Gods & Monsters

by Lyn Benedict

  “Speaking of getting killed,” she said.

  “Aw fuck,” he said. “No good ever came of a sentence begun like that, Shadows.”

  “You remember that Tepé the soul-devourer talked about?”

  “You got a lead on him?”

  “Tepeyollotl.”

  Wales was quiet a long moment, then said, “Isn’t that an Aztec god?”

  “The very one.”

  “Aw fuck,” Wales said again. Breathless this time, no amusement in it.

  “Thing is, Tex, he’s probably not in the world yet. I’d like to keep it that way. And we might have sent up a flare earlier—”

  “The thing that came for Jennifer Costas—”

  “Yeah,” Sylvie said. “Tepeyollotl come hunting a soul that was dedicated to him.”

  “So why is Azpiazu dedicating souls to him if they’re enemies?” Wales said.

  Sylvie sank down onto the rickety edge of the porch, dangled her feet over the dark, tangled grass. “I don’t pretend to know how gods think, but if I were Tepé, wouldn’t it be part of punishment? To force your enemy to consecrate souls in your name? A method of increasing your followers?”

  “Except Azpiazu’s devouring the souls instead,” Wales said.

  “Hence the problem,” Sylvie said. “But the point of all this—stay out of the ether, Wales. Don’t ghost hunt. Don’t draw attention.”

  “What about you?”

  Sylvie said, “I’m staying at Cachita’s tonight. I think if I tried to get to yours, she’d only follow.”

  “I rescind my welcome,” he said. “I could use some downtime anyway.”

  “Just you and dead Marco,” Sylvie said. A week ago, that would have been a taunt. Now it was nearly affectionate. Wales might be a necromancer, but he was proving himself an asset. A necromancer, but a good guy. One step from being her necromancer.

  “You know it,” he said, and disconnected.

  No sorcerers are good guys, her little dark voice objected. Paranoia is healthy.

  Sylvie went back into the house, escaping her circling thoughts and the garden stink; Cachita startled away from the back entry, pasting a quick smile on her face. Sylvie gave her back a tight grin. “Eavesdroppers rarely hear good about themselves.”

  “Even when they’re playing host?” Cachita asked.

  “Sorry,” Sylvie said. “I’m not so good at following rules.”

  10

  Politics as Usual

  SUNLIGHT GLEAMED JUNGLE GREEN AND GOLD THROUGH CACHITA’S kitchen window, a lacy pattern on the dusty floor. Overgrown trees pressed close against the glass, making the room feel dimmer than it should, the day later than it was. Sylvie checked her watch again—8:00 a.m., and Cachita was already gone, doing god knew what, leaving Sylvie to snoop through her house at will.

  Pity of it was there was so little to see. Two bedrooms yielded two beds, and, in Cachita’s closet, a handful of discarded clothes. The living room was empty of all furniture, and the dining room held only the table, two chairs, and the walls of paper.

  Sylvie closed another empty kitchen cupboard and checked out a drawer that held a collection of dead spiders. She grimaced and slid it shut again. The refrigerator, bulb burned out, held a single take-out container with a fork and knife resting on top.

  Hell, maybe Cachita had gone out for breakfast, and was on her way back, coffees to hand.

  Her stomach turned over in hope. Her brain suggested she take advantage of Cachita’s absence to get gone before she was saddled with an intrepid reporter for the day. She was tired; she was hungry; she was dressed in yesterday’s clothes. None of that could be fixed by dawdling in Cachita’s house not-so-beautiful.

  Her phone rang. “Lio?”

  “Sylvie. I need to talk to you. Now,” he said. “My house. Hurry.”

  Then silence. A brief spurt of irritation flared, tramped out by worry. Lio had sounded . . . frightened. Maybe Odalys had turned her attention to the man who’d arrested her.

  Sylvie gave up the search for anything edible and headed for her truck. She made a quick stop in the dining room, snagged the pics and files on Azpiazu’s victims. Cachita would be pissed, but whatever. Sylvie could do more with the names and files than she could. Most protection spells worked better if they were specific to the person. Wales might be able to ramp up his unbinding spell if he knew the women’s names. If they could find them again.

