“That’s not what he says,” Sylvie muttered.

“But if he’d been disciplined, it wasn’t just a matter of name-calling. It was sticks and stones and broken bones.”

“So, not an easy convert,” Sylvie said, trying to imagine Dunne winning someone over with charm. She failed. Admittedly, she hadn’t seen him at his best. He’d been stripped-down angry and scared. Maybe Bran was the lovable one. Tish seemed to think so.

“And you saw Rodrigo back at the office. He was all over you merely for mentioning Dunne’s name. He was team one.”

“So that wasn’t just an ISI fit?”

“No,” Demalion said. “That was lingering contamination.” He shrugged, fumbled in his suit-coat pocket, pulled out the crystal again, went back to moving it hand to hand. “For a while, we tried purely electronic surveillance, but all our bugs failed. A third team went out, consisting of three experienced field agents, one a clairvoyant, who would warn them of any magical influence.” Demalion set aside his espresso, mostly untouched, rubbed his face.

“What happened?” Sylvie asked. “More bestest of friends?

“No,” Demalion said. “Dunne lost patience with playing nice. None of team three will ever be watching them again. I would imagine the same holds true for our mystery observer.”

“But not dead?” Sylvie asked again, trying to imagine what she felt about that, some evidence that maybe Dunne was what he seemed. A nice guy who didn’t like to kill. She remembered his snatching the orchid-girl from beneath her heel, and grimaced. She wasn’t used to being more reprehensible than her clients.

Her phone buzzed; she looked down and caught a glimpse of a text message. Flight information. Val was on her way.

“Bespelled. Or something. It wasn’t a spell. It just was. One moment, things were one way, the next moment, they weren’t. We don’t understand what type of ability Dunne’s tapped into but—”

“All you know is that he’s powerful? That’s pathetic,” Sylvie said, rising. “I learned more than that in the first ten minutes of meeting him. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to work.”

“Bullshit,” Demalion said, his temper fraying to match hers. “You talk big, Sylvie, but you’re full of it. I’m trying to help you, talking shop when I should just keep my mouth shut and let you sink. But the hell of it is, I’d rather not see you dead. Let me help. You tell me what you think you know, and I’ll set men to look for Wolf.”

“Your bargain sucks,” she said. “Your men are already looking for Wolf, whether they know it or not. Dunne wants it that way. Dunne’s not a witch, sorcerer, psychic, or even some type of master hypnotist.”

“If you know so much—what is he then?”

“He’s a god,” Sylvie said. She swept out of the pastry shop, leaving Demalion behind her, sinking back into the booth.

8

When Only a Witch Will Do

SYLVIE WAITED OUTSIDE O’HARE, SITTING ON A METAL BENCH brought to oven warmth by the heat from passing car engines. She shifted, pulling sweat-damp cotton away from her nape, and went back to watching the airport police.

Earlier, they had been everywhere, running in packs of five or more, like confused hounds casting about for scent. Now, they were back to that deceptively slow cop stride, in pairs or singles, and the only signs of interference was the occasional freeze of movement coupled with a blank stare, like the stutter-stop of a petit mal seizure. Like a seizure, the symptoms disappeared with the cops unaware of them.

Sylvie couldn’t decide if this was an improvement or not; she lacked facts and was left with empty speculation. Did their return to near normal mean Dunne’s influence had faded? If so, why? Had he lost interest or hope in their ability to find Brandon Wolf? Or was it a simpler thing altogether? Had he regained some of his concentration, keeping his powers close to home? Sylvie gnawed her lip, checked her watch, and moved on—nearly time to meet Val.

A third option presented itself to her. Had Dunne weakened? Maybe gods weren’t affected by human limitations of distance or endurance, but that didn’t mean nothing could weaken him. If he was a god—and she chose to let that declaration stand—she could think of only two things that could stop him. A belatedly delivered ransom demand. Or another god. Sylvie shivered. She needed to check in with her client and soon.

Val strode up at that moment, smiling a little, looking like a sleek jet-setter anticipating nothing more taxing than the shopping trip she’d teased Sylvie about. That changed the moment she leaned in to give Sylvie a social hug. The gun at Sylvie’s waist . . . twitched. Sylvie felt the distinctive click of the safety shifting off, a tiny flicker of movement against her skin, a finger tap saying “ready.”

“What the hell is that?” Val said. “What have you done, Sylvie?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“You’re wearing something of stolen power,” Val accused. “Spirit bound to flesh. That’s black work. How did you—”

“It’s fine,” Sylvie said. “Just trust me, okay?”

Val grimaced but let the questioning drop, for which Sylvie was grateful. She needed to parse what Val had said. Flesh and spirit, bound? Her flesh—she knew that; otherwise, the gun wouldn’t feel so comfortable against her skin. Whose spirit? Dunne’s?

Val waved for a cab, her lips still tight in disapproval. “Let’s get this over with, Sylvie.”

“We’re not taking a cab to the subway,” Sylvie said. “That’s just plain stupid. How spoiled are you, anyway?” She waved off the cabbie and headed toward the El connection.

Val huffed but followed her down the sidewalk in silence. Once in the El, Sylvie leaned up against a pole near the doors, touching her cheek to the cool metal, studying the other passengers, mostly airport run-off of flight attendants and travelers. No one looked back at her; the one man in a business suit who did ducked her gaze a second later, leaving her with nothing to do but seethe and listen to the rattle and clank of the El rising above the street.

Three stops later, Sylvie decided Val had sulked long enough, and said, “You look at the spell?”

“Enough to know it’s probably what you’re looking for,” Val said, pausing in her own calming study of the posters within the car. “Not enough to tell you how, who, or why, yet. I’ve made some assumptions, of course, from the sketch, but I’d rather see the actual circle itself before I draw real conclusions.”

“Thanks, Val,” Sylvie said. She relaxed; it looked like Val was going to be helpful.

“Don’t thank me,” Val said. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be here. Things are strange right now, and all I want to do is hole up someplace safe.”

“Strange,” Sylvie repeated.

“My coven thinks a god may have come to the mortal realm.”

“So?” Sylvie said. “It’s their earth, too, right?”

Val made a face as if Sylvie had said something unbelievably stupid. “The only good thing about gods is that they prefer their realm to ours.”

The El swayed heavily as they took a long curve, rattling loud enough to make it sound like a roller coaster, and drew to a screeching halt. Val winced. “Not quite a Benz, is it?”

“You’ll survive,” Sylvie said.

Once the engine reached speed again, Sylvie said, “In myths, gods walk the earth all the time.”

“Yes,” Val said, “and mythology is full of monsters and cataclysms. Trust me, they’re linked. Gods change things. It’s their nature. Their very presence.”

“The world bends to their will,” Sylvie said, echoing Dunne. “It’s all about power.”

“It’s always about power,” Val said. “There’s only so much of it to go around. Like anything rare, it’s prized, guarded, hidden, and sought.”

“And stolen,” Sylvie finished on the crest of a minor epiphany. Stolen would explain an awful lot about Dunne’s sudden appearance on the scene. There weren’t that many possibilities if the two facts she had gained were both true. Dunne was a god. Dunne had been a normal human. Between the two states lay power.