“Civilized adults,” he said. “Professional, how’re you, nice weather we’re having, job well done or—”

“Or,” she echoed, prolonging the tease. Enjoying it.

“Consenting adults,” he said, “Friendly, postwork drinks, a little dancing, low lights, a lot less clothing.”

“Hmm,” she murmured. She closed her eyes, the better to feel that single, moving point of contact. “Oh, consenting all the way,” she said, and was gratified by the wash of heat in his eyes. She kissed him, and when his lips parted against hers, she licked into him, tasting coffee, tasting spice.

Yes, she thought, now she could do this. Now, she could trust him not to use this against her, trust him not to inform the ISI. After all, now she knew something, too—something the ISI would love to know. Anna D wasn’t human.

She folded her fingers into his hair as he bent to taste her throat. That quick ripple of red crawled behind her eyelids again, too quick to really catch, but she stiffened, nerves firing, then lost that tension in a more pleasant one that coiled low in her stomach. Demalion’s hands, inside the shirt now, slipped it off her shoulders.

Stepping back, she let it fall, a white drift in the room, like the slow fade and flare of a buckshot angel’s wing. She put that thought back where it belonged, locked its door tight. The borrowed boxers came off with no association at all save anticipation.

She dragged his mouth back to hers, nipped at his lower lip, and he said, “Bedroom,” on a breath.

She followed him into the dimly lit room, her eyes on the sleek line of his back, the curve of his butt in dress slacks. She might get to like suits after all.

He dropped his slacks, sprawled across sheets the color of goldenrod, and Sylvie’s thoughts devolved into one simple Yum.

“Sylvie,” he said, drawing her down, his skin animal warm against hers, the raw rough silk of his hair between her clutching fingers again. She slid against him, rubbing, caressing, and his heartbeat rushed into her ear, racing hers, her name whispered on every outborne breath, a sibilant snake hiss of pleasure. “Shadows, Shadows, Shadows.”

She seized his hands, dragged them from her body, pinned them above his head, and shuddered at the sight. Black hair, yellow sheets, and her nails, oddly rust red and shiny—some of the Fury’s power staining them still. She turned her gaze away, caught her own shadow on the wall, hair wet-snarled and wavy, alive with her movements, like Medusa’s mane. Back to the bed, his hair, the sheets, her nails. Red touch yellow touch—

“Turn out the light,” she said. “Put it out.” The three colors—red, yellow, black—pulsed in her vision like the beginnings of a migraine.

“Let go, and I will,” he said, licking his lips.

She slid back, skin rubbing skin, eliciting a pleased groan from both of them. He fumbled over and snapped off the lamp.

“Condom?” she asked. His mouth sealed to hers for a brief moment, then pulled away.

“Foreplay?” he asked.

“Who wants to wait that long?”

He flicked the light back on—red-enamel, yellow light, the dark sweep of his hair—and fished a foiled square from his nightstand. She took it from him, unrolled it over him, stroked it down with her fingertips, loving the way he strained into her touch. Then she turned out the lamp once again.

She fitted herself to him, and slid down, gasping at the slow, sweet breach; his hands clutched her hips, her thighs protested the incremental pace, and she let herself fall. She rode him, muscles tensing, flexing, her breath coming faster—she lost the rhythm when the streetlamps flickered, sulfur colored, drifting through his blinds, reaching snaky fingers out toward the red-glowing LED of his clock.

His hands tightened on her hips, nails dragging against her skin, drawing her attention back to the juncture of heat between them, that heartbeat pulse between them, their ragged breath. He pressed upward, and she let her head fall back, eyes fall closed. So good; his fingers tracing flesh, a hand wrapping about her arm, and the slow sweep of his tongue licking the bullet scar, making it as glossy as a newly molted snake . . .

She jerked; he groaned; the anxiety took on a fever pitch within her. The streetlamp kept creeping, licking at the red numbers, red touch yellow, her head chanted to their rhythm, to his stroking hands, getting frantic, red touch yellow, and he leaned up all at once, wrapping about her, his black shadow falling like a bar between the LED and the streetlights, and Sylvie shuddered once, twice, and came on a crest of relief and pleasure. Red touch black. It’s okay—

He pulsed within her, groaning, and she stroked his back, watching the walls, the shadows undulating in the streetlight, hearing the hiss of cars passing by on rainy streets. Demalion slid back down to the sheets, and said, after a moment, “So where was I in all that?”

Sylvie swallowed, her throat dry from panting. “Yeah, sorry. A little distracted about saving the world, here. But you seemed to enjoy yourself.”

Demalion slid her off him, tugged the sheets up to cover damp skin. “I’m easy. This time.”

Sylvie sat up, coiled her legs beneath her, stared at the sheets, at the hidden depths beneath. “You hear snakes hissing?”

Demalion laughed. “Sylvie, Freud would have a field day.”

“Shut up,” she said, and slapped his shoulder. “I’m serious.” She crawled out of the bed, checking beneath the bedframe, peering into the closets. “You don’t hear that?” The slither of scale seemed as evident as the air conditioner’s rattle and hum. She grabbed her shirt from the floor, shook it out, and put it on. “Where are my shoes?”

“In the other room,” Demalion said. The amusement left his eyes. He grabbed her hands, stopped her restless movement. “Sylvie, you need to—”

“Let go,” she said, nerves jangling. She needed her hands free.

“You’re hallucinating,” he said. “You’ve got to calm—”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said.

He growled. “Why the hell not? You’ve been slinging orders all day. Maybe it’s my turn.”

“News flash,” she said, snatching up the discarded boxers and yanking them on. “I’m not one of your ISI flunkies, and one round in the sheets doesn’t mean you’re in charge.”

“Goddammit, Sylvie. . . .”

She studied his face, watching for intent. Movement to her left, and she sidled away from what turned out to be a lamp cord running along the wall.

He ran his hands through his hair, much as she had done, and it seemed to ease his temper. “You think we’ll ever stop fighting?”

“You’re the clairvoyant,” Sylvie said. She sank back down beside him, into his warmth.

He rubbed her back, kissed the nape of her neck.

“You really don’t hear anything?”

To his credit, he paused, head cocked, listening. “No,” he said. “Not a thing. How long have you been awake now?”

“I slept,” she said. Curled next to Tish, smelling of charred flesh, and drowning in dreams of flame.

“But not well,” he said. He stroked a tendril of hair back from her face.

“Comes with the territory,” she said. She closed her eyes, felt the exhaustion lurking, that snake-flash of movement again, and a sudden, silent blue sky. She twitched awake. Gun, she thought, and slipped out of Demalion’s grasp to get it.

He sat up and watched her, professional wariness on his face. Wondering how many monsters came through his door today, her dark voice said. Wondering if Erinya was only the obvious one.

Sylvie stepped into the dark living room, shied as something cool, muscular, and slick slithered past her ankle. She slapped on the light, and there was nothing there. Didn’t keep her heart from racing. Maybe Demalion was right, she thought. Maybe she was sleep-deprived, hallucinating, delusional.

She looked back; he patted the sheets, and they looked warm, inviting, safe.