Sins & Shadows

18 Playing Doctor

“I’LL HEAL,” ERINYA SAID. “DON’T NEED YOUR HELP.”

Sylvie stared at the strange, smoky stain leaking through the Fury’s skin and mesh shirt, staining Demalion’s pale couch. “Then get up,” she said.

Erinya raised herself a bit, fell back panting. Sylvie helped her up, ignoring the growl. Hell, Eri’s growl was becoming an almost familiar sound track to her life.

“Before we get cozy patching you up, is Hera gonna come back for you?”

“No.”

Demalion made a quiet scoffing sound. Sylvie was on the same page. Nothing was so untrustworthy as a flat denial.

She asked again. Erinya snarled, made a sudden sharp whine as she stumbled over one of Demalion’s boxes, and nearly fell.

Sylvie got closer, put an arm around her waist again, and was bombarded once more by the sensation she’d just grabbed hold of a live wire. She gritted her teeth. Bran lived with the Furies, and he was human; he could stand their touch. Loved a god, and invited him into his bed. Sylvie could walk a Fury to the bathroom and the first-aid kit.

“As long as I’m not trying to get to Kevin, they don’t care,” Erinya said. “You told me to tell him about Lily. I haven’t been able to.”

“I thought Hera lost power. You couldn’t beat her?”

“She made me,” Erinya said. “I can’t raise my hand to her. But she could destroy us at will. Once. Now, she can only hamper.”

“Some hampering,” Sylvie said. “You look half-dead.”

Erinya growled beneath her shaking hands. Supporting the Fury was not doing Sylvie’s ribs any good; the Fury was surprisingly heavy, as if magic weighed more densely than flesh and bone.

“First aid and triage, coming right up,” Sylvie said. “Get out of the way, Demalion.”

“She’s a monster,” Demalion said. He leaned up against the wall to the tiny bathroom, his blind eyes disapproving.

“So don’t watch,” Sylvie said, and with a last grunt of effort, dragged Erinya around Demalion and into the bathroom. She kicked the door shut in Demalion’s face and sank to the floor, Erinya landing atop her. “Ow, ow, ow,” Sylvie said, and pretended that was release enough from the pain, that the tears on her face were from exertion, not hurt.

Erinya nuzzled her throat, and Sylvie managed to still her instinctive reaction to jerk away. If she torqued her ribs once more today, she’d probably faint. If she passed out, the Fury might eat her; right now, Erinya had the teeth for it, curving needles the color of ancient ivory. Bony stubs protruded from her shoulder joints, flared back and ended abruptly, like stripped bat wings, broken off.

“You smell like that old cat,” Erinya complained. “That’s where you were? Hidden beneath her time? Smothered in her memories of sand?”

Old cat, Sylvie thought, mind dragging away from pain into rational thought. Old cat. Anna D. “How old is she?” Irrelevant really, to everything else, but—she cast a furtive glance at the closed door, at the man behind it—she wanted to know.

“Forever,” Erinya said. “The only one. The oldest thing ever.”

The oldest thing—well then, maybe, Sylvie would allow that Anna D might know what she was talking about. Maybe. Still didn’t excuse playing games with the information.

Sylvie knelt up with a wince and reached for the first-aid kit. She scored another Advil or two for herself and dry-swallowed, then pulled out gauze, sutures, the curved needle.

“Take off your shirt,” Sylvie said. Erinya grinned wolfishly, and the spiderwebbed, torn mesh of her shirt began to sink into her skin, first, like dark veins moving beneath pale flesh, then like a shadow sinking into deep water, vanishing.

“That’ll work,” Sylvie said, and tried not to wonder about the jacket she had borrowed. Surely the Fury wouldn’t have let her wander off with a chunk of her skin? No, Erinya had said Bran had bought it for her.

Sylvie shook the thoughts away and stopped her hands from trembling. Erinya seemed minded to allow her to play doctor; still, best not flaunt an unsteady hand.

The wound was worse than she had thought—the mesh of the not-shirt had tangled shadows over it, disguising its depth, its breadth. A raw slash ran from just above Eri’s hipbone, across her muscled belly, up under her scant breast, going deeper. Sylvie put her hand out and leaned Erinya forward, looking at her back. Exit wound there, a triangular tear where the spine should be.

