“They’re bonding to the Hands, right?” Demalion asked. “You said that Bella girl did. Doubt they’d lend them out. Don’t borrow trouble.” He slouched back against the wall, scratched at Wright’s incoming stubble. “Think about it. It’s not all that late. If she had come here with a Hand, there’d be paramedics tending to all your neighbors who woke up freaked-out at collapsing in front of their TVs.”

Sylvie sighed, studied the wreckage; it was mostly disarray and not damage. There was that at least. “I keep a spare key at the office. She probably lifted it. Planning to get her stuff back. Even before I stole her cash.”

“You really didn’t give her a key?”

“No,” Sylvie said. “Didn’t give my parents one either.” She met his disbelieving gaze with her own. “What? I deal with weird shit, and sometimes it follows me home. You think I want them to walk into that unexpectedly just ’cause Mom decides to bring me a houseplant? My parents aren’t supernatural entities who can eat intruders.”

“Hey,” Demalion said. “My dad was an archaeologist.”

She met his gaze, and said, “No, he wasn’t. You never met the man. He died hundreds of years before you were born.”

“What the hell, Shadows?”

“Sphinxes gestate extremely slowly. A thousand years or so. I don’t think there was a lot of archaeology being done back then.”

His lips thinned. In Demalion’s body, that expression had been intimidating. In Wright’s, it looked . . . tired. “I hate that you know more about my life than I do,” he said. “Just to get that out there.”

“Not my fault you and your mom don’t communicate.”

His shoulders drooped, and Sylvie felt the instinctive urge to soothe the pain of her hasty words. His taste was still on her lips, and it would be so easy to reach up, pull him down, and kiss his fears away. She shook her head, busied herself picking up the sofa cushions and replacing them. “I’ll get the couch made up for you.”

“Not the bed?”

“Couch,” she said.

She hunted the spare pillow that had been on the couch before recalling that Demalion and she had dragged it back to her bed; nausea swept through her again. She’d been so close to saying yes to Demalion, too close. Then and now.

Couch assembled into a facsimile of a bed again, she left him to it. Stumbling over a scatter of books—Zoe and her brutal sense of fair play at work again. There hadn’t been any hiding place in Sylvie’s bookshelves, but she had dumped Zoe’s books, so Zoe dumped hers—Sylvie homed in on her bed, shoved the pile of searched linens to the floor, and passed out on the bare mattress.

She woke partially when her cell phone buzzed against her hip. Swatting at it, still half-dreaming of clutching ghosts, brought her to full wakefulness. The room was watery with grey light, the first diffuse glow of morning approaching, and Sylvie thumbed the call through without even looking at it.

“What.”

“Shadows. Got your sister.” Lio. Zoe.

She jerked upright, pushed her hair out of her face, coughed her voice to full capability. “What?”

“I’m bringing her to your office on my way off shift. If you’re not there, Little Miss can spend her time in juvie until you bail her out.”

“What she’d do?”

“Other than use language that shocked even an old cop? Showed up too damn close to another burglary. See you soon, Shadows.” He disconnected while she was still speaking; she’d done the same to him more than a dozen times. Payback was a bitch.

AS SHE DROVE, SYLVIE CHECKED THE CLOCK AGAIN. STILL TOO EARLY to call Alex and ask her to do research. She called anyway, got her voice mail, and left a long report of the previous night’s events. Something nagged at her, and freed of the worry about Zoe’s immediate safety, of Demalion’s tempting company, of Wright’s scared eyes, she was able to pinpoint it.

The trouble was, despite the Ghoul’s assumptions, Sylvie wasn’t all that sure the Hands were defective.

Odalys was competent at lying, at projecting what she wanted to, at running her business just under the radar. It was hard to imagine that competence didn’t spread to her magic. Hard to imagine that a lich ghost—rare monster that it was—could be created by accident.

Harder still to imagine her wasting time and money creating more than one defective Hand. Given Bella’s illness, that soul sickness, Sylvie felt sure that her Hand of Glory had held a lich ghost as well.

One might be a mistake. More than that? Was deliberate.

There was something else the Hands were meant to do.

Hell, maybe it was some type of return policy. Sell the Hands cheaply knowing you’d get them back when the user wigged out at getting sick. Or maybe they were defective. Maybe she was assigning too much ability to the woman; after all, people overstated their abilities all the time.

Sylvie just didn’t believe it. There was a pattern she was missing. Two Hands, both defective. Both women’s hands. Both old women’s hands. Why? Women committed murders; she was proof enough of that. But old women? Bella’s dreams had shown Patrice Caudwell old and murderous. Sylvie’s own trial with Zoe’s Hand had been much the same: a murder committed with gnarled hands.

She’d be interested to see what Alex could dig up on the defunct lich ghost’s past.

ADELIO SUAREZ’S UNMARKED CRUISER WAS PARKED OUTSIDE HER office when she arrived; Lio himself sat on the bumper, smoking a thin cigar and drinking convenience-store coffee. Her gaze skimmed him, focused in on the sulking teen locked in the backseat of the cruiser.

“She’s okay?” Sylvie asked.

“You know, I only smoke these things when I’ve got something to celebrate,” he told her. “I’ve been saving this one.”

“Catching a teenage runaway that much a coup?” she said.

“Shadows, don’t make me ask. Tell me about Rafi. Tell me about his killers.”

Sylvie let out a breath. “You wired?” She didn’t think he was, and hell, even if he was, what would the tapes prove but that she was crazy.

“I play fair,” he said. “Tell me.”

Zoe banged on the window, made demanding gestures at Sylvie, and Sylvie gestured Lio away. Sat on a bench where she could keep an eye on her sister but still have the relief of knowing Zoe couldn’t hear her. Couldn’t know what Sylvie had done.

“You believe in magic?” she asked. “All those things you’ve seen on duty that you can’t explain.”

“I believe in evil,” he said.

“It’s not the same thing,” she said. “Much as I sometimes think it is. Look, the long and short of it is, the satanists are gone. Transformed by magic into something harmless.”

“You telling me you’re a bruja?”

“Hell no,” Sylvie said. “I’m telling you I farmed the task out. I couldn’t do it myself. Didn’t have the right skill set. But he did.” The words were stark, oddly easy to say after all the effort she’d put into not telling him. Maybe because she knew, deep down, how he’d react.

Lio groaned and put his head in his hands. “This is bullshit, Shadows. Bullshit.” His cigar fell to the concrete, smoldered slowly. “I trusted your word.”

Sylvie said, “There’s not going to be the kind of satisfaction you’re after, Lio. I can’t take you to a secret grave, can’t show you their bones. There’s not going to be anything you recognize as justice, but Rafi’s death has been paid for. I promise you.” Cold comfort for a man who didn’t understand how far-reaching magic could be.

“How do you mean, transformed?” he said.

“You know what I mean,” Sylvie said. “No longer human. They weren’t worthy of it.”

He shook his head, sighed. “No lo creo. No te creo.” He rose, stared back at the car, at Zoe slouched as low as possible in the backseat in case any of the early-morning tourists or joggers saw her.

Sylvie said, “You don’t want to. You want to be part of the normal world. To be blind to the rest of it. I can understand that. But I’ve been honest with you. If you change your mind, call me. I’ll show you what became of them though I doubt it’ll give you the closure you want or need.”