He did, not by choice, but he lowered his hand as obediently as the women addicted to Brennan’s drugs. He couldn’t disobey. “Wha—? Who are you?”

Nyx sighed. “The answers to that don’t matter to you today. What you need to know right now is that neither you—nor your loved ones—would stand a chance if I asked you to obey me…and no, you may not ask why just now. Put your hands out here where I can see them.”

When he did so, she nodded placidly as if he’d hadn’t been seconds away from trying to shoot her—and he couldn’t force the questions of how and why from his lips.

“I can be a great ally. You want to stop Brennan’s drugs. I have reasons to want you to succeed at that,” Nyx said.

Cillian opened the folder and glanced at the sheets inside. Charts, account numbers, passwords, maps, key codes, names, aliases…it was far more information than he’d seen on Brennan after months of workups and considerably more detailed than anything he’d gathered in the six weeks he’d been in Raleigh.

Nyx pinched it closed. “You mustn’t tell Evvie that you know me. I’m hiring you as her bodyguard as far as she knows…well, will know.” Nyx’s mouth curved in a wry expression. “Evvie will object. She’ll attempt to evade you. She’ll…be difficult.”

“I’ll need to talk to my supervisors—”

“Talk to them, so they can verify the value of that data…but I am an anonymous source.” She stood up and stretched her arms over her head, making her sheer top lift up and expose her bare stomach. This time, though, Cillian wasn’t even slightly tempted.

“Or what?” he asked.

She laughed, a husky bedroom sound that made him swallow hard despite his utter distaste. “Or I’ll slaughter everyone who sees this data.”

He stood and faced her, still holding the folder. It was foolish, but he had to say it: “You’re not human.”

She put her hand on the folder, pressing it against his chest, leaned in, and kissed his cheek. “If you’re interested in my help, take the folder and be here tomorrow at seven sharp to be introduced to my cousin as her new bodyguard. If not, leave the folder and walk away. I’ll give you an out this once.” She kept her hand on the folder, holding it between them as she invaded his space. “If you accept my offer, please do understand that I’m quite serious about the terms of our contract.”

Then she turned and left.

Cillian sat silently in the dark for several minutes, debating the consequences of both actions. If he took the folder, he’d have resources the C.D.A. needed, resources that would enable him to do his job better. If he left it behind, he assured his family’s safety; of course, they were only endangered if he couldn’t keep silent. That wasn’t an issue. The things Cillian had learned in his job weren’t things he shared with his family. This was no different. If Nyx was honest, he and his loved ones were endangered only by violating her privacy. If she wasn’t honest, they were already in danger. Either way, taking the folder didn’t change anything critical. All it really meant was that he was becoming personally involved in the world of the Others.

Which has been inevitable since I took the damn job.

He’d expected his overt knowledge of the not-humans to come through official routes, but he’d still expected it from the beginning.

What difference does it make?

He took the folder and walked away. Now he just needed to figure out what to tell his supervisors—and protect a woman who was some sort of Other, and, if he was lucky, stop Daniel Brennan. All told, he was more excited about his job than he’d been in months.

4

Eavan hated family meetings with a passion she reserved for…actually, a passion she reserved for family meetings. She stood in the street, staring at her home and trying not to fall under the sway of the neighborhood. Oakwood was a little bit of heaven—houses that weren’t prefab monstrosities, people who sunk their roots into their city, a community whose collective energy made this part of the city something pure. Her family always lived in such areas. Unlike the subdivisions that cropped up everywhere, Oakwood and its neighboring Mordecai had personalities, histories, and dark whispers. More than a few of those whispers were tied to the women in Eavan’s family. Sometimes an unfaithful husband vanished. Once in a while, a wayward family member returned home meek and eager to be forgiven. Drug traffic never took hold in the several blocks surrounding their home. No one in their immediate area was ever robbed. Of course, no one would speak directly about the belief that Nyx’s influence was what kept them safe in home and family. Secrets were all the more poignant for the fact that they were openly known, but never spoken. It was enough to keep the neighbors from looking too closely at the family.

If they truly knew, would they still look away?

The neighbors might murmur about them being “fancy women” and the scandal of women owning strip clubs, but they didn’t pursue their talk beyond the occasional, and quickly silenced, remark. They didn’t speculate aloud at the family’s methods of keeping peace; there were no titillating rumors voiced about the beautiful murderesses who lived inside the modest house.

Eavan’s family was a clan of true glaistigs: they devoured people. They were many men’s—and a fair number of women’s—darkest fantasy, but sometimes with a steep price. They didn’t kill many, but they did kill. Glaistigs swallowed the last breath of mortals or strangled them, preferably during sex.

Monsters.

She walked around to the back of the house. It was part of the routine she’d clung to in order to keep herself from believing the façade. Routines were her anchor, innumerable little tricks to keep from believing in illusions, to create her own illusion of normalcy. Going through the front door, the door for guests, was walking into the illusion. The truth was what kept her from surrendering to the role her family wanted for her.

This is not what I am.

Steeling herself for the sensory shock, she pushed open the door.

She wasn’t but a step inside the room, when Mother Chloe appeared in front of her. Uncharacteristically, her legs were hidden away. There must be guests. Even now, no one in her family seemed able to keep her chest, stomach, or arms covered. Given a choice, they’d roam in lingerie.

Eavan straightened the sleeves of her suit jacket. I am not like them. She’d worked hard to cultivate a modest streak and had gone a bit overboard lately with being so close to the edge. No one else at the office dressed as conservatively as she did; even the senior marketing consultants looked at her oddly.

She stood silently for her birthmother’s inspection. They were always like this, greeting her at the threshold and assessing her like a stray dog returned to the pack. Chloe glanced at Eavan’s stocking-covered calves approvingly. She smiled—until she looked up and saw Eavan’s tightly wound bun. “Well, that certainly sets a mood, doesn’t it?”

“You asked me to let it grow again,” Eavan reminded. She sat her briefcase at the front door and slipped off her pumps.

“I don’t understand you.” Chloe walked away, her boots striking the tile floor in a regular rhythm, sounding out the familiar cadence, bringing to mind memories of a lifetime of late night music sessions. Chloe insisted on wearing boots that would resonate on the floor as her own cloven feet would. She liked music, even that made of her own movement.

Despite her irritation, Eavan smiled at the sound. For years when she’d lived in the house, she’d been happy. Things had made sense, but back then, she’d known little of what she’d one day become. It wasn’t until she was a teenager that she understood the parties, the musicians, and the strange cries. Her mother-family, glaistigs all, fed on acts of sex and death. It was essential that they feed; it kept them alive. Eavan understood it—but understanding didn’t equate to wanting to be like them.