by Lyn Benedict
Lupe whined, her side torn by at least one bullet. Then her feathers ruffled; her scales shifted color, shading dark, and she lunged for the next nearest person.
Sylvie.
Sylvie had one terrifying glimpse of Lupe’s soft underside, wished she hadn’t holstered her gun, then Lupe went crashing across the parking lot, hurled away by a larger force.
Erinya had made the scene.
* * *
A BARE SECOND AFTER ERINYA’S EMERGENCE, SYLVIE’S RELIEF faded. Erinya had come ready to kill; and more, she brought the jungle with her. Vines and lianas burst from the concrete and asphalt, crumbling the ground beneath her. Scarlet flowers fell out of the air, spreading petals that oozed a sickeningly sweet scent.
“Don’t kill her. Don’t hurt her. Just stop her,” Sylvie breathed out. Her back hurt with a growing dull heat; she put a hand to her side, felt perforated flesh and liquid, something slippery inside and out. Toro’s fucking Uzi. Friendly fucking fire. She was too tired to tell how bad it was.
Erinya didn’t even glance in her direction, just sprang on Lupe, rolled her over, squalling, hissing, and snapping. Greenery erupted around them, entangling them.
Demalion’s hands latched tight on Sylvie’s side unexpectedly, and she struck at him, hurting and half-crazed. She laughed when he swore at her, came away with his hands stained wet with her blood. “Marah thinks I’m immortal,” she told him. “Guess not.” Her body throbbed. Her vision blurred.
He manhandled her into her truck, dragged out the first-aid kit, and she tried to push him off. “Got to tell Erinya. Tell her to take Lupe away. Tell her to—”
“Shut up,” he said. “They’re on their own.”
His lips were white, pressed tight between his teeth, and she said, “You’re worried about me?”
“Everybody’s got a hobby,” he said. He leaned forward, kissed her forehead. “Now, shut up. Let me get you bandaged before you bleed out.”
A thunderous crash resounded in the back of the truck, rocked them both violently in the cab, slammed her truck’s nose into the wall, and the animal shrieking cut off all at once. Demalion looked up, wild-eyed, and Sylvie let out a startled yelp as Lupe’s snake head crunched through the back window. But, despite the unlidded gaze, she was out. Unconscious or dead.
Erinya slid behind the wheel, all human delight. “Sylvie! Where’d you find her? She’s wonderful.”
“Drive,” Demalion said.
“I don’t take orders from you,” Erinya said.
“Sylvie’s in no shape to give them. Get us out of here,” Demalion snapped.
Sylvie winced against the seat; the wound was beginning to feel less hot and more hurt. “Erinya—”
Sirens were thick in the air, the approaching cops, ISI—everyone she didn’t want to talk to. Everyone she needed to protect Lupe from.
“Take us to Alex,” Sylvie said, trying to get a last bit of thought out. If things were going to hell this fast, she needed to make sure Alex knew about it.
“Heal her first,” Demalion said.
Erinya hesitated. And Sylvie thought, Dammit, Erinya might have healed me, except that Demalion was the one to ask for it.
Demalion slid out of the truck, and she grabbed at him, wondering what the hell he was thinking, but the effort jolted her and sent her, finally, into unconsciousness.
When she came to, she was still in the truck, and she wanted to scream in frustration. She was tired of fighting—
Never tire of fighting, her inner voice declared—
—and she just wanted to get some fucking sleep. Even as she complained, she realized she felt … better. Not good; still exhausted, shaky, wiped out, and stinking of blood, but better. Also, the world outside the truck had changed. Not the hotel parking lot but someplace cooler, dimmer. Someplace without screaming and panic.
Someplace that smelled strongly of exhaust and oil, a faint overlay of mall perfume.
A parking garage?
The passenger door next to her hung open, and crouched in it, a blurry shape in the dimness, was Erinya. “Don’t be mad,” she said.
Sylvie threw her head back and groaned. “Erinya, what did you do?”
“Healed you,” the Fury said.
“I thought I felt better,” Sylvie said. “Why would I be mad at you for … did you kill Lupe?”
“Lupe is the monster-girl? No. I like her. She’s fun.”
Sylvie swallowed hard, cleared her eyes enough to see that Erinya’s face was bloodstained from cheek to chin. “Demalion—” Sickness churned in her; her breath felt suddenly fragile. Ready to shatter.
