by Lyn Benedict
She should get up, get moving. The ISI wouldn’t lurk forever, and despite what her battered watch said, the skyline was brightening, heading inexorably toward dawn and discovery. She should be sore; she’d been thrown around, brawled with a baby god, and fought off a death curse. Instead, all she felt was tired. Worried.
Erinya disappeared, and Sylvie twitched for her gun in automatic reaction, making Wales, who was approaching her, fling his hands up automatically.
“Sorry,” she said. “You ready to get out of here?”
“Only too,” he said. “How long did Azpiazu have me? It felt like days.”
“Hours at most,” Sylvie said. “Marco found us damn promptly; I’ll give him that.”
Wales licked his lips. “Marco?”
Sylvie shook her head. “Azpiazu ate him.” There’d be time later to tell Wales how Azpiazu had planned it.
“We’re not all going to fit in your truck,” Wales said, looking back at the women. For kidnap victims who’d been bespelled, manipulated, shape-shifted, and used as weapons, they looked damn good. For regular people, they looked shell-shocked and terrified, crowding close to Wales like impressed ducklings.
“Got a different ride,” Sylvie said. “We’ll fit.”
“What are we waiting for?” Wales asked.
Distant gunfire rattled, chattering in the dawn. Shouting. Screaming.
Sylvie nodded in that direction. “For Erinya to clear our path.”
19
Taking Stock
SYLVIE FELT LIKE CHRISTMAS MORNING, PLAYING SANTA, DROPPING Lupe, Anamaria, Elena, and Rita off at their homes, watching them seized up by happy families. It was a good feeling. She wanted to bask in it.
Wales climbed forward from the back bench seat, took shotgun, and said, “So, I’m going to need to go back to Vizcaya sometime soon and make sure Azpiazu is gone.”
So much for her happy feelings, Sylvie thought.
“He’s dead,” Sylvie said. “You were unconscious, but I killed him pretty thoroughly.” It was protest for the sake of it. She started the ignition, waved at Rita and her family, and pulled back onto the streets. “You think he laid in a contingency plan?”
“Necromancers, for all they deal in death, tend to cling to life like limpets. And he outthought a god, manipulated Tepeyollotl. . . .”
“Manipulated me,” Sylvie murmured, thinking of Wales being taken solely to get to Marco. “All right. You need help?”
“I could stand for you to watch my back,” he said. “I’m down some power with the Hands destroyed.”
“Deal,” she said. “You have any of the Hands left?”
“A couple,” Wales said. He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like them much. And they don’t like me. I’ll miss—” He shut up, didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. She knew what he was going to say.
“You know, missing ghosts of convicted serial killers is why you get called the Ghoul,” she said. “If you’re going to hang around, you could work on that.”
“I didn’t say I was hanging around.”
“You didn’t say you were leaving.”
“Maybe I’ve learned my lesson,” he said. “Tell you I’m leaving town, and you show up with reasons I shouldn’t. Maybe I’m just going to split this city all sneaky-like.”
“I got your stuff,” Sylvie said, finding a tiny smile. It felt good to have this mindless banter after she’d nearly written him off as dead.
She turned the van automatically for her office, and Wales waited long enough for the route to become familiar before saying, “You know the government’s tracking this van.”
“You’re just full of sunshine, aren’t you,” Sylvie said. “Yeah. I know. Of course I know. Hell, they had my clothes, and I’ll have to shake those out for bugs. Probably my apartment also. But right now, the ISI is busy with Erinya, and besides, there’s no point in ditching the van, finding a new ride, and heading directly to the office. They know where I work.”
“That’s a problem,” Wales said.
“I know,” Sylvie said again. “It’s one I’m thinking about.”
* * *
AS A TINY ACT OF SPITE, SHE PARKED THE ISI VAN DOWN THE STREET from her office in the most isolated area and left the keys in the ignition, the doors unlocked. Wales said, “If I tried to leave town, you’d sell all my stuff on eBay, wouldn’t you.”
“Petty revenge is a skill,” Sylvie said. As they entered her office, she sighed. “And oh, do they deserve it.”
