As Lie the Dead

Chapter Seven

11:53 A.M.

Mike’s Gym wasn’t the kind of place where amateur boxers looked for coaches or where wannabe tough guys worked on their muscle tone. It didn’t list in the Yellow Pages, and few people walked back out the door without leaving some blood behind. And not just because Halfies hung out there.

Phin parked a block over, his little rusty car a perfect fit for the neighborhood, set among vehicles missing hubcaps and with doors painted mismatched colors. The air seemed grayer, the world just a little darker, even though the same sun shone down.

“What’s that smell?” he asked as we walked down the grimy sidewalk, past newspapered storefronts and neon-lit porn shops.

I inhaled familiar odors: oil from cars, rot from overflowing trash bins, sweat and soil from unhealthy bodies living unhappy lives. “Smells like home,” I replied.

He looked at me sideways, as though judging my sincerity. I lifted one shoulder in a quasi shrug. Crap car or not, the Sunset Terrace Apartments had been on the border between the pretty and ugly sides of Mercy’s Lot. Something told me the Owlkins hadn’t ventured to this side very often.

At the end of the block, I went left onto a one-way street. More cars dotted the parallel spaces. The sidewalk was broken and spotted with grass and dandelions. Down to a scarred wooden door, overlaid by iron bars. Painted right on the door was the word “Gym,” the ancient black letters peeling into nothingness. The door had no handle on our side. A heavy bass line beat through the walls—the only sign of activity inside.

“Do we knock?” Phin asked.

“I never use the front door,” I said, and kept walking to the end of the building, which butted up close to the back of another grimy brick building. A narrow alley cut between them, filled with overflowing metal garbage cans, moldering boxes of waste, and a smell of rot so strong my nose tingled.

“Please tell me there’s a restaurant nearby,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Because that’s the smell of rotting meat, and I’d like to imagine it’s yesterday’s uncooked steaks.”

I snickered and shook my head. “Sorry to burst the illusion, but it’s probably a collection of dead strays. Have you noticed this city has a strangely low population of rats, mice, stray dogs and cats?”

He blanched. For a split second, I was sure his face went a little green. “You know, Phin, for someone so hell-bent on avenging his Clan and getting involved in my work, you sure don’t know much about how the other species live.”

“So educate me.”

It was as much a request as a challenge. “Glad to. Follow me.”

I didn’t know whether he could handle himself in a fight or whether he’d know what to do if a crazed Halfie charged him with teeth bared. It was a good time to find out. I navigated a path around the leaking, filthy trash heaps to a boarded back door covered in handwritten variations of “Keep Out” and “No Trespassing.” I tested the knob—it turned, opened.

We entered a haze of cigarette smoke and chilly air, swirled with heavy music and the sharp odor of blood. The tiny back room was the owner’s office—I wasn’t sure of his real name, but I knew it wasn’t Mike—and it was cluttered with boxes of belongings. Coats, wallets, baseball caps, boxing gloves, gym bags, shoes, clothing of all sorts for both males and females. Items probably taken off hapless innocents who’d dared to knock on the door and request entrance to the gym.

Once upon a time, that evidence alone would have warranted a Triad cleansing of every Dreg inside the place. Today, I didn’t have the time to be bothered. But I made a mental note to pass the information along to Kismet or Baylor, in case one of them wanted to make an example out of the place later.

Past an overflowing filing cabinet, I pushed through a gaudy beaded curtain into a short hallway that reeked of sweat, mildew, and tepid water. Six feet down on the right was a locker room. Voices trickled out, laughing at a joke about a woman and six vampires. We passed without incident, footsteps absorbed by rubber matting on the floor. Yellowed, peeling posters advertising amateur nights and “survive three minutes for a hundred bucks” matches covered the poorly painted walls.

A few yards farther, the hall bent sharply right, out into the gym area. I licked my lips, adrenaline kicking in and pumping up my heart rate a few notches. I clenched my fists, unclenched, refrained from cracking my knuckles. Vampires have excellent senses of hearing and smell; Halfies less so, but I was still surprised no one had noticed our presence. Yet.

I looked back to check on my shadow. Phin’s face had taken on the sharp, attentive look of a hunter. Hands were curled by his sides, shoulders tense, back straight. His eyes met mine; he tilted his chin in a slight nod. The chilly air seemed to shift. His attention diverted past me, eyes widening just a fraction. Shit.

