by Lyn Benedict
“Yeah,” she said, but he was already moving away as smoothly as he’d come, heading for the ocean. He strode into the slow roll of the surf, smoothed into dolphin shape, and was gone.
Sylvie turned back toward the house and got light-dazzled for her pains as room after room suddenly illuminated. She headed toward the house at a careful trot, and met Alex rushing out.
“Sylvie,” Alex called, her voice reaching ahead of her. She stumbled as she came, too impatient to wait for her eyes to adapt from the interior light to the darkness outside. Impatient. Or afraid. Sylvie felt her spine go cold. She guessed Alex’s words even as she gasped them out.
“Someone’s trying to get through the wards,” Alex said, stopping before she tumbled head over heels. “How do we stop them from getting through? I know computers. Not magic.”
“We can’t,” Sylvie said. “The wards aren’t walls, Alex. They’re spellwork, nothing more.”
“But you did all sorts of magicky stuff to open—”
“Only because I didn’t want to spend our entire time here fighting the urge to get out, get out. That’s all the wards do. Give you the creeping terrors. Make you miserably ill. Encourage you to leave, posthaste. The magical equivalent of a pack of growling pit bulls. Otherwise, Val’s house would be surrounded with the bodies of solicitors and neighborhood kids who climbed the fence. It’s a pretty strong spell, though. I’ve never seen anyone defeat it. Did you see who it was?”
“No,” Alex said. “I was watching Lupe when I suddenly got the urge to get up and check the security system—that was the wards alerting me, right? The camera shows a car at the gate, but there’s no one in it. They climbed the fence?”
“It’s what I would have done. Especially if I knew the house was empty of an actual witch.”
Alex looked miserable, and Sylvie said, “Hey. Val’s place is still safer than anywhere else I was thinking of. You did good. We have a defensible place with a good warning system. And hell, if they actually try to breach the house, we’ll be swarmed with cops. Val believes in tech as well as magic.”
They’d reached the house, Sylvie ushering Alex in ahead of her. Sylvie reactivated the alarm on the door she’d come through and sent Alex to the security monitors. “See if you can get eyes on our intruder. Odds are, they’re probably either headed back toward the gate—chased out by the ward—or they’re fighting to move forward.”
“But if they got past the ward—”
“Val’s wards are nasty. You go through one, and it sticks to you. They’ll be fighting it until they’re released from it or flee. So, at the very least, our intruder’s not at their best.”
The question was, who was after them now? Lupe’s injured witch, coming back for revenge? The Maudits, belatedly realizing one of their own was dead?
“There’s nothing on the monitors!” Alex called out. While Sylvie had paused to think, Alex had hit the security room just off the main hallway. Her voice was shrill, pitched to carry, and it brought Demalion and Lupe out of their rooms. Demalion looked wary, bare-chested, gun in his hand. Lupe just looked tired. And toxic. Her crossed arms were swirled with color, bleeding up from within. Sylvie grimaced. Lupe might be too far gone to go back to human.
Sylvie headed toward the front door, waving at them to stay back, jerked her head toward Demalion, toward Lupe, and saw Demalion move to cover her.
A sudden thump thump thump sounded at the front door, muffled by the thickness of the material—steel core beneath a wood veneer.
“Alex, get eyes on the front door?”
Sylvie was surprised the intruder had made it that far. Val’s aversion spells didn’t mess around. She crept to the door, peered out through the peephole. The spyhole wasn’t a regular kind. Some sort of magic was laid on it. The figure leaning on the door was traced with layers of different-color lights. Some type of magical diagnostic Sylvie couldn’t interpret, no doubt designed to let Val know exactly who or what she was letting in.
Sylvie didn’t need the diagnostic. She recognized their inopportune caller.
“Little pig, little pig,” Marah said, her voice reedy through the door. “Let me in. Or I’ll huff, and I’ll puff…
“It’s a woman. I don’t know her,” Alex said, poking her head into the hall.
“She’s that ISI assassin I told you about. We had pictures of her, remember?”
“Sorry. Been a long few days.”
Sylvie swallowed. A long few days and some evil spellwork.
“Marah Stone,” Demalion said. “She’s okay. Let her in.”