“Spear?” Sylvie asked.

“She was pushing me all over this city,” Erinya said. “Wrought-iron fence.”

They bled, for lack of a better word, but nothing so ordinary as blood. Sylvie touched the wound with a cautious hand, drew the loose flap of skin upward. Dark fluid leaked over her fingertips like ether, cold, slippery, not quite weighty, and drizzled up her palm. It was like the ghost of blood, and her hand buzzed and shook with the touch. Inhuman, Sylvie thought again. On the surface and within.

Sylvie’s mouth dried. The skin, pulled away from the wound, revealed nothing human at all beneath. There should have been outraged tissue, carmine and gory, the creamy slick shine of exposed bone, the smell strong and foul. If Erinya had been human, the makeshift spear would have shish kebabbed the lung, liver, stomach, and severed the spinal column.

Erinya wasn’t human, and there was nothing within her flesh but the roiling ghostly blood.

“You healed fast enough when I shot you,” Sylvie said, and didn’t Erinya bridle at that reminder.

“It’s bigger than a bullet hole,” Erinya said. “And I’m . . . tired. But I’d heal, even without your help.” She cupped her hand beneath the thickest stream; the blood stained her hand, then faded inward like the shirt had done, reclaimed by her body.

“Such gratitude,” Sylvie said. It wasn’t blood; it was power. The core that was Erinya. The soul her shell was meant to contain. Soul, blood, power; for a creature like the Fury, it was all the same.

Sylvie threaded the needle, trying not to broadcast that her skills were all theory, no practice. She put the first stitch in; Erinya didn’t bother to flinch. What every med school needed, Sylvie thought, feeling a little light-headed, a practice dummy that bled but didn’t feel.

The soul-blood clung to Sylvie’s fingers, trickled upward, and coated her palms and wrists like rising smoke; she reached a point where the shaking of her hands could grow no worse, then she was done.

“Turn around,” she whispered. Erinya twisted front to back, baring the smaller wound.

“You’re pale,” Sylvie said, touching the white-mottled skin, the color of a blanched corpse. “Is it shock? Can you suffer—”

“No,” Erinya said. “Finish.”

Sylvie dragged the needle back to work. She ran her fingers along the ridged line of blue thread, testing for leakage, for wisps of ethereal blood and power. Erinya sighed, and her skin grew dark, glossy. A new shirt appeared out of flesh—this time, a scaled, leather tunic, more warlike than fashion-goth.

“If you shift shape, will the stitches—”

Erinya knocked her over in a single fluid movement. Sylvie’s back impacted against the tub, sparking white-hot pain and driving the breath from her lungs in a pained yelp.

Even before the black spots could clear from her vision, she grated out, “I kicked your ass when you weren’t injured. Do you really want a rematch—” Her bluff broke off in a gasp as Erinya licked a long swath across her defensively raised hand. Hot, damp heat licked around her wrist, diving into her palm, and sucked her first two fingers into the Fury’s mouth.

“Sylvie?” Demalion asked. “Are you all right?” The doorknob rattled and Erinya spun a leg out and kicked the door shut again.

“Mine. Taking it back,” Erinya growled through another mouthful of Sylvie’s flesh.

Taking it back? Oh. Sylvie relaxed. This wasn’t hostility, it was cleanup; Erinya was reabsorbing that spilled power, the smoky blood that stained Sylvie’s hands.

“Okay,” Sylvie said. Response enough for both of them, and all her brain could cope with at the moment.

Erinya chased the spilled power up Sylvie’s wrist, and her eyes gleamed at Sylvie’s hammering pulse. “I scared you.”

“Not even close,” Sylvie said. Never show weakness.

“Breathless,” Erinya said.

“Pain,” Sylvie said. “Broken ribs. Mishandled. Next time, ask.”

“Next time?” Erinya said, and grinned as she licked a section of skin that was completely bare of blood, a section that had never had blood on it—the tender juncture of Sylvie’s elbow. Erinya nipped at it, a tiny pinch of needle-sharp teeth that sent shock waves through Sylvie’s nerves. “Would you say yes?” Suddenly, this wasn’t about spilled power anymore, but something far more intimate.