I turned and ducked. The wind of the missed blow sailed over my head, and I drove my fist up into someone’s bare six-pack. The owner gasped and doubled over, right into my left fist. My underworked knuckles ached. The second hit knocked him sideways into the wall, and the heavy thudding sound announced our arrival.

A dozen male voices shouted. The music was shut off. Leather slapped leather; feet hit the mat. I stepped over the crumpled body of my first attacker and out into the gym itself. And right into view of at least fifteen able-bodied men.

A boxing ring took up the center of the space, its taut ropes the only thing in the place less than ten years old. Bruised and patched heavy bags, an array of rusty weights and frayed ropes, and all manner of sparring mats surrounded the ring. The attendees were scattered around the room, every single one of them sporting similar white-blotched hair and luminous, silver-specked eyes. Halfies, just as I’d hoped.

Phin was behind me and to my left. I wanted Wyatt there, watching my back, not laid up in the hospital. He’d have enjoyed this kind of tussle.

No one attacked. For half a minute, no one moved.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” I said.

Glances were exchanged. Most of them just stared. Not the sharpest crayons in the box.

One finally pushed his way to the front. Thick arms and legs were covered with intricate tattoos that disappeared beneath his shorts and wife-beater T. Even his neck was tattooed. His scalp was shaved clean, all the white-blotched hair relegated to his chin in a thick, bushy beard that looked like it hadn’t been trimmed all year. He cracked taped knuckles and put his hands on his square hips.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked. His voice matched his barrel-shaped body, deep and rumbling from somewhere low in his chest.

“Would you believe I’m a sports agent, out scouting talent?”

“Fuck no.”

“A man after my own vocabulary.”

Thick eyebrows scrunched together. “Like I said, who the fuck are you?”

I cocked my head to the side. “Just a concerned citizen, wandering around town to see who knows why there was a Halfie downtown at St. Eustachius this morning, armed with a .45, a hand grenade, and a bad attitude.”

“Don’t know.”

He was too quick on the draw to be telling the truth. “Yeah? How about your friends?”

“Been here since dawn, bitch.”

“Now was that nice?” I took three steps forward, still out of arm’s reach of any single Halfie, but close to invading Tattoo Guy’s personal space. “After all, I didn’t come in here calling you names, dickwad.”

He growled. “You and your boyfriend looking to join up? That it?”

“Thanks, but I have a gym membership. It’s a nice place. You and your girlfriends should check it out sometime.”

“Not what I meant.” He bared his teeth, showing off a pair of brilliant fangs. He looked up and down the length of my figure, not bothering to hide his appraisal. His leer gave me the skeevies, but I shoved that particular ick into the back of my mind. Had to keep my head in the fight.

It occurred to me then that I’d made a deadly tactical error—no weapons larger than my single knife, which was out of reach in my ankle sheath.

Some flash of apprehension must have made its way into my expression, because Tattoo roared, and the gathered Halfies descended on us in a crush.

“Don’t let them bite you,” I shouted, and slammed an approaching boxer in the throat with the V between my thumb and first finger. His eyes bugged and he backpedaled, gasping.

Someone tackled me from behind, sending us both to the mats. I tucked and rolled, dislodging the parasite from my back. Everything was moving so quickly—air, hands, fists, smells, sounds—I could only react. Swept two pairs of legs out from under unbalanced bodies. Knocked a few teeth loose. Split the skin on my knuckles punching someone in the chin. Snapped at least one neck. I was moving on mental instinct, if not quite physical instinct, stretching unpracticed muscles and tottering on unsure footing.

It was times like these I really missed my old body.

I’d lost track of Phin and had no time to look for him. Pressure struck the small of my back. I dropped to my knees, stunned by the blow. Metal glinted. I snatched up the weight bar, no weights yet attached, and swung it in a wide arc. It vibrated in my hands as it struck flesh time and again. Voices howled. Bone snapped. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. Anger further fueled my movements.

Bar tucked close to my chest, I rolled again, twice, and then came up on my knees. Wobbled. Pulled the bar back, ready to swing it like a bat. Tattoo stood in front of me, one eye cut and bathed in blood, growling like a dog in a barn fight.

“Come and get me, motherfucker,” I snarled.

Tattoo laughed and quirked one eyebrow.

