on his window twice before the man finally cracked it. The man then went on a too-fast diatribe about how I was a psychotic murderer. I didn’t bother listening beyond the fact that his name was Justin. Sometime during the panicked retelling, the third police car arrived. They seemed more than a little confused by the scene, but didn’t stay long once it was obvious there would be no more car chases and no firefights.

“Sir, please get out of the car,” the officer told the still frantic man.

He refused at first, but like most good, law-abiding people, did as the officer requested. I watched the proceeding idly. As long as Justin made it to a secured location where he’d not only be safe from the magic that I’d seen infect him but everyone else would be safe as well, then my job was done. The police could take it from this point. I had other things I needed to do. Like interview my suspect.

Pushing away from the hood of the Hummer, I turned to go but something caught in the corner of my eye.

What the hell?

I scanned the shadow pooling around the sedan, the man, the cop. There were enough lights in the parking lot that shadows were short, but the man’s shadow appeared to be growing. I squinted. It also appeared to be boiling. Shit.

“Get him out of the shadow,” I yelled, launching myself into a full-out run.

Justin and the cops looked at me, stunned. Worse, they didn’t move.

I wasn’t far away, but I wasn’t fast enough. The shadow boiled over and a gaseous figure emerged. Well, I’d been looking for one of these creatures. Now I had one. Great.

At the creature’s appearance the cop stumbled back, out of the shadow, but Justin stood there, his eyes going wide and his mouth opening in a wordless scream. The creature had no features, but it had no trouble zeroing in on a victim. It lifted what vaguely passed as an arm and swung gaseous talons toward Justin’s chest.

I grabbed him by the shoulders and threw us both backward. The talons passed within inches of us while we fell, and I summoned my crossbow. I squeezed and the bolt shot outward, taking the creature in the chest. Purple lightning passed through the shadow and it paused, but didn’t stop.

I hit the ground but used my momentum to keep moving, and rolled over on my shoulder. I landed on my feet in a crouch, another bolt in my hand, but before I could aim, gunfire sounded behind me. A bullet whizzed by and I ducked low. My jacket was spelled to be bulletproof, but that didn’t mean I wanted to get hit—it would hurt like hell. Justin had pressed himself completely flat on the pavement, but he was still dangerously close to the shadows, not to mention the rain of bullets. What are they thinking?

“There are people here!” The words didn’t have any effect on the amount of gunfire flying around us. They’re panicking. Monsters could do that to people. And speaking of . . . I chanced a glance up at the creature. The bullets slowed as they passed through it, but passed through it they did, and from what I could tell, did no damage.

As the cops seemed intent on emptying their clips, I needed to get out of the line of fire. Dropping, I rolled toward my Hummer. The pavement scraped against my hands, but it took only two rolls to get mostly clear. I ran the last few yards and ducked by the front tire.

The sound of an approaching engine tore my attention from the creature and to Officer Russell Lancaster as he jumped out of his car and ran toward the cover of my Hummer. He had his gun out and at the ready. I looked at it and shook my head.

“You shouldn’t be here, and please do not fire at the creature—there is already enough wasted lead in Justin’s car.”

“I wanted to help.” He sounded very young as he said it, and I tried to force a kind smile to my face.

“You helped already. Go home.”

The sound of guns clicking empty filled the parking lot, and I rose, looking to see if anyone was reloading. They all appeared out. Finally.

Charging at the creature, I summoned my crossbow again, this time with a knockout bolt. The shot passed through what passed for its head. No effect. Okay, something else. I released the crossbow and drew a dagger. It froze any substance it cut—which worked great on water elementals—but did a smoky shadow have substance?

The creature struck at chest level when I approached, which I anticipated, so I went low, driving the dagger up into the hazy shape. For a moment veins of ice crystals spread around the blade. Yes. Then they collapsed on themselves, falling to coat my hand in cold water. Damn.

I withdrew the dagger, aiming a side kick at the shadow as I holstered the blade. My foot slid into the creature’s chest and numbness spiraled up my leg. With the pain and chill came a wave of soul-eating sorrow. Why am I fighting this thing? Why bother. It’s hopeless.

I dropped my leg and stumbled back. The chill dissipated quickly, but the apathetic sorrow was harder to shake. I stood before the creature, and I just couldn’t care that it was hurting people. That it could kill me if I didn’t find a way to stop it.

