Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PRAISE FOR

DEADTOWN

“Deadtown is fresh and funny, with a great new take on zombies.”

—Karen Chance, New York Times bestselling author of Death’s Mistress

“Part demon-busting tale, part political thriller, Holzner’s take on urban fantasy is exciting and fresh. Here’s to the future adventures of Vicky Vaughn!”

—Romantic Times

“Beginning with its first page, this exciting, gripping novel sustains its high-octane suspense throughout the narrative, keeping the reader guessing until the end.”

—Bitten by Books

“Fast, fun, and feisty, Holzner’s Deadtown is chock-full of supernatural action, danger, and creatures who do more than go bump in the night.”

—Devon Monk, author of Magic at the Gate

“Zombies, demons, and a sassy slayer. Deadtown sparks with an incredibly realized world and a cast of vivid characters. I can’t wait for the next book!”

—Chris Marie Green, author of Deep in the Woods

“Full of dangerous magic and populated with characters so realistic they almost jump off the page. I loved this book. Nancy Holzner is a master of characterization, and I’ll be buying her next book the moment it hits the shelf.”

—Ilona Andrews, New York Times bestselling author of Bayou Moon

“Deadtown is a perfect blend of mystery, fantasy, humor, and even modern-day social issues. It’s Boston as you’ve never seen it . . . where the shapes shift, the zombies gnaw, and the blood flows warm through the oh-so-delicious veins of the area known as Deadtown. Victory Vaughn gives evil a run for its money.”

—Anton Strout, author of Dead Matter

Ace Books by Nancy Holzner

DEADTOWN
HELLFORGED

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

HELLFORGED

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace mass-market edition / January 2011

All rights reserved.

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To my daughter, Tamsen, with lots and lots of love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Cameron Dufty saw the potential in Vicky’s story and gave me a chance, and I’ll always be grateful for that.

Tamsen Conner, librarian extraordinaire, educated me about how the Library of Congress classifies demon-related books. (If I got anything wrong, it’s entirely my mistake.)

My editor, Jessica Wade, offered encouragement and insight. She could also teach most saints a thing or two about patience. Thanks also to the other professionals who helped turn my manuscript into a book: cover artist Don Sipley, text designer Laura Corless, production editor Michelle Kasper, copy editor Erica Rose, and proofreader Valle Hansen.

Thanks to the Mostly Sundays writing group for reading parts of this book in draft form and taking my crazy fantasy world seriously: Emily Johnson, Pat Carlson, Jeanne Mackin, Nicola Morris, Linda Meyers, Doris Wright, Lisa Harris, and Janis Kelly.

I’m grateful for the support of my family and friends: my parents, Harold and Lois Brown, who fostered my love of books and always believed I could write; Michelle Brandwein for long-term friendship and all-around awesomeness; Karen Brandwein for fascinating insights into speculative fiction; Maria Giacoletto for inspiration; Margaret Strother for getting me out of the house once in a while; Carlos Thomas for stopping by Creature Comforts; my agent, Gina Panettieri, for her hard work on my behalf.

My husband, Steven Holzner, never minds helping me brain-storm, giving real thought to questions that begin, “If you were a zombie . . .” His unflagging love and support mean more to me than I can say.

Finally, thanks to all the readers who’ve ventured into Deadtown in search of a fun story. I hope you’re enjoying the ride!

1

THERE ARE FEW PLACES CREEPIER THAN A DESERTED COMPUTER lab in the middle of the night. And believe me, I know creepy.

Dozens of fans whirred, their white noise pressing like cotton into my ears and making me jumpy about what I wasn’t hearing. Eerie blue light half-lit the room; other lights blinked randomly on the machines. Although it was late January, fans blew in streams of frigid air. Even with my leather jacket over my sweater, I had goose bumps prickling both arms. I was alone with MIT’s new supercomputer, and that made this particular deserted computer lab supercreepy.

That, and the fact that I wasn’t really alone. In here with me, somewhere, was a demon.

That’s why I’d been called in, to exterminate a Glitch in the supercomputer. Supposedly the world’s third biggest, fastest, and smartest, lately this giant machine hadn’t done anything but spit out error messages. The MIT brainiacs tried everything they could think of to eliminate the Glitch, but none of their usual fixes worked. In desperation, they called me. I’m Victory Vaughn, Boston’s only professional demon exterminator. And I deal with Glitches the old-fashioned way: by killing them.

Fifty or sixty locker-sized cabinets, each holding multiple processors, lined up in rows like ghostly soldiers standing eternally at attention. I opened a cabinet, leaned in, and sniffed, checking for that characteristic Glitch smell: a strong scent of ozone with an undertone of grape bubble gum mixed with sardine paste and rotten eggs.

Nothing. I’d been here half an hour with no luck. It was slow going. A supercomputer is basically a series of ultra-fast processors linked together to ramp up the computing power. All those processors in all those cabinets gave the Glitch hundreds of places to hole up in our little game of hide-and-seek.

I opened the next door. Come out, come out, wherever you are. Inside, a tangle of wires and cables snaked around stacks of circuit boards. Hard to believe a mess like that could perform billions of calculations at the speed of light. Except it couldn’t—not with the Glitch frying its circuits. I sniffed again, then tensed at the sharp smell of ozone. Beneath it, almost too faint to detect, was the stomach-churning odor of Glitch.

I pulled my rubber-lined electrician’s gloves from my belt and put them on. Clumsy, but a necessary precaution. A Glitch can take two forms. When the demon invades a machine, it’s pure magical energy that feeds off the electricity passing through its host. Outside its electronic nest, a Glitch has a physical body the size of a large teddy bear—but there’s nothing cuddly about its slimy purple skin, needle-sharp teeth, and inch-long claws. A shimmer of energy buzzes over its skin; touching one is like sticking your finger in an electric socket. That’s what the gloves were for.

To draw the Glitch out of the computer, I needed to force it into its physical form. So I’d brought Glitch Gone, an antistatic spray that won’t hurt the machine but forces the Glitch out. When that happens, the Glitch stays stuck in its physical form for a minute, maybe two, before it can turn back into energy and re-infest a machine.

I sprayed a light mist of Glitch Gone inside the cabinet, moving the can back and forth to make sure I didn’t miss a spot. Stepping back, I readied my bronze-headed ax, gripping it as best I could in the electrician’s gloves. With any luck, I’d split the Glitch in two before it attacked me.

Inside the cabinet, the processor lights began to blink faster. A spark shot out, then another. The Glitch stink intensified. Sparks, coming faster now, swirled into a pinwheel. The wheel spun faster, coalescing into a solid blur of light. I squinted against the brightness, trying to focus on the shape the light was taking. Then energy blasted out, a screech sliced the air, and the Glitch sprang.

I jumped back and to the left, but claws swiped my cheek. With the slash of pain came a teeth-clenching electric shock that almost knocked me off my feet. I staggered, and the Glitch leapt at me again. This time, I brought down the ax with both hands, but the damn demon was too fast. It sped away, and the ax buried itself in the floor.

I tugged at the handle, turning my head left and right to see where the demon had gone. It was too soon for it to reenter the computer—I hoped. My Glitch Gone spray was a couple of weeks past its expiration date. As the ax started to give, a yowl sounded behind me and the Glitch landed on my back. I staggered. The demon couldn’t shock me through my leather jacket, but what I heard promised something worse. The Glitch was hawking up a big wad of spit.

Glitch saliva is both disgusting and dangerous. It’s purple, it has that grape-and-sardine smell, and it’s where the phrase “gumming up the works” comes from. Worse, the stuff is venomous, gradually penetrating skin to deliver its poison. A couple of days of hard, repeated scrubbing gets rid of it, but I was not going to spend the next week washing Glitch spit out of my hair.

I reached back, yanked the Glitch off me, and slammed it onto the floor. I got both hands around the ax handle and swung. Missed by a hair. The Glitch zipped out from under the blade and leapt on top of a cabinet. It started hawking again, its yellow eyes squinting, its body bobbing with effort. At the same time, the sparks that sizzled over its skin began to consolidate and swirl into a circle above its head. Damn it, the Glitch Gone was wearing off. If the demon jumped back into the supercomputer now, it’d double the amount of damage it had already caused. I swung, but again the Glitch jumped clear. The cabinet didn’t, though. My ax slammed through its top and into the processor inside.

Oops.

No time to worry about collateral damage. I spun in the direction the Glitch had gone, in time to see a stream of sparks flow into a video camera mounted in a corner of the room.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” I grabbed my Glitch Gone and raced to the camera, which I blasted with a big cloud of spray.

Sparks shot out like fireworks. I ducked as the camera exploded. This time, the Glitch materialized almost immediately. It hurtled at me feet first, knocking me backward with its powerful legs, using my chest as a launchpad to rocket off in the opposite direction. Damn, that hurt. The Glitch sped down the aisle between two rows of cabinets, toward the back of the room.

I took off after it, clutching the ax with both hands, my boots pounding the floor. I skidded around the corner where I’d seen it turn. The Glitch launched itself at me, claws aiming for my eyes. I dodged and swung. The ax smashed deep into the side of a processor cabinet and, again, got stuck. Instead of giving the Glitch another chance to attack, I whirled around, reaching for the throwing knife in my ankle sheath. The Glitch jumped at my face, but it overshot and bounced off the wall. It landed with an oof and lay on the floor. I threw. The damn Glitch rolled, and my knife barely scratched its arm.

The demon emitted a nails-on-chalkboard screech and clambered to its feet. It took off down the next aisle, running toward the front of the lab. It was fast, but not with its previous speed. I glanced at the ax embedded in the cabinet, then retrieved my throwing knife instead. Its bronze blade showed spots of purplish-black blood. Good. Bronze is lethal to demons, and even though I hadn’t wounded the Glitch deeply enough to kill it, the touch of bronze had slowed it down. Even better, the scratch from the bronze blade would prevent the thing from shifting into energy.

That Glitch was mine.

I wiped the blade on my jacket sleeve and crept down the aisle, pausing every few feet to listen, but I couldn’t hear anything through the whirring of all those fans. I scanned the tops of cabinets towering on either side, my arm aching with tension, ready to throw the knife at the first sign of a purple blur speeding toward my head. Next time, I wouldn’t miss.

