Besides, Graves was dead. He didn’t need his car any longer.
When she left the apartment, stepping over the dust pile that had been an unfortunate ISI bodyguard, the alarm went off. She cursed and clattered down the stairwell, trying for haste without dropping any of her armful of things.
Twelve floors later, Sylvie came out into the parking garage and thought, penthouse apartment. Graves would have a prime parking spot. She waved the key fob at the closest spots, and a slate grey SUV chugged to life.
She should have time to pick up Demalion and Marah and make new plans before the car was reported stolen. Any cops who responded to the alarm’s going off would be far more occupied with the two bodies left in the apartment—Graves’s half-disintegrated corpse and the unearthly Night Hag.
11
The Good Sister & the God
SYLVIE HAD JUST MANAGED TO MAKE HER WAY INTO THE DALLAS/ Fort Worth terminal, remembering at the last that, no matter how much she liked her gun, she couldn’t get it inside without causing a major fuss. She left it in Graves’s glove box, along with his Glock; she chose to carry the laptops with her, stuffed into a single, overstretched laptop case.
Two small children raced past, screaming and fighting, their mother chasing after, shouting vainly for them to behave. Amusement and relief sparked in Sylvie’s chest. Those were the children that had been fighting on the plane in the seats before her. At least, Dunne’s travel express had spared her three plus hours of whining children.
Her gaze left them, scanned for Demalion; for once, she didn’t have to remind herself to look for blond instead of brunette. It seemed her brain had finally accepted Demalion in the new form. Defaulted to it in her memory.
While looking for them, she grew tense. One suited man lingering in a terminal was nothing. A businessman traveling. But one suited man lingering in a terminal trying to not look at another suited man … it could be a potential hookup, but Sylvie knew better, even before she saw them avoid looking at two more suits. The ISI net was laid out.
Sylvie moved smoothly toward a coffee kiosk, then kept moving until she was behind a pillar. They didn’t notice, all their attention trained on the exiting passengers. Sylvie dialed Demalion hastily, hoping he had been quick to turn his phone back on.
“Sylvie,” he said, “Nice disappearing act you pulled. Think you can stay disappeared?”
“They’re waiting for you—”
Demalion and Marah crested the curve, and Sylvie bit off the heartfelt curse she wanted to emit. She wasn’t that far away from the ISI herself.
“I know they are,” Demalion said. A woman that Sylvie had not marked as ISI peeled herself out of a chair and strode over. Late forties, a face like a beautiful blade—all sharpness and intent—and cropped, tight curls. Unlike the rest of the ISI, she wore a dress in a eye-catching teal.
Marah tensed all over, and the woman laid a hand on her arm. The movement looked gentle, a casual touch, but Marah sagged beneath it. The suits moved in and gripped her arms tight.
“What’s the point of having psychic abilities if you don’t use them!” Sylvie said.
“I did. This is the best-case scenario,” he said. His gaze swept the concourse briefly, lit on hers for the barest moment of contact, then swept on. “This way leaves bread crumbs—”
The witch—she had to be a witch, a strong one, to affect Marah with a touch—took the phone from Demalion’s hand.
“Sylvie,” the woman said. Her voice was as sonorous and warm as a viola. “Will you join us?”
“Yvette,” Sylvie said. Really, the woman could be no one else. Even if she weren’t the witch in charge, she looked like Demalion’s type: strength before prettiness. “I don’t think so. I’m still in Miami.”
“The first time we get to talk, and you tell me a lie? Not a good start, I’m afraid. I’ve cast a seeking spell. It won’t be long before we find you.”
“Finding isn’t catching,” Sylvie said.
She grabbed another look at Demalion; he’d shouldered aside one of the agents, a red-haired man, and was holding Marah up himself. Stupid, Sylvie thought, he wouldn’t be able to move quickly if he got the chance. Then again, though Demalion had flaws, stupidity was not one of them. He didn’t think they were in immediate danger; burdening himself was a signal to her that she should flee without guilt.
Something brushed over her skin, as damp and breathless like a dog’s nose, all snuffling curiosity—Yvette’s spell.
“I feel you now,” Yvette said. “You’re close, aren’t you? You’re watching us.”
