by Lyn Benedict
She gave it purpose, sent it pouring out to rupture all of Azpiazu’s remaining spells, waking Wales from his stupor, healing the wounds on the shape-shifting women. It was barely enough to do the job, sputtered out within her, ripping itself out by the root as she forced it to obey. Using that power, even that fragment of it, felt like she was renovating her body using razor blades.
Erinya rolled Tepeyollotl, pinned him, knees and wing tips on his loosely slung pelt. “Stay down,” she growled.
Sylvie dumped Wales out of her lap and started talking fast. “You lost, Tepeyollotl. Your empire’s long gone; your enemy is dead—”
That elicited a snarl, more earthly upheaval. Windows shattered in the main house; she was surprised they’d lasted that long, and Sylvie hastened over that point. Reminding a god that a mortal had taken his prey? Not a good way to make friends.
“You’re damaged goods,” she said. “You’re weak. If you stay on earth, you won’t attract new followers. You’ll attract hunters. Not just the Fury. But sorcerers and humans who want a bite of your power.”
“And you,” Tepeyollotl said. “You would kill me if you could.”
His voice resonated in her bones, a beehive rumble that carried the threat of pain. She breathed steadily through the aftershocks, and said, “Yes. I don’t want your power. I want you dead. Or gone. The choice is yours.”
Tepeyollotl jerked in Erinya’s claws, a mindless, surprised twitch. Sylvie bared her teeth, met that red-tinged gaze, and said, “Make the right one. Look at the shape you’re in now. Imagine what I could do if I was trying to kill you instead of just stopping you.”
Erinya laughed, leaned close, and licked Tepeyollotl’s scarred cheek. “She could do it, too, I bet.”
“Gone?” he said.
“Retreat and wait for your time to come ’round again,” Sylvie said. “You’ve got time. Who knows? Maybe there’ll be a new interest in you. You’ll find new followers, grow strong again.”
It was an effort to sound in control, like this was the best solution for him. Tepeyollotl might be reduced, a shell of what he once had been, but he was still a god. His influence radiated outward, and the world around him adjusted to his will.
Right then, luckily, he was confused and focused on fighting Erinya and listening to Sylvie. Even with that, though, there were changes.
Vizcaya’s crumbled stones had shifted, changed from French-styled gardens to the beginnings of pyramids. Bright sparks lit the underbrush, shadowy shapes of cats in all sizes from tabby to Florida panther. Calling like to like. His own allies approaching.
“Go?” he said, tasting the idea for palatability. “But not forever.” He groaned, threw Erinya off him in a long ripple of contorting sinew and tendon.
Erinya crouched, wings mantled, neck arched, teeth bared.
Tepeyollotl vanished without further words, and Sylvie jerked her gaze to Erinya. “Is he gone, or just gone somewhere else in the world? Are we going to have to hunt him down?”
“Gone,” Erinya said. She sounded disappointed.
Sylvie didn’t share that disappointment at all, felt dizzy with relief.
“What just happened here?” Wales asked. His voice sounded so frail after listening to gods. It made it easy to ignore him.
Her wary attention was all for Erinya.
In the heat of the battle, drowning under power she didn’t want and didn’t know how to use, giving it to Erinya had seemed a no-brainer. Now Sylvie worried. The Fury had been powerful enough as a demigod—willful and violent, but under the god of Justice’s control.
Now that Sylvie had made Erinya his equal?
Erinya shook herself, shook off the monster aspect, trying to fit back into her human guise. It wasn’t working very well; she couldn’t seem to shake away the razor-edged wings.
She flipped them back finally, sharp feathers rasping like blades in the night and paused. Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
Erinya had caught up with the rest of the class.
“Yeah,” Sylvie said. “Guess no one’s going to be bossing you around any longer.”
“I can taste them all,” Erinya said. “All those evil souls—”
She threw back her head and shrieked.
Sylvie jerked, stumbled to the ground, clutching her ears. Dark shapes scattered out of Erinya’s mouth, a swarm of . . . something. One-winged bats, shadowy daggers, silent locusts.
Sylvie ducked and covered and listened to the echoes of Erinya’s cry bouncing off the stone walls.
