“Zoe’s not here.”
A yellow spark of light illuminated the dark tunnel they’d come through, and Zoe’s voice, ragged and exhausted, said, “That’s ’cause we got the hell out of Dodge in case you brought the roof down. Marah said you probably would.”
“Zo—” Sylvie raced across the room, caught her sister up, one-handed, smelled char and fire, not just from the lighter Zoe hastily clicked shut.
“Did you do it?” Zoe asked. “Break the Corrective?”
Sylvie leaned back. “None of your memories changed?”
“Should they have?”
“Only if you ran into something big and magical before, I guess.”
Weariness was settling onto her like a shroud. The earth above their head seemed suddenly oppressive, crushing her with its darkness and chill. Demalion caught her around the waist as she sagged. He groaned as he did so, and she forced herself to stiffen her spine, carry herself. He was wounded, too.
“Come on,” Zoe said. “Let’s get the hell out of here before someone comes to investigate.”
“Investigate what?” Sylvie muttered.
“Your part of the fight might have been quiet—at least, we didn’t hear it. But ours was not. We set off the ISI alarm above. Marah’s up there shutting it down.”
“And Lupe?” Sylvie said, following her sister’s voice through the dark tunnel.
“She’s … okay,” Zoe said.
“You don’t sound sure.”
“She’s not sure.”
Sylvie stepped out into a thick fogbank tinted with dawnlight, pink and gold and palest violet. It was almost a physical relief after the closed-in dark and blood of the underground base. Two shapes swirled out of the mist and joined them. Marah Stone, a long, lean figure—the only one of them who was moving smoothly. Behind her … it had to be Lupe. Back in human shape. Completely human. Down to her fingertips.
“Lupe,” Sylvie said. “You’re—”
“I was killing them. They decided the best way to fight me was to make me normal again.” Lupe’s voice was blank where it should have been exultant. The bad guys had done what Sylvie couldn’t. What Lupe had wanted for so long. Given her back her human life. Maybe it was just too much, all at once.
Sylvie had a bad feeling about it, though, remembering Lupe fierce and savage and powerful. That kind of feeling was addictive.
“Marah,” Demalion said. “Transport?”
“SUV’s waiting,” she said. “Let’s get out of here. I know a place we can clean up.”
MARAH’S PLACE TURNED OUT TO BE A SKETCHY-LOOKING PRIVATE clinic surrounded by barbed-wire fences. Inside, Marah waved the doctor over without a word. The doctor took one look at the lot of them, bruised, broken, bleeding, and simply nodded. He whisked Sylvie away for X-rays of her hand before she could do more than blink in the bright fluorescents. The smell of burned coffee was strong, and she managed to convince him to give her a cup right after he shot her full of some powerful painkiller.
“I’m immobilizing your hand,” he said. “Just to get you to your next destination. You’re going to need surgery and pins. There are twenty-seven bones in your hand. Thirteen of them are broken.”
“Feels like it,” she said. Inwardly, she was thinking,
He sent her back into the room Marah had commandeered. Sylvie got her first real look at her team. Demalion’s lacerations weren’t as bad as she’d feared. He’d managed to do more than just lift that sorcerous werewolf up; he’d held him away from his body as best he could. Eight jagged claw marks scored his side and shoulder, but they were fairly shallow; a series of deep punctures at his hip marked where the wolf had bitten down. A crew-cut woman who looked like she belonged in army greens drew another line of sutures through his flesh.
Demalion met Sylvie’s eyes and nodded.
Zoe drew her attention next by the simple gasp she let out. She stared at Sylvie’s swaddled hand, braced from every angle possible. “Oh God, what happened?”
“Bonebreak spell.” Sylvie took in her sister’s appearance in full light and did some appalled gaping of her own. “Oh, Zoe…
Zoe tossed her head; the brutal burn across her neck and jaw glistened in the white lights of the clinic, shiny with salve. Her hair on that side was a charred, frizzled mass. “It’s okay,” she said. “Nothing a chic haircut and a small illusion won’t fix. It’s not that bad.”
Sylvie bit her lip hard, sat on the low, padded table beside her. Her knees felt soft, fluid. When she had control of her tongue, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“I knew what I was getting into,” Zoe said. Her eyes were hard and bright; she squeezed onto the table also, a line of warmth along Sylvie’s side. “I opened up the earth below the witch who did it. Feel worse for her. She’s down amidst the magma.”
Marah grinned from her place by the door. “I like your sister, Sylvie.”
“Yeah, I meant to say—what the hell, Zoe? Earthquakes in a fault zone? That was a fucking huge risk, don’t you think? We were all
“It was not,” Zoe argued right back. “Jeez, Sylvie, use your brain. That stronghold had stood for over a century. It survived the 1906 earthquake. You know what that means?”
“They were lucky?”
Demalion rolled his eyes. The nurse in the room didn’t even look up as they argued over magic and earthquakes. Sylvie wondered if she was even listening at all. She seemed utterly practiced in ignoring anything but the wounds she was dealing with. She finished the last stitch, leaned forward to reach for a roll of gauze, and revealed a handgun strapped at her spine.
Sylvie had the strong suspicion they were in an ISI chop shop. Safe enough, she supposed. There was no one left to lead the ISI. Graves. Riordan. Yvette. All dead. No one to take their places. No one to come after her for the time being.
“You don’t get it, Sylvie. Those witches worked enough magic to make the ground completely stable. There are anti-earthquake charms all over the area. Hell, the rest of the world will fall into the sea before that place feels so much as a tremor.”
“Yeah, that might explain why it’s still standing after Sylvie got through with it,” Demalion said. “I thought that was too good to be true.”
“We were
“Or thought she’d get caught in the cross fire,” Demalion said. “Those monsters were pretty much the raze- it-to-the-ground type.”
“I would have done my best to make sure she did,” Sylvie said with a shrug.
Lupe slunk into the room; a toilet flushed behind her. She was changed, wearing white scrubs, and she looked very small as she curled up on another examining table. She sat silently, watching her hands open and close. Her nails shone short and soft and human. Pink and white, the traces of an old French manicure brought back from the past. She had two black eyes forming—probably a broken nose—red-yellow bruises rising on her arms, but other than that, she looked just like the girl Sylvie had seen months ago—the clean-cut college student.
Until Sylvie looked into her eyes. Lupe was never going to be that girl again, no matter that she’d gotten a reset on her humanity.
Demalion shifted in his seat, reached out, and distracted Zoe when the nurse applied one last sheen of salve to Zoe’s burned face and neck.
Too little, too late, Sylvie thought, but Zoe seemed to find some measure of relief in the application. She closed her eyes, sighed into it, tilted her head so the nurse could get her cheek.
Sylvie swallowed guilt—her beautiful baby sister—and dread. Her parents were not going to be happy. The nurse nodded impartially at all of them and left.