“You think?” Sylvie shifted with the crowd’s tide, let the seeking spell fall off her. She mingled with a group of stewards moving quickly through the concourse, heading for the hotel shuttles. Time to go.
“You took the high road, borrowed a god’s power to bring you to Dallas. Riordan has you searching for Graves. I bet you found him. How was he? Dead yet?”
“You knew the Night Hag was there?”
“Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving man,” Yvette said. “I know you’ll agree.”
“If I don’t, you and your Good Sisters will erase the memory of it.”
Yvette’s breath caught, the tiniest of tells.
“Surprised, yet?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re not getting out of here, Sylvie. My people are at all the exits. You’re not armed. We are.”
Sylvie let Yvette have the last word, disconnected. The witch was right—Sylvie could see other agents lurking near doors, made the mistake of meeting eyes with one of them. The man’s hand dropped to his gun, then he came after her, close enough that she could see an earpiece. What one knew, they all knew.
Fuck.
She could just let them catch her, trust that among Demalion, Marah, and herself they could get free and make Yvette’s life miserable. Demalion had suggested she disappear, though. More psychic premonition?
She had to trust him and his instincts. She had to get out, stay free. She starting dialing. “Alex? Is Erinya still outside?”
A pause on the line, then Lupe said, “No. She’s inside.”
Sylvie went cold. “Why are you answering Alex’s phone? Why is Erinya inside?”
“Because Alex fell over and starting foaming at the mouth.”
“Did you do it?” Sylvie remembered those poisonous nails, the touch-me-not colors that lurked beneath Lupe’s skin, wondered if Alex had called Erinya for help.
“Fuck you,” Lupe said. “No.”
“Put Erinya on,” Sylvie said. The agents were closing in; Sylvie clutched the phone tight and ran. Hardly discreet behavior in an airport, especially when she didn’t have luggage—no pretense at running for a plane. She dodged two rent-a-cops, who were all too willing to get involved, and they paid the price, getting hit with a spell meant for her. They went down, blinded, paralyzed, neat packages ready to be collected.
Yvette’s personal team was all witch, Sylvie thought, and they could and would use witchcraft at will since they could cover it up, afterward. Up ahead of her, illusions spread like disease, unreal police clearing the concourse. Unreal police dogs lunged before them, pulling leashes taut, scaring people back. Isolating Sylvie, who didn’t react to the illusions.
Yvette had studied her enough to turn Sylvie’s immunity into a disadvantage. Yvette was a thinker.
“I don’t want that thing. It’s plastic,” Erinya’s voice resonated through the phone even at a distance.
“It’s Sylvie,” Lupe said. “Just take the damn thing.”
“Plastic!”
“Erinya!” Sylvie snapped. “Come get me! Now!”
“Not the boss of—”
“Erinya!” Lupe said. “Please! Go to her!”
A moment later, the airport carpet shredded under the stress of a blossoming jungle; the witches nearest Sylvie, nearest Erinya’s sudden arrival, screamed as their spells overloaded in the god’s presence and burned them out as inevitably as a flame followi
ng a trail of gasoline. Erinya crossed her arms over her chest and smirked.
Too much to hope that Yvette had fallen prey to Erinya’s magic-burn. Sylvie knew better. The moment Sylvie had hung up on her, Yvette had taken Demalion and Marah and gotten the hell gone. Yvette was a thinker; Yvette had files on Sylvie, knew her strengths, her weaknesses. Yvette knew Sylvie would use every weapon she could if cornered. Even a god. Knew she’d done it recently in Miami.
Erinya snarled, made to go after the witches, who were scattering as best they could. Sylvie grabbed her shoulder, said, “Miami. We don’t have time.”
“We have nothing but time,” Erinya said. “We’re immortal. And we’re hunters. We could play. You could get payback for their harassing you.”
“I need to get back to Alex. I need to talk to Riordan.” Reminders to herself as much as to Erinya. It would be so easy to turn the hunt around. So tempting. Sylvie hated the ISI, but at least they had some interest in people’s welfare. The Good Sisters? None.
And they had taken Demalion.