The office had been in bad shape before the tear gas, before the ISI raided it. Now it was a total wreck, and probably looted as well. The broken storefront window and shattered front door had been left unguarded.
Alex’s laptop was gone, the filing cabinets—dented from Erinya and Tepé’s earlier spat—gaped emptily. And over the broken furniture, the glass that crunched underfoot, her ransacked kitchenette, Wales’s cardboard boxes dragged out from the closet, lay a layer of whitish dust: tear gas residue.
Sylvie moved gingerly through the room, trying not to stir the dust. She peered up the stairs, noted booted footprints stamped into the residue, and prepared herself.
The upstairs office was cleaner than below, the tear gas not so thick on the ground. Tracked in, but not over every surface.
The ISI had taken her computer also, rummaged through her desk, the upstairs filing cabinet that dealt with the Magicus Mundi. They’d even cracked open and robbed her safe.
“Fuckers,” she murmured, but it was hard to be angry when she was so worried. They hadn’t shown her a warrant, or really given a reason for her arrest. So either they had a warrant and hadn’t taken the time to show her, or they were running without rules. Either way, it made Sylvie twitchy, and certain she hadn’t heard the last of them.
Hopefully, their escape and Erinya’s aid at Vizcaya would move Sylvie to the pile of things we don’t mess with, and her life could go back to normal.
Her little voice scoffed, and she echoed it. Normal.
“Sylvie!” Wales called from below.
“Yeah,” she responded absently. She moved the desk aside, covering her face with her shirt when dust swirled above the floorboards.
They’d found her safe, but not her hidey. Sometimes caution was a good thing. She popped the floorboard, took out the emergency cash. Maybe it was time to buy those fake IDs.
Money crammed into her pockets, she wandered downstairs, pace picking up as she heard Wales talking to . . . “Alex!”
Alex caught Sylvie up in a spine-crushing hug. “You’re all right?”
“You?”
“Oh god, Sylvie, I’m awesome,” Alex said. Her smile was bright and huge, glowing. Beautiful. Guess Olympus had treated her well. “But god, what a mess! I called Etienne. He’s going to come and board things up. Who do you call to get rid of tear gas?”
Sylvie didn’t answer, struck anew by the mess. The cash in her pockets didn’t seem like enough. New IDs all around or repairing the office where the ISI could walk in and touch them at any time?
“It’s okay,” Alex said. “We can fix it.”
“We could,” Sylvie said.
Wales perked up. “I hear Fort Lauderdale’s nice.”
Alex raised her head, catching the whiff of “maybe we won’t” in Sylvie’s tone. “What are you thinking?”
“The ISI doesn’t like me. Never has. But now they’ve slapped a label on me. They think I’m one of the monsters.” She held up a hand, forestalled Alex’s rebuttal. “Not looking for reassurance, Alex. It’s a fact. The ISI doesn’t trust me. I can’t afford to trust them. I don’t want to be an ISI test subject.”
“You’re going to give up. Quit?”
“Not so much. But I might set up shop elsewhere. At least I’ll make them work if they come for me.”
“For us,” Alex said. “If you leave, I’m coming, too.”
“You have family here.”
“So do you. It’s not like you’re trying to drop o
ff the grid completely, right? Just slow ’em down a bit. It’s not like we’re entering witness protection. I can call my family.”
“The ISI might tap—”
Alex wrinkled her nose. “I’d like to see them try.”
Sylvie found a smile. She’d nearly forgotten. Alex’s hacking skills came directly from her family. She was just the only one who did legit work with them.
“And you know Zoe would nuke anyone who tried to listen in on her calls,” Alex continued. “Of course, if you start thinking about it that way . . . Syl, we’d be crazy to leave Miami. Our support’s here. Zoe, Val, Tierney.” A quick flick of her lashes in his direction, a curving smile.
Wales said, “You’re assuming they’re coming at you legally.”
Alex scoffed. “You are way too negative.”
“I don’t like running,” Sylvie said abruptly. “I really don’t like running when I haven’t planned an effective retreat. We’re staying. There’s no point in running, anyway. The ISI has branches everywhere, a lot of money, and a long arm. I’m staying and trusting that Erinya scared them off. They don’t like gods? I’ve got one in my pocket. At least for now.”