“No,” Sylvie said. She’d played rough-and-tumble with a monster before. She didn’t repeat her mistakes. Sylvie tugged her arm away; Erinya let it go.

“I like you. You’re savage. Like me.”

Sylvie looked at Erinya’s shape, human-shaped, but not human at all, remembered the emptiness inside—Erinya was a shell, no more. At her core, all she was was hunger.

“Not in the mood,” Sylvie said. “Broken ribs, remember?”

Erinya’s predatory look became something thoughtful. She shuffled closer and tore Sylvie’s shirt open.

“I said no, Erinya.”

Erinya eyed the red scraps of T-shirt clinging to Sylvie’s skin, and pushed them off.

“Ribs,” Erinya said. She touched the bruised area with a surprisingly cautious hand. “I kill people. I trap them in the certainty of their guilt. I rip them apart with claws and teeth, because I crave the struggle. But”—she put a finger to Sylvie’s mouth—“I can kill with a thought. Crumble bone to dust, boil blood, liquefy minds.”

Sylvie’s attention never wavered. Erinya’s fingers dropped back down, traced the contours of the swollen ribs, and she said, “It’s just reversal. How hard can it be?”

“What?” Sylvie asked. Then her body jerked as pain lanced through her, a scorching supple line that zoomed up her spine, and slid out along her rib cage, winding, compressing, burning the air from her lungs like a python. She gasped, and Erinya smiled.

“It’s not so different,” Erinya said. She leaned back and licked her lips. “Feels good on this end.”

“Fuck you,” Sylvie said, when her breath returned. She pushed Erinya back and scrambled to her feet. Her hand was on the doorknob when she realized none of the movements had hurt.

Erinya stretched tall, the sudden force of her presence looming in the small room, and Sylvie said, “You fixed my ribs?”

“Cure, kill, not so different,” she repeated. Erinya reached out, stroked a talon over the raw burn that snaked up Sylvie’s arm. The flesh sealed tight, scabbed over, then scarred in a matter of seconds. This time the pain was distant. Erinya shrugged, “Killing’s better.”

“Yeah,” Sylvie said. “Now that’s cleared up, and you’re reaffirmed in your career choice, let me ask you this. You couldn’t get to Dunne.”

“Said so,” Erinya said.

“We have to find a way,” Sylvie said. “Things have changed. Lily’s not . . . She’s human, but only barely. She’s Lilith.”

Erinya cocked her head. “The deserter from Eden?”

“Yeah; we’re not facing a mortal. She’s lived this long, and she’s learned a lot along the way.”

Erinya shrugged. “Kevin will reach for you if I don’t come back. He’ll find you.”

“When? When he’s done getting Zeus off his back? I don’t think we have that kind of time.”

“Kevin’s smart,” Erinya said. “He’ll think of something.” She yawned hugely, all lion-teeth and curling predator’s tongue, and stretched out on the bathroom tiles. Her eyes closed.

“Not if he’s sucked into heavenly infighting,” Sylvie said. “This is serious, Eri. Lilith’s planning to take his power.”

Erinya chuffed. She didn’t even open her eyes. “She can’t claw her way to Olympus, and she can’t catch him on the fly. Kevin’s safe from her.”

“Bran’s not,” Sylvie said. Erinya started paying attention again. “If we can tell Dunne about Lilith—well, he can’t find Bran, but he might have a shot at Lilith.”

“Maybe,” Erinya said. “I saw Lilith and didn’t recognize her as immortal. She’s slippery. Tracking her will be like—”

“Tracking a snake through a rock pile,” Sylvie said. “It’s always one rock away from the one you’ve just lifted.”

“Yes,” Erinya said. She yawned. “ ’m going home. I’ll watch for a chance to get to Kevin.”

Erinya vanished, and Sylvie blinked. Guess she’s feeling better. “Demalion? You can see again?”

“Cloudy, but clearing,” he said. “She gone? You all right?”

“Yeah,” Sylvie said. He opened the door, and Sylvie tugged the largest scrap of T-shirt up to play propriety.