Shit. My head was ringing before I felt the blow. I dropped the bar, palms hitting the mat before I fell face-first into it. My lungs froze; they didn’t want to inhale. My vision blurred. No, no, no. Keep it together, Evy.

A battle cry erupted across the room, like nothing I’d ever heard before. Shrill and piercing, like the screech of a furious bird. Challenging and angry, it filled every empty corner of that crusty old gym.

Air whooshed. Skin splatted against mats and walls. Men grunted and cried out. Someone grabbed my hair by the chopsticks knot and yanked. Oxygen screamed into my lungs as I was hauled upward, backward. Against someone’s sweaty chest. An arm snaked around my middle and held me tight, pinning my arms to my sides. The other arm was hard against my throat. The scratchy beard gave Tattoo away.

Mesmerized by the sight in front of me, I didn’t struggle at first. Phineas charged a pair of Halfies, his mottled angel wings expanded to their full width, the black polo hanging in shreds off his corded shoulders. He spun as he gained ground, using those wings to knock both Halfies ten feet away. One struck a wall, the other the corner of the boxing ring. Neither got back up. No one was getting up.

Phin pivoted, wings arched high and close to his body, and set his sights on me and Tattoo. He didn’t move, just stared—the perfect hunter observing his prey. I watched him, breathing carefully, waiting for a sign. Any indication of how he wanted me to move.

“What the hell are you?” Tattoo asked. Fear colored his voice—a beautiful sound.

“Someone you shouldn’t have pissed off today,” Phin replied, the sound reedy, almost inhuman.

Tattoo’s breathing increased, so heavy my entire body moved with the force of it. Made it harder to breathe myself, with his arms so tight around me. I glared at Phin, hoping he got the gist of the silent message: Move it along before he chokes me to death.

“Any closer and I’ll bite her,” Tattoo said, his breath hot against my ear. And reeking vaguely of dead fish.

Phin’s nostrils flared. “You’ll be dead before you taste a drop of blood.”

“If I get bit by a Halfie,” I said, gasping for air, “does that make me a Fourthie?”

“Eh?” Tattoo grunted. His hold loosened.

Phin blinked, twitched his head left. I kicked Tattoo’s left shin with all my might. Something snapped. He yelped, and his grip loosened more. I let my legs fold, let all my weight go, and dropped to the mat like a stone. Rolled sideways, even as Phin sailed over me, a streak of black and tan and long feathers.

Skin smacked against skin. Tattoo shrieked. I came up on my knees, sucking air into my starving lungs. My vision blurred briefly, and I nearly fell over sideways. Another shriek.

“Don’t kill him,” I said.

The scene cleared. Phin had Tattoo pinned to the wall, one hand curled tight around Tattoo’s throat like a bracket. Tattoo’s massive frame hung at least six inches off the ground, toes pointed, eyes bulging, his bald head starting to resemble a tomato. How the hell did Phin have enough strength in one arm to do that? I couldn’t fathom it. Almost didn’t believe I was seeing it.

“We need answers,” I said. I used the edge of a bench to lever to my feet. The world stayed upright this time. The stink of Tattoo’s sweat was all over me. Nasty.

“Ask anything,” Phin replied. “He’ll answer.”

“Not if you snap his neck. I have a better idea.”

Phin let go.

Tattoo slumped to the mat, gasping and choking. For a moment, I swore he was sobbing.

I found a long iron ladder in the rear corner of the locker room that went straight up to the roof. The key, stupidly enough, was on a nail right by the padlock that sealed the hatch on the inside. After Tattoo was secured, hands and feet, by half a roll of tape, Phin hauled him to the roof like a practiced fireman. He’d removed the tattered remains of the black polo, once again showing off a perfectly sculpted torso.

Maybe his secret day job was as a personal trainer.

Tattoo yelped and squealed beneath his tape gag the moment the afternoon sun scorched his skin. Phin dumped him on the soft tar roof and spread out his magnificent wings, creating a small space of shade. I watched, grinning, as Tattoo squirmed into a fetal position to stay out of the direct sun.

“Those have to hurt,” I said, pointing to the patches of blistered skin on his bare arms and legs.

He grunted something that could have been “Fuck you.”

Phin lowered one corner of his wing. A patch of light shone down on Tattoo’s thigh and added another blistered burn. Tattoo’s scream was muffled by the gag. He wiggled his leg out of reach of the deadly rays. It took more sunlight to kill Halfies than to kill a full vampire. That gave us plenty of time to play.