It just didn’t matter.

“Inspector!”

A body slammed into me, knocking me aside. Then the screaming started. I turned, slow, too slow. Russell stood beside me, his head thrown back, mouth open wide in agony. Dark talons emerged from his chest, and the creature moved as if it were trying to pull sticky saltwater taffy out of his body.

No. Anger burned through me, blotting out the cold traces of false despair. Grabbing Russell, I dragged him backward, far from the shadows around the sedan. Tears slipped from his eyes as he collapsed into himself.

I gritted my teeth and looked from him to the creature. It didn’t know it yet, but it was dead. Right now it was on borrowed time. I fingered the vials on my bandolier, determining the method of the creature’s death. At my sternum, a disk buzzed with a soft heat. Derrick’s charm, healing the last of what touching that creature did to me. He knows. We were going to have to have words. Leaving Russell to a misery I had no idea how to fix, I stormed across the pavement, stopping a few feet from the shadows around the sedan.

Justin had moved at some point and I turned to where he stood, shell-shocked, with the cops. “Sorry about your car.”

His frown deepened. “It’s not so—”

I pulled a vial from my bandolier and tossed it where the creature’s feet should have been. The spell exploded with a surge of brilliant white light.

“—bad. Woman, are you crazy?”

I didn’t turn. I just watched the rapidly spreading fire. The spell would burn out soon, and I needed to know—It’s not there. The creature was gone, and it wasn’t the heat. Light, why didn’t I try that earlier? Well, mostly because the only spell I carried with enough illuminance was highly destructive, which was further evidenced when the car’s gas tank exploded, releasing a blazing ball of fire into the air.

Heat from the explosion ate at my exposed flesh, and I finally turned away. Digging my phone from my pocket, I hit the only number on speed dial.

“How many ambulances do you need?” Derrick asked without bothering to say hello.

I glanced at Russell, definitely, but I also wanted Justin to get checked out to make sure the spell had no more surprises. “Two.” I started toward the Hummer. “Oh, and, Derrick, I need the fire department.”

* * *

The woman gasped, and sat up, blinking her eyes rapidly.

I gave her a moment to orient herself, especially since she had landed in this cell while still unconscious. Not that there was much to see. Four blank walls, an uncomfortable cot bolted to the concrete floor, a basin for water and a bucket. Oh, yeah, then there was the magic circle encasing it all. Definitely not the most dignified surroundings, but witches who turned their powers against others didn’t deserve much.

“Welcome back.”

Vicky’s lips pressed together and her brow crinkled as if she was trying to fight tears. She definitely wasn’t all smiles now. “Where am I?”

I didn’t bother answering. “We need to talk about the shoes.”

“Shoes?” She shook her head and one fat tear slipped down her cheek.

This woman should have been acting, not waiting tables. I leaned over her and let all the rage I felt over Russell being attacked into my eyes. She cringed, shrinking back from me. Unbelievable.

Behind me, the metal door opened and I turned as Derrick walked into the room. I met him at the circle’s edge. The barrier spell blocked everything but sound, so we could talk, but he couldn’t enter and I couldn’t leave without an ordeal, as someone would have to dismiss and recast the circle. I hoped this wasn’t something that would call for that.

“What’s up?”

Derrick frowned and I knew it was bad news before he said anything.

“I had her blood run. The other waitress was right—she’s completely human.”

That meant there was no chance she cast the spell on the shoes. There was a player in this that we were missing.

I nodded my acknowledgment and turned back to Vicky. She’d curled up on the cot and I was pretty sure she was crying. Did she even know what she was doing? Well, I was about to find out. Activating my lie detector, I walked back across the room.

“Tell me about the red heels you were wearing at work tonight.”

She frowned at me. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“They’re spelled. Did you know that?”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. Which didn’t help me; my lie detector spell required her to speak.

“Yes or no?”

“No, of course not. What kind of spell?”

I glanced at my charm; it hadn’t changed, which meant she was telling the truth. She was as innocent as she acted. I leaned back and let my face soften.

“Where did you get them?”

“Um, I was in the hospital for . . . Well, I was unwell, and one of my customers sent them with a note that said he hoped they’d make me feel better. And they did. When I wore them I felt pretty and happy.”

