by Lyn Benedict
Four-legged, big as a bear, long and lean and supple. A creature designed to chase and kill, feathers and scale, beak and teeth and rage. Erinya shrieked defiance. Sylvie clapped hands over her ears, tried to figure out the odds of the coming fight taking out all bystanders.
Gods of different pantheons chose not to interact, a mutual-avoidance pact. Erinya . . . she wasn’t a god. Just a demigod. Sylvie had the sinking suspicion that meant a brawl was inevitable. Erinya was threatened, and a threatened Fury was a violent one. And Tepeyollotl, summoned by his human agent, would come ready to kill. If not Azpiazu, anything that threatened his agent.
Sylvie put one hand on Erinya’s spiky back, felt the scales rip at her palm, and scrambled over Erinya, slamming Cachita into the door, spilling them both through it and onto the curb, scattering the passersby who’d stopped, gawking at the office. Erinya’s curses still blistered the air. The front window, already cracked by the bullet, started to chip away, to patter bits of glass downward like hail.
Sylvie clapped a hand over Cachita’s mouth, still moving, though Cachita’s eyes showed the woman had checked out. Around them, people cried out, the hunt for someone to do something.
The sidewalk juddered beneath them, an undulation of concrete as hard on their human skin as shark scale. Sylvie grabbed Cachita’s wrist, shook the knife out of her grip. It skidded away, smoking where Cachita’s blood had touched it.
A woman shrieked as it butted up against her flip-flop, drawing another bead of blood. Sylvie lunged, grabbed the screaming woman’s bottled water, ripped the cap off, and dumped it over the blade. The smoke dwindled, disappeared.
Sylvie held her breath. The trembling in the world slowed but continued.
“Tell him not to come,” Sylvie said. “Tell him you made a mistake.”
Cachita gasped for air, fumbled her way upright, reached for the blade. Sylvie fielded her off. “No. Tell him, Cachita. Tell him we don’t need him now.”
“I can’t—”
“All spells run in two directions,” Sylvie snapped. “A door opens, but it also closes.”
She looked at their audience, some familiar faces—her mercantile neighbors more aggravated than frightened—and some not. A cop car turned onto the street.
“Fuck,” Sylvie muttered. She dragged Cachita to her feet, dragged her and the blade inside, shoved Cachita straight into Erinya. “Look!”
Cachita did. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she went down as if Sylvie had coldcocked her.
“Fuck,” Sylvie said again. There was a . . . hole . . . forming in the ceiling of her office, a place where the earthquake warp was strongest. Where Tepeyollotl was investigating Cachita’s call. She drew her gun.
Erinya leaped upward, slashing, biting, shrieking at the gap. Sylvie’s heart rocketed. This was all going to see them turned into meaty gobbets of godly cat chow. She couldn’t see Alex, could barely see Cachita; all her instincts insisted she keep Erinya in her view.
A good thing, too, as her barbed tail lashed across the space Sylvie had just vacated.
Sylvie rolled, grabbed Cachita, shook her back to consciousness.
“What—what is that?” Cachita asked.
“That is less trouble than the god you’ve called,” Sylvie shouted. “Send him back!”
Tepeyollotl shimmered partway into existence—a world-warping blur of cat and man, spots and gold, sweltering heat and jungle scent and growling. Where his body touched, smoke rose.
Sylvie felt his presence like a scalding wind and shuddered. The worst part of it all was that this was just a precursor. Some type of scout—a thinned-out shadow of the god; Tepeyollotl responding only halfheartedly to Cachita’s aborted call.
Still didn’t mean his shadow wouldn’t kill them.
Erinya charged him, fearless, furious.
The sound they made as they collided wasn’t anything as simple as two bodies in motion; their collision rang like imperfect metal just before it shattered. Cachita sobbed; Sylvie crouched low, gun clenched uselessly in her hand.
It was over as fast as it had begun. Tepeyollotl protested once more, a petulant roar of surprise and pain, and disappeared. Erinya spat out a piece of hide large enough to make a coat. It smoked and stank like burning blood and herbs.
Erinya’s tail lashed and lashed; her back rolled in waves of spikes.