At the end of the aisle I wondered: which way—left or right? I held my breath, straining to hear through the white noise. My ear caught something. I listened harder. There it was again, a shuffling to the right. I eased off the electrician’s glove—no way I was going to let the clumsy thing mess up my aim this time—flexed my fingers, and got a good grip on the knife. I drew back my arm, ready to throw, then whipped around the corner.

And found myself face-to-face with the barrel of a gun.

“Don’t shoot!” I dropped the knife and showed my open, empty hands.

The face behind the gun came into focus: a wide-eyed fiftyish guy in a campus police uniform. His gun shook.

“I’m not armed,” I said, standing absolutely still. A shaking gun means a jumpy trigger finger. “I’m authorized to be here. Check with Professor Milsap.”

“You hear that, Professor?” the cop said over his shoulder. “Says she’s working for you.”

Milsap was here? Good. He’d clear this up, and then I’d finish the job.

“Professor Milsap,” I called out. “It’s Vicky Vaughn. Please tell the officer to put down his gun.”

“I will in a moment,” said a deep voice. Milsap appeared behind the still-shaky cop. He was tall and thin, with a full head of wavy gray hair—kind of Einstein-esque. He glared at me through wire-rimmed glasses. “As soon as he’s arrested you for vandalism.”

The rest of me wasn’t moving, but my jaw dropped far enough to hit the floor. “What are you talking about? You hired me to do this job.”

“We saw what you did. I arrived at Officer Hadley’s station in time to see you disable the surveillance cameras.”

“I didn’t—”

“You sprayed an aerosol can at a camera, and then the system went down.”

“That wasn’t me, that was the Glitch—”

“And now we arrive on the scene to find you’ve taken an ax to several processors.”

“Trying to kill the Glitch you hired me to exterminate.” My voice squeaked with indignation. I hate when that happens. “I warned there could be damage to the facility. There’s a clause about it in the contract you signed.”

“What contract? I signed no contract.”

“He’s lying!” shouted an indignant female voice. A second later, a teenage zombie in a Hello Kitty T-shirt stomped around the corner in her size-eight, pink, sparkly platform sandals. Tina, my self-proclaimed apprentice, scowled like she’d been grounded two days before the prom. This would be the same self-proclaimed apprentice who was supposed to keep track of my paperwork.

“He tricked me, Vicky! He said he wanted to check something in the contract, so I gave it to him. He stuck it in his pocket and ran out. He locked me in his office.” She glared at him. “You need a new door, asshole.”

“Tina! You can’t talk to a client that way.” Not even if he was proving to be a certified, grade-A, world-class asshole. I was kind of glad she’d used her zombie strength to demolish his door.

“But he—”

“We’ll talk about it later.” First, I’d figure out how to make the campus cop quit pointing his gun at me.

Milsap patted his pocket, half-smiling, and then frowned at me like I was a disappointing student who’d failed an exam. “Do you honestly think any reasonable person would believe MIT hired an ax-wielding maniac to deal with a simple computer glitch?”

“But I didn’t,” I said.

The pursed lips twitched downward into a frown. “Didn’t what?”

“Deal with it. The Glitch is still loose in here somewhere.”

“Oh, come now. We both know there’s no such—”

Tina screamed.

The cop’s eyes bugged out, and he fired.

I dropped, but the shot slanted upward; he was aiming at the top of the cabinet, not me. As he squeezed the trigger a second time, a glob of purple goop sealed the pistol’s barrel. The gun blew up in his hand. He fell over sideways and lay still.

Above me, the Glitch was noisily hawking up another wad of spit. I scrambled to my feet, feeling around for my knife and yelling, “Take cover!”

Tina disappeared down an aisle, but Milsap stood and stared at me. A second later—ptoooie!—Glitch spit splatted on the side of his head. Looking dazed, he put his hand in the mess, trying to brush it off but managing to smear it around and get it all over his hand.

“Don’t,” I said. “It’s poison.”

He stared at his hand in disbelief.

From nowhere, the Glitch landed on Milsap’s shoulders, clawing at his face and spitting in his hair again. Milsap screamed and went down. The Glitch jumped away but was immediately back on top of the guy, sitting on his chest, gripping his throat with its claws, and crackling with electricity. Milsap’s cloth blazer didn’t offer any protection against the Glitch’s energy field; he howled and shook like he’d grabbed a live wire.

It was more like a live wire had grabbed him.

Time to finish this job. I kicked the Glitch, hard, and threw my knife. The Glitch flew across the room and hit the wall by the door. My knife flew with it. The blade struck the Glitch dead center, pinning it to the wall. The bronze did its thing, and the Glitch disappeared in a puff of evil-smelling smoke. All that remained was a slimy purple stain on the wall.

I went to the cop first, pressing my fingers into his neck to check for a pulse. At my touch, his eyes fluttered open and he struggled to sit up. “What the hell—?” he muttered, staring at his hand. He had a nasty burn, but he’d be okay and I told him so.

Milsap was another matter. He lay on his back, moaning, his face and neck striped with multiple slashes. Thick, sticky Glitch spit matted his hair and coated his glasses. The whole right side of his face was purple with it, and it had gotten into his wounds.

Good thing, too, I thought, as I heard Tina clomp-clomp back down the aisle. Zombies have this little problem with human blood—the smell of it sends them into a frenzy of hunger. Glitch spit gummed up Milsap’s wounds, and the stench of it covered any scent of blood. Tina wouldn’t try to gnaw his face off. On the other hand, it was a bad thing, because the venom in the Glitch saliva, normally slow-acting, would work faster where the skin was broken.

Tina appeared. She stood over Milsap, hands on her hips. “No such thing, huh?” Her voice oozed with sarcasm. “Asshole.”

This time, I didn’t rebuke her. Instead, I told her to help me get Milsap on his feet. I grabbed his right arm; Tina took his left. At the count of three, we heaved.

“Where’s a bathroom?” I asked Milsap when we’d gotten him more or less upright. “We need to wash out those scratches before the poison takes effect.”

Tina and I each managed to drape one of Milsap’s arms around our shoulders. Then we guided him across the room. Except he couldn’t seem to keep his feet under him, so there was a lot more dragging than guiding. In the hallway, he looked around like he’d never been there before. His spit-coated glasses sat crooked on his face, obscuring his vision. I plucked them off, and he blinked.

“Bathroom?” I reminded him.

He tilted his head left, so we went that way. Ten yards down the hallway was a door marked MEN. We half-walked, half-dragged Milsap to it. I shouldered it open.

The room smelled of disinfectant with an undertone of old mildew. We got Milsap across the scuffed tile floor to the sinks, where I reached out with my free hand and turned on the water full blast. He was half-falling down already, so it wasn’t hard to get his head under the faucet. In a second he was struggling and sputtering, but together we held him in place. Once he realized that I wasn’t trying to drown him—and that the purple water swirling down the drain was taking Glitch gunk with it—he relaxed and held still.

I pumped soap into my hand and spread it on his face. “Rub that in. It’ll help.”

I went over to the dispenser to grab some paper towels. As soon as my back was turned, Milsap yelped. There was a splash and some gurgling sounds. I spun around, paper towels in hand, to see Tina holding Milsap’s head down in the sink. Water poured out of the faucet and splashed over the basin’s rim onto the floor.

“Tina! No waterboarding the client!”

She grabbed Milsap’s hair with her left hand and wrenched him upward as she waved some papers, folded lengthwise, at me. Milsap gulped in air, trembling.

“It’s your contract. I told you he stole it.” She plunged his face back into the sink.

“Okay, you got it back. Stop.”

I went to the sink and unblocked the drain, then untangled Tina’s hand from Milsap’s hair. He coughed and gasped, and I waved Tina back a few steps.

“Damn it, he broke my nail with his head,” she said, inspecting her hand. “It won’t grow back, you know. I’ll have to get acrylic. Add it to his bill, Vicky.”

I ignored her. You can’t fight demons if you’re worried about breaking a nail.

Milsap braced both hands on the sink, then raised his dripping head. Hunched over, he peered into the mirror. He looked terrible. His bloodshot eyes blinked above bags you could pack groceries in, scratches crisscrossed his cheeks and neck, and a faint purple stain blotched his face like a birthmark. His wild Einstein mane, matted and streaked with purple, looked like a costume-shop fright wig someone had left out in the rain.

“What was that thing?” he rasped, fingering a purple strand of hair.

“The Glitch? You know what it was. You hired me to kill it.”

“Professor Milsap doesn’t believe in demons.” Tina stepped forward, and Milsap cringed. “He doesn’t believe in me, either.”

“I do, I do!” He ducked like he wanted to hide under the sink. “Keep away from me! You’ve more than proved your existence.”

“Tina, grab me some paper towels,” I said. “Hang on, Professor. We’re almost done.”

Tina yanked hard enough on the towels to pull the dispenser off the wall. It landed with a crash, making Milsap duck again, his arms protecting his head. She stomped across the room and threw the towels at the professor. They fluttered around him like autumn leaves.

“He said everyone in Deadtown is either a psycho or a fraud.” Deadtown was Boston’s paranormal zone. All zombies, werewolves, vampires, and other assorted creatures of the night—including shapeshifters like me—were required by law to live there. Tina scooped up some paper towels and threw them at Milsap again. “Look at me! Does this look like something I’d fake?” She raised her arms to shoulder height, palms up.

Not what you’d call a pretty sight. Like all zombies, Tina had spongy, gray-green skin and bloodred eyes. But the rest of her—the lashes gummy with mascara, the Barbie fashion sense, the double ponytails sprouting from the top of her head—that was 100 percent Tina. Her point was obvious: She’d rather be a normal teenager than a monster. Who wouldn’t?

Milsap straightened; he’d decided it was time to regain some of his dignity. “I never called you a fraud, young lady. Your condition is the result of a virus. It’s been documented, even if we don’t yet understand it completely. What I said was that Boston’s so-called ‘werewolves’ and ‘vampires’ were either charlatans or deluded.” He turned to me, lifting his eyebrows with earnestness. “I am a man of science, Ms. Vaughn. It is not possible for a corpse to return from the grave and survive on human blood. It is not possible for a human being to transform into a wolf for three nights each month. The laws of physics, not to mention biology, proscribe it. Whatever psychological aberration these people suffer does not—cannot—affect their physical reality.”

Psychological aberration, huh? I was starting to feel like dunking the guy’s head myself. I’m not a werewolf, but I do change form. As one of the Cerddorion, a race of shapeshifting demon fighters that stretches all the way back to the Welsh goddess Ceridwen, I can change into any creature, three shifts per lunar cycle—the laws of physics and biology be damned. Maybe there were some things science hadn’t caught up with yet.