Sylvie savaged her lip, remembered Zoe. Remembered Alex, ill and alone with Lupe who couldn’t be trusted.
Erinya ran a red tongue over black-painted lips, looking after the fleeing Society agents. “It wouldn’t take long. Really. I could drop some of them from here.” She held up a hand and proved her point. Sylvie turned to see two of the agents explode into a fine mist. The glass wall along the stairwell exploded, spitting shards everywhere. People screamed. Civilian casualties. The roof cracked, parted; sky peered through, mercilessly blue.
Somewhere, something was burning.
Erinya laughed. “Like nipping the heads off birds! Could cripple some others, let you catch up to them…
“This is why Dunne wants you dead. This is why you can’t stay on earth.”
Before Erinya could take offense and disappear, Sylvie grabbed hold of her sleeve, and changed the subject. She didn’t bother with subtlety. Erinya didn’t do subtle. “So you’ve been hanging out with Lupe?”
“I played in her dreams, sent whispers in with the swaying of my flowers, spoke to the beast in her, and she called to me.”
“Don’t you want to get back to her?”
Erinya shot Sylvie a flat glare, a clear reminder that Erinya might not be subtle, but she wasn’t stupid. “I could leave you here. Let you fly back the regular way. I’ve cleared the witches out for you.”
“Eri—I’m worried about Alex. Worried about my sister. Just plain worried. I’m going to go hunt Yvette, but I need to prepare first.” Like it or not, she was going to have to talk to Riordan. Not only to get Zoe back but to get a better scoop on Yvette. Find out if Riordan had been lying this whole time. Find out if he was Society also.
Thinking about his stance on magic, Sylvie doubted it.
Erinya sidled foot to foot, hissed at a single remaining security guard who had the balls to creep up on them, gun drawn, concussion be damned. He was bleeding from his forehead; his eyes looked glazed. He came on anyway. Erinya said, “Go away,” and he was gone. Vanished. He screamed as he went.
“Eri—”
“What!” the god snapped. She spun around, shifting shape as she did, her tail lashing at the air. “Do not presume on our friendship. You keep telling me what to do. What not to do. I do what I want to do. You asked for my help. You don’t get to dictate how I grant it.” The spikes on her neck were not only standing up but quivering with rage.
Sylvie couldn’t muster up any argument. It was true. It was why she’d tried not to ask for help, even when Erinya’s presence loomed like a solution to so many problems. Erinya wasn’t the right solution, just an easy one.
Sylvie wondered if she’d jumped the gun. If she could have escaped Yvette and her goons on her own. A year ago, she would have had to. Then again, a year ago, she’d barely been on the ISI radar.
“All right,” she said now. “You’re right. Can we go home now?”
Erinya’s tail lashed, then the Fury growled concession. Given that they’d destroyed and cleared most of the airport, and there was no one left to stop them, Sylvie took the time to collect her guns from the car and to make sure the laptops hadn’t been damaged in her mad dash. She remembered ricocheting off a wall at one point. If Riordan was involved, Graves’s protected files would name him a villain also. Alex would need the computers.
TRAVELING VIA ERINYA’S GOD-POWER WAS NOTHING LIKE THE smooth hiccup in reality that was Dunne’s method of movement. Sylvie understood why the guard had screamed; her bones felt like they twisted inside her skin, yanking her forward through landscapes that seemed slick and hungry, predatory. It was all stone and jungle and broken edges; nothing ran in any sensible way. It was as if someone had taken a puzzle of a landscape and forced it together any which way, heedless of shape or image.
Sylvie clung tight to her sense of Erinya and managed to wait until there was real earth beneath her feet to throw up. Her nails dug into damp Key Biscayne soil. Cool grass tickled her palms, and the salt air started to ease the twisting nausea. When she looked up, Erinya was peering back at her with curiosity. “You survived.”
“Was that in question?” Sylvie said. She remembered the child that Erinya had vanished and wondered wildly what had happened to him. If he had felt that pain. If he had died someplace utterly alien to the world he knew, scared and alone. It didn’t make sense. Erinya was all about justice for children.
“He’s fine,” Erinya said. “I took him the safe way. I took you through the realm I inherited from Tepeyollotl. Do you like it? I don’t. Even someone like me needs a peaceful place to call home.”