“She’s okay?” Sylvie said. “Verdict’s not unanimous on that.”
“Sylvie, don’t be difficult,” he said.
“She works for the goddamn ISI. She’s part of the people who took my sister. You’ve seen the error of your ways. I doubt that she has.”
Demalion’s lips went white and tight, irritated. “Can’t you just, for once, trust me? Marah and I spent fourteen hours trapped under the rubble of the ISI. She’s loyal to them the same way I am. To the cause. Not the division heads.”
“She kills people.”
“So do you.”
A low blow, and that he had said it only showed her how determined he was. Demalion put his hand on the door handle. “Turn off the alarm.”
Sylvie thought of all the hell they’d been through that day, thought about Demalion’s giving himself to Erinya so she could be healed, thought about the likelihood of more violence and trouble in the near future, and decided she wasn’t going to fight him. Not on this.
She punched in the code, and Demalion opened the door. Marah all but fell into his arms. She didn’t look so hot, her skin greased with fear sweat and effort, her body shaking. The only part of her that wasn’t trembling was the Cain-marked hand, and it was rock steady as it held her gun.
She raised her head from Demalion’s bare shoulder, patted his bare chest absently, then more mindfully. Looked around. Sylvie in her underwear. Lupe in expensive loungewear borrowed from Val’s closet, Demalion’s low-slung suit pants. Only Alex was still in her street clothes, and, since those were cutoff shorts, flip-flops, and a halter top, there was a lot of skin on display.
Marah forced a grin. “Slumber party? Or orgy? Can I play?”
“What do you want?” Sylvie said.
“Right now? You to lift the fright night from my bones. C’mon, Shadows. Panicky assassin with a gun? Can’t be good.”
“Fine,” Sylvie said.
“Hey, that was easy. I thought I’d have to bribe you to—”
“Why did you come here? Riordan decide we need a babysitter?”
Demalion said, “Sylvie. Interrogate her after the spell is lifted?”
“Nah, it’s okay. I get it,” Marah said. She shivered all over, her face going grey, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Jesus, this Val is a real bitch. That was a bad one. Feels like my guts just rolled around. Feels like there are rats chewing me up from the inside; oh God, what if there are—”
“You could have hit the intercom,” Sylvie said. “Asked to be let in. Demalion, bring her.”
“No, wait, what?” Marah protested. “Back outside? I don’t want to—”
“Shut up,” Sylvie said. “We put you out; the spell drops off. Then I invite you in. Easier than trying to remove the spell while it’s active.”
Marah spasmed again, her hand clenching tight on Demalion’s shoulder. He winced; her nails raked his skin. Sylvie took advantage of the moment to take Marah’s gun from her. Or at least, that had been the plan.
For a woman fighting off a magically induced panic attack, she was damn fast. Sylvie found her outstretched hand grabbed, wrenched behind her, and her body shoved into face-first into the wall, Marah a trembling line against her back. “Don’t make me shoot you, Sylvie. You owe me favors. I intend to collect. But instincts are hard to fight.”
“Tell me about it,” Lupe said, entering the conversation for the first time. “At least you don�
��t turn into an animal. Sylvie, what the hell is going on? Alex only told me that we were all in danger.”
“I am, Demalion is. Alex is by proximity,” Sylvie said, easing herself out from Marah’s grip. Marah let her go, but stepped back, wary. “You’re…
“Collateral damage. Again. Brought to someone’s attention because of you. Fuck you,” Lupe said, and stormed off toward the back of the house.
“Great, glad to know why we’re all here,” Marah said. “Spell. Off. Now.”
Sylvie flung the door open, stalked down the moonlit driveway, wincing as her bare feet hit crushed rock, listening to Demalion telling Marah that it’d be all right, just a little bit longer. Platitudes. To reassure an assassin. Sometimes, she really wondered about him.
“So how’d you find us?” Sylvie said.
“Studied you, remember? I’ve got as many files on you as Demalion does, I bet. I know about Val. This was a logical place to regroup before going after Graves.”
The wrought-iron gates, looming before Sylvie, still held a tiny residual warmth from the long-set sun. She keyed it open, shoved Marah out.
The woman whooped for air, dropped her hands to her knees, and just breathed. “Holy crap, I feel better.”