“You saw the demon,” I pointed out, bending over to gather some paper towels. I crumpled the towels into a ball and wet them at another sink.

“I don’t know what I saw. Some kind of animal, perhaps, that escaped from one of the biological research labs.” His expression turned defiant. “I do know, however, that demons do not exist. I opposed the trustees’ decision to hire you. I only volunteered to be your contact because I didn’t trust you. I fully expected you’d crash around the computer room for a while, causing untold damage, and then claim you’d driven out the ‘demon’ ”—his voice went all sarcastic with the word—“after you’d wreaked so much destruction that the so-called Glitch would be moot. So tonight I left this young lady in my office—”

“Locked me in, you mean.”

“—and I went to the security surveillance station to see what you were up to. The officer was sprawled across the desk, and snoring. I woke him, and we both saw you disable the camera. We rushed to the lab before you could do worse.” His glare was just this side of murderous.

“Whoa, Professor.” I held out both hands in a calm-down gesture. “I didn’t disable anything. That was the Glitch. I sprayed the camera to pull it out of your surveillance system. It fried the camera when it came out.”

“That’s impossible.”

“You are so lame!” sputtered Tina. “That Glitch zapped you halfway into next week, it clawed your face all to hell, you’ve got Glitch spit gooping up your hair—and you keep saying there’s no such thing. How can you be so stupid?”

Milsap gaped at her, his face a mixture of dumbfounded dropped-jaw and angry furrowed-forehead. As if never in his whole life had anyone called him stupid before.

“Whatever.” Tina dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “I saw a vending machine back there, Vicky. I’m getting something to eat.” She’d have slammed the door behind her if it wasn’t the self-closing kind.

Zombies are always hungry. Now that I thought of it, I’d never seen Tina go so long without a snack—or twelve. It’d be good for her to work off her emotions by chomping down twenty or thirty chocolate bars.

Milsap stared after her. “Next, you people will be telling me the library is haunted by the ghost of some undergraduate who perished in the stacks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Professor.” He blinked at me like a purple-spotted owl. “Everyone knows there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

He kept blinking, like he couldn’t tell whether I was kidding or not.

I approached him with the sodden mass of paper towels. “Let me get a look at you.” He leaned over the sink again, turning his head so the spit-covered side was toward me. I used the paper towels to scrub more of the gunk from his face. I can’t say I was all that gentle—I mean, the guy had tried to rip me off and have me arrested. He winced, but he didn’t complain. I inspected the slashes on his cheek where the Glitch had clawed him, checking the broken skin for specks of venom. I dabbed at a couple of spots with the paper towels, lifting the poison out, then rubbed in more soap. Milsap flinched as the soap stung him. Another rinse, and I checked again.

“That’s the best we can do for now,” I said. “I cleaned the venom out of the cuts, but keep scrubbing your face until there’s no trace of purple left. It’ll take a day or two to get rid of it, but you should be okay as long as it’s completely gone in a week. It takes about that long for the poison to work.”

He straightened again and glanced in the mirror. “And my hair?”

“Wash it a hundred times, shave it off, whatever. You could even leave it in for a new look—if you can stand the smell. The stuff in your hair won’t hurt you. But get it off your skin.”

A tremendous crash shuddered the bathroom door. Tina must have been awfully hungry—it sounded like she’d torn the front off the vending machine and hurled it down the hallway. Well, why not? Like I said, zombies are always hungry. And she’d already wrecked her manicure.

2

“I DON’T SEE WHY YOU WOULDN’T LET ME DRIVE.” TINA SAT sideways in an upholstered chair in the lounge of the group home she shared with other zombified teens. A sofa and some chairs formed a semicircle in front of a thirty-two-inch TV mounted on the wall. Behind the chairs stood a battered Ping-Pong table, its net sagging. Bookshelves lined the far wall. An audio system took up more shelf space than any books did.

Tina lay back against one arm of the chair; her legs stuck out over the other, showing off her ripped-knee jeans. Her legs didn’t exactly dangle, thanks to her undead stiffness, but it was as close to lounging as a zombie could get. Empty chip bags and donut boxes littered the floor.

“Why didn’t I let you drive? Hmm. Well, for starters, you don’t have a driver’s license.”

“So? I know how. I almost had my learner’s permit when the stupid plague came along.”

“You were fifteen,” I reminded her. “You need to be sixteen to get a permit.”

She picked at her baby-pink nail polish. “I said almost. Anyway, who’d teach me? My dad promised he would, but he and Mom couldn’t dump me fast enough once they realized I was gonna be stuck this way forever.”

It was true. And I felt for the kid, really—but nobody besides me would ever drive that car. A 1964 E-type Jaguar in classic racing green, Dad had shipped it over from Wales when he and Mom moved to Massachusetts in the 1970s. Now, the Jag was all I had left of him—and Tina would not be wrapping it around a lamppost.

“Enough. Let’s talk about tonight’s job.” Tina was getting work-study credit at her high school for being my apprentice. “What did you know about Glitches going in?”

She swung around in the chair so she was sitting up straight—more or less. She tore open a bag of pretzels and stuffed handfuls into her mouth between sentences. “Anti-technology demons. Glitches are really old—like, older than cavemen. Back in the day, they didn’t bother the norms. They lived in storm clouds, eating electricity. But the Bronze Age dawned, and humans discovered that bronze weapons kill demons. Glitches declared war, attacking any new kind of technology.”

“Right.” I nodded. “That’s why I have to go after them with low-tech weapons like knives and axes. Anything more advanced, and they gum up the weapon itself. You saw what happened when the security guard fired his gun.”

“That was awesome.” She sent me a sidelong glance. “Are you mad at me for busting out of that professor’s office? I know you said I have to stay away from the job site, but—”

“It’s okay. This time.” Back in October, Tina had wreaked all kinds of havoc when she’d followed me into a client’s dream and accidentally torched his dreamscape. “You’re supposed to stay with the client, yes, but this client wouldn’t stay put. It was an unusual situation.”

We went over other info about Glitches—their habits, their habitat, the effects of Glitch venom on humans and other species.

“Would that stuff hurt zombies?”

“That’s a good question, Tina. I don’t know. Probably not.” Boston’s zombies, like their horror-movie counterparts, were hard to kill. Direct exposure to sunlight made their skin deteriorate—a “zombie sunburn” caused orange, pitted, permanently damaged skin—but it didn’t kill them. A zombie could fall off a building, walk through a raging fire, be riddled with bullets, chug a gallon of drain cleaner, and then go out for pizza. Zombies didn’t feel pain, but neither did they heal. A burned or bullet-riddled zombie would survive, but the flesh would remain charred, the holes always open. A couple of things were known to kill zombies, like cutting off the head or using special exploding bullets available only to cops. Maybe setting off a nuclear bomb under the bed of a sleeping zombie would do it, but as far as I knew no one had tried that yet.

“Okay,” I said. “Write a report on Glitches for your portfolio. We’re meeting tomorrow night at seven thirty before school, right?” She nodded. “Finish Russom’s chapter on water demons.” Russom’s Demoniacal Taxonomy was the textbook my aunt Mab had started me on. I’d trained with Mab every summer for seven years at her remote estate in north Wales. The book was every bit as dry as its title promised, but there was no better resource on demons.

I was pulling on my jacket when the door to the lounge flew open, banging against the wall. Through it flew Jenna, Tina’s zombie BFF. With long, straight, straw-colored hair, Jenna was a little shorter and a little chubbier than her friend. She wore jeans and an oversized black T-shirt that read HUG A ZOMBIE in white letters.

“Omigod! Turn on the TV—now. Now!” Jenna didn’t wait for Tina to move; she snatched the remote from the coffee table and pressed the Power button. She flipped through the channels until she found PNN—the Paranormal News Network—then fell onto the sofa. The station showed a press conference with the Council of Three: the vampire, werewolf, and zombie who (in name, anyway) were Deadtown’s elected leaders. The Council was just a trio of figureheads, as anyone could tell by the topic of their press conference. Hadrian, the vampire councilor, was announcing a resolution declaring February 2 Paranormal Appreciation Day.

Groundhog Day. How appropriate. Maybe we were supposed to step into the norm world, get scared by our own shadows, and run back to our burrows here in Deadtown.

Tina snorted. “What, are you trying to bore me to death?”

Jenna hit the Mute button and popped her gum. “It’ll be on again in a minute.”

“What?”

“Nuh-uh. I’m not telling. You’ll see.”

“Jenna, aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I asked. It was three in the morning, half an hour before school let out.

She shrugged, snapping her gum again. “I only cut last period.”

Not my problem. I wasn’t about to start playing truant officer for Deadtown’s teenage zombies. I began to say good-bye, but before I got two words out Jenna shouted, “Here it is!” A blast of guitar chords assaulted my ears, and both girls leapt to their feet and screamed. I looked at the TV to see what had them so excited.

The image switched from a stadium concert to the PNN newsroom. Rhoda Harris, a zombie newscaster, sat behind a desk, her stiff hairstyle and bright yellow suit contrasting with her zombified features. Behind her was a publicity photo of a man with wavy hair, big brown eyes, and a million-dollar smile. “He used to be known as Paul Montoya, singer of soulful love ballads such as ‘I’ll Give You My World’ and ‘Tomorrow Is for Us.’ Then, nearly three years ago, he was caught in Boston’s plague. As a previously deceased human, Montoya believed his career was over.”

The screen showed Montoya in a recording studio, holding a guitar. He still had the wavy brown hair, but now his eyes were red and his death’s-head smile was more like a grimace. “After the plague,” he said, “I looked in a mirror and thought, ‘Well, Paul, that’s it. Nobody wants to hear a zombie sing love songs. Plus my fingers got too stiff to play the way I used to. But music was my life. I didn’t know how to do anything else.”

The reporter’s voice came back, as the screen showed Montoya wearing headphones and screaming silently into a microphone. “So Montoya reinvented himself. In the process, he invented a new musical genre: monster rock.”

Cut to a stadium packed with screaming fans. Searchlights zigzagged across the stage, lighting the smoke that billowed from hidden machines, as a voice announced, “Are you ready to meet your worst nightmare? Are you ready to dance with the dead? Are you ready . . . for Monster Paul!” The audience roared as fireworks sparked to the sound of more ear-splitting guitar chords. Monster Paul staggered to the front of the stage and began growling like a sleep-deprived bear with a bad case of indigestion.

