by Lyn Benedict
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1 - Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Chapter 2 - Looking for Trouble
Chapter 3 - Monsters
Chapter 4 - Magic and Monsters
Chapter 5 - Symbology & Sources
Chapter 6 - Delegation and Negotiation
Chapter 7 - Ill-Met
Chapter 8 - Bad Guys
Chapter 9 - The Girl Reporter and the God
Chapter 10 - Politics as Usual
Chapter 11 - Gods and Powers
Chapter 12 - In the Monster’s Lair
Chapter 13 - Remember Me?
Chapter 14 - Mirror Mirror
Chapter 15 - Negotiations
Chapter 16 - Enemy Engagement
Chapter 17 - Simple Plans
Chapter 18 - Two Gods, No Waiting
Chapter 19 - Taking Stock
PRAISE FOR
Ghosts & Echoes
“With her usual beautiful prose, a clever new take on an old piece of folklore, and a plot that keeps us feverishly turning pages to learn what new revelation waits ahead, Lyn Benedict has written one of the best urban fantasies I’ve read in some time.”
—Fantasy Literature
“Readers will enjoy this fine paranormal investigative thriller with a great late twist as the tough detective works the abnormal beat.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“The mix of supernatural elements and a real-world setting . . . makes this a good recommendation for fans of Kat Richardson’s Greywalker series or Seanan McGuire’s new October Daye series.”
—Booklist
“An enjoyable addition to a series that melds multiple pantheons and paranormal tenets into a sometimes chaotic story that still manages to immediately intrigue the reader.”
—Night Owl Romance
“This second Shadows Inquiries novel can stand alone as a strong, well-written tale with an evolving heroine who’s tough without being a sex goddess. Sylvie is a complex, flawed character, and that makes her interesting. The real-world setting keeps things believable.”
—Romantic Times
Sins & Shadows
“Dark and fascinating.”
—Kat Richardson, national bestselling author of Labyrinth
“A solid start to the series, and should quickly gain fans . . . Ms. Benedict does a fantastic job of drawing readers into the chaos of the heroine’s life and keeping them firmly invested in the outcome. The characters are passionate, the story heavy on action, and the emotions run high.”
—Darque Reviews
“Sylvie is harder and darker than the usual paranormal PI, and this story is the better for it.”
—CA Reviews
“Lyn Benedict uses as her background Greek mythology to provide an excellent investigative fantasy thriller. . . . a fascinating, spellbinding work.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“Ferocious, no-holds-barred Sylvie is abrasive but forthright—a heroine that any reader would champion. Rounded out by a series of well-developed characters and pulse-pounding action, this story looks to be the start of an excellent series.”
—Romantic Times
“Lyn Benedict delivers one hell of a powerful story, expertly weaving Greek, Egyptian, and Christian lore and traditions together before tossing them into a modern setting. . . . Sylvie herself is a tough cookie, one willing to boss around gods and monsters alike to get the job done.”
—The Green Man Review
“With fantastic characters, engrossing magic, and creative mayhem, Benedict gives us a new twist on the supernatural noir front. A fast-paced ride all the way!”
—Chris Marie Green, author of Deep in the Woods
“Lyn Benedict has crafted a story filled with many fantastic characters that keep you enthralled from beginning to end. . . . For this reason alone, I will definitely be a Lyn Benedict reader from this point forward.”
—Patricia’s Vampire Notes
“Pulls out all the stops. Sylvie does battle for no less than the fate of the world.”
—Carrie Vaughn, New York Times bestselling author of Kitty Goes to War
“A dark, gutsy urban fantasy filled with mythology . . . I’m looking forward to reading the next installment.”
—Fantasy Cafe
Ace Books by Lyn Benedict
SINS & SHADOWS
GHOSTS & ECHOES
GODS & MONSTERS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
GODS & MONSTERS
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / May 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Lane Robins.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-51394-1
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1
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
FOR ONCE, WHEN PEOPLE STARTED DYING, SYLVIE LIGHTNER WASN’T at ground zero. When things went wrong, really wrong, she was fifteen miles away from the crime scene, haggling with a werewolf bitch over her finder’s fee.
Five days ago, Sylvie had asked Tatya to keep an eye out and a nose up for a woman who’d gone missing from Alligator Alley, figuring she could turn Tatya’s nightly perambulations through the Everglades to good use. Delegation had paid off: Three days later, Maria Ruben was no longer a missing person. Dead, but no longer lost, and that was something. Finding her body could bring its own resolution to the family and was worth every penny.