“What is she? Besides Dunne’s bodyguard. We knew they weren’t human. Labeled them chimeras of some kind.”

“Right language, wrong beast. She’s a Fury, one of three. Sad to say, probably the most sane one—though admittedly, I don’t know Magdala at all. Still, you just can’t trust someone who wears J. Crew as a fashion choice.”

“Furies? The Furies. And you had to help her.” Demalion fell back against the door.

“Hey, worked out all right. Just like in the stories. I aided a mythical creature—I got a favor.”

“I don’t like this, Sylvie.”

“And I do? Get out, let me shower in peace.”

“You’re worried about a blind man scoping you out?” he said.

She looked into his dark eyes; only a faint hint of luminosity lingered as the curse faded. “Yeah, go play with your crystals, blind man.” He laughed, but left.

Sylvie climbed into the shower with one thought in her mind. Finally. She ran the water hot, admired the water pressure, and sank into the cascade with a moan. She closed her eyes and something red and sinuous snaked across her mind’s eye, like a rapid ripple of blood. She twitched awake.

She scrubbed shampoo into her hair, squeaked it out until there were no leftover traces of char or blood, nothing but the dark fragrance of sandalwood. Cooler water slithered down her back, and she shuddered, repulsed by the feel, and gave up on lingering in the shower.

She stepped out, found Demalion had been back in; her clothes were gone and a clean pile of cotton beckoned from beside the sink. White, she thought, as she shrugged into the dress shirt. He really needed color in his life. A pair of boxer shorts, still in plastic, and Sylvie thought, boring, but put them on. Slim-hipped Demalion liked pale blue. Not even basic plaid.

“I need pants,” she said, coming out into the apartment. “I need—”

“To rest,” he said. “Get some food, some sleep. Start fresh in the morning. The world’s holding. It’ll hold ’til morning.”

Anxiety churned in her stomach; morning was too late, she thought, but didn’t know why. She shook her head, wordless but still defiant. He took her shoulders, and said, “Sylvie—please.” He turned her toward the table, to food set out, and she sat down.

She lifted a forkful of rice noodles, watched them pour off the fork like something alive, and shivered. “Can I use your laptop?”

“Yeah,” he said.

She gratefully pushed the coiled nest of noodles away, called up e-mail, and looked for Alex’s username online. This hour most nights, the girl was online.

Nothing, but there was an e-mail from her. Sylvie opened it. “Look at this,” she said, turned the laptop so he could see it. It was a list of businesses in Chicago that Alex thought Lilith might be associated with.

Demalion stopped chewing for a moment and scrolled through the information. “This will save us some time. You hire her out?”

“Get your own,” Sylvie said. “Alex is mine, all mine.”

“Can I—” He forwarded the information to himself, then on to the ISI, while Sylvie watched. High-handed, she thought, but right now it was simpler just to let Demalion have the info.

“This’ll help. I’ll start them looking, then the night won’t be a waste, even if you sleep right through it.”

Sylvie bit her lip. She was exhausted. But something nagged at her, raised the hair on her nape, left her coldly zero at the bone. She’d never sleep feeling like this, tangled in anxiety and stress. She put her head down on her arms; her hair, mostly damp, snaked down her neck and left wet trails on the paper napkins. She shut her eyes, and drifted, listening to the distant susurrus in her head.

“There you ar—”

Sylvie jerked awake as Demalion said, “Up you go,” and his hands came down on her shoulders like brands. She spun to face him, hand sliding behind her back, but the gun was—

“Easy,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were sleeping.”

“Wasn’t,” she said, looking around. Where in hell had she put it—

Careless, the dark voice said. Insanely so, she agreed. She should know where her gun was. At all times.

“Okay,” he said agreeably. It made her edgy—but suddenly everything was making her edgy—the shadows undulating along the walls, the laptop’s hissing drone, her discarded meal.

“Gun’s on the couch,” he said. “If that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Isn’t,” she said. Knowing where it was eased some of the dread from her stomach.

“Contrary,” he said.

“Am not,” she said, and found a small smile for him.