“That’s that,” Erinya said. “I can find anyone. Anywhere.” Sudden triumph laced her voice. “I know where Demalion is. I know who he is.”
Sylvie leaped, her body reacting before her mind knew to do so. She caught Erinya’s wing in her hand as she started to vanish. “No,” Sylvie said. “You leave him alone. You owe me, Eri. I made you a god. What’s one escaped soul to that?”
Erinya bared her teeth. “Like to see you try to force me. I’m not Tepeyollotl. I’m not damaged.”
“Erinya,” Sylvie said, then her throat dried. Threats wouldn’t work here, and entreaty would be seen as weakness.
“You like hunting,” Wales said. He pushed himself upright, held himself there even when the Fury-god’s gaze landed on him. “You’re a merciless hunter but not an indiscriminate one.”
Sylvie said, “Demalion’s already been punished for his crime. He’s lost his body, his talents, his life. He remembers his death. His every nightmare belongs to you. Let him live. He’ll live in fear of you.”
Erinya shifted her wing out of Sylvie’s grip, stayed silent and sullen and here, and Sylvie knew she’d won.
“Thank you,” she said.
Erinya said, “I’m just leaving him alone. I don’t make promises for Alekta or Magdala.”
“But you won’t tell them he’s alive either,” Sylvie demanded.
“Won’t talk to them at all,” Erinya said with a toss of her head. Sylvie closed her eyes, thankful that Erinya was such a bad-tempered creature that she didn’t get along with her sisters.
Wales made a soft sound of surprise, a tiny, startled gasp that turned to a smile, as he saw Lupe Fernandez stir. He darted over to her, reassuring her that she was going to be all right, that they had been rescued, that they would be taken home.
Sylvie sank down on the broken stone wall and watched Wales corral the women, wondering vaguely if the ISI van was still waiting, or if it had been swallowed by the earth, crushed by a flaming tree, or just eaten by zombie alligators. Be a hell of a time to have to call a taxi.
“It’s there,” Erinya said, reading her mind effortlessly. “But so are the ISI. They think they’re laying an ambush.”
“Wanna chase ’em off?” Sylvie said.
“How many favors are you going to try to collect?” Erinya asked.
“As many as I can,” Sylvie said.
She should get up, get moving. The ISI wouldn’t lurk forever, and despite what her battered watch said, the skyline was brightening, heading inexorably toward dawn and discovery. She should be sore; she’d been thrown around, brawled with a baby god, and fought off a death curse. Instead, all she felt was tired. Worried.
Erinya disappeared, and Sylvie twitched for her gun in automatic reaction, making Wales, who was approaching her, fling his hands up automatically.
“Sorry,” she said. “You ready to get out of here?”
“Only too,” he said. “How long did Azpiazu have me? It felt like days.”
“Hours at most,” Sylvie said. “Marco found us damn promptly; I’ll give him that.”
Wales licked his lips. “Marco?”
Sylvie shook her head. “Azpiazu ate him.” There’d be time later to tell Wales how Azpiazu had planned it.
“We’re not all going to fit in your truck,” Wales said, looking back at the women. For kidnap victims who’d been bespelled, manipulated, shape-shifted, and used as weapons, they looked damn good. For regular people, they looked shell-shocked and
terrified, crowding close to Wales like impressed ducklings.
“Got a different ride,” Sylvie said. “We’ll fit.”
“What are we waiting for?” Wales asked.
Distant gunfire rattled, chattering in the dawn. Shouting. Screaming.
Sylvie nodded in that direction. “For Erinya to clear our path.”
19
Taking Stock
SYLVIE FELT LIKE CHRISTMAS MORNING, PLAYING SANTA, DROPPING Lupe, Anamaria, Elena, and Rita off at their homes, watching them seized up by happy families. It was a good feeling. She wanted to bask in it.
Wales climbed forward from the back bench seat, took shotgun, and said, “So, I’m going to need to go back to Vizcaya sometime soon and make sure Azpiazu is gone.”
So much for her happy feelings, Sylvie thought.