So Sylvie had met Tatya at the scene, called the cops, and split without waiting for them to show, spooked.
Mar
ia Ruben hadn’t been alone. There were four other dead women, drowned, pushed beneath the duckweed surface of an Everglades lagoon, and left to sway slowly in the dark, stagnant waters. Maria’s short dark hair stuck out like a frightened puffer fish, showing the shock her slack face couldn’t. A pink barrette—cheap plastic butterfly— floated free, trailing a long bronze lock of hair belonging to a woman barely into her twenties.
All of them were young, Maria likely the oldest, and all were Hispanic. Someone had particular tastes. Sylvie swallowed disgust, studied the other three women by the sullen gold of the setting sun. Their ethnicity and ages might match up, but their clothes argued they came from different parts of the city: Maria’s casual business wear; swimsuit and sarong; halter top and skirt; demure blouse and khaki skirt; and one who reminded Sylvie of her sister—a budding fashion plate.
That was the moment Sylvie had called the police. The moment she felt over her head. This was someone’s sister. Sylvie might have a reputation as a vigilante, but she knew when to leave a crime scene the hell alone.
Tatya wanted a finder’s fee for each woman. Sylvie didn’t object on any moral ground—never mind that their agreement only covered Maria Ruben—but finances dictated haggling. Five hundred dollars had been half of the fee Sylvie had charged Maria Ruben’s husband, but $2500 started eating into rent. Sylvie would be willing to take that financial risk, but her business partner, Alexandra Figueroa-Smith, wouldn’t. Sylvie wanted to keep Tatya happy—the werewolf was a good source as well as a quasi friend—so the discussion lasted longer than Sylvie liked, culminating with Sylvie’s writing an IOU for another thousand, payable the next month.
Once the rest of the women were identified, Sylvie could see about spreading around the cost of doing business. There might be a reward or, more likely, a client who’d want her to investigate how their loved one had ended up underwater. Now that she had an in with the local cops, courtesy of her making nice with Detective Adelio Suarez, she could be a useful liaison to a grieving family. And she thought that the police were going to be struggling with this one. The scene had felt . . . charged, a spark in the still, hot air that tasted of the Magicus Mundi.
Maria Ruben’s car had been found abandoned beside the road, the battery run down, the driver’s door hanging open. Her husband had reported his wife’s last words via cell phone, Salvador, you should see this. A two-headed alligator. I’m stopping for pics . . . and nothing more.
Whatever had happened that night had seen Maria Ruben transported nearly fifty miles, her camera bag gone, her forehead marked, and her body left in a crowded and watery grave. It smacked of ritual murder.
Those women hadn’t died natural deaths; that much seemed evident. The question that lingered was—how unnatural had they been?
BACK IN SOUTH MIAMI BEACH, SYLVIE PUT THE KEY IN HER OFFICE door, the phone shrilling on the other side of the glass like a race clock timer counting down. She forced the key to turn, slammed into her office—all haste, no caution, rushing to hear what Suarez had to say about the ’Glades scene, cursing him for calling the office instead of her cell—and fell into a nightmare.
A cobweb brush of sensation lingered and jittered on her skin, the sign of a spell laid over the doorway. A trap she’d bulled right on through.
Stupid, she thought, and froze, trying to control the only thing she still could: herself.
Her office changed around her, warped by powerful magic, an inferno blossoming. The illusion worked all her senses—drowned her vision in flickering flames that crackled and hissed, licked around and out of electrical sockets. She tasted acrid plastic; the chemical burn of it seared her nose and throat. Only furious control kept her from coughing, flailing for air.
Heat scalded her every inborne breath, dried her lungs. Her skin prickled, tightened, felt puffed with heat. Stretching a cautious hand forward resulted in blistered fingers.
Even with the memory of the telltale sensation, that cobweb cling across her face and throat, she nearly believed in the illusory fire turning her office into a maze of heavy smoke and hellish light.
Believing in an illusion gave it power.
Illusion could kill if you accepted it as truth.
Her little dark voice fed her a nasty thought: What if the spell is layered over a real fire? What if you burn trying to prove it isn’t real?
That moment of doubt cost her. Smoke choked her, tightened her lungs and throat, scouring her insides; her hair stank of burning. Sylvie fumbled for the door handle, just behind her, so far away, backing up and not finding it. Was she even moving?