“Great,” Sylvie said, and closed the gate. “Why did you come?”
“You’re going after Graves,” Marah said. “I want in. C’mon, Syl, it’s a win-win. You help me kill an asshole, and I help you get your sister, my itty-bitty baby cousin, back home safe.”
“Do you know where Riordan’s keeping her?” Sylvie opened the gate again, extended a hand to Marah. “Come in.” Her heart thumped hard in her chest; Marah’s hand in hers was cold with lingering shock, but her grip was firm.
“No. His boy’s hiding and hiding good. I tried to find him. I figured you’d be sure to let me play if I brought Zoe with me. But no dice. C’mon. I want to help. I know Graves.”
“Riordan said you liked the man.”
“He said that?”
“No,” Demalion said. “He said your instincts couldn’t be relied upon when it came to Graves.”
Marah grinned. “Now that just depends on whether or not the instincts go against orders. Right now, they’re in sync. I want to scoop his eyeballs out with my fingernails and feed them to him. Riordan wants him dead.”
“So he says,” Sylvie said.
She felt like she was surrounded by power plays. It seemed quite possible to her that Riordan would send Sylvie off with marching orders to kill Graves, secure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t, not without proof that might be hard to find. That would explain why he didn’t send Marah. Riordan’s games were hard to figure.
Marah stepped forward gingerly, burdened by the memory of fear and sickness. Demalion scanned the surrounding area, keeping an eye out for anything that might take advantage of the open gate, ready to usher them back to the fragile safety of Val’s house.
“So? What’s the plan?” Marah said.
“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” Sylvie said.
“Jesus,” Marah snapped. “It’s been ten hours since Riordan gave you orders. What the hell have you been doing?”
“Mostly? Sleeping,” Sylvie said.
“Look, we need to move fast. Graves has ears everywhere. Even in Riordan’s crew, and he’s notoriously cautious about who he talks to. I think that’s why Riordan recruited his son. Just to have a single ally he could trust. I killed Powell.”
Powell. It took Sylvie a moment to recall the agent. Last she’d seen him, he was holed up in the elevator taking potshots at everyone who passed. “You did.”
“Graves’s man. I’m pretty sure.”
Demalion groaned. “You’re pretty sure?”
“Well, he tried to shoot me.”
Demalion and Sylvie traded glances.
Marah headed up the path to the house, said over her shoulder, “Graves is a bastard, but he’s a clever one. He’s got a serious yen for using and disposing of the magical freaks. And he loves spies. I used to spy on Riordan for him. Hell, he tried to have me killed the moment I stopped saying Yes, sir and wanted to work under Yvette, and I register pure human. He’ll know we’re coming, and he’ll have access to all our weaknesses. It’s gonna be an ugly fight. Can we get your Fury in on it? Wait, no. Never mind. I want to kill him myself, and she looks like she’d be selfish.”
Sylvie and Demalion trailed after her, listening to her eager and bloody plans for Graves.
BACK IN THE HOUSE, SYLVIE EXCUSED HERSELF TO RAID VAL’S closet; she left Marah and Demalion bending their heads together, making quiet plans. She tugged Alex aside, and said, “Keep an eye on her.”
“Who is she?” Alex narrowed her gaze as Marah ran a hand through her short, dark hair and stepped closer to Demalion. “Is she hitting on him? In front of you—”
Sylvie sucked in a breath. Alex knew who Marah was. She’d been told twice, once just minutes ago. Alex’s memory was getting worse. But she was within Val’s wards—the spells should no longer reach her. Unless she was forcing the memories by digging at the cases, which seemed entirely likely, knowing Alex.
“Just watch her. She’s not a homewrecker. She’s an assassin. She’s dangerous.”
Alex crossed her arms over her chest, nervously. “What am I supposed to do if—”
“Yell,” Sylvie said. “Loudly.”
She padded down the hallway, the tiles smooth beneath her feet. The room she’d crashed in with Demalion was a guest room. Alex looked to be camped out in the living room. Her laptop hummed industriously on the huge modular sofa, a woodcut image of a mermaid on the screen; a blanket was crumpled at one end of the couch, next to a bottle of aspirin and a clutter of small plates, as if Alex had gotten up for more than one snack while working. Sylvie’s stomach growled. Food. Soon.