  While the thought was sharp in her mind, Sylvie texted Alex. New research. Azpiazu’s black van. Caridad’s background. She clicked the phone shut, feeling accomplished all out of proportion.

  Twenty minutes of driving brought her to Lio’s house. Like Cachita’s place, it was 1920s stucco, set on a small plot. Unlike Cachita’s, it was immaculately kept. The grass was plush and green, the stucco white, the tile roof burnished by sunlight and care.

  It looked serene, and Sylvie wanted to bask in it rather than step inside to conflict and stress. She wondered what Lio had gotten into that brought that note of desperation to his voice. Wouldn’t find out by standing outside, admiring the lawn.

  The white eyelet curtain in the door twitched.

  Busted, she thought. As if her truck’s diesel growl and its coughing sputter of a stop hadn’t betrayed her arrival.

  She stiffened her spine and marched up the gravel path.

  The door opened before her, Lourdes scowling in the frame. “You took your time.”

  “Be glad I wasn’t coming from the office,” Sylvie said. “I’d be stuck in traffic for at least another half hour. What’s going on? Is Lio okay?”

  The hallway was dim after the brilliant sunlight outside, and the rooms beyond the shallow foyer weren’t lit—Sylvie jerked back, got her hand on the gun, just as the Suit entered the hall.

  “Sylvie Lightner,” the Suit said. Mr. Tall, Dark, Angry from the bar. He looked like he was holding a grudge for the embarrassment of the night before. “AKA Shadows. AKA the New Lilith. Scourge of god. L’enfant du Meurtrier. Have I left anything off?”

  “Scourge of god’s a new one,” Sylvie said. “I don’t like it.”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Smart-ass bitch.”

  “You don’t get to call me that on our first date. Hell, you never even bought me the drink you suggested,” Sylvie said. Her back was against the door; she had the distinct feeling that if she turned, that quiet lawn and street would no longer be so empty. “So you have a name, or do I get to make up one on my own?”

  “Don’t make this difficult, Lightner.”

  “I’m good at difficult,” she said.

  Behind him, two more Suits lurked, a man and a woman, Lio sitting stiffly on the couch between them. He met her gaze briefly, looked away, his mouth pulled tight. Her simmering anger moved to a faster boil.

  You have a gun, her little voice prompted. Even a body shield in the form of one sturdy Cuban housewife.

  “Sylvie,” Lio said, a rumble that carried desperation. “They just want to talk.”

  “I’ve got a phone,” she said. “And I’m in the book.”

  “We’re old-fashioned,” the ISI squad head said. “We like face-to-faces to be on our turf. Don’t worry. We can be gracious hosts.”

  It took more willpower than she’d expected to take her hand off her gun, to let the female agent take it from her, to let them surround her. She felt a little like a tiger in a big-cat press at the zoo, and from their wary expressions, they felt like newbie vet students.

  But then, the ISI’s numbers had taken a hit in Chicago. They might be as green as they looked. The woman patted her down, her touch tentative. “She’s clean, Riordan.”

  The squad head—Riordan—opened the door, and she had been right. A black SUV had appeared out of nowhere; no doubt it had been burning gas circling the block, just out of sight. Sylvie took the passenger seat and dared the waiting driver to object. If she was going to be hauled in by the ISI, she was doing it on her terms.

  Lio was handed into the back of the
SUV, moving stiffly, his bandages evident. They were pristine white, recently placed, and with loving care. Sylvie looked out the tinted window, saw Lourdes slumped against the door frame, and when Lio said, “I had to call you,” she didn’t bite his head off.

  “I know,” she said. It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was understanding. The ISI could be real bastards. She didn’t think their threats were anything more than bullyboy posturing, but she couldn’t blame Lio and Lourdes, immigrants from a Castro Cuba, for taking them seriously.

  “Just next time, Lio? Give me a fuckin’ hint.”

  The SUV growled into movement and Sylvie closed her eyes, wondering what the hell the ISI wanted this time.

  There was so much to choose from.

  SHE AND LIO WERE HUSTLED THROUGH A CLAMMY PARKING GARAGE, taken into a basement room big on white paint and cheap furniture, short on charm. They were locked in and left.

