to behave. Amusement and relief sparked in Sylvie’s chest. Those were the children that had been fighting on the plane in the seats before her. At least, Dunne’s travel express had spared her three plus hours of whining children.
Her gaze left them, scanned for Demalion; for once, she didn’t have to remind herself to look for blond instead of brunette. It seemed her brain had finally accepted Demalion in the new form. Defaulted to it in her memory.
While looking for them, she grew tense. One suited man lingering in a terminal was nothing. A businessman traveling. But one suited man lingering in a terminal trying to not look at another suited man … it could be a potential hookup, but Sylvie knew better, even before she saw them avoid looking at two more suits. The ISI net was laid out.
Sylvie moved smoothly toward a coffee kiosk, then kept moving until she was behind a pillar. They didn’t notice, all their attention trained on the exiting passengers. Sylvie dialed Demalion hastily, hoping he had been quick to turn his phone back on.
“Sylvie,” he said, “Nice disappearing act you pulled. Think you can stay disappeared?”
“They’re waiting for you—”
Demalion and Marah crested the curve, and Sylvie bit off the heartfelt curse she wanted to emit. She wasn’t that far away from the ISI herself.
“I know they are,” Demalion said. A woman that Sylvie had not marked as ISI peeled herself out of a chair and strode over. Late forties, a face like a beautiful blade—all sharpness and intent—and cropped, tight curls. Unlike the rest of the ISI, she wore a dress in a eye-catching teal.
Marah tensed all over, and the woman laid a hand on her arm. The movement looked gentle, a casual touch, but Marah sagged beneath it. The suits moved in and gripped her arms tight.
“What’s the point of having psychic abilities if you don’t use them!” Sylvie said.
“I did. This is the best-case scenario,” he said. His gaze swept the concourse briefly, lit on hers for the barest moment of contact, then swept on. “This way leaves bread crumbs—”
The witch—she had to be a witch, a strong one, to affect Marah with a touch—took the phone from Demalion’s hand.
“Sylvie,” the woman said. Her voice was as sonorous and warm as a viola. “Will you join us?”
“Yvette,” Sylvie said. Really, the woman could be no one else. Even if she weren’t the witch in charge, she looked like Demalion’s type: strength before prettiness. “I don’t think so. I’m still in Miami.”
“The first time we get to talk, and you tell me a lie? Not a good start, I’m afraid. I’ve cast a seeking spell. It won’t be long before we find you.”
“Finding isn’t catching,” Sylvie said.
She grabbed another look at Demalion; he’d shouldered aside one of the agents, a red-haired man, and was holding Marah up himself. Stupid, Sylvie thought, he wouldn’t be able to move quickly if he got the chance. Then again, though Demalion had flaws, stupidity was not one of them. He didn’t think they were in immediate danger; burdening himself was a signal to her that she should flee without guilt.
Something brushed over her skin, as damp and breathless like a dog’s nose, all snuffling curiosity—Yvette’s spell.
“I feel you now,” Yvette said. “You’re close, aren’t you? You’re watching us.”
“You think?” Sylvie shifted with the crowd’s tide, let the seeking spell fall off her. She mingled with a group of stewards moving quickly through the concourse, heading for the hotel shuttles. Time to go.
“You took the high road, borrowed a god’s power to bring you to Dallas. Riordan has you searching for Graves. I bet you found him. How was he? Dead yet?”
“You knew the Night Hag was there?”
“Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving man,” Yvette said. “I know you’ll agree.”
“If I don’t, you and your Good Sisters will erase the memory of it.”
Yvette’s breath caught, the tiniest of tells.
“Surprised, yet?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re not getting out of here, Sylvie. My people are at all the exits. You’re not armed. We are.”
Sylvie let Yvette have the last word, disconnected. The witch was right—Sylvie could see other agents lurking near doors, made the mistake of meeting eyes with one of them. The man’s hand dropped to his gun, then he came after her, close enough that she could see an earpiece. What one knew, they all knew.
She could just let them catch her, trust that among Demalion, Marah, and herself they could get free and make Yvette’s life miserable. Demalion had suggested she disappear, though. More psychic premonition?
She had to trust him and his instincts. She had to get out, stay free. She starting dialing. “Alex? Is Erinya still outside?”
A pause on the line, then Lupe said, “No. She’s inside.”
Sylvie went cold. “Why are you answering Alex’s phone? Why is Erinya inside?”
“Because Alex fell over and starting foaming at the mouth.”
“Did you do it?” Sylvie remembered those poisonous nails, the touch-me-not colors that lurked beneath Lupe’s skin, wondered if Alex had called Erinya for help.
“Fuck you,” Lupe said. “No.”
“Put Erinya on,” Sylvie said. The agents were closing in; Sylvie clutched the phone tight and ran. Hardly discreet behavior in an airport, especially when she didn’t have luggage—no pretense at running for a plane. She dodged two rent-a-cops, who were all too willing to get involved, and they paid the price, getting hit with a spell meant for her. They went down, blinded, paralyzed, neat packages ready to be collected.
Yvette’s personal team was all witch, Sylvie thought, and they could and would use witchcraft at will since they could cover it up, afterward. Up ahead of her, illusions spread like disease, unreal police clearing the concourse. Unreal police dogs lunged before them, pulling leashes taut, scaring people back. Isolating Sylvie, who didn’t react to the illusions.
Yvette had studied her enough to turn Sylvie’s immunity into a disadvantage. Yvette was a thinker.
“I don’t want that thing. It’s plastic,” Erinya’s voice resonated through the phone even at a distance.
“It’s Sylvie,” Lupe said. “Just take the damn thing.”
“Plastic!”
“Erinya!” Sylvie snapped. “Come get me! Now!”
“Not the boss of—”
“Erinya!” Lupe said. “Please! Go to her!”
A moment later, the airport carpet shredded under the stress of a blossoming jungle; the witches nearest Sylvie, nearest Erinya’s sudden arrival, screamed as their spells overloaded in the god’s presence and burned them out as inevitably as a flame following a trail of gasoline. Erinya crossed her arms over her chest and smirked.
Too much to hope that Yvette had fallen prey to Erinya’s magic-burn. Sylvie knew better. The moment Sylvie had hung up on her, Yvette had taken Demalion and Marah and gotten the hell gone. Yvette was a thinker; Yvette had files on Sylvie, knew her strengths, her weaknesses. Yvette knew Sylvie would use every weapon she could if cornered. Even a god. Knew she’d done it recently in Miami.
Erinya snarled, made to go after the witches, who were scattering as best they could. Sylvie grabbed her shoulder, said, “Miami. We don’t have time.”
“We have nothing but time,” Erinya said. “We’re immortal. And we’re hunters. We could play. You could get payback for their harassing you.”
“I need to get back to Alex. I need to talk to Riordan.” Reminders to herself as much as to Erinya. It would be so easy to turn the hunt around. So tempting. Sylvie hated the ISI, but at least they had some interest in people’s welfare. The Good Sisters? None.
And they had taken Demalion.
Sylvie savaged her lip, remembered Zoe. Remembered Alex, ill and alone with Lupe who couldn’t be trusted.
Erinya ran a red tongue over black-painted lips, looking after the fleeing Society agents. “It wouldn’t take