“Remind me not to wake you suddenly again,” he said. “Slow and easy, some coffee, maybe croissants . . .”

Her smile wavered. He took a step closer. “If I give you my bed, are you going to make me sleep on the couch? It’s not as comfortable as it looks.”

“We’re adults,” Sylvie said, thinking, This could work. Something to keep the anxiety at bay, something to warm that chill from her belly. “Surely we can behave like adults.”

He took another step, reached out, and tugged the button placket of his dress shirt, hers now. His fingers were dark against the pale fabric, and it drew her attention like a magnet. “But what kind of adults?”

“I don’t follow,” she said. Who could blame her, with that single fingertip leaving the top of the shirt and trading cotton for skin. He snaked his fingers down to where the buttons fastened, popped the first one open, and chased the new path.

“Civilized adults,” he said. “Professional, how’re you, nice weather we’re having, job well done or—”

“Or,” she echoed, prolonging the tease. Enjoying it.

“Consenting adults,” he said, “Friendly, postwork drinks, a little dancing, low lights, a lot less clothing.”

“Hmm,” she murmured. She closed her eyes, the better to feel that single, moving point of contact. “Oh, consenting all the way,” she said, and was gratified by the wash of heat in his eyes. She kissed him, and when his lips parted against hers, she licked into him, tasting coffee, tasting spice.

Yes, she thought, now she could do this. Now, she could trust him not to use this against her, trust him not to inform the ISI. After all, now she knew something, too—something the ISI would love to know. Anna D wasn’t human.

She folded her fingers into his hair as he bent to taste her throat. That quick ripple of red crawled behind her eyelids again, too quick to really catch, but she stiffened, nerves firing, then lost that tension in a more pleasant one that coiled low in her stomach. Demalion’s hands, inside the shirt now, slipped it off her shoulders.

Stepping back, she let it fall, a white drift in the room, like the slow fade and flare of a buckshot angel’s wing. She put that thought back where it belonged, locked its door tight. The borrowed boxers came off with no association at all save anticipation.

She dragged his mouth back to hers, nipped at his lower lip, and he said, “Bedroom,” on a breath.

She followed him into the dimly lit room, her eyes on the sleek line of his back, the curve of his butt in dress slacks. She might get to like suits after all.

He dropped his slacks, sprawled across sheets the color of goldenrod, and Sylvie’s thoughts devolved into one simple Yum.

“Sylvie,” he said, drawing her down, his skin animal warm against hers, the raw rough silk of his hair between her clutching fingers again. She slid against him, rubbing, caressing, and his heartbeat rushed into her ear, racing hers, her name whispered on every outborne breath, a sibilant snake hiss of pleasure. “Shadows, Shadows, Shadows.”

She seized his hands, dragged them from her body, pinned them above his head, and shuddered at the sight. Black hair, yellow sheets, and her nails, oddly rust red and shiny—some of the Fury’s power staining them still. She turned her gaze away, caught her own shadow on the wall, hair wet-snarled and wavy, alive with her movements, like Medusa’s mane. Back to the bed, his hair, the sheets, her nails. Red touch yellow touch—

“Turn out the light,” she said. “Put it out.” The three colors—red, yellow, black—pulsed in her vision like the beginnings of a migraine.

“Let go, and I will,” he said, licking his lips.

She slid back, skin rubbing skin, eliciting a pleased groan from both of them. He fumbled over and snapped off the lamp.

“Condom?” she asked. His mouth sealed to hers for a brief moment, then pulled away.

“Foreplay?” he asked.

“Who wants to wait that long?”

He flicked the light back on—red-enamel, yellow light, the dark sweep of his hair—and fished a foiled square from his nightstand. She took it from him, unrolled it over him, stroked it down with her fingertips, loving the way he strained into her touch. Then she turned out the lamp once again.

She fitted herself to him, and slid down, gasping at the slow, sweet breach; his hands clutched her hips, her thighs protested the incremental pace, and she let herself fall. She rode him, muscles tensing, flexing, her breath coming faster—she lost the rhythm when the streetlamps flickered, sulfur colored, drifting through his blinds, reaching snaky fingers out toward the red-glowing LED of his clock.

