by Eileen Wilks
Not that he’d seen extinction as the only possibility, but he’d been pretty sure that’s what would happen. His world—the only world left to him—was about two hundred yards in diameter. Get three hundred feet away from Yu in any direction and everything turned fuzzy. Keep going and it got…not dark. Darkness was a lack of light, and out there in the gray it was like vision itself didn’t exist. Out there was nothing.
Nothing had sounded like a damn good place to end up. He’d expected to become nothing, too, when he left Yu, though he’d conceded it was possible he’d get that white light people yammered about, the one that hadn’t shown up when Big Thumbs pulled the trigger. Or maybe…
He hadn’t really let himself think about that “maybe.” He didn’t deserve it. But it was like a rope—there were two ends to it, and if the end he held was grimy and black with guilt, the other end was as shiny and right as any of the angels he didn’t believe in.
Mostly, though, he’d expected to die for good. Drummond hadn’t believed in God for years, much less an afterlife…though Sarah used to tell him he wasn’t a true unbeliever, just too mad at the deity to give Him the time of day. She’d been at least somewhat right. He figured that any God who let the sort of shit happen that he’d seen over and over wasn’t worth much. Sure, you could blame it on free will and people being assholes, but if so, God had done a pisspoor job of creating when it came to man, hadn’t He?
So he’d left, walking off into the gray. Pushed ahead even when he didn’t have any sense of a body, when there was nothing left of darkness or light, no whisper of sensation, barely the memory of it. Slogged on until he couldn’t tell if he was moving anymore, until even the blasted whatever-it-was that tied him to Yu grew so faint he couldn’t find it.
Maybe he’d stopped then. Maybe he’d kept going. He had no way of knowing. But still moving or just plain still, he’d waited. And waited.
At some point—it had seemed like hours, but might have been weeks or minutes, given how little time meant in the gray—he’d known he’d been wrong about that “maybe.” Wrong that it might be even a little bit possible. Wrong, too, about how desperately he’d wanted it to happen anyway.
If Sarah had had any way of coming to him, she would have come then.
He’d broken down then, broken apart. Sobbed like a baby, and if he hadn’t had eyes and a body to sob with, that made it worse. There was no Sarah. There would never be a Sarah for him again.
There was no anything…but him.
People think they know what alone means. Shit, he’d thought he did, thought he was more loner than not. He hadn’t had the least damn clue. Broken, bereft of bones, breath, sight, hearing, touch, he’d known that the gray was hell, and he’d waited for hell to eat him.
It hadn’t.
Not that he knew what had happened. Maybe, like he told Yu, he’d slept. At some point he’d drifted back to himself, wisping around like a bit of fluff so insubstantial that gravity was a lesser force than the eddies of air he floated on. He’d come back soft and slow and gentle, and found himself lying on a bed in one of the guest rooms in Yu’s D.C. house. He’d come back knowing two things.
While he was away or asleep or whatever, someone had talked to him. Not Sarah, and he didn’t think it was God, but someone. And he had to help Lily Yu.
However little either of them liked it.
What I want to hear, she’d said, is that you’ve changed your mind about magic and the people who use it.
People like her. People like her boss, who he’d tried to kill, and her fellow agents in Unit Twelve, and that damn werewolf she intended to marry. People like most of her friends and at least one of her family, according to the reports he’d read when he checked her out.
People like Dennis Parrott. Not that he’d known about Parrott’s charisma Gift back when he was busy pissing on everything he’d spent a lifetime fighting for. Dennis Parrott had found him easy prey, twisting him around until it made perfect sense to kill Ruben Brooks because he was in charge of the magic-users in the FBI. Perfect sense to conspire to kill a U.S. senator—not that he’d known exactly how Parrott planned to do it, but that was no excuse—and frame Brooks for the murder. Perfect sense to do whatever it took to rid this country of magic.
Whatever it took…until he learned that his associates thought that meant killing twenty-two people to make death magic. Parrott and Chittenden had kept him in the dark about the death magic. They shouldn’t have been able to do that, but he hadn’t been at his best, had he? When he did find out, it had been almost too damn late. When he found out…
Al Drummond didn’t deny one ounce of the blame that was his. He’d earned the hell that hadn’t eaten him. But magic made the playing field too damn uneven.