Tina and Jenna both swooned.

Before the TV speakers reached meltdown, the screen switched back to the studio. Rhoda Harris continued: “As Monster Paul, Montoya has reached a new level of fame. With two double-platinum CDs and the most-downloaded song of all time—‘Grave Robber (Stay Outta My Grave)’—Monster Paul has made being previously deceased”—a smile crept into her voice—“almost cool.”

“Here comes the good part,” Jenna said, leaning forward.

“Now,” said Harris, “Montoya is ready for another reinvention. And he’s reaching out to Boston’s paranormal community for help.”

In his recording studio, Monster Paul looked into the camera. “There’s so much raw talent in Deadtown, and it’s time to give that talent its due. I want the world to know that zombies are previously deceased, not dead—you know? So I’m putting together a new band. It’ll be made up of paranormals, 100 percent. I’ll be auditioning musicians and backup singers on January 22. If you think you’ve got what it takes to join my Zombie Freak Show, come on over to the old Orpheum Theater from eight ’til whenever we’re done.”

The screen displayed the time and date, as Harris wrapped up her story: “You heard him, Deadtown. Paranormal musicians and singers are encouraged to try out tomorrow night—that’s January 22—at the former Orpheum Theater on Hamilton Place, starting at eight P.M.”

“Omigod!” Tina shouted, pulling open a drawer. “I need a pencil!”

“You are not writing that in Russom’s.” I snatched the book from her.

“It’s okay, I already wrote it down,” Jenna said.

“We are so going to be there.”

“Can either of you play an instrument?”

“What for? Weren’t you listening? He’s looking for singers, too.” Tina launched into “Grave Robber,” and Jenna joined her. I think one of them was off-key, although it’s hard to tell with monster rock. They sounded like a couple of furious parrots challenging each other to a death match. Then I considered the concert clip PNN had played. The two of them were naturals.

I LEFT TINA AND HER FRIEND SCHEMING ABOUT WHAT TO wear to the audition and drove to my rented garage. Once the Jag was safely locked up, I hoisted my weapons bag and walked to the building where I shared an apartment with Juliet, my vampire roommate. Deadtown was only a couple of blocks wide by five blocks long, from Winter Street to School Street. Because all Boston’s paranormals had to live here, housing was at a premium. That made for some strange . . . if not bed-fellows, then roomies, anyway.

Zombies thronged the streets, shopping, eating, talking, eating, laughing, eating, heading home from work, eating. Oh, and eating. If I ever give up demon extermination, I’ll open a hot dog stand in Deadtown. I’d make a fortune.

Dusk-to-dawn was the busy time in this part of town, and the nighttime streets belonged to the zombies. For one thing, at more than two thousand strong, they just plain outnumbered the rest of us. Vampires spent their after-dark hours in the human parts of town, trawling for blood donors, while more and more werewolves worked norm hours, taking eight-to-five jobs in human-owned companies. State law required them to spend the three days and nights of each full moon at a secure werewolf retreat, but they managed to work around that restriction. Human and paranormal Bostonians lived side by side in a truce—often uneasy, but a truce nonetheless. Much of that was thanks to Alexander Kane, Boston’s high-profile werewolf lawyer.

At the thought of Kane, a confusion of feelings tumbled through me. Mostly, I missed him. He’d been in Washington for three months, preparing to argue a case before the Supreme Court that could establish paranormal rights at the federal level. Right now, each state had its own rules. Some, like “Monsterchusetts,” gave paranormals limited rights. That’s because the zombie plague happened here, and the state had to accommodate its citizens who’d died and been reanimated. But other states—most of them—gave us no rights at all, not even the right to be alive (or undead, as the case may be). Kane was trying to change that.

Kane was doing important work; I knew that. And I supported him in it. But his work consumed him, and sometimes it felt like there wasn’t much left over for me. We’d dated off and on for two years—more off than on—and sometimes we went weeks without seeing each other. He worked days, I worked nights, and neither of us was willing to stick our career in the backseat.

Before Kane left for Washington, we’d agreed to see other people—his idea. I’d gone out a few times with Daniel Costello, the human detective I met in the fall when one of my clients was murdered. I liked Daniel. We were still getting to know each other, but we had fun together. But Kane made it clear he had no time for anything but work.

I’d expected to be one of those things he didn’t have time for. But since he went to Washington, he called me a couple of times a week—more than we talked, sometimes, when we were in the same city. Somehow it figured that being five hundred miles apart brought us closer.

Sighing, I pulled open the door to my building. In the lobby, a massive bouquet of red roses towered over the doorman’s desk. An explosive sneeze trembled the flowers, and a zombie face appeared, rising like a gray-green moon over a forest—if the man-in-the-moon was having a really bad night.

“Nice flowers, Clyde,” I greeted the doorman. “You got a secret admirer?”

“Actually, no. These arrived for you an hour ago.”

For me? Who’d be sending me flowers? My first thought, with a flutter of pleasure, was Kane, but that was silly—he came to mind because I’d just been thinking about him. Who, then? Sometimes grateful clients sent gifts, but most of my recent demon exterminations had been run-of-the-mill. Except tonight’s. Somehow, though, I didn’t think Professor Milsap had speed-dialed his favorite all-night florist to show me his undying gratitude for getting rid of that Glitch.

Clyde sneezed again. It was a funny, dry sound, like somebody pretending, not very convincingly, to have a cold. “Please take them away. I was terribly allergic to flowers before the plague. You’d think being previously deceased would put an end to that, but—” Another dry sneeze. “But perhaps what’s left of my body remembers.”

“Allergies, huh? That must have made life difficult when you were a minister.” I lifted my duffel bag’s strap over my head so it crossed my torso. “Didn’t the church ladies load up the altar with flowers each Sunday?”

“Then I could get allergy shots. Those wouldn’t help now. At least I’m not bedeviled by watery eyes or a stuffy nose. Just this infernal . . . aaaah-choo!” The roses trembled again.

I lifted the vase. It was surprisingly heavy.

“Be careful.” Clyde held out a steadying hand. “I think it’s Waterford.”

“Was there a card?”

“Presumably there’s one inside the envelope attached to the bouquet.” He scowled as though I’d accused him of steaming open my love notes.

I couldn’t see where I was going through the dense foliage—rose leaves and ferns and baby’s breath—waving in front of my face. I stuck my head out on the left and crossed to the elevators, my weapons bag banging against my hip with each step.

All those roses made the elevator smell like a florist’s shop. I almost started sneezing, myself. I was glad when the doors opened to my floor.

Outside my apartment, I raised a knee to balance the vase against the wall as I fished in my pocket for my keys. Even through the closed door, I could hear Juliet’s massive TV blaring, but I didn’t bother to ring the bell. She wouldn’t be home at this hour, not with so many necks out there waiting to be bitten. And she had a bad habit of turning on the TV—loud—then losing interest and wandering away.

I pulled out my key ring and sorted through it one-handed. Inside, the phone rang. I found the key, turned it in the lock, got the door open, and flew into the living room. I dropped the flowers on the coffee table, ducked out of the duffel bag strap, scooped up the remote, and powered off the TV, all while diving for the phone on the far side of the sofa. Don’t try this at home, kids, I thought, as I belly-flopped onto the cushions and hit the Talk button. I’m a trained professional.

“H-hello?” A trained professional who panted like she’d run a marathon after making it all the way from the front door to the sofa.

“Vicky.” Kane’s voice flowed warmly over the phone. “Did you get the flowers I sent?”

“Those are from you?”

In the long pause that followed, I reflected that maybe I’d sounded a little too surprised.

“You thought they were from someone else?” A new note strained his voice.

“No, no. I just got home. I didn’t have a chance to read the card.” I searched my memory for an anniversary or other occasion I’d forgotten, but came up blank. “Sorry. I guess I didn’t have you pegged as a champagne-and-roses kind of werewolf.” Champagne, maybe. Kane liked expensive wines.

His chuckle brought the warmth back into his voice. “Okay, I get the hint. Next time, I’ll include champagne.”

“Make it a box of chocolates instead and you’ve got a deal.”

“Done.” I could almost see his smile over the phone. Kane had a smile that could break hearts across three states. He’d be sitting back, grinning, his gray eyes alight with amusement, his silver hair gleaming. Because it was outside norm working hours, he’d have draped his suit jacket over the back of his chair, maybe even loosened his Italian silk tie. “How’d the job go tonight?” he asked.

I rolled over onto my back and shimmied up against an armrest, getting comfortable. “I got the Glitch, but I may have damaged one or two processors in that fancy supercomputer.” I told him about the night’s events. He growled when I got to the part where the security guard stuck a gun in my face, but Kane knew better than to lecture me that my job was too dangerous. We’d argued about it too many times for even Mr. Successful Trial Lawyer to have a prayer of winning.

“You’re up late,” I observed, to change the subject.

“Late, early—I’m not sure I can tell the difference anymore. I’ve been reading more of Justice Frederickson’s opinions. She has me worried, Vicky. She’s consistently interpreted citizenship and civil rights in the narrowest way possible.”

Chief Justice Carol Frederickson, who’d been on the Court for a couple of decades, was its most influential member. That didn’t mean she always swayed the other justices’ opinions, but nobody knew how she might affect a close vote.

“And yesterday,” he continued, “someone told me about an informal conversation where she insisted that civil rights are human rights and as such apply only to those who meet the genetic definition of human.”

“So those of us with the wrong genome have to obey their laws, pay taxes to them, and live as second-class citizens.”

“Not citizens at all. Not even second-class.”

“Where does that leave zombies? They’re genetically human, right? They just died and came back to life.”

“Yes, and that’s precisely why you shouldn’t call them ‘zombies.’ ” To Kane, zombies were previously deceased humans—PDHs for short—and there were no monsters in Deadtown; we were all Paranormal Americans, or PAs. Sometimes dating Kane felt like living in a bowl of alphabet soup. But his scolding tone didn’t last. “The virus changed their DNA, and that’s an important factor in this case. The other side is arguing that the altered DNA makes them inhuman—and Justice Frederickson seems sympathetic to that view.”

“But you can’t be fully human one day and not even a little human the next. It’s not like they committed a crime. All they did was get sick.”