“I’m here,” Demalion said from behind Erinya. He sounded all right, but when she saw him, she wasn’t so sure he was. His hands were bloody to the elbows, and his gaze had some of Erinya’s hangdog quality to it. Don’t be mad.
“What happened?” Sylvie said, pushing herself upright. “Where’s Alex?”
“Hiding,” Erinya said. “She doesn’t like me much without you around.”
“Where are we?”
Erinya huffed. “Questions, questions, questions. I’m bored with that.” She leaped into the bed of the truck, stroked Lupe’s battered feathers to smoothness, slid her hands down along Lupe’s velvety hide. Sylvie wasn’t the only one the Fury had healed.
Demalion reached into the truck, tugged Sylvie out. “Easy. She fixed the wound, but I think you still lost the blood.”
“What happened,” Sylvie repeated.
“I ripped out Toro’s heart and offered it to Erinya in exchange for healing you. I—”
“Worshipped her,” Sylvie said. “Gave your allegiance to a god who hates you?”
“You were bleeding out,” he said, “in my arms. I did what I needed to.”
“Your afterlife,” she said. “Oh God.” She leaned up against him, felt useless tears start in her eyes. An afterlife with Erinya, where she’d chase and torment and hate him for eternity. “I don’t know that I can get you out of that.”
“I won’t die anytime soon,” he said. “Give you time to work on it.”
Sylvie sniffed hard, raised her head. “Yeah. If we get the chance. Where the hell are we?”
“Dadeland Mall,” Demalion said. “You told Erinya to find Alex. She was shopping.”
“At the Apple store,” Alex said. She sidled around the truck with a wary glance at Erinya, still crooning over her unconscious playmate. “Amazingly enough, having a Fury pluck you out of it makes things tricky. On the bright side, I’ve got a new toy. Since I was holding on to it when Erinya grabbed me? I’m trying to figure out if that makes me a shoplifter or what.”
Sylvie said, “The mall, Alex? With all that’s going on?”
“The ISI took your sister out of the airport. I felt a little exposed at the office and at home. I’ve been here since it opened, waiting for you to call.”
Sylvie found herself sinking more heavily against Demalion, and he said, “We need to get you a place to rest.”
“I’ve been saying that for the last twenty-four hours,” Sylvie muttered. “But Zoe, Graves—”
“Riordan’s just going to have to wait,” Demalion said. “We need a bolt-hole. Your apartment’s not safe enough. Hotel?”
“I know where to go,” Alex said. “I’ve been thinking about it. Enough space for all of us and maybe even safety from memory modifications? From Riordan’s haranguing you to get busy?”
“Yeah, yeah, cut to the chase,” Sylvie said.
From the truck, Lupe emitted a strange groan, then began to collapse inward, shifting back to human. Erinya sat back on her haunches to watch, head cocked, curious.
“Val’s place,” Alex said. “She’s in Ischia. Which means there’s an estate with both magical and high-tech security going to waste. Plus, if Zoe somehow manages to give Riordan the slip—”
“Zoe would head for Val’s if she got free,” Sylvie said. “You’re brilliant, Alex.” She grinned, but it felt weak. “Can’t take Erinya, t
hough.”
“You want her around full-time?”
“Nice to have a Lupe-wrangler.”
“Val’s estate will have at least one safe room,” Demalion said. “If she’s as high-tech as Alex says.”
“Great, we’re all for it. Let’s get there and stop talking about it.” Sylvie pushed off Demalion’s solid chest, staggered a bit but stayed upright, waving him off.
“We’re not taking your truck,” Demalion said. “Too many of us, and it’s full of blood.”
“Fine,” Sylvie said. “Go fetch a car, then.” She leaned up against her truck while he disappeared farther into the parking garage. Grand theft auto, coming up, committed by a rogue government agent. What the hell had their lives come to?
Alex said, “Are you really going to kill Graves on Riordan’s say-so?”
“Demalion filled you in, then?” Sylvie said. “I don’t know. If Graves is the one siccing monsters on the world? Probably. I’m just not sure. Something about the whole mess doesn’t sit right. But I can’t think straight. I’m making bad choices. Careless choices. There’s a hotel in Homestead that’s proof of that.” At least two dead men, car wrecks, witnesses to a monster-brawl, and she really doubted Erinya had tidied the jungle away without Sylvie to harass her into doing it.