I squatted next to Tattoo’s head and thumped him between the eyes. “Play nice, asshole, or you’ll be sporting the world’s worst suntan.” He blinked, and I took that as an acceptance. “Do you know who I am?”

He cut his eyes down at the tape covering his mouth. I grabbed the edge and ripped it off. He hissed and licked raw lips.

“Answer her,” Phin said. The dangerous, inhuman tone was gone, but a sense of anger still lingered in his voice.

“Everyone’s talking,” Tattoo said. “New Hunter in town that no one can catch. She disappeared from a prison cell. Killed an elf mage. Some say she can fly, others say she knows magic.” He squinted up at me, hesitant. “You her?”

I cocked my head. “What do you think?”

“If you ain’t her, you’re crazy, walking into a room full of Fangs like you did.”

“Half-Fangs.”

“Fuck you.”

Phin shifted his wings. Sunlight struck Tattoo’s legs. He yelped. Skin scorched. He tried to roll but had nowhere to go except the slowly shrinking shade created by Phin. I let him twitch awhile longer and then tapped Phin’s leg. His wings went back up.

“So what have we learned?” I asked Tattoo.

He grunted. “Is he an angel?”

“Why? You hear a choir singing?”

He looked up, over, all around, as if actually listening for music. “No.”

So much for useful information from this guy. I snapped my fingers in front of him. “Back to me, okay? Have you seen a Halfie recently who wears a blue sports jersey and who was probably the one saying I disappeared from a prison cell?”

“Knew it was you,” he said. Awe seeped into his face, creating a truly disturbing sight, mixed with the tattoos and bloodlust. “Seen him last night. Came in with two other kids, bunch of punks looking for their balls, talking shit.”

“Why’d he try to kill me this morning?”

“Ask him.”

“I did, but I didn’t like his answer and killed him. So now I’m asking you.”

Tattoo flinched at the “killed him” part of my statement. “Bragging rights, probably. Looking to up his credit with his people, ’cause he’s so green.”

“Sorry.” I shook my head. “I’d buy that if he hadn’t brought along a hand grenade. It’s hard to make a name for yourself if you’re being scraped off the roof of an underground parking garage.”

“Is someone recruiting?” Phin asked.

Tattoo bared his teeth at Phin, confused. “Recruiting for what?”

“You tell us.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” I said. “Halfies like to brag, because you know you’ll never be as strong or powerful as real vampires. You have to make your bones by picking fights with the Triads. Anything to prove how badass you are. I want to know who’s been talking about the Triads.”

“Look,” Tattoo said, sweat beading on his upper lip, “the kid in the jersey was talking shit last night. He mentioned Park Place, near the old waterfront.”

I knew the area. Twenty blocks north of St. Eustachius, a half mile of abandoned shops and structures lined the west bank of the Anjean River, several blocks deep. They were representations of Mercy’s Lot’s heyday of yesteryear—brick buildings and turn-of-the-century architecture, two old stage theaters that closed when the river flooded its banks fifty years ago, dozens of acres of property no one could develop. Good place for Halfies and other unsavory sorts to hide from prying eyes.

“What about this place?” I asked.

Tattoo chewed his lower lip, drawing blood. His chin trembled. He looked positively sick. “Said anybody who wanted to be somebody should be there Saturday night, midnight, for a meeting. Open to any nonhumans who had a bone to pick with the Triads.”

Ding-ding-ding! We had a winner. Park Place, tomorrow. Midnight. “Where exactly?”

“Building on the corner of Park and Howard.”

“Who’s organizing this?” I asked.

“Don’t know.”

Phin lowered his entire right wing without my having to ask. Tattoo shrieked and wriggled like a fish on a hook. Anywhere he went, he couldn’t find enough shadow to avoid more second-degree burns. Burns that were quickly turning to third-degree, scorching naked flesh on his thighs and knees. The odor of burning meat made my nose tingle.

“I don’t know!” Tattoo wailed the last syllable of his declaration, and the word trailed off into a sob. “Stop. I don’t know.”

I twisted my head to look up at Phin. He watched Tattoo with the eye of a scientist observing an experiment. “You believe him?” I asked.

“He has no loyalties to protect here,” Phin replied. “No one to lie for unless he’s already been actively recruited.”