And Lily Yu wanted to know if he still hated magic?
God, yes. Just like he hated the gun laws in this country that made it too fucking easy for bastards to blow each other away along with whoever else might be standing nearby. Didn’t mean he hated guns—just the ones used by goddamn idiot losers who had no business being handed power like that.
That’s what he hated about magic. That it could be wielded by losers at least as easily as by the good guys. That it could—like all power—turn a good guy into a loser.
He should have told Yu that. She didn’t trust him, which proved she wasn’t an idiot. But he needed her trust. He needed her, period. Needed her more than he’d needed his mother’s tit as a baby.
Just went to prove…if there was a God, He had one sick sense of humor.
FOUR
“I’M fine, Mother. Really.” Beth Yu dropped to the floor, lifted the bed skirt, and peered into the crowded darkness under her bed. Nope. Not there. Which meant it had to be Deirdre…again. “The apartment may be small, but you saw it. It’s in a perfectly decent part of San Francisco, and…he did? Well, you can tell Uncle Feng to butt out of—”
That, of course, was a mistake. While she listened to “Respect Your Elders” speech number twenty-seven she pushed to her feet and headed to the door of her closet, aka bedroom. Through superhuman organizational ability she’d managed to make room for her desk, but that’s about all it held. That and a small file cabinet and the twin-size bed she’d swapped out her old bed for so she could wedge the desk in. When you were freelancing from home, you had to have a desk.
The door to closet number two—Deirdre’s room—was three steps down the hall. She opened it and frowned at the debris covering every surface. Was it only two years ago that she’d lived like this, too? Back then, it had seemed deliciously hedonistic. Liberated. Now it just looked stupid. You couldn’t find anything in a space this messy. Like shoes. Her shoes, which Deirdre liked so much she kept borrowing them, maybe because she couldn’t find any of her own.
Beth stepped into the one spot of carpet that showed between piles of cast-off clothing and started digging.
When her mother paused for breath, she said, “I’m sure my uncle meant well, but I hate that he got you all worried. There’s nothing wrong with this neighborhood. People can get shot anywhere. No one was killed, and it isn’t like it was a gang shooting or something—”
Another mistake. Usually she handled her mother better than this. She started tossing clothes around as her mother explained how very stupid it was to assume it wasn’t gangs when the police didn’t know who’d done it, and if the victim wasn’t dead yet, he probably would be soon, and if he didn’t die, he’d probably be paralyzed. How was that any better? Not that she wouldn’t far prefer to have a paralyzed daughter to a dead one, but this wasn’t about her feelings, it was about Beth’s safety.
Beth sighed and pulled out the big guns. “I really think this neighborhood is safe, but you’re right, I have to be careful. I’ll ask Lily to check those crime statistics for the area again. Maybe they’ve changed. I know she said they looked pretty good when I moved here, but…”
It worked. It worked so well Beth ground her teeth. Citing her sister calmed he
r mother as nothing else could these days. It was as irrational as it was infuriating. “You want to call her yourself? Oh, of course. I know…” Where were those damn shoes?
“And just what do you think you’re doing in my room?”
She must have been listening to her mother more than she’d thought. She hadn’t heard the front door. Beth looked up at the skinny girl lounging in the doorway. Deirdre had short, shiny blond hair, a nose stud, five piercings in one ear and three in the other. She didn’t trust even numbers. “Looking for my—hey!”
Beneath the ragged hem of Deirdre’s jeans were the sky-high hot pink wedges Beth had bought when she got her first check as a freelance website designer. She waved at her roommate’s feet. “Take ’em off. No, Mother, I didn’t mean you. Deirdre borrowed my shoes and I want to wear them, so…listen, can I call you back? It might be late, but—okay, tomorrow, then. Love you.”
She disconnected quickly.
“You don’t need your shoes now,” Deirdre informed her. “It’s Tuesday. You’re going to the dojo. You don’t do kung fu in wedges.”
“I don’t do kung fu at all, and I wear shoes to get to the class, which is not held in a dojo. Today I will wear those shoes. Which are mine.”