Demalion rolled up a minute later in an enormous, gas-guzzling Escalade, big enough to hold them all and ostentatious enough to be unnoticeable in Val’s fancy driveway.
Erinya transferred Lupe’s unconscious shape into the back bench seat, strapped her in with careful precision, and said, “When can I see her again?”
“Later,” Sylvie said. “We’re trying to fix her. I don’t suppose you—”
“Fix her? She’s wonderful,” Erinya said.
“Yeah,” Sylvie said. “Never mind. Eri, can you do one more favor for me? Get rid of the truck?” If they left it here, bloodstained and battered, the cops would be looking for her, either as victim or as a criminal. She didn’t have time for it.
Erinya waved a hand; Sylvie’s truck dissolved. It stung, watching it go. She’d loved that damn thing, battered as it was.
If she was immortal, if Marah was right, then it’d only be one of a thousand things she’d lose in her eternal life.
She stood there, shivering in the garage, blaming blood loss, until Alex tucked her into the second seat and shut the door on her. Alex took the passenger seat, and Demalion drove them smoothly into the afternoon.
9
Regrouping
LUXURY HAD ITS PLACE, SYLVIE THOUGHT AS SHE SETTLED MORE comfortably in the leather seat. The motor hummed quietly, the ride was smooth, and the car was pleasantly dim in the midday heat. Sylvie fumbled out her cell phone, found it cracked through, and said, “Alex. Phone?”
“Calling Val?” Alex asked, passing her phone back.
“Yeah. Her estate isn’t going to be much of a safe haven if it kills us as we try to get in.”
Demalion grunted from the driver’s seat. “We’ve had enough near-death moments today. I’m forbidding any more of them. My nerves can’t take it.”
“Aw, poor baby,” Alex teased.
Demalion’s glance toward her was not amused.
Sylvie ignored the start of their bickering and dialed Val. Usually, Val refused to answer Sylvie’s calls, but Sylvie was betting that with Zoe AWOL, Val would answer, no matter the time. Sylvie turned her watch, thought, actually her timing wasn’t that bad. Ischia was about six hours ahead. Dinnertime.
“Sylvie,” Val said.
She sounded so calm and competent that Sylvie felt strange, choking tears rise in her throat. “God, Val, I need your help.”
The line hummed between them for a long moment, then Val said, “What do you need?”
Ten minutes and copious notes later, Sylvie disconnected from Val, feeling better about their strained relationship than she had in ages. Nothing like knowing that your friend—no matter how justifiably pissed off—wasn’t going to leave you high and dry when your life was on the line.
Sylvie passed one part of the list to Alex, said, “We’re going to need to make a stop for supplies.”
Alex nodded.
Behind Sylvie, Lupe stirred and moaned, and Sylvie peered over the seat back. Lupe’s eyelashes fluttered, her hand flailed weakly. Her nails, Sylvie noted, were deep blue-black, another transformation that had failed to erase itself. Sylvie just hoped that the venom hadn’t made the transition back to human along with the claws. Lupe’s temper was far too dangerous.
“What happened?” Lupe said.
“Too much to explain. But hey,” Sylvie said dryly, “you made a friend.”
“I dreamed about a monster,” Lupe whispered. “Her teeth in my throat.”
“Her heart in your hands,” Sylvie said. “Her name is Erinya. She likes you.”
“It was real?” Lupe asked. “I dreamed I killed a man.” When Sylvie didn’t deny it, she turned her face away, toward the dark leather seat, hiding from reality, and nothing Sylvie said after that could draw her into speech again.
Finally, Sylvie just slumped back in her seat and closed her eyes. Not sleeping. Not yet. But she could rest her eyes.
Demalion kept the SUV running while Alex grabbed items on Val’s list and on hers, tearing through one magic bodega and one gun shop with an efficiency Sylvie envied.
Sylvie wanted to go in with Alex, keep an eye on her, make sure she got everything on the list, but she couldn’t leave Lupe unattended. The woman seemed wrung out, unable to move, much less shift shape and rampage some more, but better not to take the chance.
Alex returned, laden down with bags, and passed Sylvie the Taser. “Here,” she murmured with a sidelong glance at Lupe. “It’s got a charged battery, and the cartridges are loaded.”