Sylvie put her hand up, a quiet demand for assistance in getting to her feet. Erinya grudgingly provided it. “I do understand, Eri. I do. But you have the power to change that place. Make it what you want.”
“It fights me,” Erinya said. “It remembers Tepeyollotl. He’s there, somewhere. Slinking around, a sulking remnant. Urging it to rebellion by his very presence.”
“You’ve never shied from a fight,” Sylvie said.
“I like to fight face-to-face, not against sneaking, crawling things. It makes me twitchy,” Erinya said. She shot Sylvie a sidelong glance. She managed to look sheepish. Sulky. Human.
A teenage pout from a creature that had just injured or killed any number of people in the Dallas airport. Sylvie scrubbed her face, frustrated. At a loss. The Magicus Mundi was, paradoxically, easier to understand when it was inexplicable. At least then she could just label it as such. Erinya, with her inhuman abilities and human predilections, kept her veering between horror and sympathy.
“Are you two going to stand out there all day?” Lupe leaned out the front door.
“We’ll work something out,” Sylvie said. “Just. Don’t go off half-cocked anymore.”
“Unless you ask me to?” Erinya showed her teeth, sharp and thin behind her painted lips.
“I won’t ask.”
That was a promise Sylvie meant to keep.
Erinya shrugged, raced for the house, rubbed her cheek up against Lupe’s neck, coiled an arm around her shoulders. It was breaking Sylvie’s brain, but Erinya looked small and fragile next to Lupe’s lanky height. Then again, Erinya changed her height as easily as she changed her shape.
Lupe petted Erinya’s hair, met Sylvie’s gaze with a flush on her cheeks. “What. You wanted us to get along.”
Dream-courting, Sylvie thought. Whispering flowers. Beast calling to beast. Obviously, it was an efficient wooing mechanism. There was a bite mark on the back of Lupe’s neck.
“No, it’s great. Rah-rah, love, and all that,” Sylvie said. “Where’s Alex?”
“Still on the couch. I wanted to call the ambulance, but… Lupe’s mouth twisted, showed fangs of her own, the strange skink blue tint to her tongue. She gestured broadly at herself. “What was I going to say when they came to keep them from grabbing me instead? I called Erinya. She said Alex was ill, but not in danger. I had to believe her.”
/> “Thanks,” Sylvie said.
“She really wanted to talk to you,” Lupe said. “She found out something. Something important. She said, wake her up, no matter what when you got back. She wouldn’t shut up about it.”
“You have any idea what she was doing?”
“Hitting the computer hard. I think she was looking for leverage against Riordan?”
“She would,” Sylvie said. “Thanks again. I mean it, Lupe.” She clapped the woman on the shoulder, jerked her hand back when Erinya growled possessively, and went to check on Alex.
As Lupe had said, Sylvie found Alex on the couch, but instead of chattering and poking at her laptop, drinking coffee by the mugful, Alex was curled into a tight knot beneath a blanket; her face seemed comprised of bruising and shadows, hollows under her eyes, her cheeks, her throat.
Sylvie touched her shoulder. It felt thin. Fragile. Sylvie hated to do it, but she shook her awake. It didn’t take much. Alex jerked to awareness, panting and startled.
“Sorry,” Sylvie said.
“Sylvie—” Alex flailed for a moment, reaching for her computer. “I found something. What did I find. I can’t remember. I found it. It was important.”
“Easy,” Sylvie said.
Alex sat up, shook her head, clicked the laptop open. “So frustrating. I know I know things. A lot of things. Important things. But the more I try to remember it, the more it’s like a whirlpool in my head.” There were tears in her voice, in her eyes. Her hands shook. Sylvie was going to kill Yvette for that alone. For putting her best friend through this hell. The Good Sisters had held sway for far too long. There was nothing beneficial in turning a brilliant young woman into a nervous wreck.
“Just sit a second,” Sylvie said, pushing back anger. Pushing back her own urgency—the need to deal with Riordan, retrieve Zoe, rescue Demalion, deal with Yvette—pushing it all away. Reaching for a tranquility and patience she had never possessed.