“Exactly. That argument is one prong of our strategy.” He went on to talk about the case he and the other lawyers on his team were building. I didn’t understand all his legal mumbojumbo, but I loved hearing the passion in his voice. It was easy to see why Kane was a successful lawyer. When he stood up to make an argument, half the jury would swoon and the other half would be moved to tears or to action, whichever he was going for. I hoped the Supreme Court would be as susceptible to his charms.

“I’d better go,” Kane said. “I probably won’t be around much for the next week. The full moon’s only a few days away, and I’ve got a foot-high stack of things I need to deal with before I head to Virginia for the retreat.”

“I hope it’s easier this month.” Kane had spent the previous two retreats fighting off challenges from various pack alphas. Werewolf packs were family groups, usually no more than a dozen members, and because the Virginia retreat was a big one, that meant lots of wolves eager to challenge him.

“The locals don’t like a lone wolf coming into their territory. I don’t blame them. I’d do the same thing in their place. It’ll get better when they realize I’m not trying to take over their packs.” He spoke casually, like it was no big deal, but strain squeezed his voice. “The hardest thing is to make sure any challenge ends in a draw. If I gave some of these alphas the beating they deserve, I’d get stuck with responsibility for their packs. That’s the last thing I need.”

“So there’s no point in saying, ‘Be careful’?”

That trademark Kane chuckle again. “No more than when I say it to you.”

“Touché, counselor.”

After we said good-bye, I pulled a rose from the vase and twirled it in my fingers, breathing in its scent. In all the time I’d known Kane, he’d never sent me flowers. Not that I had much use for bouquets and such things. Usually, when Kane gave me a present it was a gift card to my favorite weapons shop in Allston. (One of those would’ve come in handy for stocking up on fresh Glitch Gone, but I tried not to think about that.) Roses were new territory for us. It was kinda nice to get them.

I thought about what it must be like for Kane in D.C., absorbed by work for most of his waking hours, fighting off unlooked-for challenges during the three days each month when he should’ve been able to recharge. In those rare moments when he found himself alone, without a legal book or a deposition or a snarling werewolf facing him, what did he think about?

Could Kane be lonely? Was that even possible for a lone wolf?

I wondered what he’d written on the card. I reached over, plucked it from the bouquet, and opened the envelope. The card held a single word: Kane. I flipped it over. On the back, jotted lightly in pencil, was a phone number with a 202 area code—I recognized it as the Washington law firm collaborating with Kane. Penciled below the number was the name Susan.

Okay. No big deal. Somebody named Susan, obviously an assistant at the law firm, had called the florist.

Except it was a big deal, damn it.

I tossed the rose aside and sat up. I was stupid to think Kane might be lonely. Kane was the most self-sufficient, purpose-driven being I knew—of any species. He probably felt sorry for me, imagining me pining away for him all by my lonesome. That’s why he oh-so-generously said I should date other guys, out of pity. Then he plugged some auto-reminders to call me into his calendar and told somebody’s secretary to send poor Vicky something nice. He didn’t put two seconds’ thought into what.

Was I being petty? Probably, but so what? On the scale of personal failings, how did “petty” measure up against “can’t be bothered”?

I wasn’t going to waste my time trying to figure that one out. And I wasn’t going to sit around an empty apartment getting hay fever, either. It was still early. I pulled on my jacket to go out. Not to that place where everybody knows your name—that’s a tourist bar on Beacon Street—but to a place where it was impossible for someone like me to feel sorry for myself, a place where I could hang out with zombies, vampires, and a werewolf or two.

3

CREATURE COMFORTS IS A BAR IN THE NEW COMBAT ZONE, the no-man’s-land between Deadtown and human-controlled Boston. It’s also where I go when I want to unwind. As I pushed open the heavy oak doors, warm air puffed out, scented with beer, sweat, tobacco (good luck enforcing a smoking ban in the Zone)—and the slightest tinge of blood.

As I stepped inside, a sandy-haired zombie rushed past with a tray. His orange, yellow, and turquoise Hawaiian shirt clashed with his green-tinged skin, and he moved stiffly, as zombies do. He was fast, though, and something about his bearing suggested he’d been an athlete before the plague. He set the tray on a table and unloaded drinks, smiling and joking with the customers.

Must be Axel’s latest help. Creature Comforts wasn’t Boston’s classiest bar, with its beer-sloshed floor, red-vinyl booths, and sticky tables. But business had been up lately, now that zombies were allowed to wander the New Combat Zone without a permit. Zombies and humans had been on pretty friendly terms since Tina had led other zombies in defending Boston’s Halloween parade from a Harpy attack. The thawing of human-PA relations had lured more norms to venture into the Zone and live a little dangerously by visiting a monster bar. One of the most popular spots was Creature Comforts, which had always been a one-man operation in the past. (Although come to think of it, the bar’s owner, Axel—a seven-foot-tall, hook-nosed, bearded, shaggy knuckle-dragger—might best be described as something other than “man.” Nobody was quite sure what he was. But nobody was brave enough to ask.)

The new waiter zipped off to take orders from a booth. Behind the bar, Axel filled a pitcher with beer. I caught his eye, and he nodded in greeting. I went over. “Looks like your new guy’s doing a good job.”

Axel shrugged. No scowl, so he must’ve thought the kid was okay. In the past two months, since he’d become an employer, Axel had hired and fired a procession of waitstaff: two vampires who’d snacked on the norms, a werewolf with an unfortunate customer-sniffing habit, even a human vamp tramp who’d pestered every vampire in the place to turn her—against Massachusetts law. Based on that track record, anybody who managed to serve customers without taking a bite out of them was doing very well indeed.

I climbed onto a bar stool and ordered a beer.

“What kind?” Axel asked.

“Um, you pick.” Can you tell I’m not much of a drinker?

His lips twitched in what might have been a smile, but it was hard to tell under the beard. A minute later, he gave me a bottle of something pale and yellowish.

“Lite beer, huh? Daniel wouldn’t approve.” Daniel Costello was a beer connoisseur. When we went out, he always ordered something exotic sounding, like red ale or oatmeal stout.

“If it tasted like beer,” Axel said, “you wouldn’t like it.”

Probably true.

I took a sip. Not bad. Axel was right, it didn’t taste like beer. It didn’t taste like much of anything. I swigged—and nearly choked when a tray slammed down on the bar an inch from my left arm.

“Axel, my man, gimme an appletini, two piña coladas, and a pink squirrel for table five,” said the new waiter.

“Pink squirrel.” Axel wrinkled his nose and moved down the bar.

“Hi,” the zombie greeted me, grinning. “I’m T.J.”

“You know, I would’ve guessed that.”

“You would?”

I nodded at his right hand, resting on the bar. A gold ring, emblazoned with a T and a J in blocky letters, gleamed on his finger.

“Oh, right.” He grinned again.

“I’m Vicky.” I put out my hand. T.J. shook it vigorously, the thick gold ring cutting into my palm.

“Great to meet you, Vicky,” he said, as Axel placed glasses on his tray. T.J. picked up the drink-laden tray and rushed to table five.

“Enthusiastic,” I noted.

Axel grunted. Wow, he must really be impressed. Good. I hoped T.J. would work out. Axel could use the help, and with T.J.’s friendliness, some of the customers who’d rather run out of the place screaming than approach Axel might stay long enough to order a second round.

Axel pointed his chin past my shoulder. “Here comes your roommate.”

I swiveled on my stool to see a petite, curvaceous vampire slink through the crowd toward the bar. She wore a skintight black minidress and thigh-high stiletto boots. Customers stood aside to let her through, and she left a trail of men with their tongues hanging out. Nobody does, or overdoes, “hot vampire chick” like Juliet.

She flipped back her long black hair and slid onto the stool beside me. “Don’t tell me you’re alone again,” she said.

I looked around, as if checking. “Nope. You’re here, too.”

“So’m I.” Coming up behind Juliet—or maybe staggering was a better description—was a norm who’d followed her through the crowd. His skin was pasty; purple half-moons shadowed his eyes. He wore a double-breasted suit, his tie was loose, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. Blood stained his collar. “Hey, pretty lady,” he said to Juliet.

Vampire junkie. Addicted to the mild narcotic in vampire saliva, a guy like this would bug vampires to feed from him until he passed out. He looked like he was already a couple of pints short.

“Not interested,” said Juliet.

“Aw, c’mon,” he breathed, leaning in close. Even from where I sat, I could smell the sourness of his breath.

Bam! Down came T.J.’s tray. “ ’ Scuse me, sir,” he said in his friendly voice. “We need to keep this part of the bar clear.” He picked up the junkie as easily as he’d have lifted a kitten and carried him to an empty seat on the other side of the room.

The junkie looked stunned, but he stayed put. T.J. zipped back to the bar, winked at Juliet, and grabbed his tray.

“Axel’s new waiter is pretty good,” I noted.

“You haven’t met him before?”

“I haven’t been here for a few days.”

“He’s already a favorite with the vampires. Mostly because he’s good at dealing with idiot blood bags.” She jerked her head back toward the junkie.

Axel set Juliet’s usual drink in front of her. She always ordered a Bloody Mary, because she liked to mess with norms’ heads, telling them it was made with real blood. Like all vampires, she could eat and drink anything she wanted, but she could only get nourishment from living human blood. She stirred her drink with the celery stalk.

“So why are you here alone?” she asked. “Where’s that scrumptious-looking human cop? I thought you said you were dating him.”

“No, I said we were going out to dinner.” Dating wasn’t a word that had much to do with my life—and it was definitely a word I didn’t want to think about right now. “Besides, Daniel works norm hours. Meeting me for a drink at five in the morning doesn’t fit his schedule.”

Juliet smiled, the tips of her fangs resting on her bottom lip. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

Uh-oh. That sounded like Shakespeare, and I was not in the mood to play Juliet’s Shakespeare game. Juliet hated the Bard—with good reason, actually, but that was beside the point. You’d think after a few centuries she’d quit ragging on the guy.

“But you know,” she sighed dramatically, “the course of true love never did run smooth.”

She could keep this up all night. Shakespeare had written a gazillion lines about star-crossed love, and Juliet could quote them all. I, on the other hand, boasted a C-plus as my best-ever English grade. I’d been way more interested in demonology books than old, incomprehensible plays and poems. So I tried to turn the conversation back to her. “Looks like I’m not the only one without a date tonight.” She blinked at me. She wouldn’t answer unless I said it in Shakespeare. So I tried. “Where . . . uh, wherefore art, um, is—whatever—tonight’s Romeo?”

