the side of Sylvie’s truck, the inhuman jut to her jaw shrinking.
“Back off. Back down. Chill the fuck out. Or we’re going to have bigger problems than a pissed-off crystal witch and some overworked cops.
“I told you to let me handle it. But you couldn’t trust me. You had to trust a stranger. You’re lucky it ended the way it did. No one dead. Not them. Not you. You got a crap witch who exacerbated your curse. Boo hoo. You lucked out. You could have gotten the witch who said, ‘Drink this! It’ll help,’ then vivisected you for spell components. Witches are tricky business. If I can’t find someone local, I’ve got a backup plan—”
“Fuck plan A, I vote backup plan. And now,” Lupe said. “Why are we waiting?”
“Because you’re in no condition to face the TSA and an international flight. You lose control on a plane? Things can get worse, Lupe. Even if it doesn’t seem like it.”
Lupe nodded, calming down. Sylvie holstered her gun, noting that her fingers were trembling. She glared at them. They stopped.
“Why international?” Lupe said. “Another witch?”
“Yeah,” Sylvie said. “One who’s dealt with death curses before.”
“Can the witch come here?”
“Working on that,” Sylvie said. It was like the most frustrating game of missionaries and cannibals ever, all bounded around by difficult women: Erinya and Lupe and Val. Lupe couldn’t fly to Ischia. Val wouldn’t come back while Erinya was in Miami. And Erinya wasn’t budging.
Sylvie had already struck one deal with the god—her promise not to kill Demalion in exchange for god- power; Sylvie didn’t have anything else to bribe Erinya with.
“Then what?” Lupe asked. “I just live like this? Turning into a bigger freak each day?”
“Better than the alternative,” Sylvie said.
Lupe shut up, either shocked silent or furious.
The parking lot couldn’t hold them for long. The movies had let out; people collected their cars, cast inquisitive glances in their direction—at the spectacle of two women arguing about witches, their voices carrying.
“Look,” Sylvie said, dropping back to a whisper. “I’ll think of something.”
“Waiting sucks,” Lupe said. “Where do I go now?”
“New hotel,” Sylvie said. “We pay cash, keep a low profile.”
“Yeah, ’cause a woman with snake eyes and fangs is so unmemorable,” Lupe said. She flung up her hands before Sylvie could respond. “I know. I know. Better than the alternative.”
“That’s right,” Sylvie said. She nodded toward the truck, and Lupe climbed into it, far more calmly this time.
Sylvie wished she thought the calm was more than skin deep. Lupe was breaking down, getting moodier, more aggressive with each day. The stunt with the witch hadn’t helped.
But it had made one thing clear.
The witch really hadn’t done anything wrong—she’d simply tried to run a diagnostic with the wrong tools. Sylvie had seen crystal witches work, using the clear stones to identify the type of curse—stones turning red, black, blue, all the shades of a malevolent rainbow. It was utterly passive, reactive magic.
Lupe shouldn’t have had any reaction whatsoever.
If the stones had felt like they were burning her, that meant one thing only. The curse had dug its way in like a parasite, and fueled by a god’s power, was actively protecting its new position.
Giving Lupe the happy ending she deserved was looking less likely by the moment.
6
Government Business
SYLVIE WAS EATING AN EARLY DINNER, HIDING OUT IN A PART OF town she didn’t normally visit, waiting. Waiting for Suarez to see if her name had hit the system, if she could go home without getting dragged into the station by the police. Waiting for a call back from Alex to assure her that Zoe was home and bitchy and resting up from her jet lag.
Instead, she got Alex calling to say, “Sylvie. She’s not here.”
Sylvie flipped her watch—an hour past the time Zoe had said. “Delayed?”
“No,” Alex said. “Her flight arrived on time. But I can’t find her. I tried calling, but her cell’s off.”
Sylvie pushed her plate away, the sushi suddenly repulsive. Her heart beat unpleasantly. “Okay. This is what we’re going to do. You’re at the airport? Check to see if her luggage made it, and if it’s still there.”
“You think she had checked baggage?”
“It’s Zoe. Of
“Okay, what else?”
Sylvie sipped her tea, mostly lukewarm, set it back down. The cup chattered against the cherrywood tabletop. “You have your laptop?” She didn’t wait for Alex’s response, knew it would be a yes. “Dig up, oh… that smuggling case we had. Victor Arana. He owes us one. and he works at the airlines. Call him. See if Zoe ever got on the flight. If she’s missing, we need to know which end it happened on.”
Sylvie waved off the hovering waitress, trying to think of all the angles. NYC or Miami. Or god … Sylvie closed her eyes. The last time her family had been threatened, it had been Dunne doing the threatening. He wanted Erinya gone, and she hadn’t agreed. He could have snatched Zoe from the plane anytime he wanted, midflight.
“All right,” Alex said.
“Be careful. Keep me informed.” A shadow crossed her table; she turned, and though it felt like turning away from her sister’s plight, she disconnected. Suarez eased himself into the chair opposite her, rested scarred forearms on the table. The waitress brought him a menu, but he handed it back without looking at it, requesting coffee.
“So there’s nothing on the line about you,” Suarez said, his voice a deep, disapproving rumble. “Should there be? If I go through police logs, am I going to find something inexplicable with your name attached to it?”
“Not mine,” Sylvie said. “My client’s. She’s got some anger-management issues at the moment. With reason.”
“Yeah?”
Sylvie reached out, touched the scars on his arm, looked up at the scar winding over his face. “When you were in the hospital, I said you wouldn’t turn into a monster after being attacked by a magical were-creature, told you shape-shifting via curse was rare.”
“You did,” he said.
“She wasn’t as lucky as you. Azpiazu’s curse shifted to her.”
Suarez sat back, eyed her with a cop’s ingrained suspicion. “You’re volunteering information, Shadows. Why?”
“Because the way she’s going, she might end up in your cells. You call me if that happens. It’s not safe to keep her there. Not for your men. Or for her. Lupe Fernandez. You’ll know her if you see her.”
“Understood,” he said.
Sylvie rose, and Suarez reached out with that quickness he had, so surprising in such a solid man. “Not so fast. Since you’re in a sharing mood. I have two questions for you. There’s some sort of monster killing people in Miami. You know what’s doing it?”
“Depends,” Sylvie said. “There are a lot of monsters in Miami.”
He narrowed his gaze, losing patience. “Are you encouraging it?”
“Tell me about the people who’ve died.”
“A woman, only this morning, fleeing down the street, swore that a monster tore her mother’s head off and devoured her newborn baby. They sent her for a psychiatric evaluation. Last week, six men died, heads
