And then he hung up again.

I flagged down a cab and headed for the hospital. Took me another twenty minutes to reach the ER entrance, but I did not go inside. I circled the hospital until I found a small stone wall to sit on, and perched there in the shadows, watching cars and people. A homeless man slept on a slab of cardboard some ten feet away, and beyond him a young woman crouched with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of Gatorade in the other. She was humming to herself. No one paid attention to me. I sent a text to Grant’s phone. Five minutes later, I received a reply.

STAY AWAY. GOT IT COVERED.

Which was the best I could hope for, though it bothered me that I was not in there with him. Where there was one bullet, there would be another. The killer would want to make sure the deed had been done. Unfortunately, until the police left it was best I keep out of sight. I could not afford for my name—alias or otherwise—to show up on another report. If word got back to Suwani and McCowan, and I had to assume it would, more questions would follow. Grant’s mojo wouldn’t be able to save me forever, and I was unprepared to move on.

I’m not ready, Winifred had said.

There was a small garden behind the wall I perched on. I glanced over my shoulder at a pair of sharp red eyes. “You did that on purpose. You deliberately allowed that woman to be shot.”

Zee gave me an inscrutable look. “Debts paid in full, Maxine.”

“Winifred is still alive,” I snapped. “The killer will try again. I need to know who is doing this.”

Still, he hesitated—and something broke inside me. I turned, grabbing his shoulder. Shaking him, or trying to; he dug in his heels and wrapped his claws around my arm. Both of us, pushing against the other. Pretending to, anyway.

I knew his strength. He could crush my bones with the slightest pinch, or flay me in strips with one judicious swipe. But I was not afraid. I had never been afraid of Zee, or the others. We were family. But family could be a pain in the ass sometimes.

Dek and Mal poked free of my hair. Raw and Aaz crept close, eyes huge.

“I am sick,” I whispered, “of never hearing the simple truth.”

“Truths never simple,” Zee rasped. “Only death, simple. Only birth, simple. Between, threads and hearts and lies, and we are not interpreters. We are not you.”

His grip relaxed. So did mine, but we did not stop holding each other. Zee whispered, “Past and present always tangled. Too many mysteries.” He touched his chest. “Only truth is yours. Only truth that matters. What you see matters. Not what we see. Not what we tell you.”

I closed my eyes. “Zee. I need help.”

“We help,” he whispered, pressing his warm sharp cheek against my arm. “But no answers here. Never were. Just shadows. Memories.”

“You could have told me that,” I said, all my anger slipping into weariness. “So if not here, then where?”

Again, that odd hesitancy. “Got to travel, Maxine. Far away.”

“You promise there will be answers?”

“Promise enough,” he replied.

“Grant and Winifred need to be protected.”

“Time will protect them.” Zee grabbed my right hand. His words echoed in my head—time, time, time—and terrible instinct made my heart tighten with fear. I opened my mouth to protest, but it was too late. Raw and Aaz wrapped their arms around Zee, and the armor on my right hand, hidden beneath my glove, began to tingle and burn.

My muscles turned to liquid around my bones, and every soft organ in my body seemed to shrivel and lurch. Darkness swallowed me.

Always, darkness.

Chapter 5

It was hot when I started breathing again. A sick slick heat that plugged my nostrils with slugs of air so pungent that breathing was almost like drinking rotten wine; I could taste the individual notes of urine and feces, along with garlic and smoke.

I rolled over on my side, head pounding, and gagged into a puddle that smelled worse than what I had been breathing. The back of my head was wet with the stuff. My stomach heaved again, pain sparking behind my eyes. Small hands touched me.

“Where?” I rasped, coughing. I dug my fist into concrete, pushing hard. Arms hooked around mine, tugging me up on my knees.

But those arms did not belong to a demon.

I froze, turning my head slowly to gaze at the small pale face pressed close to mine in the shadows. It was night, but my sight was good enough to see the dark glitter of concerned eyes.

I knew those eyes. And the recognition was so startling, so violent, my gut seized up as though punched. I bent over again, aching.

Ernie. Ernie Bernstein.

“Come on,” said the boy, with an unnerving amount of compassion and maturity. “Hurry.”

He grunted as he helped me stand, and when I touched his shoulder I felt only bone. He was gaunt, little more than a stick figure beneath the oversized button-up and shorts hanging on his frame. He grabbed my hand, grip tight and sweaty. I had no choice but to follow. Dazed, riding the moment. Dreaming, I thought. My life was nothing but a twisting dream.

He hauled me down a narrow concrete lane that curled like the gut of a snake; a suffocating space crowded with laundry lines, and open doors where men hunched in boneless exhaustion with their eyes closed. Faint lights burned behind them, revealing glimpses of movement; skirts and bare arms, and glass glinting, fleeting as ghosts. I heard pots banging, babies wailing; shouts, followed by the low throaty grunts of sex; and as I pressed my palm against my aching head I saw red eyes in the shadows, steady as stone and fire.

I could make no sense of the maze that Ernie led me down, and finally blocked out everything but the need to stay on my feet and breathe. It was so hard to breathe the air, which was unrelenting in its heat. Sweat poured down my body. My jeans and turtleneck felt like a burning coffin against my skin.

A breeze finally cut against me. Faint, but the movement of air felt like a splash of cold water against my face. I tilted my head, inhaling, and moments later found myself discharged from the narrow alley. Expelled in a rush, like something hard and dirty that had passed for days through some sweaty bowel. I stood on a wide avenue where the buildings, at first glance, resembled some mask of European charm; but then Chinese men, nearly naked and glistening with sweat, ran past me with their heads down, hauling empty rickshaws behind them.

Thunder rolled in the distance; man-made or a storm, I could not tell. I glanced at Ernie, who still held my hand. He was staring at my clothes.

“Hey,” I whispered, afraid of my own voice. Afraid of him, this place, everything around me. I was not supposed to be here. No one, I thought, should have that power.

His head jerked up, but there was nothing startled or young in his gaze. His eyes were old, far too old.

“Your head,” Ernie said. “He hit you.”

“He,” I echoed. My head ached. I was still touching it lightly. “No. I was…sick.”

He did not believe me. Just a glint in his eye, a thinning of his mouth, but that little shift in his expression made me feel small and cut. Like I had violated some trust between us that I had never known existed. That never had.

“But you ran from him,” Ernie said, his English heavily accented. German in origin, I thought. Or Polish.

I hesitated, needing to sit down—feeling exposed on the sidewalk, far too vulnerable. “Run?”

Ernie frowned impatiently. “You only dress like a man during the day. Did you steal his clothes because you were in a hurry?”

He thought I was Jean. My grandmother. I took a moment, unsure how to respond. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Disappointment, even hurt, flashed across his face, but he nodded stiffly and gestured down the street, which seemed filled with sluggish activity; a quietness to each slow movement that made the night feel deep and old. “I can’t walk you home. I have to go. Mutter does not know I slipped out.” He released my hand, and teetered backward, still studying me. “You seem different.”