BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

SO WE "WORKED" TOGETHER at the back of the garden, me kneeling on my ritual cloth, Jeremy seated off to the side out of my field of vision. If anything, I was more relaxed than when I been alone, maybe because I knew he'd detect-and warn me of-any intruders before I was "caught." Or maybe it was just comforting having him nearby, the steady scratch of his pencil underscoring the children's whispers. Even they seemed more patient with me, their encouraging caresses never turning to jabs and slaps. For all that, though, I made no progress.

Finally, I stopped, stretched and walked over to Jeremy.

"What are you draw-" I caught sight of the page. "Hey, that's me."

I bit my cheek to keep from grinning. I'd never known Jeremy to sketch anyone outside the Pack. While it might have meant that he didn't like flowers, and I was the only living alternative, I knew it meant something. With Jeremy, that's what art was about-a medium to explore an idea… or a person.

"It's recognizable, then? Always a good sign." He closed the book. "Are you done?"

"I think so. Can I see?" I hesitated with my fingers outstretched toward his book, then curled them back. "Or maybe I shouldn't ask. Your art and all. Private, I guess."

"No more private than your rituals and you share those with me." He handed me the pad. "Just a series of sketches. I'm thinking of doing a painting."

"Of me?"

His smile grew, touching his eyes. "If that's all right. I'm working on one of the twins right now. For them, when they're older. It's taking awhile. I originally meant it to be just Kate and Logan, but decided to add Clay and Elena. A bigger project, but I thought the children might prefer that when they grow up."

"More meaningful, with their parents in it."

"I thought so."

I opened the book and flipped through the sketches. There were quite a few, all raw, some no more than an outline, maybe with a feature or two. Preparation for a painting-Jeremy preferred to work from sketches and memory rather than from live models. An interpretation rather than a photograph, he said.

His interpretations were often surprising. Like the older portraits of Clay and Elena in his studio. Clay-brash, difficult, violent-depicted as a young man with an almost boyish innocence. Elena-the more sociable, more easygoing of the pair-painted with a dangerous edge, the beast within revealed.

On first glance, you'd say Jeremy got them wrong, misinterpreted. But I'd seen that feral side of Elena, protecting her loved ones, and I'd caught glimpses of Clayton's gentler side, playing with his children or talking to his wife. Not their dominant personalities, but an aspect of the whole-a side you had to dig to find.

So it was with no surprise that when I first looked at the sketches Jeremy had done of me, I thought No, that's not right. Not the way I saw myself. Not even the way I saw myself reflected in others. In those sketches, I looked… quiet. Intent, almost introspective. My gaze was focused on something to the side, my expression serious, solemn even, rapt in concentration.

Yet the more I stared at them, the more I thought Yes, I recognize that. Like seeing a photo of myself shot at an odd angle.

"Oooh, nice," said a voice at my shoulder. "I like the one in the corner there."

I wheeled to see a woman a few years younger than me, with straight black hair almost to her waist. Six feet tall with the remote, slightly exotic look of a fashion model. That illusion of aloofness vanished the moment she glanced up from the page, her eyes dancing in predatory amusement, like a cat always on the lookout for something worth pouncing on.

"Eve!" I spun to Jeremy. "It's Eve."

I knew I looked ridiculous, gesturing at empty air, but he only smiled and said, "Hello, Eve. Glad you could join us."

"Glad to be here." She looked at me. "Am I interrupting? If you guys were just getting to the naked portrait stage, I can come back."

"Ha-ha. We were just finishing some stuff. I was contacting-" I looked around. "They're gone. Or being quiet."

"Probably trying to figure out what I am."

"Jaime?" Jeremy said, rising. "I'll go inside and get you a cold drink. If anyone's looking for you, I'll stall them."

"Thanks."

"What a sweetie," Eve said as he left. "And visiting you from all the way from New York. No family in tow. Sitting in the garden sketching you while you fondle corpse bits. Positively domestic. So does this mean you guys are-"

"No," I cut in, then smiled. "I can't believe you're here. Kristof was certain it was a no-go."

She perched on the edge of a retaining wall. "Well, it wasn't easy getting out of there, let me tell you. First there were the chains, trying me to my rock. And that big vulture that keeps picking at my flesh. Then the fires of hell, and that three-headed demon dog guarding the exit…" She reached out to smack my arm, though her fingers passed through. "You're looking at me like I'm serious. How evil do you think I am? Sheesh."

"Speaking of evil, I met one of your old friends the other day. I just popped by to talk to her and ended up knocked unconscious, thrown in her car and driven to a body-dump site."

"What?"

I left out the part about Savannah coming to my rescue and taking on Molly. Good call because, as soon as I mentioned that Molly had been in contact with Savannah, Eve's face twisted with a cold fury that chilled my blood no matter how many times I saw it.

"That two-faced smarmy bitch. You tell Savannah she is not to-"

Eve stopped and turned away, her lips curling in a snarl scarier than any of Jeremy's. She stood with her back to me. I waited. After a moment, she relaxed and turned around, smiling again.

"Okay, let's take that back a step. Ahem. Would you please convey a message to Savannah that Molly Crane is not to be trusted? As a contact, I only used her for what she could do for me because it that's exactly how she treats everyone else. With Savannah, she only wants-"

"To see whether Savannah can be useful. She already figured that out."

"She did? That's my girl." She planted herself on the retaining wall. "Back to business then."

"First, about you being here. It's… okay? With everyone?"

"I didn't go AWOL if that's what you mean. The Fates investigated Kristof's story and, well, they're a little freaked."

"Freaked?"

"Yeah. Kind of discomfiting in a higher power. I mean, they're deities, right? They should just calmly survey the problem and say 'Yes, we're aware of that.' But if they were aware of it, that would be even scarier. No excuse for letting it continue."

"So they had no idea this had happened?"

"Zip. It's an isolated incident. So seeing that they have a problem involving dark magic, they realized there was only one-" she faded, then came back, "-for the job."

"You were bleeped."

"Damn. I hate it when that happens. What did I say?" She frowned, searching for the word the higher powers had censored- some topic she wasn't allowed to discuss with mortals. "Let me rephrase: they realized there was only one ghost for the job. That being me. So I've been reassigned. Now bring me up to date."

I did, then said, "Am I on the right track?"

"Yes, the Fates confirm that we have trapped child ghosts. They confirm that the bastards responsible for it have, as Aratron said, done what should be impossible-performed magic without hereditary spellcasting genes. And that's what has them freaked. Who found a loophole? How big is it? What else can they do? How many of them are there?"

"In other words, they're no further along than I am."

She gave me a look as if to say: what did you expect? "Finding them and finding out exactly what's going on is our job now."