Alex said, “You what?”
“Long story,” Sylvie said. “The important thing is, the good guys won, the women are home safely, and Azpiazu’s dust.”
“Almost dust,” Wales said. “We’re going to lay his spirit.”
“I’m coming with you guys when you do. Ooh, hey! You and me,” Alex said, gesturing at Wales. “Time for a celebratory breakfast burrito run. You in?” Her smile widened; Wales seemed dazzled.
“Yeah, all right,” he said. Breathless.
Sylvie watched them go, watched Wales catch Alex’s arm, stilling her. He stooped, awkward but determined, kissed her quickly, shyly. Alex linked her arm through his and dragged him off. Sylvie smiled.
* * *
BANGING SOUNDS FROM THE ALLEY GOT HER ATTENTION, AND SHE went out to find Etienne dragging hurricane-proof plywood toward her store. She grabbed the other side of the board, and said, “Thanks, Etienne.”
They got the first few planks up, screwed in tight, and were working on the last, Sylvie concentrating on the sheer physicality of it. Nice to have something mindless to do. Something that let her shut off her brain.
If Erinya had scared off the ISI, that gave her time to think.
She didn’t want it.
The last board up, Etienne thanked with a smile and a hundred dollars in his pocket, Sylvie found herself sitting on a bench in the sunlight, flipping her phone from one hand to the other.
The ISI had had it in their clutches. They’d have the numbers she dialed; they’d probably set spies on it so they could listen in. She put it back in her pocket, and went to harass Etienne again.
The phone rang on the other end, and a woman answered, throwing Sylvie off a bit. In the age of cell phones, it was so rare to get the wrong member of the household, but that was what she had. Wright’s wife on the line.
“Who is this?” she asked.
Sylvie spun a quick line about being a collection agency, got an exasperated huff, and a shout for “Adam” to take the call.
“It’s me,” Sylvie said the moment she heard his breath.
Demalion huffed quietly, something approximating wry amusement. “Fun. All the guilt of cheating, and she’s not even my wife. But you’re okay? You sound postcase.”
“Bad guys vanquished,” Sylvie said. Her throat was tight.
“Casualties?”
She closed her eyes. “Yeah.”
“Not your pet necromancer,” Demalion said. “Alex has a crush.”
“No, thankfully. They’re off courting over bacon. But the intrepid mini-me didn’t make it.”
“You liked her.”
“Yeah. She was smart and brave when it counted. Anyway, that’s not why I called. You’re safe from the Furies. Or at least, reasonably safe.”
Another betraying breath. A mingled intake of relief and shock. When had she learned his language so well that she could read his mood over the phone? “How’d you swing that?”
“Erinya called off her hunt, and the other two think you’re still dead.”
“That must have cost you.” He was hedging his gladness, refusing to give in to it just yet.
“Nothing I wanted to keep,” Sylvie said. “Hey. You still planning on rejoining the ISI?”
“If I can get an entry point, yeah. Why?” His relief was short-lived, giving way to wariness. She pressed the phone closer to her cheek and smiled. Probably wrong, but she liked Demalion suspicious. Kept her on her toes.
“I need eyes on the inside,” she said. “They’ve stepped up their interest in me.”
Demalion said, “Stepped up how? More surveillance? Phone tapping—” He faltered. “Do you think they’re listening now?”
“I’m on Etienne’s phone,” Sylvie said. “And more like tear gas and sudden detention.”
He swore, something angry, quiet, and hissed. “You all right?”
“Not going to mark tear gas as one of my top experiences, but I think I came out of there in better shape than they did.” She hunched over the phone, tried to sound tough. Her hands shook. She hadn’t been afraid then, too caught up in worry about Azpiazu and Tepeyollotl. Now she had the time.
“You want me to fly down?”
“If you’re going to rejoin the ISI, better have as little contact with me as possible. It’s going to be iffy enough when they research Wright and realize he . . . you were a client. Luckily, I never cashed his check. He . . . you can be dissatisfied with my services.”
