“How often do I bluff?” she asked.

“Not often enough for my tastes,” he said. “You’re too damn fast on the trigger.” He reached forward, clicked the safety on her gun into place. She scowled at him and slunk away.

“I didn’t miss the lecturing.”

She pulled on her Windbreaker, grabbed a canvas satchel last used to cart an incontinent werewolf cub back to its mother, and headed for the door. “Coming?” she asked. “You know I’ll leave you—”

He caught her up at the base of the stairs, said low and hot, “There were a lot of things I didn’t miss about you either, Shadows.”

HIGH-TRAFFIC AFTERNOON, AND SYLVIE ALMOST CALLED IT OFF, TOO conscious of the cars whizzing by on the Calle. She might be grudgingly willing to risk her own skin by using the Hands, might count on the stores closing promptly at five, sparing the clerks and customers, but what about the drivers? If she lit up, would she create a dead zone of suddenly sleeping five-o’clock commuters?

She really missed Val. Wales might be useful, in his ghoulish fashion, but he wasn’t properly communicative. Val would have explained how the Hands worked down to the last bit; how far the influence spread, how long it lasted, whether speed would make a difference.

Instead, she had Wales, muttering darkly about defective Hands, running on instinct, and being all too protective of his own favored collection of Hands.

So it was come back later, or go on in, making it fast. If they got in quick enough, maybe the spells on the shop walls would contain the Hands, keep the passersby from falling prey to them.

Maybe not.

Sylvie bit her lip and dithered. Invocat’s dark windows reflected her uncertain gaze, and she sucked in a breath.

Traffic wasn’t going that fast.

Odalys was killing people. For profit.

Priority made.

Sylvie grabbed Wright, tugged him down the sidewalk, her purse swinging by her side. “Let’s try for the alley. The Hands might take care of witnesses, but not until they’re lit.”

“This is not a good idea,” Wright said. “Just call the cops, Sylvie. Suarez seems willing to believe you.”

She sighed. Wright was a masochist. He would insist on coming out when laws were on the line. Demalion, at least, wouldn’t argue for the cops’ presence, and he knew better than to suggest the ISI.

As if Wright sensed her aggravation, he sighed, and said, “Demalion, you want to take this one?”

“Always,” Demalion answered himself in a different cadence. “B and E’s my bread and butter.”

She shivered. That was just creepy. She didn’t like the closeness, the ease with which they shifted control. She didn’t like Wright ceding to Demalion so often either. As much as she craved Demalion’s company, it was best if he stayed an awkward intruder in Wright’s skin and not something closer to natural. In the meantime, she made a mental note to be very careful what she said, since she couldn’t be sure who was listening.

Did they even have secrets from each other at this point?

She was glad to turn her attention to the task at hand. The back door to Invocat was green metal in a white-stucco wall, scarred and dented from careless trash collection in the alley, with no visible lock at all. Sheltered as they were between bins, Sylvie said, “Guess we’ll find out how well these work. Let’s hope we don’t get any more half-starved liches.”

“You think that’s likely?”

“Zoe’s Hand was in milk. These have been tucked up right and tight with souls to munch on. They shouldn’t be that hungry.”

Demalion took a breath, frowning, worried, then twisted Wright’s mobile features into an impish grin. “Hey, Shadows, got milk?”

“Funny man,” she said. “And yes, two pints in the bag.”

She set her bag down, trying to avoid any of the obvious puddles in the humped and furrowed asphalt, and steeled herself. She hated this. She hated magic, hated the need for it. But Bella’s body was walking around without her in it. She hated that more.

Hated the thought that the Hands weren’t defective as Wales had suggested, as she had believed—practice attempts for the real thing—but were deliberately designed for malignity. It was the only explanation.

Patrice Caudwell, old and wheelchair-bound, dying by inches, suddenly broke routine and killed a toddler. Why?

To allow her spirit to be kept from the afterworld.

At the same time, Caudwell was dispersing cash, Odalys got a five-million-dollar payment—for what?

For Odalys to find her a new body. A young, pretty one, brought up with all the comforts, in good health, and pleasantly close to independence, comfortably close to claiming a fortune just waiting for her. It would explain disinheriting her children, her grandchildren. Patrice Caudwell was taking it all with her.

Sylvie pulled the first Hand from her satchel. A man’s Hand, the one she’d taken from Trey.

Sex-linked, she thought, closing her eyes. Of course they were. If each “defective” Hand was a person willing to kill for a second chance at life . . . the person probably wanted to keep to the same gender. But if she and Demalion used the “wrong” Hand and had no tie to it, that might add a little layer of protection.

Keeping that in mind, she fished for the Hand Jaz had been carrying. A delicate woman’s hand, obviously elderly, the joints swelled and twisted, the skin thickened, sallow even beneath the wax and wither. She passed it to Demalion. “Last chance to go sit in the truck.”

“No,” he said.

She swallowed. “I did get you killed last time.” It hurt to say it, here in the Miami alley, sun-warmed stench and all.

“Light it.” He held the Hand out to her, the nails clawed and waxy, and shimmying a little. Transmitting a nervousness he wouldn’t admit to. She pushed it away.

“Give me a moment,” she snapped. She juggled the man’s Hand, her satchel, and dug up Zoe’s lighter.

She sparked it. The flame was nearly transparent in the sunlit day, sullen orange at the base, streaming into invisibility. Demalion took a deep breath and thrust the withered Hand forward into the flame.

It caught, and Sylvie hastened to light her own; it burned with a hellish glow, all soot smudge and smoldering coals even in the midst of daylight. Her own flesh tried to shrink back, utterly repulsed, trying to minimize contact. In sunlight, the associated ghosts were thinned and vaporous, bare shimmers in the air. But there was something that moved restlessly within their shades, and she thought of the lich ghost’s hungry, barbed tongue with a shudder. Better to see it or better not to be distracted by the threat? It seemed a lose-lose.

The little dark voice growled within her, expressing its displeasure with the entire situation.

“Now we go in?” he said.

“Now we go in.”

“Cautious like a drunk stuntman,” he said, an old tease that she chose to let slide.

The door opened into an alcove, curtained off by heavy drapes. In the suddenly dim light, the ghosts sprang into sharp-edged definition, as neatly as if someone had flipped the switch to the horror channel. Sylvie’s ghost revealed himself to be a stiff-backed man with a brush cut and eyes that glowed magnesium white against his corpse pallor, against the slow ripple of red flame around the fingers she held. His tongue flickered out briefly, tasted the air, and withdrew, a separate tide of hunger.

Demalion’s ghost, tiny, Asian, malevolent, slumped in beside them, and Sylvie shivered at her proximity. Demalion himself looked pale, even in the bloody light, and Sylvie hoped that she’d gotten it right; that the lich ghosts housed in these Hands of Glory wanted not just any body but the perfect one. Wright’s body, scrawny, male, already possessed, should be safe from her attentions.

They seemed thinner, somehow, than Strange’s lich ghost, less hungry. But then, they hadn’t been stored in milk, locked away in the dark; they’d been taken out and fed. Even then, their mouths gaped, showed slow, serpentine movement behind pale teeth. Sylvie clutched the wrist stump tighter like the lifeline it was, but it was a fragile lifeline at best. She recalled Wales’s discourse on energy—the more she and Demalion used the Hands, the hungrier, the more wakeful the ghosts would get. In and out was going to be key.