Sylvie folded it against her side like the world’s oddest security blanket and let herself drowse. Soon enough, she smelled the sea, heard the city traffic stop echoing off concrete facades, disappearing out over the waves. She opened her eyes, and they were passing the Seaquarium and the Rosenstiel School, opened her eyes again, and Demalion was pulling up to Val’s driveway gate.
He stopped the SUV and she slid-tumbled out the side door; she keyed in the passcode Val had given her, and the gate rumbled into motion, pulling back. She put her hand up—wait—and went back for the bag of magical supplies. Nothing too exotic—a white feather, some salt, a few white pebbles polished to a dull gleam, a handful of red chalk. Seemed hard to believe that was all it was going to take to carve a doorway through Val’s wards.
Val had said that Zoe would be the best to do the spell; that since Zoe had lived there, even briefly, the spellwork would be like turning a key. For anyone else, Val said, it was going to take brute willpower.
Sylvie felt a little low on brute willpower, but there wasn’t another alternative. She knelt on the smooth black asphalt of the drive, in the shadow of the SUV, and took a deep breath. She wasn’t a witch. She’d used spells once or twice. Always paid for it. Magic made her sick. Part of her Lilith bloodline. The same thing that made her resistant to magic punished her for using it. She expected it would only get worse. Lilith, at the end, hadn’t been able to cast even the simplest of spells.
She marked four of the pebbles—one for each of them—with a symbol that Val swore meant benign. Sylvie just hoped the stone couldn’t tell the truth. They were a ragtag crew who meant no harm to Val, but she wouldn’t call any of them benign. Even Alex wouldn’t fit that description to a witch’s gaze since she was marked by Eros, the god of Love, and was burdened with an active and malevolent memory curse.
“Sylvie, do you need help?” Alex asked.
Sylvie shook her head. “Go back to the SUV. If I can’t shift the spell right, it could get ugly.”
Alex made a face but did as she was bid.
Sylvie plunged into spellwork with nausea growing in her chest, her heart throbbing. By the time she rose from her knees—the asphalt swallowing the chalk down,
preparing to listen to her commands—the feather weighed her wrist down as if it were made of lead. She raised the feather, raised the wards with it, and nearly collapsed under the weight of something intangible but impossibly heavy. The world seemed to sway around her, as if she were peeling back the sky. The wards lifted, and she jerked a shoulder forward. Demalion, watching for her signal, moved the SUV through the ward. The feather vibrated in Sylvie’s hand, and she hung on to it with nothing but a last burst of determination.
The moment the SUV was through, she let the feather drop. It burned as it fell, disappeared into ash, and the wards snapped back around them. A witch might have seen something spectacular in it. Sylvie only felt the wrongness of the world being forced away. She stumbled, fell forward, and Demalion caught her.
“Just a little bit more,” he said.
Once they were through the perfectly mundane alarm on the door, Sylvie headed for the nearest bedroom on autopilot. She’d been up for sixty-plus hours, fought four pitched battles, and dealt with more chaos than even she could handle. Not to mention being shot and healed.
The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the ocean, and Sylvie gave the spectacular view a cursory glance, making sure no one was lurking. Then she spilled face-first onto the bed. It felt like heaven.
She was vaguely aware of Demalion tugging her one way then another, peeling off clothes and shoes, sliding her under sheets, but mostly she was aware of the yawning darkness in her brain. The dreamworld waiting for her. She had a moment to hope that the Mora’s taint hadn’t left a mark; the last thing she wanted was to find her sleep interrupted by nightmares.
Then she was gone.
* * *
IT WAS TWILIGHT WHEN SHE WOKE, DEMALION A WARM PRESENCE wrapped around her, his arm heavy across her ribs. The waves outside had gone phosphorescent around the edges. Sylvie felt struck stupid and boneless with exhaustion, but the world was making itself known again: Her brain started churning out worry for Zoe, worry about what had been done with Lupe, where Alex was.
What was coming out of the waves.
She struggled out of Demalion’s grip—sleeping, the man folded up like origami and took his partners with him—and stepped soft-footedly toward the windows. She expected it to be a hallucination brought on by tiredness and exertion, but the closer she got, the more real it looked. A man—slim-shouldered, dark-haired—rising out of the sea.