I tapped my toe but managed to suppress any other sign of my impatience. Now that I knew the witch who’d created this mess was still out there, I was anxious to find him. “Who was the customer?”

“Eddy. He’s a regular.”

That didn’t help me.

“Eddy what?”

“Oh, um . . . Edward Mackenzie.”

Now that was what I needed. I glanced over to see if Derrick was still in the room. He was. He nodded to indicate he’d heard the name and then he hurried out the door. Knowing my partner, he’d have the address and any information in the national witch database about this “Eddy” before the guard in charge of the circle released me.

* * *

It was two hours before dawn when I pulled my Hummer to a halt several houses away from Edward Mackenzie’s front door. I slipped out of the car soundlessly, my obfuscation charms already in place. The street was quiet as I hurried down it, and not even a dog barked in the predawn light.

Unsurprisingly, Eddy’s house looked like all the others, with the lawn well maintained and flower beds identical to his neighbors’. I crept up the drive silently, watching the shadows, but it appeared to be just another house in a quaint neighborhood. You know what they say about appearances.

My lock-picking spell made fast work of the front lock but that was the easy part. Zipping my jacket, I activated a charm that was part of the reason MCIB recruited me in the first place. The charm took power, a lot of it, and one of my rings held raw magic just to power this spell—and it did so only once per charge. But it was worth it. I stepped through Eddy’s household wards as if they didn’t exist. Once I was on the other side of the threshold I shut down the charm and opened my jacket again so I’d have access to my weapons.

I ran into my first shadow creature almost immediately. I’d been looking for the creatures but I still almost missed it. Judging by the way it swung at me, they could see through my charms.

But I had a new secret weapon.

Jumping out of the creature’s reach, I released a crossbow bolt into its chest. The vial in the bolt snapped, releasing the spell. At first the shadow continued to move. Then the first pinprick of light formed in its torso. It might have started small, but in less than a heartbeat I had to shade my eyes as light poured out of the shadow.

Once the flash faded I dropped my arm and looked around.

“Like that? I spent half the night working on it,” I said with a smile. Not that the shadow creature could care. He’d been vaporized.

I worked through the house room by room. The creatures made no sound as they evaporated so only the soft twinge of my crossbow accented the night.

Dawn was starting to pour through the windows as I reached the last room. I stopped at the door. A soft snoring sound drifted out of the room. Eddy, I presume. What most would-be criminals didn’t seem to understand was that the monsters were hard and dangerous. But the witches themselves? The witches went down easy.

Edward Mackenzie didn’t so much as twitch as I snuck into his room.

His capture?

As fast as a snap of a crossbow.

* * *

Vicky was cleared of charges and moved to the hospital. She’d been an unwilling accomplice, and really just another victim of the spelled stilettos. Especially once the effects started wearing off and she sank back into her depression. She’d have her own personal battles in the coming months, but this time she’d stick to traditional coping methods. I was betting she’d make it out to the other side.

While the waitress’s condition deteriorated, the other victims were making steady improvements. None had been released yet, but most were expected to be back home and enjoying a normal life again soon. Russell Lancaster had regained consciousness, and when I visited, he even cracked a smile. Edward Mackenzie, on the other hand, was looking at a very long prison stay and likely a magical neutering.

All in all, a job well done.

“Done” being the key word there. Now maybe I’d finally get to my vacation.

I locked my weapons in the wall safe—well, at least most of my weapons—and then padded barefoot across my room and into Derrick’s. “Tell me I get to act like a tourist now.”

He looked up from where he was packing his suitcase—not a good sign—and shook his head. “We caught a bad one,” he said, lifting a manila folder. “It involves a grave witch.”

I grimaced. If a grave witch was at the center of the case, that meant I’d most likely be hunting dead things. Excessively deadly dead things. On the plus side, grave witches were rare enough that we’d likely identify our culprit easily. “Do we know who we’re looking for?”

Derrick nodded. “A witch named Alex Craft.”

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Rachel Caine has published more than thirty novels, including the New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling Morganville Vampires series, as well as the bestselling Weather Warden, Outcast Season, and Revivalist series in urban fantasy. She has contributed to many anthologies, including My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding, Hex Symbols, and Many Bloody Returns. Find her on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and on the Web at www.rachelcaine.com.

