I twisted while I looked over my shoulder in the mirror and reached awkwardly for the altered scar—or whatever it was now. Smooth skin, a nearly imperceptible tingle. It didn’t feel wrong, arcanely or otherwise. But still—

“Eilahn!” In a heartbeat she came through the door. “What did Szerain do?” I asked her, my voice shaking in a blend of anger tinged with fear. “Did he fucking mark me?”

She laid her hand on the sigil. “I would not be here in peace had the kiraknikahl placed his mark upon you.”

No, she wouldn’t. I allowed myself a bit of relief. “What then? Why is it a live sigil rather than a scar?” But the answer hit me before she could respond. “Because Szerain completed the process,” I breathed. “If Rhyzkahl had finished his torture ritual, all of the sigils would be like this, and I would be the Rowan bitch with arcanely glowing body art.”

“You are correct. And Szerain saved you with this,” she said, lightly patting the sigil. “I do not know its full purpose, but without it, Kara Gillian would be no more.”

And with that cheerful thought, she left me to my shower.

Half an hour later I was clean, Bryce was snoring in the chair, and I was still at loose ends. Fine then. When clean and in doubt, surf the Internet.

I spent about an hour checking news sites and watching reports online, then shut the computer down and returned to the kitchen.

Bryce shuffled in from the living room as I pondered the menu for the Kara’s Kafe dinner special of the day. I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Dude, you look worse than you did before you napped,” I noted helpfully. “You should go crash for real.”

“Yeah. I will in a bit,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “I need a shower and some food first.”

“You’ve been through a lot of shit,” I said. “Always feels good to wash it off. And I speak from vast experience.” I gave him a smile. “I’ll get the food part handled. Go shower.”

The dryer buzzed in the laundry room, and I headed that way. Mundane tasks. Dishes. Dinner. Laundry. Boring and comfortable. I knew the normalcy of it was an illusion, but I intended to cling to it while I could.

I dumped the dryer contents into a basket, hefted it, and returned to the kitchen. I could fold while I figured out what to cook. Yet when I returned I saw Bryce staring out the window, still unshowered, and with a troubled expression on his face.

A glance out the window showed nothing but my backyard in the late evening light. I plunked the basket onto the table. “Bryce? You okay?”

He turned, leaned back against the counter. “Did you see what they’re saying on the news about the plantation incident?” he asked. “Or rather, what they’re not saying.”

I nodded. “The official line is that it was a big fire with several suspected dead, and that a body resembling James Macklin Farouche was found at the scene although ID has not yet been confirmed.” I pulled out a towel and started folding. “Investigations are already ramping up, but I doubt you’ll be seeing any stories on the ten o’clock news about a wizard calling lightning, especially since the eyewitnesses have so many conflicting stories.” I shrugged. “People always find a way to explain weird shit and make it something rational. And with everything from ‘alien invasion’ to ‘secret government experiment conspiracies’ popping up on the Internet, anyone who tells the truth about what happened will be labeled a nutjob and dismissed.”

He gave a slow nod of agreement. “Makes sense.” He picked up a shirt, flipped it right-side out then folded it in a crisp series of moves. “I saw Lon Harris get electrocuted when a power line fell at the compound,” he said as he set the folded shirt down and picked up another. “He’s the one who tortured and killed Dickey, the security guard who shot me at the warehouse.”

“Remind me to send flowers to his funeral,” I said, sticking to the towels since Bryce’s folding skills were vastly superior to mine. “Dead ones.”

“Jerry made it out though,” Bryce continued, muscle twitching in his jaw. “I caught him on some news footage coming out of the hospital with his arm in a sling.” He snapped a shirt out with a sharp crack. “Too bad he didn’t go down.”

“With the investigations in full swing, he will, one way or another,” I reassured him.

Bryce gave me a predatory smile. “Yeah, he will,” he said, and I knew he’d make sure of it if the official channels failed.

I started on the dishtowels. “There’s more bothering you,” I said. “Spill.”

He exhaled. “Paul wiped all digital evidence that he, Sonny, and I had ever been involved with Farouche.” He stacked the folded shirt with the others, grimaced and looked up at me.

“But you’re still worried,” I finished for him. “Paper and off-line records are still out there, and will lead investigators right to you.”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

I met his eyes. “What if there was a way for you to have a clean slate?”

He began to pair socks, adroitly avoiding several pairs of undies. “I’ve done some really bad shit, killed a lot of people in cold blood. But I’m not that man anymore. Could I still kill? Would I still kill? Yeah.” Sadness whispered through his voice. “But not like that. Never again. I won’t do someone else’s dirty work.” He neatly tucked two socks together in a ball. “That said, I don’t want to rot in prison. I don’t want to stop doing what I can against the Mraztur. I don’t want to leave Paul or Sonny. They’re my family. If I can get a clean slate, I’ll take it.”

“I’ve already been thinking about it,” I told him, “and I have some ideas on how to pull it off. Once Zack is back in the swing of things, he can help get new identities for you three.” If Zack is ever back in the swing of things.

Bryce dropped the socks to the table. “That’s . . .” he trailed off, shaking his head. “‘Thanks’ doesn’t cut it.”

I handed him the stack of dishtowels to put in the drawer. “If it wasn’t for you and Sonny and Paul, we wouldn’t have Idris back, and the Mraztur would be full steam ahead with their dangerous node-gate bullshit.”

He tucked the towels away. “I sure as hell want to do more. I’m in the game.”

“Good, then we’re stuck with you,” I said and thrust a bath towel at him. “And there’s a no-stench rule for my posse. Go. Shower.”

He smiled, took the towel, and turned toward the bathroom. “Kara’s Kavalry?”

“No!” I shouted at his back. “Posse.”

Still smiling, I put the rest of the laundry away. I was putting the empty basket in the laundry room when I heard the front door open. Ryan.

My heart pounded. It was only Ryan. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself. I returned to the kitchen and peered down the hall, wanting to see and feel for myself who he was before he reached me. I didn’t want to misstep and say something I shouldn’t.

He approached with a smile, completely Ryan-like in looks and manner and walk. “You look better than you did when I left,” he said.

Well, shit. That didn’t give me a clue. “Um, how did I look?”

“Laid out on the sofa. Wasted after the ordeal.” He took off his suit jacket and laid it over the back of a kitchen chair.

“Uh huh,” I said, watching his every move. “The, um, ordeal of the stuff at the plantation?”

“That and what happened out there last night.” He nodded toward the backyard. “It’s okay. You can talk about it.”

My stomach did weird flip flops as I tried to shove the ragged clues into something that made sense. “How is it okay . . . Ryan?”

He still smiled, but a touch of sadness colored it now. “Because I know,” he said quietly. “I know what I am, and I know that I stabbed you last night and healed you. I don’t know all the whys of it here on the surface,” he tapped his temple with a finger, “because I’m taking it one step at a time. This is pretty stressful.”