Deirdre rolled her eyes and stepped over two newly redistributed piles of clothes. “You weren’t this selfish in college.”
“I wasn’t buying my own stuff in college. Do you know what I paid for those?”
“They were on sale.” Still, Deirdre sat on her bed—and a red sweater, a yellow and green skirt, and a pair of jeans—and unbuckled one shoe. “So who’s the target?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Deirdre waved a vague hand. “You’re wearing a new sweater—which I love, by the way, and when did you get it?—and you’re desperate for your fuck-me wedges. There is a target.” She handed Beth one shoe, and her narrow face lit in a grin. “Oooh. Are you finally moving on Sean?”
Beth slid the shoe on. “Sean and I are just friends.”
“These are not just-friends shoes.” Deirdre dangled the second shoe by its skinny strap.
“Anything more would be inappropriate, now that I’m working for him.” Beth reached for the shoe.
Deirdre jerked it back, out of reach. “Nuh-uh. Not until you come clean. And you aren’t working for Sean. He’s a client, or his firm is, which is not the same thing at—hey!”
Beth had tackled Deirdre back onto the bed, snatching her shoe in the process. Beth rolled off, sat up, and bent to fasten the shoe in place. “He doesn’t see it that way, plus he’s hung up on the age difference.”
“Hence the shoes and the sweater.”
Beth couldn’t help sliding her friend a grin. “Hence the shoes and sweater. “
Deirdre squealed. “Go you! He’s one heavenly hunk of man, and what’s a couple of years? Besides, older guys can be so considerate.”
It was twenty years, not a couple, and Beth knew that ought to matter. It didn’t. It just didn’t. “He’s picking me up in…Jesus. Any minute now.” She bolted to her feet and hurried to the bathroom. She needed to check her makeup.
Deirdre pattered after her. “You need a spritz of my Opium—no, too obvious. He’d get his defenses up, and this is clearly an ambush. I know! That ‘come hither’ spell!” She dashed back to her room.
Beth didn’t roll her eyes because she was redrawing her eyeliner. “I don’t have time.”
“It’s super quick. I just need to find my grimoire—oh, here it is!” A muffled crash suggested she’d pulled it out from under something that hadn’t been entirely stable. She appeared in the bathroom door a second later, leather-bound book in hand. “And don’t give me any shit about not wanting to take unfair advantage. You know I only do white magic.”
Beth wouldn’t object on those grounds at all…since this spell was no more likely to work than any of her friend’s spells. Deirdre was a complete null. On some level she had to know that, but she didn’t believe it. Plus her “spells” were derived more from her own freewheeling creativity than any existing tradition. Beth had to smile. “I know you do. No compulsion involved, huh?”
“This is no more of a nudge than those shoes,” Deirdre assured her, and began chanting what might have been Latin. Or maybe Sanskrit. She’d gone through a Sanskrit phase awhile back.
Just as Beth finished her mascara, Deirdre slapped the journal closed. “There!” she said happily. “He’ll be paying attention now.”
And that was Deirdre. A flake, but so openhearted you couldn’t hold it against her. “Thanks,” Beth said, and gave her a quick hug just as her phone chimed that a text had arrived. She checked and, sure enough, it was Sean, letting her know he was there.
Be right down, she sent, and grabbed the backpack with her workout clothes. Sean was courteous, but not insane about it. The apartment she shared with Deirdre and Susan—and wasn’t it funny that one of her roommates had the same name as her oldest sister? They were alike in other ways, too. The apartment the three of them shared was on the fifth floor and parking was impossible, so Beth didn’t really miss her car. Much.
Five floors hadn’t seemed bad when her old college buddy mentioned needing a new roommate just when Beth decided she had to get out of San Diego. San Francisco was so crazy expensive she’d thought she couldn’t swing it, but splitting the rent three ways made it work. Their third roomie was a complete workaholic—hence the likeness to Beth’s oldest sister— so they didn’t see her much.
After she moved in, Beth had realized she wasn’t in as good of shape as she’d thought. But stairs made for a cheap workout. She could run up all five flights now. Running down them was easy.
