“Ma’am?”

I focused away from Manny’s bloody, empty face to the smooth expression of the policeman opposite me.

“What’s your name?”

“Cassiel,” I said. He wrote something down and waited, as if I should have more to say. Ah yes. Last names. Humans had last names, denoting family lineage. “Rose. Cassiel Rose.” So read the identification card in my pocket. When he asked, I produced it, and he wrote down more information before handing it back.

“Can you tell me what happened here?”

I did, as best I could. The black sedan approaching, the gunfire. Chasing the car. I stopped short of admitting that I’d caused the crash.

He let several beats of silence go by when I was finished. “You . . . chased them.”

“Yes.”

“You chased a car full of gang-bangers who’d just shot up a house.”

“Yes.” I didn’t know why he was asking. I didn’t think I had been unclear.

“You catch up with them?” he asked.

“The car crashed,” I said absently. “I called the ambulance.”

“Lady—” He shook his head. “What the hell were you thinking? They could have killed you, too.”

Certainly. I wondered why he thought I did not know that, but I remained silent.

“You know these two?”

“Yes,” I said softly. “Manny and Angela Rocha. They live here with their daughter, Isabel.”

“Isabel,” he repeated, scribbling in his notebook. “Where’s the daughter?”

“Inside with her uncle Luis. She’s five.”

He paused, glancing up at me, and made another note. “She was here when it happened?”

“Yes.”

“And the uncle?”

“Yes.”

“Either one of them injured?”

“No.”

“Did you see any of the people shooting?”

I shook my head. “I was on the other side of the street,” I said. “Getting out of the van.”

He tapped a pencil on his notebook. “How are you connected with all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, lady. You don’t exactly fit in around here.”

I supposed that I didn’t. It wouldn’t have taken a great detective to determine such a thing. “I’m a colleague of Manny Rocha’s,” I said. “I work with him.”

That seemed acceptable. “Where?”

“Rocha Environmental Services.”

“And you do—what, exactly?”

I gave him a flat, emotionless stare. “Analysis.”

Whether he believed that or not, it didn’t seem he was inclined to press. He took down my telephone number and address, and went inside the house to speak with Luis.

Again, I was alone with the dead.

Death, for Djinn, is dissolution—being unmade. Undone, as I’d been undone by Ashan. But this . . . the flesh remained, a constant reminder of what was lost. Manny’s eyes were open, the pupils huge and dark, and I wanted awareness to return to his body. I wanted him to look at me once more. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry for my choices.

He is not lost, something told me. Nothing is lost.

But my connection to him was gone, and even if Manny’s soul had passed on, it had traveled to a place I could not reach and might never reach. There was a hole here, in this world, where he had been.

I was alone. Strange that it should hurt so much.

Next came a rumpled, tired-looking detective, who asked the same questions again. I gave the same answers. He also spoke with Luis, who remained in the house, and then a coroner’s van arrived.

I thought it odd that it took almost an hour before Manny and Angela were at last declared dead. I remembered older days, older ways—a priest might have tapped them on the forehead with a small hammer, to claim them for the gods then, but no one would have questioned that they were dead. But in these days, these times, pictures were taken to document their ends, and then they were lifted and sealed into black plastic sheaths.

Taken away.

I watched as their bodies were removed, and felt another pang of loss. Death happened in stages among humans, and with each step another tie severed. How many remained?

You don’t have to feel it at all, something in me said. You could leave. Go back to the Wardens and tell them you want a new posting. You need never see Luis Rocha or Isabel again.

It was so tempting to walk away, to leave this behind in the human world where it belonged. To start over. I could choose to walk away. It would be easy.

It would be a Djinn thing to do.

Instead, I sat down on the front porch step and waited.

In time, the police cars left, the onlookers dispersed. The phone inside began to ring, and I heard the muted sound of Luis’s voice, explaining to callers what had happened. Friends, family, perhaps the Wardens had called, as well.

Isabel cried. She wailed. It was the sound of a child realizing that her world had broken around her. I was not human. I could not give her false promises, and the thought still lingered in me, I could leave. Just walk away from all this pain, this senseless, stupid waste.

As night began to fall, the front screen door slammed, and with a creak of wood, Luis settled down next to me on the steps. He smelled of soap and shampoo, freshly laundered clothing. No trace of Manny’s death still remained on him.

He did not speak for a while. We watched the sun go down in a bright blaze of colors.

“Isabel wants to see you,” he said. “You coming in?”

I turned and looked at him. He did not meet my gaze.

“For the kid,” Luis said. “Not for me. I don’t care what the hell you do.”

I stood up and walked into the house. It smelled like—home. The still-lingering aroma of Angela’s last meal on the air. Clean, warm, welcoming. In the kitchen, plates and glasses still remained in the sink, waiting to be washed; I drew hot water and added soap, and scrubbed them sparkling before I went to the child’s bedroom.

Luis had tucked her securely in her bed, but she was not asleep. Her thumb was still in her mouth, and her eyes were dark and very wide.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and very carefully stroked her silken dark hair. “Ibby,” I said. “I am here.”

She didn’t speak, but she curled against me. Tears leaked silently from her eyes. I picked her up in my arms, heavy and warm and human, and rocked her until she began to cry in earnest. Chubby arms around my neck, holding tight.

I buried my face in the clean cotton of her night-gown. It was for her comfort, not my own. Djinn did not grieve. Djinn walked away.

It took hours, but she fell asleep still in my arms. I tucked her back in her bed and went out into the living room, where Luis sat in the dark.

I crouched down next to his chair, putting our eyes at a level, though he did not look at me.

“I would not ask,” I said, “except that Manny is gone. I need—” My tongue didn’t want to finish the request. Luis’s dark eyes shifted, and the look sent shivers through me.

“You need power,” he said. “Yeah?”

I nodded. I held out my thin white hand, and his own large, strong one closed over it in a crushing grip.

“Fine,” he said. “Here. Take it.”

Power rushed across the link, burning and angry, and I gulped down all I could before finally yanking my hand free of his. He continued to glare at me, and the stolen fire inside me gave me an insight I didn’t want.

“You blame me,” I said.

“Of course I blame you.”

“Yet the men in the car were shooting at you, not at me.” I said it calmly, without accusation, but Luis flinched as though struck. “Isn’t that true?”

He didn’t answer. He looked through me, to some event in his past that I couldn’t read. As a Djinn, I could have known; as a human, I would not have even seen the shape of it. This frustrating middle ground made my head ache with possibilities.

“Maybe,” he said at last. “The police say it was a car full of Norteños, so maybe they were aiming for me. Why? Does that make you feel better about leaving Manny and Angela alone to die while you played the big, bad Djinn hero?”