“Ah,” Demalion said on a sigh. “The good old days. Careful backstories. Disposable cell phones. Coded calls. Secret rendezvous in strange cities. Sounds like fun.”
“Spy junkie,” Sylvie said, and knew he could hear her smile across the distance. She heard Alex and Wales returning, Alex chattering lightly and Wales’s slower drawl interrupting. Near-death experiences, or perhaps Eros’s recent presence in Alex’s life, seemed to whisk away his shyness.
They walked toward her, shoulders bumping companionably, and Sylvie sighed. Chicago was a long way away.
“I have to go,” she said. “Hey, D? Be careful. I don’t trust the ISI.”
“I’m the careful one, remember?”
“Seriously,” she said. “Watch yourself.”
“Always,” he said.
She folded the phone closed as Alex approached, bag in hand. Alex said, “We’re going elsewhere to eat. The office is a health hazard. My apartment?”
Sylvie felt her smile falter. “Actually, I have something I need to do.”
“Something risky?” Alex said.
“No,” Sylvie said. It was even the truth, though it didn’t feel that way. Alex studied her, turned, and handed the bag of food to Wales.
“I’m going with her. I’ll catch you later, all right?”
“I’ll wait,” he said.
Sylvie said, “You don’t need to come, Alex.”
“Yeah, but I’m going to.”
“Fine,” Sylvie said. Arguing with Alex was a fool’s game; she preferred to save the fights for when she really cared about the results.
Her truck, when she opened it, was scaldingly hot, a lion’s breath of sun-baked metal, and her entire body flushed. Alex swore as she clambered into the passenger seat. Sylvie cranked the windows down, blasted the air, and headed off. Her hair snarled and tangled in the breeze, and Alex’s attempts at conversation—at prying—were lost to the roar of the engine and the buffet of wind.
Alex subsided, made herself comfortable in the seat, and rubbed briefly at the god mark on her cheek. Sylvie wondered suddenly if that touch of Eros had anything to do with Alex’s ability to make people listen to her. To make people like her. Alex had always been amiable and clever, but . . . when had Sylvie started confiding in her to such an extent?
Sylvie shook her head, shook the suspicion off, well aware that she
was dwelling on other things than the source of her discomfort.
She turned the radio to local news, listened to a report that occupied her mind quite nicely. Apparently, prison had lost nearly a hundred convicts to sudden death this morning. They just dropped where they stood, their hearts rupturing.
Another report said the police were taking calls about other sudden deaths in the city, trying to map if there was any single cause. They were dancing around the idea of some new type of gas. Sylvie had a good idea that it was something other than that. Especially when the information started trickling in that the prisoners had all been in jail for child-related offenses.
Erinya didn’t need to make personal stops any longer.
If she hadn’t been dealing with morning traffic, Sylvie might have closed her eyes, shut out the looming sense of responsibility she felt. She’d wondered what kind of god Erinya was going to be; now she was finding out. Violent, deadly, but still sticking to the guidelines the god of Justice had set her.
Alex shifted in her seat. “Weird, you think?”
“Hopefully controlled weird,” Sylvie said, let the conversation lapse again. She shoved a CD into the deck, cranked the volume.
When she stopped the truck, the air was cooler outside than it had been at the beach. Early hours still, and the tree shade kept the neighborhood dim and silent.
“Where are we?” Alex asked.
“Cachita’s house,” Sylvie said. “I want to pack it up, put her files in order.”
“Okay,” Alex said. “Why?”
Sylvie shrugged. “Respect? She was—”
“I’m you,” Cachita had said.
“No, you weren’t,” Sylvie murmured. “That was the problem.”
“Sylvie?”
Sylvie got out of the truck, ignoring Alex’s query, headed for the door. The house was as overgrown as before, but the cats were gone, and they’d taken all vestiges of life with them.
Sylvie jimmied the lock, let them in. Less than twenty-four hours, and it felt like the house had been empty forever. Alex looked at the papers stapled all over the living-room walls, the detailed reports, the sheer amount of information she’d gathered. “She did this?”