A gentle touch wrapped itself around Sylvie’s wrist; she jerked and found Alex creeping up beside her. Unharmed. Eyes wild and wide, but unharmed.
“Alex—”
“We don’t need a closet,” Alex breathed out. “We need a safe room. Magically and physically reinforced. I don’t care if we empty the savings account.”
“Agreed,” Sylvie said.
“All right, then,” Alex said. She slumped against Sylvie’s side. “You gonna do something about that?”
“That” being the Fury, still smashing the office furniture to bits, still climbing the walls, gouging holes in the terrazzo, in the ceiling struts, snarling, drooling bloody spittle across the floor.
“She’s pissed at me already,” Sylvie said. “I think we’re going to sit here and let her work her way down to sane again.”
Cachita whimpered. “Can we run?”
“Last thing we’d do,” Sylvie said. “Sit tight, Cachita.”
“What is it?” Cachita whispered. She shrank back when Erinya whipped her head around to look at them all, then huffed in disgust.
Cachita put her hand over her mouth, trying to hide even her breath. The tiny cuts on her hands left blood on her cheeks. Erinya looked like she wanted to investigate, slunk off the wall, crept across the floor, claws screeking, and Sylvie said, “Uh-uh, Eri. You got lucky. You surprised the god. Don’t bring him back by trying to eat his chosen one, okay?”
The front door swung open; a patrol officer put his head in, saying, “Everything all righ—Holy fuck!”
Erinya pounced, pinned him between her front paws, and Sylvie said, “Eri, please!”
The Fury tasted the man’s neck, hesitated, breathing heat and hunger that Sylvie could feel all the way across the room. Then she pushed him back. “Go away, good man.” The patrolman took the dismissal as the command it was and ran.
A virtuous cop, Sylvie thought. Nice. The relaxation rolling through her body was making her dazed with it.
Erinya shook her entire body, shedding agitation like a dog shedding water, slowly dwindled inward, until there was nothing but a crouching goth girl snarling, incongruous in human-shaped vocal cords.
Cachita shook harder. Sylvie said, “Caridad Valdes-Pedraza? Meet Erinya. One of the Eumenides. A Fury. And if you think she’s dangerous? If you think she’s piss-your-pants scary? You’d be right. But you know what she isn’t? She’s not even a full god. Think about that before you shout for Tepeyollotl again. Think about how much worse it would be to deal with a full god in a rage. That’s what you’re wanting to bring down to earth.”
* * *
THE OFFICE WASN’T QUIET YET: TOO FULL OF THEIR RAPID BREATHS, OF the ringing patter of falling glass, and furniture breaking down further under its own weight. Even the walls were creaking, settling as if Tepeyollotl’s earthquaking appearance had left them perched above a sinkhole.
“It’s too late,” Cachita said, finally, her voice a rasp. “I’ve called him. He’s primed now. He’ll be checking in.”
“Then we need to get Azpiazu sorted before—”
“Deal with me first,” Erinya said, interrupting them. “I want Demalion.”
“I want peace and quiet,” Sylvie said. “I want supernatural guests who don’t shred my workplace.”
Erinya slung herself into Sylvie’s personal space, a smooth lunge and crouch, black-painted lips peeling back to show red gums and sharp white teeth. “I want Demalion dead.”
“He died,” Sylvie said. “You killed him.”
“He didn’t stay that way. His soul should be languishing, tormented for his misdeeds.”
“Then go hunt for him and leave us alone,” Sylvie said. “I’ve got bigger problems.”
“I’ll help you,” Erinya said abruptly. “This Azpiazu. I can find him for you. And you’ll give me Demalion—”
“I won’t,” Sylvie said.
“I could take it from you.”
“You could try,” Sylvie growled.
Alex and Cachita protested at the same time, their fright like a dash of cold water to her own rising temper.
“Let’s make a deal,” Sylvie said. “I won’t give you Demalion. But . . . I can make it worth your while.”
Erinya gave Sylvie her back, heading toward the door, bootheels clicking.
“Erinya,” Sylvie said. “Dunne can have me when I die. I’ll hunt with you.”
Alex squeaked, and Sylvie slashed her hand down, shutting off further protest from without and within. Her little dark voice was a drowning cry of objections. Negotiations didn’t work with interruptions.