“He’s dead,” Sylvie said. “You were unconscious, but I killed him pretty thoroughly.” It was protest for the sake of it. She started the ignition, waved at Rita and her family, and pulled back onto the streets. “You think he laid in a contingency plan?”
“Necromancers, for all they deal in death, tend to cling to life like limpets. And he outthought a god, manipulated Tepeyollotl. . . .”
“Manipulated me,” Sylvie murmured, thinking of Wales being taken solely to get to Marco. “All right. You need help?”
“I could stand for you to watch my back,” he said. “I’m down some power with the Hands destroyed.”
“Deal,” she said. “You have any of the Hands left?”
“A couple,” Wales said. He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like them much. And they don’t like me. I’ll miss—” He shut up, didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. She knew what he was going to say.
“You know, missing ghosts of convicted serial killers is why you get called the Ghoul,” she said. “If you’re going to hang around, you could work on that.”
“I didn’t say I was hanging around.”
“You didn’t say you were leaving.”
“Maybe I’ve learned my lesson,” he said. “Tell you I’m leaving town, and you show up with reasons I shouldn’t. Maybe I’m just going to split this city all sneaky-like.”
“I got your stuff,” Sylvie said, finding a tiny smile. It felt good to have this mindless banter after she’d nearly written him off as dead.
She turned the van automatically for her office, and Wales waited long enough for the route to become familiar before saying, “You know the government’s tracking this van.”
“You’re just full of sunshine, aren’t you,” Sylvie said. “Yeah. I know. Of course I know. Hell, they had my clothes, and I’ll have to shake those out for bugs. Probably my apartment also. But right now, the ISI is busy with Erinya, and besides, there’s no point in ditching the van, finding a new ride, and heading directly to the office. They know where I work.”
“That’s a problem,” Wales said.
“I know,” Sylvie said again. “It’s one I’m thinking about.”
AS A TINY ACT OF SPITE, SHE PARKED THE ISI VAN DOWN THE STREET from her office in the most isolated area and left the keys in the ignition, the doors unlocked. Wales said, “If I tried to leave town, you’d sell all my stuff on eBay, wouldn’t you.”
“Petty revenge is a skill,” Sylvie said. As they entered her office, she sighed. “And oh, do they deserve it.”
The office had been in bad shape before the tear gas, before the ISI raided it. Now it was a total wreck, and probably looted as well. The broken storefront window and shattered front door had been left unguarded.
Alex’s laptop was gone, the filing cabinets—dented from Erinya and Tepé’s earlier spat—gaped emptily. And over the broken furniture, the glass that crunched underfoot, her ransacked kitchenette, Wales’s cardboard boxes dragged out from the closet, lay a layer of whitish dust: tear gas residue.
Sylvie moved gingerly through the room, trying not to stir the dust. She peered up the stairs, noted booted footprints stamped into the residue, and prepared herself.
The upstairs office was cleaner than below, the tear gas not so thick on the ground. Tracked in, but not over every surface.
The ISI had taken her computer also, rummaged through her desk, the upstairs filing cabinet that dealt with the Magicus Mundi. They’d even cracked open and robbed her safe.
“Fuckers,” she murmured, but it was hard to be angry when she was so worried. They hadn’t shown her a warrant, or really given a reason for her arrest. So either they had a warrant and hadn’t taken the time to show her, or they were running without rules. Either way, it made Sylvie twitchy, and certain she hadn’t heard the last of them.
Hopefully, their escape and Erinya’s aid at Vizcaya would move Sylvie to the pile of things we don’t mess with, and her life could go back to normal.
Her little voice scoffed, and she echoed it. Normal.
“Sylvie!” Wales called from below.
“Yeah,” she responded absently. She moved the desk aside, covering her face with her shirt when dust swirled above the floorboards.
They’d found her safe, but not her hidey. Sometimes caution was a good thing. She popped the floorboard, took out the emergency cash. Maybe it was time to buy those fake IDs.
Money crammed into her pockets, she wandered downstairs, pace picking up as she heard Wales talking to . . . “Alex!”
Alex caught Sylvie up in a spine-crushing hug. “You’re all right?”
“You?”