When she hit the sidewalk, Sean’s Beemer was nowhere in sight. He’d be circling the block. He hated it when others double-parked, so he wouldn’t do it himself.
San Francisco was a lot colder than San Diego. Beth set her backpack down and slipped on her jacket, but didn’t zip it. That would negate the effect of the sweater. She petted the buttery smooth leather and smiled. It was brand-new. A Christmas gift from Sean, and if he wanted to believe it was just a friendly way of looking out for her, he could go on thinking that…for a little longer, anyway.
A bicyclist whipped by, legs pumping. Two high school girls hurried across the street. An older man and woman walked past, talking about where to eat that night, and a young, dark-skinned guy with hair frizzed out to his narrow shoulders stopped, scowled at nothing, and turned and went the other way. The supremely well-built if rather homely man who lived two doors down came out of his building and glanced at his watch. Beth’s eyes were busy, keeping track of all of them, as she picked up her backpack.
The particular flavor of martial art she’d picked was called Bojuka, an amalgamation of boxing, jujitsu, and karate. You wore street clothes to practice, not a gi, and it was strictly for self-defense, not sport. Bojuka was all about repelling an attack, and the first step was learning to stay aware, to spot danger before it was on top of you. She was getting better at that.
One year, one month, and two weeks ago, Beth hadn’t been able to repel any kind of attack that went beyond verbal. Snark she could handle. People with guns, knives, and muscles that had received a testosterone boost, not so much. She’d been kidnapped through magic, but held by brute force to be used against her sister.
She didn’t want to ever feel that helpless again.
A shiny black and chrome Beemer turned onto her street at the light. It was a monster of a motorcycle, brawny and tough and sleek all at the same time. A lot like its rider.
Beth’s heart gave a happy little jump as she slipped her backpack on. She couldn’t see Sean’s face—the helmet’s visor obscured everything but his jaw and that lovely mouth of his. But she didn’t have to. She might not know his body in the thoroughly tactile way she wanted to, but she knew the look of it.
He pulled up to the curb, the Beemer’s motor rumbling like a ton or so of happy cat. “Hi, ge
ek boy,” she said, swinging her leg over the seat. “You looking for a good time?”
He flashed her a grin over his shoulder. “Helmet, party girl. We don’t play till the protection’s in place.”
She rolled her eyes but twisted around to unfasten the spare helmet that was hooked to the tail. As soon as she’d strapped it on, he took off…slowly. He drove carefully when she was aboard, though she had talked him into taking her out of the city and opening it up twice.
Beth slid her arms around Sean’s warm, solid middle and leaned with him as he took the corner. Their class was held in a strip mall a good twenty minutes away, so she settled in to enjoy the ride.
She was glad she’d picked Bojuka in spite of the inconvenient location of the class. In spite of the fact that it had been Lily’s recommendation, too. First because she had to quit resenting her sister. Both her sisters, really, but she was used to resenting Susan. Susan was the oldest, the brain, the good girl, who’d become a doctor and married a man with the right kind of ancestors. It was traditional, really, for the younger kids in a Chinese family to resent their overachieving eldest sibling, and who was she to buck tradition? But Lily…for years, Lily had been the rebel. The one who’d disappointed their mother, the target of Julia Yu’s anxiety and nagging. Lily hadn’t rebelled by getting in trouble—she was way too straitlaced for that—but by becoming a cop. An awesomely good cop. One who went around catching bad guys and saving people, and the country, too. One who was supposed to get a medal from the president herself in a few months.
In short, both of Beth’s sisters were incredibly competent women. She was the cute one.
She did cute very well. It just wasn’t enough anymore.
But the main reason she was glad she’d picked Bojuka was warm and solid along her front. If she’d gone for judo or something, she’d never have met Sean Friar. And that didn’t bear thinking about.
FIVE
NIGHT checked in early at the end of December. It had been dark for hours by the time Lily curled up on one of the long leather couches with her warmed-up lasagna. The news was on—something about the sidhe trade delegation that had recently arrived in Washington via the Edge Gate—but the sound was turned down low, so Lily could ignore it. The air smelled of spices and tomato, ashes and woodsmoke.
