“It’s not so different,” Erinya said. She leaned back and licked her lips. “Feels good on this end.”

“Fuck you,” Sylvie said, when her breath returned. She pushed Erinya back and scrambled to her feet. Her hand was on the doorknob when she realized none of the movements had hurt.

Erinya stretched tall, the sudden force of her presence looming in the small room, and Sylvie said, “You fixed my ribs?”

“Cure, kill, not so different,” she repeated. Erinya reached out, stroked a talon over the raw burn that snaked up Sylvie’s arm. The flesh sealed tight, scabbed over, then scarred in a matter of seconds. This time the pain was distant. Erinya shrugged, “Killing’s better.”

“Yeah,” Sylvie said. “Now that’s cleared up, and you’re reaffirmed in your career choice, let me ask you this. You couldn’t get to Dunne.”

“Said so,” Erinya said.

“We have to find a way,” Sylvie said. “Things have changed. Lily’s not . . . She’s human, but only barely. She’s Lilith.”

Erinya cocked her head. “The deserter from Eden?”

“Yeah; we’re not facing a mortal. She’s lived this long, and she’s learned a lot along the way.”

Erinya shrugged. “Kevin will reach for you if I don’t come back. He’ll find you.”

“When? When he’s done getting Zeus off his back? I don’t think we have that kind of time.”

“Kevin’s smart,” Erinya said. “He’ll think of something.” She yawned hugely, all lion-teeth and curling predator’s tongue, and stretched out on the bathroom tiles. Her eyes closed.

“Not if he’s sucked into heavenly infighting,” Sylvie said. “This is serious, Eri. Lilith’s planning to take his power.”

Erinya chuffed. She didn’t even open her eyes. “She can’t claw her way to Olympus, and she can’t catch him on the fly. Kevin’s safe from her.”

“Bran’s not,” Sylvie said. Erinya started paying attention again. “If we can tell Dunne about Lilith—well, he can’t find Bran, but he might have a shot at Lilith.”

“Maybe,” Erinya said. “I saw Lilith and didn’t recognize her as immortal. She’s slippery. Tracking her will be like—”

“Tracking a snake through a rock pile,” Sylvie said. “It’s always one rock away from the one you’ve just lifted.”

“Yes,” Erinya said. She yawned. “ ’m going home. I’ll watch for a chance to get to Kevin.”

Erinya vanished, and Sylvie blinked. Guess she’s feeling better. “Demalion? You can see again?”

“Cloudy, but clearing,” he said. “She gone? You all right?”

“Yeah,” Sylvie said. He opened the door, and Sylvie tugged the largest scrap of T-shirt up to play propriety.

“What is she? Besides Dunne’s bodyguard. We knew they weren’t human. Labeled them chimeras of some kind.”

“Right language, wrong beast. She’s a Fury, one of three. Sad to say, probably the most sane one—though admittedly, I don’t know Magdala at all. Still, you just can’t trust someone who wears J. Crew as a fashion choice.”

“Furies? The Furies. And you had to help her.” Demalion fell back against the door.

“Hey, worked out all right. Just like in the stories. I aided a mythical creature—I got a favor.”

“I don’t like this, Sylvie.”

“And I do? Get out, let me shower in peace.”

“You’re worried about a blind man scoping you out?” he said.

She looked into his dark eyes; only a faint hint of luminosity lingered as the curse faded. “Yeah, go play with your crystals, blind man.” He laughed, but left.

Sylvie climbed into the shower with one thought in her mind. Finally. She ran the water hot, admired the water pressure, and sank into the cascade with a moan. She closed her eyes and something red and sinuous snaked across her mind’s eye, like a rapid ripple of blood. She twitched awake.

She scrubbed shampoo into her hair, squeaked it out until there were no leftover traces of char or blood, nothing but the dark fragrance of sandalwood. Cooler water slithered down her back, and she shuddered, repulsed by the feel, and gave up on lingering in the shower.

She stepped out, found Demalion had been back in; her clothes were gone and a clean pile of cotton beckoned from beside the sink. White, she thought, as she shrugged into the dress shirt. He really needed color in his life. A pair of boxer shorts, still in plastic, and Sylvie thought, boring, but put them on. Slim-hipped Demalion liked pale blue. Not even basic plaid.

“I need pants,” she said, coming out into the apartment. “I need—”

“To rest,” he said. “Get some food, some sleep. Start fresh in the morning. The world’s holding. It’ll hold ’til morning.”

Anxiety churned in her stomach; morning was too late, she thought, but didn’t know why. She shook her head, wordless but still defiant. He took her shoulders, and said, “Sylvie—please.” He turned her toward the table, to food set out, and she sat down.

She lifted a forkful of rice noodles, watched them pour off the fork like something alive, and shivered. “Can I use your laptop?”

“Yeah,” he said.

She gratefully pushed the coiled nest of noodles away, called up e-mail, and looked for Alex’s username online. This hour most nights, the girl was online.

Nothing, but there was an e-mail from her. Sylvie opened it. “Look at this,” she said, turned the laptop so he could see it. It was a list of businesses in Chicago that Alex thought Lilith might be associated with.

Demalion stopped chewing for a moment and scrolled through the information. “This will save us some time. You hire her out?”

“Get your own,” Sylvie said. “Alex is mine, all mine.”

“Can I—” He forwarded the information to himself, then on to the ISI, while Sylvie watched. High-handed, she thought, but right now it was simpler just to let Demalion have the info.

“This’ll help. I’ll start them looking, then the night won’t be a waste, even if you sleep right through it.”

Sylvie bit her lip. She was exhausted. But something nagged at her, raised the hair on her nape, left her coldly zero at the bone. She’d never sleep feeling like this, tangled in anxiety and stress. She put her head down on her arms; her hair, mostly damp, snaked down her neck and left wet trails on the paper napkins. She shut her eyes, and drifted, listening to the distant susurrus in her head.

“There you ar—”

Sylvie jerked awake as Demalion said, “Up you go,” and his hands came down on her shoulders like brands. She spun to face him, hand sliding behind her back, but the gun was—

“Easy,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were sleeping.”

“Wasn’t,” she said, looking around. Where in hell had she put it—

Careless, the dark voice said. Insanely so, she agreed. She should know where her gun was. At all times.

“Okay,” he said agreeably. It made her edgy—but suddenly everything was making her edgy—the shadows undulating along the walls, the laptop’s hissing drone, her discarded meal.

“Gun’s on the couch,” he said. “If that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Isn’t,” she said. Knowing where it was eased some of the dread from her stomach.

“Contrary,” he said.

“Am not,” she said, and found a small smile for him.

“Remind me not to wake you suddenly again,” he said. “Slow and easy, some coffee, maybe croissants . . .”

Her smile wavered. He took a step closer. “If I give you my bed, are you going to make me sleep on the couch? It’s not as comfortable as it looks.”

“We’re adults,” Sylvie said, thinking, This could work. Something to keep the anxiety at bay, something to warm that chill from her belly. “Surely we can behave like adults.”

He took another step, reached out, and tugged the button placket of his dress shirt, hers now. His fingers were dark against the pale fabric, and it drew her attention like a magnet. “But what kind of adults?”

“I don’t follow,” she said. Who could blame her, with that single fingertip leaving the top of the shirt and trading cotton for skin. He snaked his fingers down to where the buttons fastened, popped the first one open, and chased the new path.