His hands tightened on her hips, nails dragging against her skin, drawing her attention back to the juncture of heat between them, that heartbeat pulse between them, their ragged breath. He pressed upward, and she let her head fall back, eyes fall closed. So good; his fingers tracing flesh, a hand wrapping about her arm, and the slow sweep of his tongue licking the bullet scar, making it as glossy as a newly molted snake . . .

She jerked; he groaned; the anxiety took on a fever pitch within her. The streetlamp kept creeping, licking at the red numbers, red touch yellow, her head chanted to their rhythm, to his stroking hands, getting frantic, red touch yellow, and he leaned up all at once, wrapping about her, his black shadow falling like a bar between the LED and the streetlights, and Sylvie shuddered once, twice, and came on a crest of relief and pleasure. Red touch black. It’s okay—

He pulsed within her, groaning, and she stroked his back, watching the walls, the shadows undulating in the streetlight, hearing the hiss of cars passing by on rainy streets. Demalion slid back down to the sheets, and said, after a moment, “So where was I in all that?”

Sylvie swallowed, her throat dry from panting. “Yeah, sorry. A little distracted about saving the world, here. But you seemed to enjoy yourself.”

Demalion slid her off him, tugged the sheets up to cover damp skin. “I’m easy. This time.”

Sylvie sat up, coiled her legs beneath her, stared at the sheets, at the hidden depths beneath. “You hear snakes hissing?”

Demalion laughed. “Sylvie, Freud would have a field day.”

“Shut up,” she said, and slapped his shoulder. “I’m serious.” She crawled out of the bed, checking beneath the bedframe, peering into the closets. “You don’t hear that?” The slither of scale seemed as evident as the air conditioner’s rattle and hum. She grabbed her shirt from the floor, shook it out, and put it on. “Where are my shoes?”

“In the other room,” Demalion said. The amusement left his eyes. He grabbed her hands, stopped her restless movement. “Sylvie, you need to—”

“Let go,” she said, nerves jangling. She needed her hands free.

“You’re hallucinating,” he said. “You’ve got to calm—”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said.

He growled. “Why the hell not? You’ve been slinging orders all day. Maybe it’s my turn.”

“News flash,” she said, snatching up the discarded boxers and yanking them on. “I’m not one of your ISI flunkies, and one round in the sheets doesn’t mean you’re in charge.”

“Goddammit, Sylvie. . . .”

She studied his face, watching for intent. Movement to her left, and she sidled away from what turned out to be a lamp cord running along the wall.

He ran his hands through his hair, much as she had done, and it seemed to ease his temper. “You think we’ll ever stop fighting?”

“You’re the clairvoyant,” Sylvie said. She sank back down beside him, into his warmth.

He rubbed her back, kissed the nape of her neck.

“You really don’t hear anything?”

To his credit, he paused, head cocked, listening. “No,” he said. “Not a thing. How long have you been awake now?”

“I slept,” she said. Curled next to Tish, smelling of charred flesh, and drowning in dreams of flame.

“But not well,” he said. He stroked a tendril of hair back from her face.

“Comes with the territory,” she said. She closed her eyes, felt the exhaustion lurking, that snake-flash of movement again, and a sudden, silent blue sky. She twitched awake. Gun, she thought, and slipped out of Demalion’s grasp to get it.

He sat up and watched her, professional wariness on his face. Wondering how many monsters came through his door today, her dark voice said. Wondering if Erinya was only the obvious one.

Sylvie stepped into the dark living room, shied as something cool, muscular, and slick slithered past her ankle. She slapped on the light, and there was nothing there. Didn’t keep her heart from racing. Maybe Demalion was right, she thought. Maybe she was sleep-deprived, hallucinating, delusional.

She looked back; he patted the sheets, and they looked warm, inviting, safe.

Faint hissing, the scent of must and mice—Sylvie backed toward the couch, collected her gun with one hand, and tucked herself into the cushions, sweeping the room with her gaze.

“Sylvie?” Demalion padded into the room, bare all over, and she tore her eyes away.

