“Name?” Wright asked.

“Trey,” jeans boy said. He was peak-faced and freckled, wearing a gem-encrusted Rolex taken from the South Beach jewelers.

“You don’t have to answer him,” the other boy said. Beefy, blond-haired, dark-eyed, built along the lines of a football player. He found his shirt, pulled it on over his head, and sat back, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’ll call the cops,” Jasmyn whispered. She shivered in her bra top and skirt, and Sylvie thought that if the football player had been thinking or had any manners at all, he would have offered her the shirt. Jasmyn’s was flung to the far side of the pool table. Wright reached out a long arm and snagged it, tossed it to the girl.

“You do that, and you’ll be stuck explaining to Detective Suarez what nice children like you are doing with severed body parts,” Sylvie said. “You’ll be explaining why your fingerprints are in stores across South Beach, in nonpublic areas.”

Jasmyn subsided into her cushion, looking confused and unhappy. The football player shot an angry glance up at Sylvie, and said, “You won’t turn us in. Not unless you want Zoe to take the fall, too. I know who you are. Know what you do. She pointed your office out to us, told us to steer clear. That you didn’t have anything worth stealing.”

Sylvie closed off the instant wash of anger, kept her tone brusque and impersonal. Authoritative. “Don’t mouth off, kid. You’re an amateur. Let me tell you what’s going to happen. I’m going to take the Hands, and you’re going to say thank you for saving our miserable lives so that we don’t have to die like Bella. If you’re extremely cooperative, and tell me what I want to know, I might give you time enough to return the stolen merchandise to the shops before I call the cops.”

“Bella?” Jasmyn gasped. “Did it really kill Bella? She was having such horrible dreams. Oh god, Matteo, my dreams . . .” She reached out and clutched the football player’s hand.

“Jaz,” Matteo said, leaning closer. “Don’t panic. She’s just winding us—”

“Yes,” Sylvie said, overriding Mister-know-it-all. “Your toys are dangerous. Every single time you light them, you show a hungry ghost the way to your soul. And, not that you care—but the people who pass out? They’re not going quietly into sleep, either.”

Trey paled, his freckles standing out like burn spatters. “We didn’t know—”

“You didn’t ask,” Sylvie snapped. “You were bored and greedy, and she offered you a shiny new toy. Congratulations. You killed your friend. Let’s work on not killing you. Where did you meet with Odalys? Her shop? Or does she have another place she does business at?”

Jasmyn put her face in Matteo’s shoulder, wrinkled his shirt with her tightening grasp. She shook her head, dark hair slipping glassily over her back. “I can’t tell—”

“You can,” Sylvie said. “You must.”

“Just the shop,” Trey whispered. “Always the shop. It was . . . it was okay, you know? Seemed so cool. All that real world around us and this . . . magic . . . in the middle of it all.” His face blotched like he might start to cry. “You’re helping Zoe, right? You’ll help us? I can pay.”

“Shut up, Trey,” Matteo said. “Shut up, shut up!”

Trey sighed, crawled over, and leaned into Jasmyn’s lap. A puppy pile of teenage thieves. Sylvie wanted to smack them all.

Wright sighed. “Silence is never a good response to a crime,” he said, so much the cop. “Cooperation works better.”

Matteo swallowed. “Look, I get it. But you need to get this. She’s dangerous, and I don’t think we want to piss her off.”

“She said she could boil our brains in our skull,” Jasmyn said. “With a thought!”

“And you believed her?” Wright said. “I mean, do you really think that’s possible?” As a belated aside, he raised a shoulder and an eyebrow in question.

Sylvie nodded once. His face fell; he scrubbed his hand over his face. Yeah, it was possible. Not with a single thought, no, but what was voodoo but the powers of the mind over a distant body? And a necromancer knew a lot about death, including ways to cause it.

But it was easier with a focus. Fear went only so far toward ensuring obedience. Blood was the simplest and best way to control others. Give a witch your blood, you might as well give them your life.

“She ask for anything from you?” Sylvie asked.

“Other than 10K for the Hands? All the cash from the first ten burglaries?” Matteo said. He shook his head.

Trey whispered, “We thought we were getting a deal. Thought we could do anything.”

“She said we were her chosen ones, specially selected,” Jaz said. Wrongheaded pride still lingered in her voice.

Sylvie sighed. God, Odalys had them coming and going. Profit on selling the defective Hands, profit on the risk the kids took. Sylvie wondered grimly if Odalys had found a way to profit from the original deaths. That sparked an idea in her. If Odalys was all about the money, then tracking her through her bank accounts might be the best way to go.

In the interim, though, she had three kids convinced their heads would explode. Blood might be the best way to ensure obedience, but blood was also difficult to keep, and difficult to obtain.

“Did she give you anything?” Sylvie asked, then shook her head at her own shortsightedness. “Sell you anything else? At a discount? Jewelry, crystals, anything at all? Something you’d keep near you? A good-luck charm maybe?”

It was the simplest spell out there for a witch wanting to keep control. An all-seeing eye, a window to their lives—it didn’t require a lot of power, and was impressive as hell to those who didn’t know how it worked, didn’t understand they were wearing the equivalent of a magical bug. Odalys could listen in, impress the teens with her knowledge, with her gaze upon them.

Jasmyn raised her wrist, her fingers leaving Trey’s gingery curls, a bracelet glittering about her wrist, silver with a silver-capped crystal charm dangling from it. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” Sylvie said. “Throw it away. Throw anything she gave you away. And then I suggest you get out of town.”

“My parents have a house in—”

Sylvie said, “Jesus, do you not understand what I’m telling you? She’s spying on you. How about you save your planning for once you’ve gotten rid of her toys. A little common sense, please!”

“Sylvie,” Wright said from behind her, and he sounded wrecked, voice hoarse, vying between two cadences. She turned, and watched something dangle and spin from his fingers—the gravestone necklace that Odalys had pressed on them. To help Wright with his problem. She’d wondered if he’d picked it up again, but hadn’t thought it worth worrying about.

Never take a gift from a witch, her voice reminded her. Too little, too late.

No wonder Odalys had run; she’d sent Sylvie to hunt the Ghoul—Wales—and instead Sylvie had come out from that with a dubious ally and a fresh new suspicion of Odalys. Hell, if she’d been tuned in at the right moment, she’d know exactly what Sylvie thought of her.

Sylvie closed her eyes. Time had just drawn tighter; whether or not Odalys paid attention to her little burglars, she was paying attention to Sylvie and Wright.

Wright said, “Now can we call the cops?”

As a way to thwart Odalys, it would be pretty good. Get the kids someplace physically safe, get them evading questions, and Odalys would have to spend her time on her exit strategy and not on Sylvie. “Yeah,” she murmured, over the teens’ instant protests. Matteo said, “You said you’d give us time!”

“You haven’t told me anything.”

“We told you what we could.”

“Wasn’t enough,” Sylvie said. “ ’Sides, kids, the more eyes on you, the safer you’ll be.”

Sylvie had already dialed. A benefit to her deal with Suarez: a cop on speed dial. He answered, cranky, and not too thrilled to hear from her. “What?”