She heard Lupe swearing, detoured toward it. Found Lupe and her destination all at the same time. Lupe, apparently, was bunking down in the master bedroom.
Lupe jerked away from the mirror when Sylvie came in. “What do you want?”
“Clothes, mostly. How are you doing?”
“You’re really going to ask that?” Lupe threw out her hand toward the mirror; her talons, longer than she’d accounted for, scored four lines through the mirror glass. “Am I going to turn into that thing that attacked me?”
“Absolutely not,” Sylvie said.
Lupe tilted her head in a gesture more predatory than confused. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“That thing,” Sylvie said, “is a god. A slightly mixed-up, violent-tempered, but ultimately lonely god. She likes you.”
“Can she fix me?”
“Maybe. She’s being a little bit difficult about it, though. Be patient.” Sylvie opened Val’s closet. Blinked at the size. There were walk-in closets; and then there were closets that were as large as bedrooms. This closet had a window, endless drawers, hung clothing, and a shoe rack that took up more room than some library bookshelves. There was even a department-store-worthy mirror stand and two chairs. Everything was cream or white or beige or grey, linen or silk or heavy, smooth cottons that felt like satin to her fingers.
Sylvie looked at the sheer quantity and thought she’d always mocked Zoe for being a clotheshorse.
Zoe.
Sylvie pushed the fear back. They’d deal with Graves and Riordan, and Zoe’d be home safe by the next day at the latest.
“Your friend’s pretty big on island fashion, huh,” Lupe said, poking her head into the closet. She sidled around the three-sided mirror and looked out the dark window. “Ocean view, too. What is she, the witch to the rich and famous?”
“Hey, don’t snark,” Sylvie said, though her lips twitched. “If we can’t convince Erinya to think you make a better human than a shape-shifter, we’re going to be dependent on Val’s goodwill.”
“Guess I shouldn’t have broken her mirror.” Lupe didn’t sound like she cared. She slunk through the closet with an animal grace that reminded Sylvi
e of Erinya’s human form. No wonder Erinya was interested. Here was someone who reminded her of her sisters, who could give her the fight but came without the bossiness.
“Did Alex show you Val’s panic room?”
“You think I’m going to go monster again.”
“Try not to,” Sylvie said. “Demalion’s already taken a shot at you, and our new guest would take killing you as a personal challenge. She’s ISI. If I didn’t need her info, I wouldn’t have let her in.” She pulled open drawer after drawer and finally found khaki jeans that she didn’t think cost the earth. Sylvie dragged them on, wincing as she fastened them. Val had always been just that bit slimmer. They’d stretch.
She dragged a shirt over her black tank, sighed; Val’s wardrobe didn’t lend itself to black underclothing. It would do. She buttoned the shirt, realized Lupe hadn’t said much in the past minute or two, and turned. Lupe was huddled up on one of the chairs, being careful of her talons on the fabric.
Sylvie replayed the conversation and grimaced. “Sorry. They’re not trigger-happy or anything. You’re perfectly safe. You feel the changes coming on, right? So we just get you in the panic room at that point. No harm, no foul. No shooting.”
“Can’t really blame ’em,” Lupe said. “I’m a monster.” She blinked slitted eyes at Sylvie, showed fang teeth in a wry grimace. “You know the most bizarre thing? I think I could deal with the shape-shifting. With never knowing what I might become or when it might happen.
“What I can’t stand? Is not going back to human. I don’t know whether it’s vanity or what, but I look in the mirrors, and all I see is this… thing. When I’ve shape-shifted, I don’t care.”
Sylvie bit back her knee-jerk analysis: that Lupe didn’t care because the animal instincts were too strong, too centered on killing things. After the attacks on her girlfriend, her nephew, the witch, and Toro, Sylvie had no doubts that any shape Lupe took would be instantly predatory. Dangerous.
“Maybe we can work with that,” she said, instead. “At least, as a stopgap thing. Remove the side effects, make things more livable, let you be able to go out and about on the street. Worry about the actual curse-shifting as a separate thing.” It was far from ideal. Far from solving Lupe’s problem, and from the slump of Lupe’s shoulders, she knew it.