He didn’t wait for her response, if she had any to give. Bran simply opened his arms to the world, and in a series of golden flashes, he took it all back. First the loose power, still coiling about the rooftop, then the power caught in Lilith’s lure, and, finally, to the sound of Lilith shrieking, took back the power she had absorbed herself.

He collected the spindles with a single command, and snapped them between his fingers. “It’s all mine. My power. My lover.”

Dunne rose to his feet, all wordless, animal rage, and caught Lilith in a paralyzing grip, a hand on each arm as if he meant to rip her apart like a paper doll. The power he had absorbed from the Furies, Sylvie thought, tipped the balance. Gave him a taste of their insatiable hunger for vengeance. He fisted his clawed hand and angled it for the best blow to take Lilith’s heart.

“Don’t,” Bran said. He wrapped his arms around Dunne’s chest, leaned his head on Dunne’s shoulder, rubbed his cheek, catlike, against him. “Don’t.” It wasn’t a plea, but a command.

Dunne’s voice was a wreck when he got a word out finally, the sound of a man who’d buried language beneath rage. “She—”

“She’s not ours to judge,” Bran said. “Take down your shields; a verdict is waiting for her beyond it.”

Held against the edge of the roof, bloodied at chest, and utterly human, Lilith still dredged up spite enough to say, “If you’re waiting for Him to judge me, you’re wasting your time. He’s had eternity to do so, and so far, He ignores me. I rather think He has some purpose for me, and if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you tear out my heart than let Him have His way. Kill me; bring on your wars in heaven. . . . If I can’t defeat Him, maybe you can.”

Sylvie shivered, wondering if that was what she had looked like, defying Dunne, dangerous even while cornered. Deeply, rabidly unsafe. If Sylvie kept getting up, what could Lilith do if Dunne released her . . . ?

Well, she could think of one thing. Sylvie joined Bran’s side, and said, “If you kill her, all you worked to save will be in jeopardy. Killing another god’s favored subject. She’s right about that. He’s had millennia to stop her, to punish her. Take down your shield.”

“It is not just,” Dunne said. “Alekta died. Men died. The world was endangered. Bran was—”

“Kevin,” Bran said. “Please.”

And that was it. Dunne sighed; the shields came down. The riot of angels outside flared back, startlement in their bright, insectile eyes, their narrow faces.

“We return her to you,” Bran said. “Bloodied but unbowed. The Olympians have no quarrel with your master.”

The largest angel nodded once, perfectly still, silent as always; the rest spilled upward and faded from sight. Lilith turned to look at her captor, lips a thin line. “Still, He doesn’t come for me, but sends His puppet. I suppose it doesn’t matter. At least this time I got some of His attention. I’ll try again.”

“No,” Sylvie said. “You won’t.” Dunne’s head rose sharply from where he had been pressing a kiss to Bran’s throat. With the last of her strength, Sylvie pushed.

Lilith clawed at Sylvie’s arms, scoring bloody marks deep into the flesh, but it was too late.

“I may be your daughter. But I am also Cain’s child,” Sylvie whispered. Lilith’s grip faltered, eyes widening in shock; she reached for something to throw back at Sylvie, but her stolen power was gone, her borrowed spells gone, her invulnerability gone, and she was just a woman with a ten-story drop rising to meet her.

Sylvie watched her fall until her body was swallowed by distance and darkness, while the angel bore witness with expressionless eyes.

30

Afterglow

SYLVIE BACKED AWAY FROM THE ROOF EDGE, CALM AND CONTENT, even over the worry that the angel might not be pleased with her. But really, what could it do? Angels were soldiers, nothing more, their lives wrapped in heavenly red tape and orders.

The angels had come to ensure that the Greek gods didn’t tamper with His property. They hadn’t. Sylvie had. Sylvie was only human when all was said and done, and if one human killed another, it was only business as usual.

The angel rose into the sky like a meteor defying gravity, streaks of white and gold and fire’s-heart scarlet unfolding in its wings. It stopped before her, stood weightlessly in the sky, eyes like insects, glossy and black, looking into her mind and soul. “Sylvie, Daughter of Lilith and Cain. He knows thee,” it said. It soared upward and disappeared in the rising sun.

Not good, she and the dark voice thought in unison. Always a momentous thing when an angel actually spoke. Much less spoke your name.

It wasn’t the angel, though, whose eyes remained an uncomfortable weight on her skin, an itch along her nerves. Sylvie looked over her shoulder at the two silent gods behind her. “Oh, don’t play that game. You wanted it done. I got it done. You outsourced the wetwork is all. The Furies did it for you before, and you can’t tell me you’re sorry I did it now.”

Dunne stayed silent, the thinned line of his mouth disapproving, even as he drew Bran closer to him, stroked his skin.

Sylvie threw up her hands. “Do I need to remind you—she took Bran, kept him in a cage, and was waiting for him to die? Do I need to point out you were about to kill her yourself? What I did—”

“Matricide,” Dunne said with the voice of the Furies.

“Enough,” Bran said simultaneously. “You’ve made your point.”

“Have I?” Sylvie said. “She twisted my mind. A man died for it. An innocent man.”

Dunne’s face stiffened; Demalion hadn’t been innocent in his eyes. Sylvie shifted gears, hunted broader truths. “Lilith has manipulated, hurt, and killed people for millennia. She courted war in heaven. She endangered the world. What I did was justice, long overdue.”

“No,” Dunne said.

“Why not?” Sylvie said. It wasn’t that she’d really thought they’d thank her—gloating over an enemy’s death didn’t seem the way to keep peace between pantheons—but she hadn’t expected the lecture. “Is this some type of holier-than-thou-god-thing, ’cause I have to tell you, humans are perfectly capable of correcting injustice on their own. Demalion did.” She ran out of steam and dropped to crouch on the roof, saving her legs the strain of standing. Leaning against the roof lip gave her a distorted view of Dunne above her. He seemed enormous, a looming thunderhead.

She closed her eyes, rubbed the soreness out of them. “You thought it was just,” she said, and knew she sounded petulant instead of persuasive. “You were going to do it.”

“You enjoyed it,” Dunne accused. “That makes you a murderer—”

“Am I smiling?” Sylvie said. “Am I dancing in triumph, asking for high fives all around? It had to be done. I had to do it—”

“And it satisfied you. Fed some hunger in your soul. To see her crushed for manipulating you. Vengeance for your lover. Your cry of justice is only your latest excuse. You will always have an excuse, Shadows, to give you a reason to pull the trigger, to vent your rage. In the end, that’s all they are. Excuses.”

Sylvie licked dry lips, let the shock of his words stop rattling her bones. “It’s—irrelevant. An executioner doesn’t have to hate her job.” A wash of sickness touched her. Was she really thinking of herself as a killer?

She shook her head, shaking the thoughts out like dust from a rug. “It doesn’t matter. The end result is the same. I did two things you couldn’t do, only one of which I’m getting paid for. I saved Bran, and I punished his abductor. You owe me.”

Bran whispered something in Dunne’s ear, rising on his toes to do so. Sylvie held her breath.

“We don’t owe you anything. The debt is cleared.”

“Bullshit,” Sylvie cried. She ached. Dry lips, dry tongue, sere heart, charred soul. “Demalion’s still dead. Bring him back!”