“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
“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
“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
“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.
“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