She pouted, like the game had been my idea and she was already bored with it. “No one looks appetizing tonight. Now you’ve made it worse, mentioning him.”

That surprised me. “Who, Romeo? Don’t tell me you’re getting all nostalgic about young love.”

“Hardly. What I miss are the days when you could drain a body dry and cast it aside.”

My roommate was the Juliet—as in Juliet Capulet, sweet-heart of Romeo Montague in fourteenth-century Verona. That’s why she hated Shakespeare; everyone knows his version of the story and, according to Juliet, he got it all wrong. The way Juliet told it, Friar Lawrence hadn’t given her a sleeping potion; he’d made her a vampire. Later, when she woke up in the family tomb, the grieving Romeo had been her first victim. One she’d drained dry and cast aside.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” I asked.

Juliet shook her head. She seemed in a strange mood tonight. “Let me try to explain what it’s like for me. Imagine you’re hungry, absolutely starving, and you go into a restaurant. All around you, people are eating delicious meals. Juicy steaks, delicious-smelling pasta, roast turkey . . .”

I was suddenly aware that I hadn’t eaten since before the MIT job. “You’re making me hungry.”

“Good. So at the restaurant, you start with an appetizer. Say you order scallops.”

My nose wrinkled. “I don’t like scallops.”

“All right, make it shrimp cocktail, then.”

“Actually, I’m not all that big on seafood.”

“Oh, for Hades’ sake. What would you order?”

“Um, nachos?” I picked up my bottle. “To go with my beer.”

She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “So that’s what you’re drinking. I wondered. All right, nachos. Fine. Now may I continue?”

I nodded graciously.

“So you order nachos. And the waiter brings you one. Just one. A tortilla chip with some cheese, a jot of salsa, and a single jalapeño. A dollop of sour cream, and another of guacamole. It looks delicious, and you’re hungry, so you eat it.”

“Then I tell the waiter to hurry up and bring the rest of my appetizer.”

She shook her head. “Then the waiter tells you that’s it. Pay up and get out. If you want more food, you’ll have to find another restaurant.”

Oh. Now I saw what she was getting at. Vampires were legally allowed to take one pint of blood per human per night. Getting greedy and sucking down more than a pint could lead to expulsion from Massachusetts and taking your chances in a state that was less enlightened about PA rights, a state like New Hampshire or Rhode Island, where unprovoked staking was legal. For Juliet—or any vampire—getting a full meal meant negotiating with several humans each and every night.

“It’s not that bad, is it? I mean, to use your own analogy, you’ve got the best restaurants in town begging you to stop in for a bite. On the house. You could have any human in this place.”

“I know.” Juliet turned on her bar stool, surveying the room. She turned back to the bar and sighed. “But when the hunger is deep, it’s hard to get a satisfying meal from a bite here and a bite there.”

I pondered that. Before I could reply, the vampire junkie was back, his eyes bloodshot and a little wild. “You’re interested. I know you are,” he said to Juliet, slurring his words. “I saw you looking at me.”

Wow. How could she resist a smooth line like that?

Juliet didn’t reply. I glanced around for T.J., but he wasn’t in sight. Instead, Axel appeared. “Looks like you’ve donated enough blood for one night. Go home and sleep it off.”

The norm didn’t even flick Axel a glance. “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to the lady.”

Axel leaned across the bar, grabbed the norm’s tie, and stood, pulling the tie upward as he went. This forced the guy onto his toes and made him look up—way up—at Axel’s face.

“I’m talking to you. Out of my bar. Now.” Axel let go of the tie, shoving the norm backward. The guy stumbled, gaped up at the bartender again, then turned and fled through the front door.

“Junkie.” Axel’s voice held oceans of disgust.

Axel had reason to be concerned. The law saw the junkies as victims. It wasn’t illegal for a junkie to give more than a pint; instead, there was big trouble for any vampire who fed from a norm who’d already passed the limit. Vampires had to screen their donors carefully. And Axel could get closed down if illegal blood-taking happened in his bar.

I wondered how much blood a norm could lose before he was drained dry, as Juliet had put it. “What if there were no limits? Would you have killed that norm?”

“Probably not. Too anemic-looking. He’d be half a meal at most, so he wouldn’t satisfy that deep hunger.” Another sigh. “Mostly, I’m glad to be out of hiding. It’s a lot more fun to hunt by sitting here chatting up hot guys than it is to knock out some bum and drag him into an alley. But not everyone feels that way. The Old Ones—the really ancient ones, I mean—prefer to keep the old ways.”

Juliet was six hundred and fifty years old, give or take a couple of decades, so the vampires she was talking about must be close to prehistoric. I was about to ask her who these Old Ones were, when the front door opened.

“Over there! That’s her!” In the doorway stood the vampire junkie, looking even more wild-eyed and disheveled than before. With him were two plainclothes cops.

“That’s the vampire who took me over the limit!” he shouted, pointing at Juliet.

4

THE BUZZ OF CONVERSATION DIED AS THE TWO COPS—A human and a zombie—moved into the room. One of each meant the Goon Squad, officially known as the Joint Human-Paranormal Task Force, whose task was patrolling the monster-infested parts of Boston where regular cops didn’t want to go. I recognized these two: Norden and Sykes, the Goon Squad’s finest. A couple of months ago, they’d dragged me out of my nice, warm bed to arrest me. It wasn’t much more pleasant seeing them now.

Norden, the human, swaggered over. He hadn’t gotten any prettier since the last time I’d seen him. He was short, maybe five-eight. His skin was greasy and pitted, his eyes mean, his mouth curled in a permanent sneer. His partner, Sykes, towered over him by nearly a foot. The big zombie, with his broad shoulders and bull neck, rivaled Axel in size. Sykes hung back from his partner to wave surreptitiously at a table of zombies.

“Hey, Carlos,” he said.

Carlos grinned. He was good-looking for a zombie; his smile was nice, not nightmarish. He raised his mug in salute. Sykes nodded, then shifted his focus to the bar.

Juliet stirred her Bloody Mary and watched the Goons’ approach from under her lashes.

“Name?” Norden demanded.

Juliet said something in rapid Italian. She looked at the cop expectantly, then threw up her hands. “Non capisco.”

“Huh?” Norden turned to me like he expected me to translate. His face screwed up into a scowl. “Oh, God. It’s the shapeshifter. What, does this place attract every freak in Boston?”

“Well, you’re here, so . . .”

Behind Norden, Sykes stifled a laugh, and I liked him a little better. He wasn’t bad for a Goon. When these two had dragged me out of bed, Sykes had been almost polite about it. Norden was the finalist in the Mr. Jerk America contest.

“We’ll need your temperature reading and a saliva sample,” Norden said, turning back to Juliet.

Except Juliet wasn’t there.

In fact, the bar had only half as many patrons as there’d been two seconds ago. All the vampires had disappeared. If I could have just one vampire trait, it’d be that superfast movement ability.

Juliet was probably home by now, calling Councilor Hadrian to complain. Whenever she was mad about something, she called Hadrian—she had that vampire’s number on her speed dial. He couldn’t do much, but he did have a talent for calming her down.

“Damn it, Sykes, where were you?” Norden growled. “You were supposed to put that silver bracelet thing on her so she couldn’t do that.”

“Wasn’t any reason to think she’d run.”

“They always run, Sykes. You’re supposed to grab them before they can.”

“No one to grab now. Let’s go.”

But Norden wasn’t finished. He looked around the bar, his gaze washing over everyone like a beacon of hatred. It landed on Axel. “We’re gonna search the premises.”

Axel stepped out from behind the bar. “What for?”

“This citizen complained of illegal blood-taking in this establishment. We got a right to search it.”

“What citizen?”

All heads swiveled toward the door. The junkie was nowhere to be seen. Either his conscience had gotten the better of him for lying about Juliet or he’d decided to try his luck at a bar that had some vampires. I could guess which.

“We’re still gonna look around. You got a problem with that?”

Axel walked up to Norden. The two of them stood toe to toe. Except it was more like toe-to-tiptoe, the way Norden had to crane back his head to try to stare Axel down. But it was Axel who blinked first. He shrugged and went behind the bar, where he picked up a towel and started wiping beer mugs.

Norden smirked at Axel’s back, then looked around for his partner. Sykes sat at the table with his zombie pals, who’d poured him a beer from their pitcher. He grabbed a fistful of pretzels and started to chow down, then laughed at something Carlos said. “Sykes!” Norden yelled. “Quit screwing around and do your job.” Sykes shot his partner a murderous look as he slowly stood up. He leaned over and said something to the zombies, who roared with laughter. Then he lumbered across the room to join Norden.

“We’ll start with the bathrooms,” Norden said. “You take the ladies’.” Sykes growled, but he went with Norden toward the RESTROOMS sign at the back of the bar.

“Hey,” said Norden. “Which one’s which?” The signs on the doors, recently added by Axel to amuse the norms, said BOOS and GHOULS. Norden scratched his head for a second and then said, “Oh. I get it.” He pushed open the door marked BOOS and went into the men’s room, one hand on his gun.

The way Sykes glared at the closed men’s room door, I expected the wood to start smoldering. The big zombie turned toward GHOULS and tapped on the door, opening it a crack. “Anyone in there?”

No one answered, so he pushed the door fully open and disappeared inside. After about a minute, both Goons were back in the hallway.

“You find anything?” Norden demanded.

“Yeah.” Sykes nodded, and Norden leaned forward. “The ladies’ room is out of paper towels.”

Norden swore, clenching a fist like he wanted to take a swing at his partner—which would’ve been about as smart as using a bull elephant for a punching bag. After a second, Norden seemed to realize that. He turned and disappeared into the rear storeroom. Sykes cast a longing glance at the table where Carlos and his friends sat, then followed Norden.

I finished my beer and ordered a glass of club soda. More flavor.

T.J. slid onto a bar stool beside me. Most of the customers had drifted out. “Man, what’s that blood bag’s problem?” he asked me. “He’s costing me some serious tip money.”

“Just his charming personality, I guess. I’ve run into him before, and he was the same then. He really hates PAs—makes you wonder why he ever wanted to be a Goon.”

“Why would anybody want to be a Goon?” He drummed on the bar, restless, his gold ring flashing. “Do you know what time it is?”