The Fury stopped in her tracks. “You’ll be a Fury?” She came back toward Sylvie, all slink and hunger and quivering hope. She got close enough to sniff reluctant sincerity from Sylvie’s flesh and mind, but hesitated. “When you die . . . That could be such a very long time away.”
“You’re immortal. Be patient,” Sylvie said.
“You’re the new Lilith,” Erinya said. More objections. “The Christian God might have plans—”
Alex looked intrigued, and Sylvie grimaced. She didn’t want Alex poking into the “new Lilith” business. Not until Sylvie’d had the time to do some investigating on her own.
“I make my own choices,” Sylvie said. “Always have.”
Erinya rolled her shoulders as if settling the idea into her skin.
“Would you help us for that? Help us kill Azpiazu?”
“I can’t,” Erinya said. “Find him, okay, yeah. But he’s Tepeyollotl’s chosen. I can’t just step in between them and rip his head off any more than I could shake the truth out of your girl.”
Sylvie said, “I’m not sure I want to give my soul over for tracking abilities. I can find Azpiazu on my own.”
“Mortals have time constraints.”
“I can work fast—”
“Sylvie!” Alex interrupted their bargaining. Her hands were tight on Sylvie’s forearm. “Sylvie, listen!”
The street outside had grown quiet. No more bystander noise. No traffic. No cops. Nothing. All the hairs on Sylvie’s body stood up. “Something’s coming.”
“Hunters,” Erinya said. “Human hunters.”
The remnants of the plate-glass window shattered as a smoking cylinder crashed through it, streaming . . .
“Tear gas?” Sylvie gasped out. Regretted it as the movement of her breath brought the gas billowing into her face. It was like inhaling an angry jellyfish. Her nose stung, her mouth burned, her eyes spat tears in a vain attempt to soothe the irritation. She coughed, clenched her hands by her sides, controlling the urge to rub at the burn, to scrub it off her skin. She knew it wouldn’t work.
Alex had ducked, turned away, had covered her face by yanking up her shirt. The cotton mesh wasn’t fine enough to protect her for more than a few moments. Sylvie, sobbing helplessly, letting the tears go, trying to flush out the toxin even as the smoke still eddied in the room, dragged Alex closer, dragged her under her jacket. Alex’s fingers clutched Sylvie’s side, tight bands of panic and fear.
Cachita had rolled sideways, was vomiting feebly, her face streaming tears and snot.
Gas-masked men bulled in after the tear gas, and Sylvie heard the first one scream, his cry ending bloody and wet, when Erinya tore into him with talons extended.
“Erinya, go!” Sylvie said. “Just go. Find us later.” Each word was hard to get out. Each word felt like an eternity between a panicking heart and challenged breathing.
Erinya’s growl echoed through the room; she dropped the first man, and the others slowed. She turned once, red-black eyes shining like lanterns, and snatched Alex away from Sylvie so quickly, Alex’s nails left gouges through her shirt.
Erinya vanished.
Sylvie, fighting to breathe, to stay in control of herself, fumbled her gun from her holster and slid it away from her.
The last thing she wanted was to be shot by the triggerhappy ISI SWAT team. They couldn’t be anyone else.
Their timing, as usual, was utterly, world-endangeringly, awful.
16
Enemy Engagement
TWO HOURS LATER, SYLVIE HAD BEEN DETAINED, DETOXED, STRIPPED, scrubbed pink, and given a pair of white cotton pants and a tee to replace her clothes. Her clothes were gone down to her boots. She wiggled her bare toes on the cold tiles, wiggled her ass on the cold, plastic bench, and thought dark thoughts about the goddamned ISI, and the surveillance team who’d decided they’d had enough of watching.
“Get up,” Agent Riordan said.
It’d only been a day since she’d dealt with him, and already his shiny was wearing off. He looked ruffled, rumpled, and pissed. His suit jacket was gone, and his white shirt showed sweat stains at chest and pits.
She leaned against the slicked, easy-to-wash wall, and held back her shiver at its chilly touch. Small defiance. Enough to make his cheeks flush, to make his head jerk sideways to see if the men in the doorway noticed her refusal to respect him.