“I’ll take first watch,” she said. She spotted her sneakers, set down the gun long enough to drag them onto her feet, and curled up against the couch’s arm again, gun in hand. “It’s just midnight. I’ll wake you in—”

“The door’s locked. The alarm’s on. The apartment’s secure. Come back to bed, Sylvie.”

“There are things out there that scoff at locks,” Sylvie said. “You know it. I’ve seen it. Never let your guard down.”

“You need sleep,” he said.

“Sleep when you’re dead,” Sylvie said. She stared hard at the crack beneath the apartment door, at the pale line of light seeping through from the hallway beyond. Anything that crept through there would be seen. She needed to worry about the less overt entry points.

“What will it help anyone if you’re too tired to think straight?” He shook his head and closed the bedroom door behind him.

It was the ISI, she thought, that weakened him, made him rely on external safety precautions, like alarms, like backup and calls for help being answered. A bureaucrat’s world. He didn’t understand the dangers here, not down deep in the bone the way she did.

Sleep? No, she couldn’t risk it. Not when her nerves felt as shaken as a rattlesnake’s tail. But she didn’t need all of herself to keep watch. Only her senses, the gun in her hand, like an animal lying in wait. Her world degenerated into fragments. Sit still, shift in the darkness, aim the gun, assess. Relax. Repeat.

The shadows gave way all at once to daylight, a blue sky washing her dreamscape, and she jerked awake. Even she had limits. Three in the morning, and she couldn’t stay awake another minute. She ghosted toward the bedroom; Demalion slept through the faint creak of the door opening, through her path to the bed. He roused when she touched his shoulder, coming awake with an alacrity that pleased her.

“Your turn,” she said, gesturing to the living room.

“What am I guarding against?” he asked. His voice was delicious with sleep, a low rumble in his chest. She wanted to shuck off the clothes, drop the gun, crawl into his arms, and listen to his voice from up close. She didn’t.

“Anything,” she said.

“Something,” he corrected. “You’re afraid of something specific.”

“Snakes,” she said. “I see them, hear them. They’re not there. Not yet. Maybe it’s some warning.”

She waited for him to give her grief, to play the paranoia card, the exhaustion, the hallucinations; instead, he touched her cheek and slid out of bed.

“Put the gun on the nightstand, huh?” he said. “Not beneath the pillow. Be stupid to shoot yourself by accident.”

He stood over her until she laid it down, the soft thunk of it leaving her hand, and kissed her hair, still shower-matted and sex-tangled. “Go to sleep, Sylvie.”

The bed beckoned; she slid into his warm spot and nearly moaned at how good it felt, the smooth cotton, the lazy heat lingering, and his scent, sandalwood and lime, steeped in it. Sleep dragged her down like a sinkhole opening beneath her.

“It’s about time,” a woman said. “Stubborn creature.”

Blue skies arched above Sylvie, a blue so pure and deep that the heavens looked hot to the touch, and shot through with veins of gold fire. Lapis lazuli, she thought, but freed from cold stone; lapis lazuli, alive.

Her eyes watered; she blinked but couldn’t check the tears. She raised her arms before her to block it out and nearly fell from her seat when it proved to be backless.

“Too much, hmm?”

The world shifted. The sky fell in and darkened, turned teak netted with fishermen’s floats in worn and pitted glass. Sylvie’s stone cup of a chair turned to leather and grew a back and arms. The walls shifted from white marble to plaster, and Sylvie smiled. She knew this place, the Mucky Duck, a vacation restaurant she used to go with her family, when she was still young enough to giggle over the waiter’s bottles of string ketchup that they pretended to squirt on customers.

“A dream. This is all a dream. But you’re not,” she said to the voice. Familiar voice. It hadn’t been a wrong number after all. And Erinya had said that Kevin was smart, that he’d find a way to contact her. Guess this was it.

“Quick,” the woman said, making her appearance. A tiny woman wearing something out of Sylvie’s onetime art-history book approached. A toga, Sylvie thought, the woman’s arms bared from fingertip to shoulder bone, showing multiple semicircular scars. No, chiton. But as soon as she identified it, the fabric changed, adjusting itself to the setting. The woman, now sundressed and sandaled, sank onto a stool next to her. “I’m Mnemosyne. Kevin Dunne sent me.”