I pulled up my sleeve to read my watch. “A little past five thirty.”

“Might as well start cleaning up. Hey, that’s a cool watch. Can I see it?”

“Okay, but be careful.” I unfastened the black leather strap and handed him the watch. As he studied it, I explained. It was a new watch, and I enjoyed showing it off. “Besides the two dials, it’s got a built-in compass and temperature sensor. But the really great thing about this watch is that this dial”—I pointed to the upper one—“keeps accurate time in other people’s dreamscapes. When I go in to exterminate a pod of Drudes—those are dream-demons—I need to keep track of how time is passing outside. If the client wakes up while I’m still inside the dream, I can get stuck there.” Being trapped in someone else’s dreams was not my idea of fun. It was like endlessly watching a stranger’s home movies, only freakier. “I give the client a sleeping pill, so I’ll know how much time I’ve got. But time passes differently in dreams, and most watches get screwed up. So far, this one hasn’t.” I knocked on the wooden bar for luck. I’d never had a watch last more than a couple of dreams before it died. This one had kept on ticking through a dozen Drude exterminations. I knocked on the bar again, just in case the good-luck gods hadn’t heard me the first time.

T.J. laid my watch on the bar and picked up his tray, then went off to clean tables. Norden and Sykes were coming back down the hallway from the storeroom. From the look on Norden’s face, they hadn’t found anything more interesting than some kegs and cartons of bar snacks.

Norden stopped. Across from the restrooms was a metal door with a NO ENTRY sign. And the door seemed to mean it: Three deadbolt locks lined up above the doorknob. Norden tried the knob, then shook it. Even if the knob had turned, I don’t know how he thought he’d get through those deadbolts.

“Bartender!” he shouted. Axel leaned out just far enough to see down the hallway. “What’s in there?” Norden pointed at the locked door.

“Nothing.” Axel started to go back to his station.

“Nothing? It’s locked up like freaking Fort Knox.” He rattled the doorknob again. “Open it.”

“That’s my apartment.” Axel spoke as though everyone knew that. Well, everyone did—everyone who hung out at Creature Comforts, anyway. And the other thing everyone knew was that you never, ever violated Axel’s privacy.

Apparently, Norden didn’t think he was everyone. “I said open it.”

The remaining customers turned to stare as Axel came all the way out from behind the bar. The angle of his head, the tightness of his shoulders broadcast a warning.

“What’re you waiting for,” Norden said, “a warrant? We don’t need one. Not in the Zone.”

“You’re not going through that door.” Axel stood in front of it, his arms crossed. The warning in his posture morphed into a threat. Subtle, but definite.

Norden didn’t do subtle. He stepped back and lowered his head like a bull about to charge. He stood that way for three or four long seconds. Then he gestured to his partner. “Okay, Sykes, break it down.”

Sykes planted himself in front of Axel. It was like watching one of the Rocky Mountains saunter over to the Sierra Nevadas to compare size. They faced each other, tension pouring off them. Everyone watched; Carlos half-rose from his chair. The bar was silent, waiting for the explosion that would come when one of these two made his move.

Then Sykes stepped back and shook his head. “No.”

“No?” Norden’s face invented a whole new shade of purple. “Whaddaya mean, ‘no’?”

“There’s no need. I’ve heard about this place. The bartender’s right: Nobody goes through that door. And that means no illegal vampire activity is happening in there.”

“That door could be hiding anything, damn it!”

“Then you break it down.” Sykes moved aside, giving Norden room for a clear run at Axel. The idea of the short, wiry norm shoving Axel out of the way, let alone knocking down the solid door, was ludicrous. Down the bar from me, someone sniggered.

Norden looked ready to pop. If he’d been a cartoon character, he’d have steam shooting out both ears. But he said, “Aw, the hell with it”—loudly, so everyone in the bar could hear—like he’d changed his mind himself.

“C’mon, Sykes. We’re outta here.” Norden stormed through the room. T.J. walked toward the bar carrying a tray of empty glasses. Norden stuck his foot out and tripped the zombie. Glasses flew everywhere, shattering as they hit the ground. T.J. sprawled facedown on the floor.

He pushed himself onto his hands and knees and, from there, reared up into a kneeling position. “Hey,” he said to Norden, looking genuinely puzzled, “what’d you do that for?”

Norden laughed nastily and went outside. Sykes helped T.J. up, gave a “What can I say?” shrug, and followed his partner. He didn’t look at Carlos or his other friends on the way out.

T.J. fetched a broom to sweep up the broken glass. I got down from my stool and retrieved his tray, then picked up a couple of intact glasses and empty bottles. T.J. was pushing the broom near the front door when it opened. Norden came in, his head twisting over his shoulder as he said something to his partner outside.

I don’t think T.J. tripped him on purpose. The kid didn’t seem like the vindictive type, and Norden wasn’t watching where he was going. But somehow the broom got tangled up with Norden’s feet. Norden took three faltering steps and nearly went down. But he caught himself, and when he straightened, his gun was in his hand. Pointed at T.J.

Goons packed the exploding ammo that could take out a zombie.

I’d never seen a zombie go pale, but T.J. did. He dropped the broom and held out his hands, palms out, like they could ward off a bullet. “Sorry, man. It was an accident, all right?”

“You assaulted an officer of the law,” Norden said. “A human officer of the law. Do you know what that means?”

Everyone in the bar knew what it meant. Norden could blast a hole the size of the Sumner Tunnel through T.J., with no repercussions. I glanced around the bar. All of the human customers had gone, so no one here counted as a witness. T.J. looked sick with fear.

No one moved.

I put down the tray and stood in front of T.J., getting between him and Norden’s gun. “He said it was an accident, Norden. No harm done.”

Norden could kill me with impunity as easily as he could shoot T.J., but I was hoping he’d find it harder to pull the trigger when the target was unarmed and hadn’t done anything. From the look in Norden’s eyes, I couldn’t count on that. He didn’t lower the gun.

Then, suddenly, Axel loomed between us. I didn’t know he could move that fast, almost as fast as a vampire. A second ago, he’d been behind the bar.

“No guns,” Axel growled, his quiet monotone more menacing than a shout.

I wasn’t going to hide behind Axel, even though there was room for three of me back there. I stepped out and stood beside him.

Norden’s eyes shone with an ugly light. He lifted the gun and pressed it against Axel’s chest, right over his heart. Axel stood stonelike. The gun’s barrel made an indentation in his shirt.

I gauged the distance from where we stood to the front door. Sykes was outside, waiting for his partner. But if I ran out to get him—hell, if I did so much as blink—Norden would squeeze the trigger and blow a hole through Axel. The gleam in his eyes said he’d do it.

I held my breath. I didn’t dare do anything else.

Then Norden laughed. He stepped back, angling the gun away from Axel and toward the floor. My breath came in a rush, and time started again.

“Came back to use the men’s room,” Norden said, reholstering his gun. He walked down the short hallway at the back and stopped in front of the restrooms. He shook his head. “Boos and Ghouls. Jesus.”

5

DAWN WAS AN HOUR AWAY, SO THE LINES AT THE CHECKPOINT into Deadtown were short. I waited only a minute to go through one of the walk-up booths. The guard, a zombie in a tan uniform, had no nose and sported a ragged hole in his right cheek. The Council always chose the scariest-looking zombies for checkpoint duty, probably to keep curious norms off the monsters’ turf. This one took my ID card, swiped it, and glanced at the name. “Thank you, Ms. Vaughn. Have a nice morning.” He smiled as he handed the card back to me, as pleasantly as it’s possible to smile when you’re missing half your face.

I jogged the few blocks home. It was the coldest hour of a cloudless, starlit night, enough degrees below freezing that I didn’t want to think about how many. My breath steamed like a locomotive by the time I pulled open the door to my building.

Clyde was still at the desk, eating a sandwich. He swallowed quickly when he saw the door open, then nodded to me.

“Still on duty?” I asked. “They got you working double shifts now?”

“Only temporarily. The new night man is due to start tomorrow. But I don’t require much sleep, Ms. Vaughn. And the extra hours have been welcome.” He cleared his throat. “My daughter is a freshman at Wellesley.” His expression blended pride with sadness.

Clyde rarely talked about himself, but I knew he was the only member of his family who’d been felled by the zombie plague, and his wife had divorced him soon after. I wondered if he ever saw his daughter—or if his tuition checks were their only contact.

As I said good night, I wished I’d given Clyde a bigger bonus at Christmas. Too late now. I’d make up for it on his birthday.

JULIET WASN’T HOME. ALL WAS QUIET EXCEPT FOR SOME muffled, moving-around noises from the upstairs neighbors. It was getting late for her to be out. I wasn’t worried. At Juliet’s age, she could stand a little weak, early-morning winter sunlight. I just hoped the Goons hadn’t pissed her off so much that she’d found some hapless norm and drained the poor guy dry.

What an image.

I drew the blackout shades throughout the apartment in case the sun rose before Juliet got home, then I went into my room to get ready for bed. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, pulled on some sweats, and—

Oh, no. I wasn’t wearing my watch. I’d left it on the bar at Creature Comforts.

Damn it, that watch was expensive. In ten years of demon fighting, it was the only one I’d found that worked in dreams. I remembered knocking on the bar when I’d said that to T.J.

My bedside clock read six thirty-four. They might still be cleaning up. I’d call and make sure it was there. Otherwise, I’d worry that someone had scored a free watch at my expense.

I went into the living room, picked up the phone, and dialed.

“Creature Comforts,” said a chipper voice. Had to be T.J. Axel wouldn’t sound that bright with a spotlight shining on him.

“Hey, T.J., it’s Vicky Vaughn.”

“Oh, hi, Vicky. Did you want Axel? He’s gone downstairs. He was so mad about that Goon Squad cop, I think he’s demolishing a punching bag or something.”

“No, that’s okay. I just wanted to ask if I left my watch on the bar.”

“Yeah, you did. Axel noticed it after you left. I tried to catch you, but you were already through the checkpoint. We’ll keep it behind the bar until you come back. Or I could bring it to you if you’d rather.”

“Would you? That’d be terrific. I need it for a Drude extermination tomorrow night.” I told him where I lived.

“Oh, sure, I go right by there on my way home. But I won’t be out of here for a while. Those Goons made a mess of the storeroom; it’ll take me an hour, probably, to straighten it up. That okay?”