Since launching her career in 2007, award-winning author Shannon K. Butcher has penned more than eighteen titles, including the paranormal romance series The Sentinel Wars; the action-romance series The Edge; and a handful of romantic suspense novels and works of short fiction. Being a former engineer and current nerd, she frequently uses charts, graphs, and tables to aid her in the mechanics of story design and to keep track of all those pesky characters and magical powers. An avid beader and glass artist, she spends her free time playing with colored glass and beads. You can find her online at www.shannonkbutcher.com.

Chris Marie Green is the author of the urban fantasy Vampire Babylon series from Ace/Penguin Books. As Christine Cody, she also wrote the supernatural postapocalyptic Western Bloodlands trilogy, and as Crystal Green, she writes romance. She’s working on the Jensen Murphy: Ghost for Hire series and, when she isn’t knee-deep in creating fantasy worlds, she spends her time devouring all the pop culture available to her and avoiding international incidents while traveling. You can get a peek at all her personalities at www.chrismariegreen.com or www.crystal-green.com, and she’s also on Facebook (www.facebook.com/people/Chris-Marie-Green/1051327765) and Twitter (twitter.com/ChrisMarieGreen).

Faith Hunter has written the Jane Yellowrock series and the Rogue Mage series, as well as the RPG, Rogue Mage. Several of her novels have appeared on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists. Under the pen name Gwen Hunter, she has written action adventure, mysteries, and thrillers. Under all her pen names, she has more than twenty-five books in print in twenty-seven countries. Faith writes full-time and works full-time in a hospital (for the benefits). She’s a workaholic and playaholic who makes jewelry, collects orchids and bones, travels in her RV with her hubby and two dogs, and loves white-water kayaking. Once upon a time, she also tried to keep house and cook, but since she started writing two books a year, she may have forgotten how to turn on the appliances. You can visit her online at www.faithhunter.net and www.facebook.com/official.faith.hunter.

Chloe Neill is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Chicagoland Vampires and Dark Elite series. She was born and raised in the South, but now makes her home in the Midwest—just close enough to Cadogan House and St. Sophia’s to keep an eye on things. When not transcribing Merit’s and Lily’s adventures, she bakes, works, and scours the Internet for good recipes and great graphic design. Chloe also maintains her sanity by spending time with her boys—her favorite landscape photographer/husband and their dogs, Baxter and Scout. (Both she and the photographer understand the dogs are in charge.) You can find out more at www.chloeneill.com, www.twitter.com/chloeneill, and www.facebook.com/authorchloeneill.

Lucienne Diver is the author of the Vamped series of young adult novels from Flux Books and the Latter-Day Olympians urban fantasy series for Samhain (into which her Kicking It story “The Parlor” fits nicely). Her short stories have been included in the Strip-Mauled and Fangs for the Mammaries anthologies (Baen Books), and she has an essay included in the collection Dear Bully: 70 Authors Tell Their Stories (HarperTeen). You can find her online at www.luciennediver.com.

Christina Henry is the author of the Black Wings series (Ace/Roc) featuring Madeline Black, an Agent of Death, and her popcorn-loving gargoyle sidekick, Beezle. You can find her on the Web at www.christinahenry.net and occasionally tweeting @C_Henry_Author.

Rob Thurman, who has published more than fifteen novels, is the New York Times bestselling author of the Cal Leandros urban fantasy series (regarding hot brothers as hot brothers cannot be beaten), the Trickster Novels, several paranormal thrillers including Chimera and its sequel, Basilisk, as well as the stand-alone All Seeing Eye. She has also contributed to many anthologies, including Charlaine Harris and Toni L. P. Kelner’s Wolfsbane and Mistletoe, CarniePunk, and Courts of the Fey. To reach the author and/or peruse character bios and pics, award-winning book trailers, and free wallpaper, go to www.robthurman.net, @ Rob_Thurman, or check her Facebook. Do check out the Web site bio to see her werewolf superhero, proof that dog rescue is the only way to go.

USA Today bestselling author Kalayna Price draws her ideas from the world around her, her studies into ancient mythologies, and her obsession with classic folklore. Her stories contain not only the mystical elements of fantasy, but also a dash of romance, a bit of gritty horror, some humor, and a large serving of mystery. Kalayna is a member of SFWA and RWA and an avid hula-hoop dancer who has been known to light her hoop on fire.