“I haven’t,” Tattoo sobbed. “I swear, I haven’t. Cover me up.”

“I think I believe him,” I said. “Say good night, John Boy.”

I slapped the strip of tape back down over Tattoo’s mouth. Phin retracted his wings, tucked them back against his body, and retreated three steps. I stood and followed, giving Tattoo plenty of room to flail. The Halfie squealed behind his gag, his entire body convulsing. Exposed skin blistered red, then black, under the glare of the sun.

Hand over mouth and nose, I watched with no satisfaction as another life infected by the vampire parasite came to a fiery end. His hair caught fire and scorched into a shrinking mass of black and gray. Black flesh smoked and peeled, leaving layers of exposed meat and muscle. Tattoo’s gag-muffled scream seemed to go on and on, even after he stopped struggling.

The sound of death didn’t rise above the din of the city and this neighborhood of lost, lonely souls.

By the time we came back downstairs, half of our beating victims were on the express bus to Decompose. The rest were dispatched quickly. Without anti-coag ammo, I settled for breaking their necks with a twenty-pound weight.

We didn’t speak, even though I found myself with half a dozen questions—and most of them for Phineas. I still knew little about his whole half transformation thing, and the intense way he’d acted while interrogating Tattoo had further piqued my curiosity.

Tattoo had asked if Phin was an angel. The same question balanced on the tip of my own tongue.

I had half a mind to ransack the place while I was there, just to make sure the Halfies didn’t keep communing over heavy bags and sweaty gym clothes. Phin’s abrupt turn toward the back hallway changed my mind. I trailed after him, observing the shape of his beautiful wings, the way he held them close against his body, and hadn’t made them disappear as he’d done before.

He was also limping. Either I hadn’t noticed it earlier, or he’d only just started in the last ten seconds. Favoring his left leg, fatigue starting to sag his shoulders. I eyed his leg. Noticed a spot on the upper thigh where the black denim was darker. He pushed through the back door, stepped outside, and left a small red smudge on the floor instead of a footprint.

“You’re hurt,” I said, following him into the rank alley.

“It’s fine.”

“Then why are you limping?”

My question flipped a switch in Phin—he walked straight, no limp, shoulders back, all the way to his car. The red smudge repeated itself half a dozen times. I was so intent on following the faint blood trail I didn’t notice his wings disappear. They were gone when we returned to the car, his bare back showing no hint that they’d ever been there.

Phin held the door open for me; I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Are you getting in?” he asked.

“I want to see your leg.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s bleeding, Phin. It’s not fine.”

“It’s a scratch. They didn’t bite me.”

“Good. So show me.”

He cocked his head. “In order to show you, I’d have to drop my pants in the middle of the street—something I’m not about to do. Now will you get in the car?”

Okay, I’d give him that one. I climbed across the front seat and settled into the passenger side. “Thank you,” I said, after he started the engine.

Hands on the steering wheel, all I got was his angular profile. One glittering eye, focused straight ahead. “For what?”

For what? “Saving my life back there.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re welcome.” He turned his head, blue eyes painfully bright, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. “Wouldn’t do for my people’s protector to get herself killed her first day on the job.”

I smiled. “Looks like those wings come in handy in a fight.”

The amusement flickered out. His mouth pulled into a taut line. “Maybe we can keep that between us.”

“Only if you tell me why.”

“You saw something our kind is forbidden to show to outsiders, Evy. The first transformation was to prove a point. The second was an instinctual reaction during combat—one I should have tried harder to fight. Those half-breeds never should have seen me like that.”

If words could physically cause pain, the amount of self-flagellation in his voice would have had him on the floor, sobbing like a baby. I understood losing control, having done it many times in the course of my job. I understood second-guessing actions performed in the heat of battle, if they turned out to have negative consequences. I just didn’t understand the self-hatred over flashing a little feather.

“Call me dense,” I said, “but I don’t get it. You grow wings when you get mad?”

“No, that’s not …” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Did you ever ponder the reasons for the Owlkins’ choice of pacifism? Why we prefer to stay out of conflicts and have chosen to live in peace with your kind?”

“Not really.”

There were many things about the various Dreg species I didn’t ponder the reasons for; it was easier to just accept things than to question them. Owlkins didn’t fight. Were-cats were always looking for a brawl. Gremlins were scavengers. Vampires thought themselves superior to every other living thing. Humans wanted desperately to keep our city intact and under our control.

