“Magic turns on its user,” Sylvie said. “It’s not the answer, Zo.”

“Maybe not for some people. Maybe for them, it’s dangerous. But I’m good at it.” Zoe licked her lips. “It’s like, all my life, I’ve been waiting for a talent. For something that interests me more than school. For something that feels right. This is it.”

“Who told you that?” Sylvie said. “That you’re good. Your what—do you have a mentor? Or are you basing it on the fact that you’re not dead yet? ’Cause it’s early days.”

Zoe jerked as if Sylvie had struck her. “You’re just jealous.” She was losing momentum, though, in the face of Sylvie’s convictions.

“You’re in danger, Zoe. Your friends are in danger.”

“I don’t care about them, remember?” Zoe scowled.

“Bella’s dead. You’d better care.”

Zoe went white.

Sylvie found a brief spurt of relief in her sister’s reaction. The girl had some fellow feeling after all. Sylvie, who’d dealt with her share of sociopaths, thought that simple selfcenteredness and alienation were far easier to stomach. Zoe might grow out of both.

“You’re lying,” Zoe whispered. “She’s sick, yeah, but—”

“Truth,” Sylvie said. “If you hadn’t kept your Hand of Glory in milk, you’d be dead, too. Not that I’m not thrilled to pieces you’re not dead, but why did you do that?”

“Bad dreams,” Zoe said, malleable with shock. “When I complained, she said to put it in milk. Said warm milk made for sounder sleep.” Her voice lost its brittle edge, became her sweet little sister again, whom she had read to, babysat, entertained, and taught. It soothed Sylvie’s temper as nothing else had.

“Oh, Odalys,” Sylvie said. “Selling platitudes along with spells.”

Zoe gaped, her poise utterly gone under the twin blows. Bella’s death. Sylvie’s knowledge. Something satisfied purred in Sylvie’s chest. Always so good to have her suspicions confirmed.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? What I want to know, Zoe, is what she told you. What she said to make you think this was a good idea, dabbling in magic. Did she say you were special, were her friend? She’s not your friend, not your savior from the unfairness of life. She’s your dealer, and she’s pushing death.”

“Not true,” Zoe said. “She warned me. She told me how to be safe.”

“She gave you a defective Hand of Glory with a lich in it. That’s not being safe. Tell me about the Hands. Tell me which of your friends still have them.” Hammering hard, and Sylvie saw her mistake even as she made it. Zoe lowered her head, and when she raised it again, her eyes were hard, her jaw set.

“No.”

Lilith’s blood. That refusal to bow her head, passed down in the blood, passed down as a latent force hidden as stubbornness. Lilith’s blood in her. And in her sister.

Zoe’s eyes grew wet, but they stayed resolute. It took all of Sylvie’s willpower to not start the interrogation up again. Instead, she sucked in a steadying breath, counted her heartbeats, making them slow down.

She reached out, stroked Zoe’s hair; the girl jerked her head away. “I’m not the person you need to talk to. I don’t like magic. I don’t trust it. And I don’t want you involved in it. But if that’s where your talent lies—”

The door jangled, and Alex came in, coffees already in hand, mouth already going. “Hey, Syl. Got your report. Wales sounds like freaky good fun. I want to go next time. Wright upstairs?” She balked when a few steps in allowed her to assess the mood in the office.

“You found her!”

“Lio did,” Sylvie said. “Alex, I want you to take Zoe to Val’s. Get Val to take her in, keep her safe. From herself and from Odalys.”

Alex groaned. “How the hell am I supposed to do that? She hates us.”

“You sent me there,” Sylvie said. “Didn’t seem to bother you then. Look, I’ve got to put Zoe someplace safe. Hell, I even considered letting Lio keep her, but I’m not sure he can control an angry teen-witch wannabe.”

“I’m not a wannabe,” Zoe said. “I am a witch.”

“So’s Val. You’ll like her. She dresses well,” Sylvie sniped. “And you will be polite to her, or she’ll turn you into a toad.”

“Aw, c’mon, Sylvie, people can’t get turned into things—” Sylvie shook her head, muttered, “You really do not know the world you’re fucking around with, Zoe. Go to Val. Be nice. Learn stuff. Learn to walk away.”

“Am I supposed to say thank you?” Zoe said. She snagged a cup of cold coffee and nuked it.

Sylvie said, “Hey! You’d better be damn grateful. Sending you to Val is going to save your life.”

“Give me back my money, and you’ll see gratitude.”

Sylvie slapped the wall. “Goddammit, Zo. You don’t need money and magic both. Pick one or the other.”

“I need both,” Zoe snapped. “The one gets the other.” Sylvie’s temper moved to high boil. “Oh, don’t tell me. Odalys is making you pay her for the privilege of fucking up your future, for giving you a deadly toy.”

“Whatever,” Zoe muttered, and Sylvie marveled that it was possible to love and hate someone so much at the same time. Zoe took her coffee and headed upstairs, probably to try the safe. Sylvie had no illusions. Zoe would run if she got her hands on the cash.

Her grip tightened on the desk, and she hung her head, chest hurting. Alex rose, leaned over her shoulders, and rested her forehead on Sylvie’s back. “Teenagers suck?” Alex offered. It was thin, brittle, scanty comfort, but Alex’s concern came through loud and clear.

Sylvie laughed. A little ragged, but laughter nonetheless. “Eloquent as always. But I’ll have you know, I was a saint when I was a teen.”

“Of course you were,” Alex said. She sighed. “Anything else you want me to do? Once I’ve dropped off Zoe?”

“Back here and do the computer searches on Odalys.”

Alex eyed her a moment, sighed, pressed keys at random on her computer keyboard, and said, “So. Just dirt in general? Do you even know her last name?”

“Nope,” Sylvie said. “’Swhat I pay you for. I’m especially interested in any connection with the murderous old woman we identified.”

“Tentatively identified,” Alex corrected. “Based on Bella’s dream and a tragedy with a toddler. You know how many kids drown every year?”

“Do you?”

Alex grinned, caught out. “Well, there’ve got to be lots, or there wouldn’t be so many PSAs.”

“Check out smothering victims and old ladies also,” Sylvie said, thinking of the moment when the lich ghost had touched her, shown her a piece of its corrupt spirit. “Zoe’s Hand remembers a dead man in a hospital.”

“I can do that. What are you going to do while I’m playing chauffeur and research assistant? Bang down Odalys’s doors and start demanding answers . . . ? I was kidding, Sylvie.”

Sylvie paused at the front door. “But it sounded so good. Alex—”

“Yeah?”

“Will you get Zoe out of here before she figures out the code to the safe?”

THE GLASSY FRONT OF INVOCAT WAS DARK, FEEDING APPROACHING storm clouds back into the heavy sky. Sylvie squinted, trying to see the sign from her slow-moving truck; a car honked behind her, cut around with a roar of exhaust and aggravation. She found an echo in her own breast. Not only did the store look closed, but there was a lean form sitting on the step, hunched over like an old Cuban porch-sitter, watching the street life go by with a frown and a newspaper. All he needed to blend in was about thirty-five years and a cigar.

She pulled the truck over, cut the engine; Wright raised his head and waved at her.

“She’s closed. Running, you think? But how she knew you were coming—”

“Wales isn’t dead. That might be enough for her,” Sylvie said. “I thought you were staying at the apartment?”

“No,” he said. “You left me there. But I’m not an ornament. I can move. I have feet and hands, and surprisingly, cold hard cash. Did you know Demalion kept an emergency cache in Miami? I got a cab.”