If they did, they were either too polite or restrained to show reaction to it.
“Up!” Riordan said, and gestured them forward. They hesitated.
“Uh-uh,” Sylvie said. “Bad form to make your men put down their guns to come wrestle with a prisoner. How new are you to this job, anyway?” She stood, stretched. “So where are we headed? Cells? Or interrogation?”
“Just walk,” Riordan said.
“So bossy,” Sylvie said. She moved anyway. She wasn’t up for a fight. Or at least, not a pointless one. Azpiazu was still out there, still glomming up power.
The hallway was clean, crisp, tile-floored, white-walled. Not the hotel this time. Some other facility. Still in the city, but where? Would anyone know to look for her?
Sylvie felt the first trickles of real worry creep into her blood. She mocked the ISI often enough, and they did earn her scorn, but . . . they were still the government, with government resources and the laws on their side.
All she had was Alex. And maybe not even her. Memory flashed; Erinya yanking Alex away.
The two silent men sandwiched her, a wall of armed muscle on either side. She might not respect Riordan, but he respected her enough to hem her in.
They moved her along at a quick pace, trying to deny her the chance to cause trouble, trying to keep her off balance. The tear gas might have been cleared from her system, but she still felt shocky and sore.
An elevator took her upward, and, stepping out, she got a view through a narrow window. The downtown skyline, up close. They were probably in one of the newer condominiums, barely finished and foreclosed on. Snapped up cheap by the government.
Sylvie had expected, given the scrubs, the bare feet, the escort, to be shoved into a room turned cell. Instead, she was marched through a reception area and into one of the single most ridiculously opulent offices she had ever seen, all white marble and dark, glossy furniture. The man behind the mahogany desk didn’t raise his head, just jabbed his stylus at one of the steel-and-leather chairs. “Sit.”
Riordan leaped to attention and Sylvie evaded him, taking a seat herself and propping her dusty bare feet on the edge of the desk. “I’m seated. Now what?”
The man raised his head briefly, flipped his attention back to the tablet before him. He matched his office. Steel grey hair, black eyes, all hard edges and gloss. The nameplate on the edge of the desk read DOMINICK RIORDAN, and Sylvie looked back over her shoulder. “Aw, you joined the family firm.”
The younger Riordan shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, and Dominick Riordan set down his tablet with a click. “Ms. Lightner, you’re here for serious reasons, not to harass my son.” H
is voice . . . was unfair. Mellow, rich, exactly the kind of voice to elicit trust and contentment in his listeners. Sylvie, looking at that cold gaze, thought it was a warmth as deceptive as a succubus.
“What would those reasons be?” she asked.
“You’ve been consorting with monsters.”
“Is that a crime?” Sylvie said. “No, really, I’m curious. Is that going to be a crime in your new rule book?”
Riordan hmmed quietly, and said, “I’d forgotten. Demalion was your man. He shared information with you.”
“Shared more than that,” a woman said, eeling under Riordan Jr.’s arm, and dropping into the seat beside Sylvie. “They were quite a power pair from everything I hear.” She gave Sylvie a bright, insincere smile.
She was familiar. The agent who’d given Adelio Suarez his ride home. The agent who’d mentioned Demalion with easy familiarity. The agent with the strangely marked hand.
“Ms. Stone,” Riordan said. “You’re late.”
“Things to do,” she said. “You know how it goes. I was checking up on Chico in the infirmary.”
“He make it?”
“No,” Stone said. “Sylvie’s friend ripped his head off. Kind of impossible to reattach.”
Sylvie let her feet drop from the desk. Dammit.
“Still feeling smart-mouthed?” Riordan asked.
“Didn’t ask you to break into my office. You’re the one who—”
“Be realistic,” Riordan said. “What did you think would happen? You made enough ruckus that the police were called. Of course we sent someone in. You’re a troublemaker, Shadows. A barometer of things going wrong.”
Sylvie leaned forward, clenched her hands on the edge of her chair. “Such a waste of your time. There’s going to be a massive smack-down happening somewhere in the city that makes the ruckus at my place seem like a fenderbender. What are you going to do about that? You’ve seen the signs. I saw your people in the Everglades.”
“Is it you we have to thank for our men missing time?”