Faintly, she heard the ringing of the warning bell on the main desk. A singing chime, growing faster, shriller, an audible sign that magic was saturating the air. It steadied her, gave her a focus. If the bell was still ringing, then the charred wreckage of the desk was illusion. It was all illusion.
And it was centered on her. Even if she fled, the flames would follow.
Meant to send you screaming outside, into traffic or the ocean, that internal voice muttered.
If she didn’t flee? She risked being an anomalous death, a woman dead of smoke inhalation in an untouched office.
This, she thought grimly, was what came of playing by the rules. Of leaving the bad guys alive. If she’d killed Odalys the necromancer instead of seeing her arrested, if she had punished Patrice Caudwell for returning from the dead instead of balking at the complications involved—if, if, if. If Sylvie had disposed of her enemies properly, she wouldn’t be one step from having her lungs ruined by imaginary smoke.
Anger surged. Hell with that. It wasn’t a mistake worth dying for.
She broke the paralysis the illusion had forced her into. The illusion might be cleverly crafted, the mark of a talented if malign witch, but Sylvie refused to yield.
Sylvie’s lips drew tight over her teeth, snarling. Hot air rushed into her mouth, drying it. Three ways to break an illusion spell for a non-magic-user. Kill the caster. Wait the illusion out. Or overwhelm it.
Sylvie would gladly put a bullet in the witch’s brain, but the coward had struck from a distance. Waiting wasn’t an option; not when it was a struggle just to keep breathing, to override her body’s instinctive panic. But the ringing bell on the desk was a protective spell, defensive magic. . . .
She thought cool thoughts about AC, about healthgiving air, about freshwater cascading over her skin, then stepped into the thickest gouts of flames. The fires licked her flesh, gnawed her hands, singed her jeans, her jacket, turned her gun to a hot brand against her back. Sylvie pushed it all aside.
The bell rang on, her guiding beacon. Sylvie moved by memory and sound, trusting her will above her body and mind. Control. Calm.
She slammed her hand down on the bell—agitated metal quivering against her skin, cool stone containing it, and the unyielding strength of the desk beneath. Her world erupted in an entirely new wave of heat/pain/magic. The offensive and defensive magics warred, her body the battlefield, the choice of weapon—fire. Pain ran liquid through her body; her blood sizzled as if it boiled within her.
Her hair streamed upward, rising like smoke, her eyes blind to both illusion and reality—completely vulnerable; then it was over, and she stood panting and aching in her office, on a balmy and peaceful South Beach evening, the only scent of fire in the air that of the restaurants searing freshly caught fish and shrimp. The warning bell was slagged silver in a cracked marble bowl, and beneath them, the desk was crocodile-scaled with char.
Wonderful. Just after she learned she had a powerful witch gunning for her, she destroyed the one piece of magic that would warn her of an attack.
She just wondered who it was that wanted her dead. The list was regrettably long—the sorcerous Maudits community; the ISI, America’s government spook squad; even a miffed Greek god or two. If Sylvie had to choose, though, she’d pick Odalys Hargrove, the necromancer she’d managed to get slapped behind bars two days ago. Odalys wasn’t the type to suffer in silence. Sylv
ie had managed, with the help of the Ghoul, to prevent Odalys from fulfilling her vicious business plan: destroying teenagers’ souls and selling the newly emptied bodies to hungry ghosts looking for a new lease on life. Odalys was exactly the type to have contingency plans lying around.
SYLVIE CHECKED THE CLOCK ABSENTLY—10:00 P.M.—THEN TOOK A second, disbelieving look. Fury rose all over again. That ridiculous attack had cost her nearly an hour. An hour trapped in battle with her own senses. An hour gone. An hour . . . in which she hadn’t heard anything at all from Lio.
Since she’d given him the heads-up on the bodies in the ’Glades close to two hours ago, she felt justified in her impatience.
While she doubted she’d have heard the phone ring, neither her cell nor her office phone had any messages, though the office phone’s caller ID listed the call she’d missed as from Salvador Ruben, his nightly check-in on her progress.
Until today, Sylvie had had none to report. Now that she did, she had to wait on Suarez.
She said, “Dammit,” aloud, and the dry rasp of it hurt. She leaned against the kitchenette counter, drank straight from the sink faucet. Lukewarm water had rarely tasted so sweet. She wiped at her damp mouth and cheek, thinking dark thoughts about police cooperation.
Detective Adelio Suarez would still have Maria Ruben as a missing person without Sylvie’s help. He’d better not be cutting her out of the loop. Their relationship was supposed to be a two-way street, dammit.