Under Phin’s intense gaze, I was ashamed of that lack of interest. If knowledge was power, then I was pretty damned weak. “Why, Phin?” I asked. “Can all weres do what you do?”

He didn’t answer right away. He seemed to study me, his eyes in constant motion as their focus shifted across my face. Whatever questions ran through his mind, whatever consequences he considered, he came up with his own answers. And made a decision.

“Not all, but some of the Clans do,” he said. “Those of us with the ability to bi-shift are regarded as … higher-class than those who can’t. We’ve been among your people for a longer period of time. Much longer, and we’ve learned enough to know when to leave the battles to others.”

“You think that’s why Rufus was given the destroy order.” My stomach knotted. “Whoever gave the order knew your position within the Clan Assembly?”

“That’s my suspicion, yes. My fear is that they know the others who possess the ability to bi-shift and that they may be targeted next. Disregarding the gremlins, the Clans make up the largest population of nonhumans in the city. Weakening us gives someone else a stronger position.”

I turned the information over in my head. It certainly changed my perspective on the day so far. Not only on Phin’s deception in gaining my help but on the actions of my own people over the course of the last ten days. Something stank, and it wasn’t the trash cans on the street.

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” I asked. “If you want my help in protecting Joseph and Aurora, I need to know everything before it becomes relevant. You need to start trusting me a little.”

“The way you’ve trusted me?”

“I guess we both have trouble trusting people first.”

“You say you’ll help me, and I believe you. Please understand, the Clans have strict rules about who we share certain information with. You’ve seen me bi-shift, and I can’t change that. I just ask that you and your friend keep it to yourselves.”

“I haven’t told anyone, and I doubt Wyatt’s had the chance.” The phone in my pocket needed to ring, dammit. And soon. “Who else is at risk?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Remember that thing about trust we just discussed?”

His nostrils flared. “If the Assembly chooses to share that information with you, so be it. I can’t go against their wishes. Not yet.”

Not yet. A sure sign that he had a breaking point; it just hadn’t been reached. “Okay, fine. Do all Owlkins bi-shift?”

“Do all humans perform handstands?”

All of my sarcastic retorts dried up. “What?”

“All Owlkins,” he said, the words coming out as though diseased. A sequence of letters he couldn’t stand uttering. “Humans have a need to place simple labels on others, so you can more easily understand what is truly a complex relationship. We lived as a community but were of two kinds. The Coni are capable of bi-shifting. The Stri are not.”

“Coni and Stri,” I said, trying out the words. In the last two days, I’d learned more about the names Dregs used for themselves than I’d ever bothered to discover on my own. Danika and I had been—for lack of a term that could ever hope to boil down our odd friendship—business associates. And even that sounded too damned cold.

Our paths had crossed nearly two years ago during a Triad investigation into a series of murders in the nightclub scene. We had (wrongfully, it turned out) traced the murders to Danika’s cousin. She attacked me in falcon form, and I think it was both her age-appearance and her ferocity in defending her cousin that helped me see her not just as a Dreg but as a warrior. And it was her curiosity about humans, afterward, that continued to fuel our interactions.

Very carefully choreographed interactions. She had talked about private Clan matters about as often as I had discussed Triad secrets—never. I very rarely talked about myself, although she was less guarded. Mostly we exchanged information about other species. And after two years, I knew as much personal information about her as I did about the man sitting beside me—and I’d known him about eight hours.

Part of me was embarrassed for not having given a shit; the other part was proud for learning now. “Which are Aurora and Joseph?”

“Both are Coni.” Grief crept into his voice. He bent his head, looked away. “It’s ironic, I suppose, that the Coni were the first to walk among humans, and it seems we’ll also be the last.”

I reached my hand across the armrest. Paused. Touched his shoulder, featherlight. Corded muscle felt strangely hollow beneath my hand. Cotton where I should have touched steel. His head snapped sideways. Our eyes met. A sea of emotions roiled, chaos hidden in their blue depths.

“Don’t pity us,” he said.

“I don’t. I guess I just understand.”

His lips parted.

My ass chose that moment to ring. I pulled back, retrieved the phone, checked the I.D. Kismet. Putting it to my ear, I said, “Stone.”

“Get back to your apartment,” Kismet said. “Felix called. You’ve got a problem.”