  Lio swallowed. “Shadows, what’s going on? Feds don’t usually—”

  “Did they tell you they were FBI?” she asked. “They’re not. They’re the ISI. Internal Surveillance and Investigation. They’re all about the magic. Did they say what they wanted?”

  Lio shook his head, winced, put a hand to the healing lacerations.

  Sylvie paced, thought aloud. “It has to involve both of us, or they wouldn’t have brought you along. You’re no kind of leverage against me. No offense, Lio, but it’s true.”

  “Lo sé,” he said. “So, the ladies in the Everglades, then? Do you think they know you studied the bodies?”

  “They do now,” she muttered.

  He grimaced. “Sorry.”

  “Ah, they probably knew. Though”—she raised her voice a bit, put an edge on it—“it’s amazing how many things manage to happen right below their noses. Would you believe that a crazy immortal wandered in and out of their Chicago offices at will? And they didn’t notice until she started killing them? I could tell you stories—”

  Lio frowned, lost. The door to the room opened, and two agents came in. Agent Riordan from Lio’s house, and a blond fireplug of a man with an ugly expression.

  The blond leaned up against the door, crossed his arms over his thick chest. The dark man leaned over the table, tried for smooth and intimidating. Demalion had done it better. “I’m Agent John Riordan. I’ve been assigned to your case.”

  “Man,” Sylvie said. “Sucks to be you.” She met his stare head-on, keeping just enough focus on the rest of the room that when the blond agent rushed forward and slapped the table, Lio was the only one who jumped.

  Riordan said, “Janssen.” It wasn’t quite a reprimand. Had the weary edge of a We’ve talked about this—you said you’d do better moment.

  Silence fell over the room again. Lio, wincing, crossed his arms over his broad chest, gave the young agents a flat stare.

  Sylvie said, “You know, I’ve got a complicated reputation. I’ll admit that. But you know what no one’s ever said? That I’m psychic. If you have a question, ask it. I’m not going to guess.”

  “Odalys Hargrove,” Janssen said.

  “What about her?”

  “Tell us about her,” Riordan said. “You two conspired to put her in jail on charges that frankly don’t stand up to decent scrutiny. What’s the real deal?”

  Lio said, “You’re here for Hargrove? What about the women in the Everglades?”

  “Not my case,” Riordan said. Utterly disinterested. “You’re my purview, Shadows. Not some magical serial killer.”

  Sylvie interrupted Lio’s next comment, put her hand down hard on his wrist. His cheeks, beneath the dark patchwork of stitches, flushed to a brick color that made Sylvie think of strokes and heart attacks. “Odalys Hargrove is a necromancer,” she said. She didn’t usually approve of telling the ISI anything, but hell, she’d put this in motion by asking Demalion to pass the word. It wasn’t Lio’s fault they were there. It was hers.

  And if she wanted them to do something about Odalys, she needed to make her case against the woman. Otherwise, bad-tempered Janssen and disinterested Riordan would have no problem leaving Odalys to the usual justice system just to spite Sylvie. “She started a nifty little business that transferred the souls of the rich and recently deceased into the bodies of teenagers. It killed the teens, and endangered a hell of a lot of other people in the process. Odalys Hargrove is not someone that jail will keep down for long. Necromancers use organic matter for their magic, and jails are full of that. A scrap of nail, a lock of hair, a bit of blood, and Odalys could take back her power, person by person. Odalys is—”

  “Dead,” Riordan said. He dropped into the seat opposite Sylvie; the tight anger on his face eased back, shifted toward skepticism. “You didn’t know.”

  “No,” Sylvie said. Kept her denial flat, her surprise minimal. He was ISI; he wouldn’t believe any protestation she could make.

  “Get up,” he said. “I have something to show you.”

  Curiosity got her to her feet when irritation at being bossed around urged her to settle herself more firmly in her chair. Lio rose a beat behind and was waved back to his seat.

  Janssen said, “Want to keep your shield, Detective? Take a seat.”

  “It’s all right, Lio,” Sylvie said. Better for him to stay out of it if it was even possible.

