Sylvie whimpered under her breath; guilt surged up a higher notch. She hadn’t thought it was possible. But there it was, scouring her from the inside out. Dry-mouthed, sick with revulsion of her own skin—she wanted to be someone else, anyone else, anyone but the monster.

Magdala snapped her jaws in the air near Sylvie, swallowing down some fluttering piece of light, silvery grey. A soul fragment? Another piece of Demalion eradicated completely.

“Dunne,” she said, a breath of scratchy hope that he could make her pay for what she had done, and end this agony of guilt.

“Dunne has his own problems,” Lilith said. “Some of which are mine, dammit.”

Sylvie managed to raise her head. Anything that put that note of startled frustration into Lilith’s voice had to be good.

She was wrong.

Dunne still knelt where he had cradled Bran’s body, shoulders slumped, face racked by fear and longing. He was surrounded by a smeary gold shimmer like a veil. Sylvie’s heart gave a tiny, hopeful leap; the gold mist was denser than it had been, less spread out, more focused. Bran was trying to re-form. . . . No, she realized, he wasn’t.

All that was left of Bran was trying to get closer to Dunne, seeking a familiar shelter. In this state, it meant they would mingle together, meant that Bran would dissolve his soul into Dunne’s, eradicating himself in a way Dunne could never repair.

A tiny wisp of gold darted in toward Dunne’s parted lips, licked inside, and Dunne gasped, covering his mouth. “No, baby. No. Be yourself. Please, Bran, come back to me.” A storm cloud pressed outward from Dunne’s skin, pushing back the gold.

The shimmer, rejected, grew wispier.

Lilith’s spindles still worked, collecting ingestible power, but with the power motes dispersing outward, she had to work harder to draw less.

“No,” Sylvie muttered. God, no. Dunne’s shell-shocked concentration was focused solely on keeping Bran and himself distinct entities, his own power trickling out through the stump of his right arm like mercury, thinning him down. While he worried about that, Lilith would keep picking off Bran nibbles here and there, until she had enough, or until Bran faded into the sky to be snagged by any passing collector. And it was all Sylvie’s doing.

The Furies were gone from the roof, vanished after a tiny ghostlit will-o’-the-wisp, chasing an elusive piece of Demalion’s soul; hell, Sylvie thought, they were probably mad enough to kill Anna D simply for birthing him. Then they’d be back for her.

The thought didn’t upset her, and that realization shocked her out of the stupor shrouding her. Her despairing inertia was another spell, some fail-safe that Lilith had planned and implemented to keep Sylvie out of the way.

Lilith feared what she might do.

Given something to fight, Sylvie dived for the heart of her stupor, rooting out the miasma that weighed her down, bringing back awareness of her body as more than a vehicle for numb despair. Her hands clenched tight in the softened roof tar.

She might be guilty. She might be damned. She probably wouldn’t withstand the Furies’ vengeance any better than Demalion had, but dammit, she’d go out better than this. Demalion deserved better. Bran deserved better. She reached inside herself and found that little dark core, the voice that spoke survival and spite. It sprang to life at her touch, shrieked in outrage at what Lilith had done to her.

Make her pay, the little dark voice commanded.

First things first, she answered back. There was more at stake here than avenging her pride.

She marshaled a savage edge to her voice, as intimidating as anything Erinya had voiced. “Bran! Stop it. You might solve your problems by melting away, but you’ll screw everyone else. Every thing else.” She broke off to pant. The acid rage felt raw in her throat, but it was a pain that was clean and good, familiar and strong.

“Leave him alone,” Dunne snapped. “He just died. He’s confused. Give him a moment.”

“We don’t have—”

“Then make some time,” Dunne said. A command.

“Shut up,” Lilith snapped through a mouthful of power. She raised a hand, and a smear of gold flame rose from her fingertips.

“Gonna waste that on me?” Sylvie said. “You aren’t that juiced yet; hell, your firestarter had more oomph than that. She was nearly to balefire when I shot her down.”

“Shut up!” Lilith repeated, but didn’t release the flame.

Handicapped, Sylvie thought. Lilith couldn’t fight and suck in power at the same time.

“Sorry. It’s in the blood. I’ll talk ’til I’m dead, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Sylvie grinned as the smear of power in Lilith’s hand sucked back into her skin, the spindle beginning to rotate again. She’d bought a little time.

“Bran, listen to me,” Sylvie said. “There’s no safe haven for you like this. Not even within Dunne.” Across the roof, she saw Dunne’s anger warring with a tiny spark of hope that she might be able to rouse Bran faster than he could. The grey shielding around him sparked and flared as gold motes rebounded from it. His damaged arm was unraveled nearly to the shoulder, and he made no attempt to repair it, concentrating instead on corralling Bran.

A tiny breath of a whisper, a voice made entirely of air, reached her. Bran wasn’t thinking of his own safety. I can heal him. If he lets me in. Tell him to let me in, Bran said, muzzy-voiced, tenuous, and focused on the wrong thing entirely.

“Don’t know that I trust your motives,” Sylvie said. “You’re greedy for protection. Heal yourself first.”

Distracted by proof of Bran’s existence, even so attenuated, Sylvie nearly missed the movement on her left. She dodged but too late. Lilith’s foot caught her cheek, flung her back. Sylvie’s head hit the edge of the roof, and the world greyed for a moment. When she came back, Lilith’s foot was planted on her throat.

“Forgot for a moment that I didn’t need to use my new power or even my hands,” Lilith said. “Not for you. My little girl with no power of her own.”

Sylvie kicked up, thumped Lilith weakly in the back of her thigh. The woman’s face showed no pain—invulnerable to blunt force as well as bullets—but pushing someone off balance had nothing to do with injury and everything to do with leverage.

She gagged, shifted beneath Lilith’s instep; the pump’s narrow heel punched a tiny hole in her skin, and Sylvie kicked harder. Lilith staggered away, her hand flying wide to help her keep her balance, and the vortex spell faltered. Sylvie rolled to her knees, levered herself to a crouch, panting for breath.

“I didn’t say you could fight back,” Lilith said. “I don’t have time for this, you stupid girl.”

In the background, Dunne murmured quiet prayers to the only god he still worshipped. Bran. Eros. Pleading in one breath for him to come back. For him to stay away in the next, as Bran persistently tried to merge his powers with Dunne.

If she could just distract Lilith long enough, it would all be over. Surely Dunne could make Bran see that restoration had to come before repair.

“Did you really think I’d just lie down and die?” Sylvie said. “It’s not in my nature, any more ’n it’s in yours.”

“You overestimate yourself,” Lilith said. “You’re only mortal. You’ve done your task. Go home. Mourn your dead. Put another notch on your gun.” The air around Lilith shivered; amber light glowed beneath her flesh as the power that had built up on the spindles overflowed and poured into her skin.

Tears started in Sylvie’s eyes as Lilith’s taunts flicked her on the fragile hurts beneath her rage; she forced them back. “Thing of it is,” she said, voice ragged, “someone’s got to stop you, to save what can be saved. And like it or not, someone always seems to be me.”

“Pity them, then,” Lilith said. “You’ll help them into their graves. You think your snakebite girl is still alive? Or did she die with your name between her teeth, cursing you—”