was firm.
“No. His boy’s hiding and hiding good. I tried to find him. I figured you’d be sure to let me play if I brought Zoe with me. But no dice. C’mon. I want to help. I know Graves.”
“Riordan said you liked the man.”
“He said that?”
“No,” Demalion said. “He said your instincts couldn’t be relied upon when it came to Graves.”
Marah grinned. “Now that just depends on whether or not the instincts go against orders. Right now, they’re in sync. I want to scoop his eyeballs out with my fingernails and feed them to him. Riordan wants him dead.”
“So he says,” Sylvie said.
She felt like she was surrounded by power plays. It seemed quite possible to her that Riordan would send Sylvie off with marching orders to kill Graves, secure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t, not without proof that might be hard to find. That would explain why he didn’t send Marah. Riordan’s games were hard to figure.
Marah stepped forward gingerly, burdened by the memory of fear and sickness. Demalion scanned the surrounding area, keeping an eye out for anything that might take advantage of the open gate, ready to usher them back to the fragile safety of Val’s house.
“So? What’s the plan?” Marah said.
“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” Sylvie said.
“Jesus,” Marah snapped. “It’s been ten hours since Riordan gave you orders. What the hell have you been doing?”
“Mostly? Sleeping,” Sylvie said.
“Look, we need to move fast. Graves has ears everywhere. Even in Riordan’s crew, and he’s notoriously cautious about who he talks to. I think that’s why Riordan recruited his son. Just to have a single ally he could trust. I killed Powell.”
Powell. It took Sylvie a moment to recall the agent. Last she’d seen him, he was holed up in the elevator taking potshots at everyone who passed. “You did.”
“Graves’s man. I’m pretty sure.”
Demalion groaned. “You’re pretty sure?”
“Well, he tried to shoot me.”
Demalion and Sylvie traded glances.
Marah headed up the path to the house, said over her shoulder, “Graves is a bastard, but he’s a clever one. He’s got a serious yen for using and disposing of the magical freaks. And he loves spies. I used to spy on Riordan for him. Hell, he tried to have me killed the moment I stopped saying
Sylvie and Demalion trailed after her, listening to her eager and bloody plans for Graves.
BACK IN THE HOUSE, SYLVIE EXCUSED HERSELF TO RAID VAL’S closet; she left Marah and Demalion bending their heads together, making quiet plans. She tugged Alex aside, and said, “Keep an eye on her.”
“Who is she?” Alex narrowed her gaze as Marah ran a hand through her short, dark hair and stepped closer to Demalion. “Is she hitting on him? In front of you—”
Sylvie sucked in a breath. Alex knew who Marah was. She’d been told twice, once just minutes ago. Alex’s memory was getting worse. But she was within Val’s wards—the spells should no longer reach her. Unless she was forcing the memories by digging at the cases, which seemed entirely likely, knowing Alex.
“Just watch her. She’s not a homewrecker. She’s an assassin. She’s dangerous.”
Alex crossed her arms over her chest, nervously. “What am I supposed to do if—”
“Yell,” Sylvie said. “Loudly.”
She padded down the hallway, the tiles smooth beneath her feet. The room she’d crashed in with Demalion was a guest room. Alex looked to be camped out in the living room. Her laptop hummed industriously on the huge modular sofa, a woodcut image of a mermaid on the screen; a blanket was crumpled at one end of the couch, next to a bottle of aspirin and a clutter of small plates, as if Alex had gotten up for more than one snack while working. Sylvie’s stomach growled. Food. Soon.
She heard Lupe swearing, detoured toward it. Found Lupe and her destination all at the same time. Lupe, apparently, was bunking down in the master bedroom.
Lupe jerked away from the mirror when Sylvie came in. “What do you want?”
“Clothes, mostly. How are you doing?”
“You’re really going to ask that?” Lupe threw out her hand toward the mirror; her talons, longer than she’d accounted for, scored four lines through the mirror glass. “Am I going to turn into that thing that attacked me?”
“Absolutely not,” Sylvie said.
Lupe tilted her head in a gesture more predatory than confused. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“That thing,” Sylvie said, “is a god. A slightly mixed-up, violent-tempered, but ultimately lonely god. She likes you.”
“Can she fix me?”
“Maybe. She’s being a little bit difficult about it, though. Be patient.” Sylvie opened Val’s closet. Blinked at the size. There were walk-in closets; and then there were closets that were as large as bedrooms. This closet had a window, endless drawers, hung clothing, and a shoe rack that took up more room than some library bookshelves. There was even a department-store-worthy mirror stand and two chairs. Everything was cream or white or beige or grey, linen or silk or heavy, smooth cottons that felt like satin to her fingers.
Sylvie looked at the sheer quantity and thought she’d always mocked
Zoe.
Sylvie pushed the fear back. They’d deal with Graves and Riordan, and Zoe’d be home safe by the next day at the latest.
“Your friend’s pretty big on island fashion, huh,” Lupe said, poking her head into the closet. She sidled around the three-sided mirror and looked out the dark window. “Ocean view, too. What is she, the witch to the rich and famous?”
“Hey, don’t snark,” Sylvie said, though her lips twitched. “If we can’t convince Erinya to think you make a better human than a shape-shifter, we’re going to be dependent on Val’s goodwill.”
“Guess I shouldn’t have broken her mirror.” Lupe didn’t sound like she cared. She slunk through the closet with an animal grace that reminded Sylvie of Erinya’s human form. No wonder Erinya was interested. Here was someone who reminded her of her sisters, who could give her the fight but came without the bossiness.
“Did Alex show you Val’s panic room?”
“You think I’m going to go monster again.”
“Try not to,” Sylvie said. “Demalion’s already taken a shot at you, and our new guest would take killing you as a personal challenge. She’s ISI. If I didn’t need her info, I wouldn’t have let her in.” She pulled open drawer after drawer and finally found khaki jeans that she didn’t think cost the earth. Sylvie dragged them on, wincing as she fastened them. Val had always been just that bit slimmer. They’d stretch.
She dragged a shirt over her black tank, sighed; Val’s wardrobe didn’t lend itself to black underclothing. It would do. She buttoned the shirt, realized Lupe hadn’t said much in the past minute or two, and turned. Lupe was huddled up on one of the chairs, being careful of her talons on the fabric.
Sylvie replayed the conversation and grimaced. “Sorry. They’re not trigger-happy or anything. You’re perfectly safe. You feel the changes coming on, right? So we just get you in the panic room at that point. No harm, no foul. No shooting.”
“Can’t really blame ’em,” Lupe said. “I’m a monster.” She blinked slitted eyes at Sylvie, showed fang teeth in a wry grimace. “You know the most bizarre thing? I think I could deal with the shape-shifting. With never knowing what I might become or when it might happen.
“What I can’t stand? Is not going back to human. I don’t know whether it’s vanity or what, but I look in the mirrors, and all I see is this… thing. When I’ve shape-shifted, I don’t care.”
