Her order caused a furrow to start in his pierced brow, a wariness in his expression. “You gonna want anything else?”

“Another Coke, for sure,” Sylvie said. “Maybe a little info. I’m looking for a friend of Auguste’s.” Go with the gamble. Really, in a club this size, how many staffers with French names could suddenly not show up for work?

“Cop,” the curly-haired woman said, with a dismissive sniff and hair toss. The glasses in her hair caught the light and sparked. “Pay up.” She held out a hand to her table mates, a Paris Hilton wannabe and a sulky brunette, and they forked over dollar bills.

The bartender shook his head. “Sorry. Drinks I can help you with. Anything else, try the Internet.”

“Hold that thought,” Sylvie said. “Do I really look like a cop?” She split her glance between the table and the bartender.

The woman who’d declared her a cop spoke up. “You look nosy, and that’s just as bad. People deserve their privacy. No matter what the government would have you believe.” She tossed her head again, a flash of dark glass in her hair. Sylvie imagined her doing it one time too many and breaking her own neck.

“Some people forfeit it through their actions,” Sylvie said. She took another long sip of her Coke, crunched ice. They wanted to argue; she could do that.

“Typical authority viewpoint,” the woman said.

“You don’t like it, don’t eavesdrop,” Sylvie said. “I’ll just chat with the bartender instead. He’s paid to serve, after all.”

The bartender’s lips tightened.

“Kinda ironic, considering the slogan at your back. But there’s always going to be someone like you, just trying to make a living, working under someone else. I’m not trying to hurt you, or anyone like you. I’m looking for one of the alpha types, someone who uses people like you. A woman, a friend of Auguste’s.”

“Auguste doesn’t have friends.” The bartender walked down the bar to an emptied glass and waved hand, but had to come back for the refill. He refused to meet Sylvie’s eyes.

“Don’t you tell her anything,” the woman said, with another aggressive nod. “Next thing you know, she’ll be demanding names and making threats. Her kind always does.”

“Look, chickie,” Sylvie said. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you about the golden rule? If you don’t have anything useful to say, butt out.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the bartender slipping away again.

“Watch yourself,” the girl said. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.” She raised a hand and wispy flames began to sprout from her palm. Paris and Sulky shared take-that smiles with each other.

Sylvie swallowed a piece of ice wrong, then laughed until she was breathless.

“Oh God,” she gasped. “The only way fancy fire-starting could scare me, after the day I’ve had, is if you lit a cigarette with it. Secondhand smoke’s a killer.” She dropped away from the bar and pulled up a seat at the table, unasked. Paris and Sulky screeched their seats aside. “But, hey, if you can do that, you have to know Auguste, right? Two magic-users and all that.”

Though magic-user was a stretch—what the girl had shown her was akin to a toddler getting to its feet. All show, prone to collapsing at a single touch. The Maudit had undoubtedly scorned her, not only an amateur, but a female. That didn’t mean, though, that the girl had no interest in Auguste.

The flame wavered in the girl’s hand, and Sylvie said, “Do I need to spell it out? I’m not impressed. Put it out before I put it out for you.” Sylvie slapped the table, and all three girls jumped; the flame went out as if Sylvie had snuffed it. “Thanks,” Sylvie said. “All friends now?”

“Why don’t you just wait and talk to him?” the Paris wannabe said. Sylvie bit back a grimace. Like that was possible.

“I’m impatient,” Sylvie said. “It’s a character flaw.”

The chain curtains parted with a slithering clink just as one song drew to a close on the speakers. In the hush, the squeaks from the girls at the table rang out. Erinya stalked toward Sylvie with murder in her eye.

“Got stamped?” Sylvie asked, catching sight of a reddish smear on Erinya’s inner wrist. Guess the bouncer was a righteous man, after all.

Erinya growled. Nothing human at all in the sound, deeper than a human throat could even voice. Sylvie flipped the Fury her wallet. “Guess that means you can drink. If you’re so inclined. Then you can come chat with our new friends.”

Erinya growled, human this time, complete with a “fuck you,” but turned toward the bar. In the mirror, her reflection swirled, as if it wanted to reveal the monster beneath the skin.

The pyrokinetic girl leaned forward, capturing Sylvie’s attention, and said, “Auguste has a wand up his ass, but he’s tough enough to take you down.”

“Unlikely,” Sylvie said. “But Auguste isn’t my interest. I want the name of his friend. You know—the only woman he listens to.” Present tense, she thought, keep it present tense. No need for them to remember that you spoke of him as dead when he turns up missing.

Pyro hesitated; her friends’ eyes rested on her, and Sylvie said, “Don’t balk now.”

“Lily,” the Paris wannabe said. “What? Like you wouldn’t have told her?” Pyro humphed in exasperation, and Paris ignored her. “Lily. That’s all I know. She comes around here a lot. She’s a bitch. Kinda like you, actually.”

“She here tonight?” Sylvie asked. She ignored the girl’s insult. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before. “Answers, anyone?”

“Haven’t seen her tonight,” Pyro said. “She doesn’t come every night.”

“Describe her for me.” Sylvie’s tension leaked through; Erinya was suddenly at her side, crouched, staring at the girls with predatory intent. Sylvie touched Erinya’s mesh sleeve, a request for self-restraint. The fabric shivered beneath her fingers, and Sylvie took her hand away, nerves tingling as if a current had passed through them.

“Ordinary,” Pyro said, and Sylvie’s heart sank. Ordinary. That was not a hopeful word; a woman who could manipulate a sorcerer, who could plan and execute a kidnapping beneath the nose of a god, was hardly ordinary.

“You might be hot stuff, Helen, but you’re blind as a bat. Lily’s creepy as sin,” Sulky said, speaking for the first time. She turned to Sylvie. “I mean, yeah, she looks normal, unlike your freak-friend there . . .” The girl’s voice trailed off as Erinya’s eyes turned to meet hers. A faint whimper came out of her throat; her muscles locked up, her hands clenched each other beneath the table.

Flames burst from Helen’s palms; Sylvie caught Helen’s wrists before she could interfere. Helen’s bones and tendons trembled under Sylvie’s tight-knuckled grasp. Fire licked at Sylvie’s skin, dry heat promising pain as it stretched and grew even closer.

One flamelet touched the leather of Erinya’s jacket and turned a virulent green, stretching tall under the sudden influx of god-touched leather, coiling back toward Helen like a serpent.

“Erinya’s just taking a look-see, that’s all. You interfere, and there’ll be trouble. More trouble than any of us wants.”

“I can’t stop it,” Helen said, eyes wide on the flames encircling her fingers.

“You can. You will,” Sylvie said, implacable. “Or you’ll burn. Take control or lose it. It’s your choice. But if you combust, don’t expect me to put you out.”

Helen shivered, but the flames began to die back as she pulled in her fingers, one by one. Sylvie relaxed her hold, and when Helen’s flame had become puddles of ash in her hands, she said, “Now, tell me what you consider ordinary.”

Beside her, Sulky began to drool. Paris sat frozen, head down, shoulders shaking.

Helen said, “Dark hair, brown eyes. Ordinary. Not too tall. Not a lot of anything. Wears designer clothes. That’s all I know.”

Sylvie studied the marks of distress in her face, blotchy cheeks, quivering lips, the blisters rising in her palms. “You should learn to be more observant of the world around you. Save you no end of trouble in the long run. You done yet, Eri? ’Cause her mind’s going to pop any moment now, and that’ll be messy.”