  The Miami ISI headquarters had moved since the last time she’d looked for it. Given what she could see after a trip up in the service elevator—wide hallways, plush, patterned carpets, the sheer number of doors they passed, all identical, all evenly spaced—she assumed they had taken over the fourth floor of a Miami hotel. The ISI were big on having their offices among other buildings.

  When Sylvie had asked Demalion about it, he’d said that it meant they had nothing to hide. Sylvie thought it meant that they had facilities they wanted to hide very badly, and this was their way of throwing off suspicion.

  Whatever their reasoning, it made it surreal—her body keeping count of rooms, of familiar proportions—to find, instead of a hotel laundry room, a makeshift morgue.

  It wasn’t much of a morgue. Sterile, but small. More like a one-room research lab with a very hefty budget and very small space. Lots of technology; very narrow table in the center of the room. It actually looked more like a chest freezer than anything else. It hummed like one. A chest freezer with a plasticized white sheet draped over a humansized form.

  “They found her late last night in her cell,” Riordan said. “Strung up against her bars, and”—he flipped back the sheets—“mutilated.”

  Sylvie swallowed hard, concentrated on keeping her face impassive. She had a reputation after all. Hard as nails.

  She wished the word “nails” hadn’t crossed her mind. They made her think of hands, and Odalys was down two of them. Sliced off cleanly at the wrists.

  “Sends a message, don’t you think?” Riordan said. “My question is from whom to whom? Can you shed some light, Shadows?” He wasn’t as calm as he wanted to be. His fingers twitched; he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  Sylvie pulled the sheet back up over Odalys’s contorted face; the woman hadn’t died easy. A vicious wound nearly bisected her chest, tearing through ribs and organs, like the world’s worst autopsy student had made a desperate last attempt to impress with effort if not competence. Another agent might take it as a weakness on her part to cover Odalys, but she thought Riordan was just grateful he didn’t have to do it himself. Besides, it bought her some time to think.

  Odalys’s death was on her head. She knew that. She’d asked Demalion to pass the word along; she hadn’t anticipated them killing Odalys—though truthfully, she hadn’t thought it through. What had she expected them to do?

  Demalion had passed the word along. The ISI had responded. And Odalys was dead. So why were they dragging her in and asking her questions that felt . . . honestly confused?

  “Shadows,” Riordan said. “I’m waiting.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “She killed so
me very influential people’s children. That kind of thing makes powerful enemies.”

  “You have a reputation for being a powerful enemy,” he said.

  “Does my reputation give me the ability to walk into a secured jail, armed with what? A machete? Hedge trimmers? Sorry, Agent. You’ll have to look beyond me for the killer.”

  He leaned back against the door, keeping her contained. “That your only answer?”

  “The only one I have that you’ll like.”

  “I don’t like it. You could try again. If you have any plans for the day other than babysitting Odalys’s body. I’m curious. Do you think necromancers recover from being dead?”

  “No,” Sylvie said. “They’re just dead.” She studied him again, began to get his measure. He might be Janssen’s boss, her new personal spook, but he wasn’t much more than a researcher, someone dragged out of the labs to fill in a manpower gap.

  Might even be the answer to why he dragged her in. Odalys’s death provided him a chance to take a crack at her, something all ISI agents wanted.

  “You could have gotten into the prison,” he said, testing. “I’ve been following you. You associate with the Ghoul. Our files suggest he has the ability to break in anywhere, unseen and unstoppable. The CIA has him marked down as a threat to national security. You expect me to believe that he couldn’t get you inside the jail?”

  “Are you kidding?” Sylvie laughed. Wales spent all his time trying to keep a low profile. Magical murder behind prison bars was not low-profile. “Sorry. I think the bad guy you’re looking for is much closer to home. You should be careful. You might be stepping on toes above your pay grade.”

  She turned her back on Odalys’s corpse and reached for the doorknob. He put his hand down over hers; his skin was soft, unmarked. Definitely a newbie in the field. “What do you mean?”

  “You said it yourself. The ISI watches me. They probably saw me dealing with Odalys. They probably recognized the threat right away. What do you think the higher-ups decided to do about Odalys’s existence?”