“Oh god, Sylvie, I’m awesome,” Alex said. Her smile was bright and huge, glowing. Beautiful. Guess Olympus had treated her well. “But god, what a mess! I called Etienne. He’s going to come and board things up. Who do you call to get rid of tear gas?”
Sylvie didn’t answer, struck anew by the mess. The cash in her pockets didn’t seem like enough. New IDs all around or repairing the office where the ISI could walk in and touch them at any time?
“It’s okay,” Alex said. “We can fix it.”
“We could,” Sylvie said.
Wales perked up. “I hear Fort Lauderdale’s nice.”
Alex raised her head, catching the whiff of “maybe we won’t” in Sylvie’s tone. “What are you thinking?”
“The ISI doesn’t like me. Never has. But now they’ve slapped a label on me. They think I’m one of the monsters.” She held up a hand, forestalled Alex’s rebuttal. “Not looking for reassurance, Alex. It’s a fact. The ISI doesn’t trust me. I can’t afford to trust them. I don’t want to be an ISI test subject.”
“You’re going to give up. Quit?”
“Not so much. But I might set up shop elsewhere. At least I’ll make them work if they come for me.”
“For us,” Alex said. “If you leave, I’m coming, too.”
“You have family here.”
“So do you. It’s not like you’re trying to drop off the grid completely, right? Just slow ’em down a bit. It’s not like we’re entering witness protection. I can call my family.”
“The ISI might tap—”
Alex wrinkled her nose. “I’d like to see them try.”
Sylvie found a smile. She’d nearly forgotten. Alex’s hacking skills came directly from her family. She was just the only one who did legit work with them.
“And you know Zoe would nuke anyone who tried to listen in on her calls,” Alex continued. “Of course, if you start thinking about it that way . . . Syl, we’d be crazy to leave Miami. Our support’s here. Zoe, Val, Tierney.” A quick flick of her lashes in his direction, a curving smile.
Wales said, “You’re assuming they’re coming at you legally.”
Alex scoffed. “You are way too negative.”
“I don’t like running,” Sylvie said abruptly. “I really don’t like running when I haven’t planned an effective retreat. We’re staying. There’s no point in running, anyway. The ISI has branches everywhere, a lot of money, and a long arm. I’m staying and trusting that Erinya scared them off. They don’t like gods? I’ve got one in my pock
et. At least for now.”
Alex said, “You what?”
“Long story,” Sylvie said. “The important thing is, the good guys won, the women are home safely, and Azpiazu’s dust.”
“Almost dust,” Wales said. “We’re going to lay his spirit.”
“I’m coming with you guys when you do. Ooh, hey! You and me,” Alex said, gesturing at Wales. “Time for a celebratory breakfast burrito run. You in?” Her smile widened; Wales seemed dazzled.
“Yeah, all right,” he said. Breathless.
Sylvie watched them go, watched Wales catch Alex’s arm, stilling her. He stooped, awkward but determined, kissed her quickly, shyly. Alex linked her arm through his and dragged him off. Sylvie smiled.
BANGING SOUNDS FROM THE ALLEY GOT HER ATTENTION, AND SHE went out to find Etienne dragging hurricane-proof plywood toward her store. She grabbed the other side of the board, and said, “Thanks, Etienne.”
They got the first few planks up, screwed in tight, and were working on the last, Sylvie concentrating on the sheer physicality of it. Nice to have something mindless to do. Something that let her shut off her brain.
If Erinya had scared off the ISI, that gave her time to think.
She didn’t want it.
The last board up, Etienne thanked with a smile and a hundred dollars in his pocket, Sylvie found herself sitting on a bench in the sunlight, flipping her phone from one hand to the other.
The ISI had had it in their clutches. They’d have the numbers she dialed; they’d probably set spies on it so they could listen in. She put it back in her pocket, and went to harass Etienne again.
The phone rang on the other end, and a woman answered, throwing Sylvie off a bit. In the age of cell phones, it was so rare to get the wrong member of the household, but that was what she had. Wright’s wife on the line.
“Who is this?” she asked.
Sylvie spun a quick line about being a collection agency, got an exasperated huff, and a shout for “Adam” to take the call.