“I got you out of the oubli—”

“I got us out,” Bran muttered. “You tried to kill me.” He forced himself to his feet and nearly fell. He yanked away from Sylvie’s lunge, from Demalion’s blind grasping, and stumbled into another pair of arms.

“It’s all right,” the second agent said, propping Bran upright, then kneeling before him. He looked up at him like an adult would a scared child, calming. “You know I won’t hurt you. We just want to get you someplace safe. Get you back to Dunne.”

Some of her good feelings faded fast. Sylvie might be willing to work with Demalion, but the whole stinking ISI? Not a snowball’s chance.

And this agent in particular was no friend to her. She still had bruises from his grip as he marched her toward the elevator. She curled her fingers around Demalion’s loaned gun and wondered how she was set for bullets.

Gingerly, Bran rested his hand in the man’s hair, like a man petting a dog he thought might bite.

“Rodrigo, he’s all yours,” Demalion said. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Sylvie demanded.

Demalion said, “You’ve done your job, Sylvie. You could go home, get out of this mess, be with Alex—”

“Alex is why I need to finish this. Dunne’s going to pay me for some unexpected expenses. . . .” She wiped rain out of her eyes, shook her head. “I’m a burr, I’m a tick, I’m glue. Get used to it. Now, where’re we taking my client?”

Bran settled into silence, and Sylvie was warmed to think he hadn’t wanted to be left alone with the ISI. She didn’t delude herself that meant he liked her whole bunches either, but it was something to be one up on them.

“ISI,” Demalion said, and raised a hand, forestalling her mutiny. “Any port in a storm, Sylvie.” His shoulders tensed, visible even through the weight of the rain slicker. His jaw clenched. He was ready to argue her down on this.

“Fine,” she said. Right now, the ISI seemed the only choice. Bran was done in, she was off her turf and at the end of her endurance.

“What?” Water beaded over Demalion’s arms, spouting over the crystals dangling in his grip.

“I said, fine,” she said. “Fine. We’ll go to your big ISI safe house, secret base, justice league hall of doom, whatever you call it.” The surprise on his face and the wariness on Rodrigo’s made her capitulation almost worth it. At least she was unpredictable.

Rodrigo scowled at her, and she marked it. Best not to turn her back on him. Rodrigo really didn’t like her. Demalion got the scowl in turn, and Sylvie rephrased: Rodrigo really didn’t like anyone.

“If you’re both done jawing,” he snapped. “Bran needs rest. Warmth.” He jerked off his rain slicker, draping it around Bran’s bare shoulders.

Team one, Sylvie remembered. Bespelled to worship and protect. Demalion’s choice of ally suddenly made more sense.

“After you,” she said.

“Finally,” Rodrigo said. He swung round, shaking water from his back like a dog, and picked Bran up. Bran moaned, and Rodrigo nearly dropped him, bespelled not to harm.

Sylvie snapped, “Don’t you dare—”

Rodrigo’s grip firmed; Bran clenched Rodrigo’s slicker with two fists, holding tight.

“Jesus,” Sylvie muttered. “I don’t care what kind of spell Bran put on your brain. Use some fucking common sense. A little hurt now is better than a world of hurt later.” She strode away from the door, reached back, and tugged at Demalion’s sleeve. “Stop gawking. Start walking. You were the one in a hurry.”

Bran moaned again as Rodrigo stumbled into movement, heading through the soggy, smoldering wreckage of their living room. This time the whimper had more of laughter in it than pain. “I thought it was just me,” Bran said. “You treat everyone like that. Even your lover.”

Sylvie opened her mouth to protest, and a slap of salty rain whirled around and drenched her as if guided. She sputtered; her face stung under the impact. She shook her head, her ears ringing like a rock-concert attendee.

Demalion slid close to her, crystals held before him, glowing like avid eyes. They shone with the same ghostly light as the occult fires around them. Demalion was feeding on the god-power, she thought.

“Bran bespelled Rodrigo?”

“Bran, Dunne, same thing,” Sylvie muttered, and clambered into the van. Careless, she chastened herself. Demalion wasn’t stupid. The ISI would cream itself if it thought it could harness a god’s power.

As if Bran had the same concerns about walking into the lion’s den, he said, “Kevin knows where we’re going. He’s going to meet us there.”

Sylvie winced. That might work as a threat, but it was sure to spark questions. A god knowing where his lover was, was one thing. The human lover able to account for the god’s whereabouts was a little sketchier.

“You seem to know an awful lot about this,” Demalion said.

Bran flushed and fidgeted. Rodrigo ushered Bran into the van, actually growling at Demalion.

“Dunne’s not the only power here,” Demalion said, joining Sylvie with only a minimum of fumbling with his crystal “eyes” and the van’s door frame. “What’s Bran’s deal? He put the whammy on Rodrigo, not Dunne? Tell me, Sylvie. I need to know.”

She put her arm around his waist, guided him whisper close, and gave up that last secret. It wouldn’t take long for Dunne to add it up; this way she at least got cooperation credit for the info. “I’ve sung this song to you before. Bran’s not just an artist, not just a pretty boy, not even just a human. He’s a human that was and is a god.”

25

Looking for a Way Home

BURKE, THE DRIVER, WAS THE HARD-EYED MAN SYLVIE HAD LAST seen leaping off a subway platform, but he took one look as they spilled onto the van’s floor—wet, bedraggled, shivering—and cranked the heater to full.

“HQ?” Burke said.

Demalion nodded. “Full speed,” he said.

Burke pulled the van into motion. Kneeling up, Sylvie saw the shell of Dunne’s home vanishing behind them, her last glimpse of it the pale blue of St. Elmo’s fires devouring its bones. The van turned onto higher ground, taking them into the heart of the city. It was a strange new world in this storm light. Chicago’s tall buildings glimmered and developed uncanny life under the influence of the battling gods. Ornamental art deco fripperies swayed like anemones, took on luminous edges that gleamed through the darkness. In their phosphorescent glow, gargoyles left their moorings and skittered across facades of buildings, talons chinking into plate-glass windows and leaving little starburst fractures behind.

The city felt drowned in power. Two buildings, leaning close, tangled their carved eaves in some slow undersea waltz.

The sky was livid, bruised black and green; lightning seared a white-hot line across Sylvie’s retinas, and she jerked back, slamming into the van’s layers of hard plastic and metal. Surveillance equipment, all useless now, unable to show what was truly happening. The LED colors blinked idly, red, green, amber, taking the pulse of the city, recording bits and pieces of mysteries that might never be solved.

Right now, tired as she was, she’d have traded them all for a single bench seat. Scuffling noises drew her attention through the dimness. Rodrigo was rummaging through a duffel.

Demalion leaned close, stroking his hand up her arm, finding her shoulder, putting his mouth close to her ear. She didn’t think it was going to be for sweet nothings, and his first words proved her right. “Which god?”

She sighed. Always something more with him.

“Sylvie,” he murmured, and the heat of his breath against her chilled skin made her shudder. “It’s dangerous not to know. I want to follow your lead, but you have to share. Prove yourself worthy of trust.”

“Eros,” she whispered back into the curve of his neck. The name seemed to have thundering weight in the world. The rain, drumming on the roof, faltered for a bare second, as if the sky were listening also. She put her hand up to stop him from blindly repeating it. “Don’t.”