Sylvie bent over the body again, fumbled in pockets gone sticky; between the gunshot and Erinya’s boots, the sorcerer’s chest cavity was little more than a shattered mess, soft and splintered. Sylvie wiped her fingers on her jacket after she’d finished the search.

Nothing. No ID, no keys, no wallet. He’d come out just to pick a fight. Sylvie scowled. It was never that easy.

“Well?” she said to Erinya. So she’d shot her best lead; even dead, he could yield information, if she could figure out who he was. If she wasn’t arrested at any moment.

“Oh, yeah,” the girl said. “Get rid of it, right.”

“If you don’t mind,” Sylvie said.

The girl hoisted the corpse into her arms, cradling it like a dead child, and stared down at it. She raised it a little higher and licked at the wound. “Mmm,” she said. The sight stopped the words in Sylvie’s throat. She coughed and forced them out, anyway.

“Stop that,” she said, stripping off her Windbreaker and draping it over his torso, hiding the wound, the blood. “Dispose of him, don’t eat him. Come right back, but remember his scent. You can help me track him back to wherever he’s been staying.”

“Sure thing, boss,” the girl said, that poison-sweet petulance in her voice again. “Want I should bring you a latte as well?”

Sylvie laughed, the sound unexpected even to her. The Fury eyed her warily, shifted the sorcerer’s deadweight in her arms, and vanished. Sylvie walked a block down the street, a block away from a bloodstain she didn’t want to have to explain to anyone, and sat on the curb.

In one irritable gesture, she waved off a cab that veered toward her. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out, angling it toward the streetlamp to see the number.

Alex.

Down the block, Sylvie saw the Fury reappear. Sylvie looked at her spattered hands and shut the phone off. Blood on her hands, in her voice; there was no way she could talk to Alex like this. Alex might be a visitor to the dark side of the world on occasion, but she didn’t need to know how comfortable Sylvie was in it.

11

Women on the Hunt

SYLVIE KEPT A CAREFUL EYE ON THE APARTMENT HALLWAY WHILE THE Fury put her hand to the latch. It opened without fuss or fanfare. “Slick,” Sylvie said.

Erinya smiled, a wild-toothed expression that made Sylvie shiver even as she responded in kind. She and the Fury were getting along entirely too well. Really, what did that say about her—that these days she was more at ease working with a stone killer than talking to Alex? Sylvie slipped through the door behind the Fury and latched it.

A quick rush of controlled light ran along the door and frame, tracing an esoteric pattern burned into the wood. “You didn’t tell me there was a spell on the door.”

“It didn’t matter,” the girl said, sticking her tongue out at the voided spell. “No door can bar me.”

“You and the Grim Reaper,” Sylvie said. “Just goes to prove no good comes from unexpected guests.”

“Don’t compare us,” Erinya said. “He uses tools. I use my hands. . . .” She flashed said hands in Sylvie’s face, hands gone scaled and black, twisted from a human’s five-fingered grip, to something more birdlike, something reptilian.

“Oh, and that makes all the difference,” Sylvie said. “ ’Cause one is so much more dead than the other.”

“It is if we eat the soul,” Erinya said, licking her lips with a snake’s tongue.

Sylvie refused to flinch at either claws or tongue. Erinya had been testing her nerve all the way to the sorcerer’s apartment, leaping at her suddenly, shifting shape halfway, then grinning around a toothed beak.

Sylvie figured she was as safe at the moment as she would ever be from the Furies. Not only had Dunne sent Erinya to aid her, a clear sign of his intent, the Furies themselves wanted her to succeed. Erinya’s rage at the Maudit’s body had proved that.

Still, she shouldn’t get cocky—their tempers were as bad as hers, and she had just killed a man she had meant to question.

Sylvie paused in the apartment’s tiny entryway and took puzzled stock while Erinya prowled the room. The interior matched the exterior of the building; on the small side, a little run-down.

The Maudits were usually big on pomp and panoply, preferring five-star-hotel suites and the best of everything, no matter the splash it made. This apartment, with its tangled clutter of dropped clothing, of candle ends and piled DVDs, of Salvation Army furniture and velvet blackout curtains, looked more like a D&D geek’s idea of a sorcerer’s lair, minus only a tattered copy of the Necronomicon.

Of course, unlike a D&D geek, the resident really did have magical abilities, and the books lying casually on the coffee table, between half-empty soda cans, incense sticks, mortars and pestles, were honest-to-god-or-the-devil grimoires. The kinds too often made from human skin or written in blood. Sylvie tucked her hands into her jeans pockets and wandered inward, noting the TV screen and its hissing snow.

“Any other spells lying around?” Sylvie asked. “ ’Cause I’m so not in the mood to go up in smoke. Or be turned into a toad.”

“That’d be bad,” Erinya said. “I’d eat you up if you were a toad.”

Erinya’s gaze was predatory, just that little bit sharper than a moment before, and fixed on her. Upping the bluff? “Back off, I’m not a toad, yet,” Sylvie said. “Besides, if I were a toad, I’m sure I’d be poisonous. . . .” The girl’s gaze didn’t falter. Sylvie stuffed her nervousness behind a quick scowl.

“You’re all over blood,” Erinya said. “Didn’t see it so much outside, in the dark.”

“I’ll wash up,” Sylvie said, her mouth dry.

“You don’t have to. I like it.”

“I’ll wash up,” Sylvie repeated. There was a small kitchenette in sight, and she aimed herself at it, pushing past Erinya when the Fury didn’t get out of her way. The brief contact made her shudder, a reflexive reaction to touching flesh that had only a cursory resemblance to human; it was like reaching out to touch a fallen branch and finding the lively suppleness of a snake.

She leaned over the kitchen sink, splashing her hands clean, using enough of the Maudit’s soap that her hands were slimy instead of lathered and took forever to rinse, giving her an excuse to linger.

Don’t forget what she is. She hunts killers. She destroys them down to their souls. The only thing keeping you safe is Dunne’s need.

Sylvie couldn’t argue with any of that, but she also couldn’t deny the sense of camaraderie that had risen between them.

Part of it, she knew, was Erinya’s situation. Once out of the reach of the sullen sisters, out of Dunne’s brooding misery, the Fury had proved to be both chatty and profane, spewing bile that struck chords deep within Sylvie. Erinya, the afterthought sister, created only because three could corner prey better than two. For the worst offenders, the ones who deserved more than simple death, the Furies worked as a team. Two to flank their prey and one up ahead to devour the soul.

“I didn’t even get a name,” Erinya had said, vaulting over a mailbox in the sidewalk, kicking it on her gymnastic way down and knocking it over with a shuddering clang and a burst of broken concrete. “We’re the Erinyes. I’m a thing, not an individual. Alekta got a name. Not a mind, though. She’s all orders and rank, kowtowing to them all. Magdala plays their games, nipping and nudging them into listening to what she wants. We’re gods, too, but fuck if they act like it. We’re just the punishers. And if we forget our place—” Erinya shook her head; black wings shook around her and disappeared. “It’s like a prison, Olympus. I was glad, glad”—she tilted her head back to shout at the dark sky above—“glad when Kevin took our reins from Hera.”