She dragged Bran through shin-deep rushing water to the dubious safety of a wall with a tiny overhang. Sylvie put her hand to it, steadying herself, steadying him, and the wall felt rough, splintery, nearly chalky beneath her hand. She sniffed. Smoke. Char. A burned-out building. Wooden, not concrete. “Where the hell are we?”

Lightning, thunder, a god shaking himself to pieces against her were her only answers. Bran crumpled; she caught him, lowered them both. There were stairs beneath them, the wreckage of a decorative railing. They were huddled in what used to be someone’s doorway, the overhang protecting them from most of the weather. In the inconstant light, Bran’s face was shocky and wet. Sylvie brushed the rain out of it. The dampness on his face reappeared no matter how often she wiped her fingers across his cheeks.

Crying, she thought. She’d broken him. When government stalkers hadn’t. When kidnapping hadn’t. When abuse hadn’t. One day with her, and she’d done this kind of damage. He felt boneless in her lap, given over completely to his misery. She’d done this to him. Sent him through pain and fire and heartache. “It had to be done,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

It was necessary, the dark voice echoed.

Sylvie had to agree. At least in theory. But the larger part of her was cringing. She had known to tread carefully, known he was fragile, and still . . . She had flung his fears in his face, dismissed his pain, belittled everything he said, forced him to confront things he had tried to forget.

Bran hiccuped in her arms, a shudder washing his entire body. His skin was cold beneath her fingers. She used to protect innocents. She rubbed his skin in hypocritical comfort, feeling uncomfortably like an abuser apologizing, swearing it would never happen again.

Sylvie wanted to cry alongside Bran, but her tears were gone. Crocodile tears, anyway, she thought bitterly. Maybe it had been necessary. But there might have been another way. One that didn’t make her a monster.

The wind picked up, howled in her ears, pressure dropping. The rain curled in the sky, went from westerly to northern, and stung them both.

In her arms, Bran shuddered again, and his silent tears gave way to coughing. Blood speckled the back of her hand, brief spray of crimson washed away in the rain.

“Bran?” she said. Her heartbeat, already fast, sped up until she felt light-headed. She’d broken him. She knew that. But physically? He’d touched his own raw heart. He’d split himself apart under his own power; he’d dragged himself inside out to take them back to earth. Barely more powerful than a sorcerer—how fast could he heal from that? A sorcerer would be dead.

She put her hands to his throat; his pulse was shallow, fast, and uneven. He moaned.

Have to get out of this storm, she thought. Have to assess the damage. Hospital would be best. But where the hell—She squinted at the door behind them in the dim light. There was a number. She traced it with her fingertips, with her eyes.

Oh God. She pushed the door off its hinges just a little and looked into a burned-out shell of a house, still smoldering with blue fire under the rain.

Where would a scared and injured god go? Home, of course. They were in the wreckage of Bran and Dunne’s home. And from the remainders of the uncanny fire, probably ground zero for one or more of Zeus’s strikes. What now? Sylvie gnawed her lip. Somehow, she’d expected Dunne to appear the instant Bran had returned to earth, but it had been fifteen minutes at least. And no Dunne. No Furies. Nobody at all. A nagging thought crossed her mind. Bran in tears. Maybe—

She dropped down to her knees beside him. “Bran, c’mon, Bran. Is he alive?” Bran responded about as well as a catatonic. Sylvie wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the cold and wet. Suddenly all she could imagine was that they’d missed it all. That the city was dead, that everyone in it was dead . . .

Bran had finally stopped crying; now that the misery had left, he just looked blank, as lifeless as a pretty mannequin. She rested her hand on his pulse, and was reassured. It actually felt stronger, his skin warmer. Maybe he wasn’t in shock, but concentrating. Healing took effort.

Thunder rumbled, then continued long past the time it should have dispersed. Sylvie raised her head. Vehicle. Big one. Passing by. Military? She reached for her gun, but of course it was gone, burned up in the oubliette. She crouched, dragged Bran through the broken door with her. The rain poured in through the torn-out roof, but at least now she had a little shelter from whoever was out wandering the streets.

She should be glad. Evidence of life meant she wasn’t too late, but she doubted people who were out in the storm were people she wanted to meet.

Sylvie maneuvered them closer to the still-burning rubble. The blue flames flickered and spat, and despite their icy appearance, raised the ambient temperature around them.

“My home,” Bran said.

She nodded.

“Can’t go back again,” he murmured, sounding drugged, sounding dazed. Lost.

“Dunne?” she asked.

He closed his eyes. “Not sure—”

“Alive?”

“Yes,” he said. “But gone one-track.”

“Can you contact him?”

“If I said no, would you listen?”

She sucked in a breath. “If you promise to answer without your knee-jerk no. Be honest.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m down to all but human at the moment, and I’m not even healed all the way.”

“Shit,” she muttered, and took a closer look. Still too pale, eyes too distant, too bruised. His body shivered in random bursts, spurred by pain, cold, or shock. “You going to be all right? You healed the big things first, right? Didn’t leave your liver for last or something?”

He shook his head, shivering too hard to speak.

They had to get out of there; that wasn’t in question. She hated to do it, but didn’t see any other option. She huddled over her cell phone and dialed Demalion.

24

Shelter from the Storm

TWENTY INTERMINABLE MINUTES LATER, DEMALION ARRIVED. WITH company. She shouldn’t have expected anything else. She’d run from him twice; now he was going to ensure she couldn’t. It still hurt, still felt like betrayal. The ISI van forded its way through the water, its side door opening, discharging Demalion as well as another agent. A third agent, the driver, stared coldly at her and left the engine running, a low, angry sputter under the constant roar of approaching thunder.

Demalion dropped out of the van, splashing ankle deep, gun in one hand, a crystal glowing in the other.

Blind, she remembered. He couldn’t have come here alone.

Wishful thinking, her more cynical self whispered. The truce is over.

Bran moaned at the sight of him approaching, and Sylvie felt like echoing it. Demalion raised his gun hand; all Sylvie could manage to do was slide herself in front of Bran.

“Dammit, Sylvie—take it already. I’ve got my hands full, and I can’t see for shit.” He reversed his grip, flipped it so the butt was to her, and proffered it again.

She found a hopeless grin stretching her mouth. “You brought me your gun?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just in case.” He dropped it into her eager grasp, then pulled another crystal globe out of his rain slicker, this one strung on a thong about his wrist. He cradled it and smiled. “Better. Seeing in stereoscopic again.”

Sylvie turned the gun over in her hands. Just metal and engineering, and it worked like a shot of endorphins on her exhaustion and guilt, pushed her toward giddy relief. “Does this mean we’re engaged?”

Bran shuddered against her and pushed away from Sylvie. Betrayal glossed his eyes. Demalion, she remembered, was no friend of Bran’s. “I can’t trust you—”