“I’m about to fall into bed. Can you leave it with my doorman? He’ll hold on to it for me.”

After we hung up, I fell into bed, as predicted. Now I could sleep soundly.

Except sound sleep eluded me. I did sleep, and it started off fine—darkness, silence, no dreams. But a sound emerged, an echo of laughter. It rumbled through my sleep, not a dream but not part of the waking world, either. The sound grew and multiplied; other voices joined in, all of them laughing. The darkness rippled, broke into pieces, and tumbled into billows of thick black smoke that stung my nose and eyes. I smelled burning and squinted against the smoke, trying to make out a half-glimpsed figure passing through it.

This shouldn’t be happening. I struggled to gain control. All Cerddorion are lucid dreamers; we know when we’re dreaming and can consciously direct what’s happening. It’s one of the reasons we’re such skilled demon fighters: Demons often enter victims’ dreamscapes to torment them, so we have to be able to control dreams. But tonight, it was difficult. I focused my attention on dispersing the smoke—I tried a strong wind, then rain. I made the wind stronger, until a hurricane blasted my dreamscape. The smoke didn’t thin. Didn’t budge. It was smoke, but it was a solid, heavy presence, like a hundred-foot-high cliff. The laughter escalated, roaring over the screaming winds.

Then, abruptly, it stopped. The smoke cleared as if it had never been there. The laughter fell away, one voice at a time, until a single whisper remained. The whisper faded, then it was gone. All around me stretched the blackness of undisturbed sleep—and an uneasiness that lingered with the merest whiff of burning.

Gradually, I sank deeper into sleep. My body needed it.

As I reached the deepest part of the sleep cycle, the place of profound relaxation, a hideous figure pushed itself into my dreamscape. Its warty blue skin dripped slime, and it smiled, showing hundreds of teeth, each as big and sharp as a dagger. Flames smoldered behind its eyes, and it belched foul-smelling smoke.

Difethwr, the Destroyer. The Hellion that had killed my father—and nearly killed me.

I screamed and tried to back away, but I couldn’t move. My demon mark, the scar on my arm where the Destroyer’s flames once touched me, burned with searing pain. The face came closer. Its eyes flashed. Flames shot out, streaming toward me.

I struggled but still couldn’t move. I couldn’t even look away as the death-dealing flames, the fire that burned both body and soul, shot toward me.

An inch from my face, they halted. The brightness blinded me, the heat singed my eyelashes, but the flames didn’t touch me.

Difethwr laughed. It was the sound I’d heard before, a chorus of individual voices—loud and whispering, high-pitched and low, screeching and cackling and making me want to block my ears.

As the laughter peaked, Difethwr reeled the flames back into its eye sockets. A huge black bird—a crow, or maybe a raven—flew in and alighted on the Hellion’s shoulder. Something dangled from the crow’s beak. The Destroyer lifted a taloned hand, palm up. The crow dropped the object into it and cawed three times, loudly, the harsh sound joining the demonic laughter. Difethwr clenched its fingers into a fist and then opened its hand again, flipping its wrist so that something dangled from a finger. I blinked the spots from my eyes to see what it was.

My watch hung from the Hellion’s claw.

Difethwr flicked its hand, tossing the watch into the air and incinerating it with a blast of its eye-flames.

In a second, I was out of bed, groping for my knife, ready to send the Hellion back to Hell. I snatched the dagger from my nightstand. I spun around to locate Difethwr, then blinked in the pitch-dark room. There was no demon here.

A dream. It was only a dream. And that was very, very bad.

I PACED MY BEDROOM, UNABLE TO THINK OF GOING BACK to sleep. Difethwr had invaded my dream. I should’ve been able to fight the demon, even while sleeping. It was my dreamscape; I should direct my dreams. That was one of the first things I’d learned in my training. The demon fighter is always in control of the dream. Always. But I’d had to wake up to banish Difethwr.

My demon-marked arm itched and burned, telling me my encounter with the Destroyer hadn’t been an ordinary dream. Difethwr wasn’t an image boiling up from my subconscious. Somehow, the Hellion itself had been inside my dreamscape.

And it had my watch. Was that real, too, or just a dream-image?

There was one way to find out. I threw on my jeans, a sweater, and some boots. I felt too antsy to wait for the elevator, so I took the stairs. Galloping down one flight after another, I tried to shake the uneasy feeling that something weird had just happened. I’d dreamed, that’s all. It was so long since I’d done that—usually I chose uninterrupted darkness for my dreamscape—I’d forgotten what it felt like. Nightmares happened. I’d had them as a kid.

Still, as I opened the door to the lobby, I knew I was fooling myself. Something weird was going on. I didn’t know what, and that scared me.

Clyde raised his sunglasses and looked at me curiously. Because their eyes, like their skin, degrade when exposed to sunlight, most zombies wear sunglasses in the daytime, even indoors. “Is something amiss?”

“I came down to get my watch.”

“Pardon me?”

“I left my new watch at Creature Comforts tonight. It’s valuable, and I was, um . . . having trouble sleeping until I get it back.”

Clyde tsked, letting me know what he thought of tenants who went to places like Creature Comforts—or worse, got so drunk they left valuable possessions there. The fact I hadn’t been drunk wouldn’t make a difference to him.

I put out my hand. “So would you mind handing it over, please?”

“Handing what over?”

“My watch.”

“I don’t have your watch. You just said you left it at that . . . establishment.”

“Come on, Clyde. I need it back. Quit kidding around.”

He raised his glasses to peer at me again, his message loud and clear. Clyde was many things—a zombie, a doorman, a former minister—but he was not a kidder.

A wave of uneasiness washed over me. “T.J. didn’t bring it by?”

“I’m sure I don’t know a soul called T.J.”

“He’s a zombie,” I said. Clyde shook his head. “Little guy, about my height. Sandy hair. Loud Hawaiian shirt. Wears a big gold ring with his initials on it.” Even as my description got more detailed, Clyde’s head never stopped shaking.

“What time is it?” I asked.

Clyde lifted his sunglasses again and shot me a look that said if I didn’t leave my watch in disreputable bars, I’d know what time it was, but he consulted his own watch.

“Quarter past seven.” He let his sunglasses drop into place. “In the morning,” he added unnecessarily.

Seven fifteen. Even though it felt like hours, only forty minutes had passed since I spoke to T.J. He was still at Creature Comforts; he’d said it’d take about an hour to finish cleaning up. No wonder he hadn’t stopped by.

I made Clyde promise to call me as soon as T.J. arrived with my watch. I went across the lobby to the elevator and pressed the button. The doors opened, and I stepped inside.

As I did, I had a vision of Difethwr, laughter seething all around as the Hellion dangled my watch. Had it been a dream? Or was the Destroyer taunting me?

I had to know. I caught the closing doors and ran out of the elevator, across the lobby, and out the door. Sleep was out of the question. I needed to find out what was going on.

I RAN. ALTHOUGH THE SUN WAS UP IT WAS BITTER COLD, THE way a clear January day can be in Boston, and I hadn’t gone back for my jacket. The streets were nearly deserted, and in a few minutes I was through the checkpoint and standing in front of Creature Comforts. The icy door handle hurt my fingers. It would be warm inside. And maybe I could talk T.J. into brewing some coffee. Thawing my frozen hands around a steaming mug sounded like the best idea I’d had in a week.

I pulled open the door. “Hey, T.J., how about some coffee?”

No answer. I didn’t see him anywhere. Probably cleaning the restrooms. If I worked here, I’d put off that job until the last possible moment.

Okay, I’d grab my watch and put on a pot for both of us. I stepped inside and headed for the bar.

My foot hit something slippery and skidded out from under me. I went flying, arms windmilling as I tried to stay balanced. Didn’t work. As I fell, the smell hit me. Foul, like rotten meat, overlaid with a sharper, acid stink.

I landed on my side and kept sliding. The floor was covered with the slippery stuff. And so was I—my hand, my arm, all down my right side and leg. I came to a stop and rolled over to sit up. The smell was so bad my stomach heaved, and I swallowed hard a couple of times to get control. I lifted my hand; a gob of blackish slime dripped from my palm. What the hell was it? The stench of it made me retch again. Good thing I hadn’t had breakfast. My first stop, after I’d retrieved my watch, would be the ladies’ room to wash this gunk off me.

Disgusting. No matter how good T.J. was with customers, Axel would fire the kid when he saw this mess.

Gingerly, I put my left hand on the floor next to me so I could use both hands to push myself up. A lump pressed into my palm. I picked it up: a gold ring, shaped into the initials T.J.

A ragged stub of finger still wore it.

I hurled the ring away. It skittered across the floor and came to rest against the back wall. I tried to scramble to my feet but slipped and fell again, landing hard on my ass. My hand came down on a scrap of fabric. It was turquoise, with part of an orange hibiscus petal. The rest of the room came into focus now: other bits of fabric, scraps of flesh, bone shards, clumps of sandy hair. Something had torn T.J. to pieces. Or worse. There wasn’t enough flesh here to make a whole zombie. I looked again at the slimy black gunk dripping in strings from my hand. Dear God. What could turn a zombie into this?

Slowly, with effort, I climbed to my feet. As fast as I could without sprawling again, I made my way across the room. Past a bucket and mop, which stood there as if waiting for T.J. to get to work. Past tables, some of them, I now noticed, toppled over. Past the end of the long bar. At the back, the floor was cleaner. I pounded on the locked door that Norden hadn’t got through, the door to Axel’s lair.

“Axel!” I screamed. “Axel, get up here!” I pressed my ear against the door, but I couldn’t hear a thing. Was it sound-proofed? Damn it all, Axel had to know about this. I kept on pounding and screaming. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

My hand felt like I’d fractured at least a couple of bones and I was starting to go hoarse when I heard a lock click, and then two more. The door swung open toward me, and I had to jump back to avoid being hit. That made me fall again, thanks to the slime on the soles of my boots. Axel’s angry face loomed way, way up there, somewhere near the ceiling. But his expression changed to alarm when he saw me.

“What happened?”

“I don’t—All this—” The words weren’t coming. I gestured around the bar. “T.J.”

Axel’s brow lowered as he surveyed the room. “T.J. made this mess?”

I shook my head and saw a glint of metal on the floor a couple of feet away. I reached over and picked up T.J.’s ring, touching only the metal. A splinter of bone, absurdly white, stuck out of what was left of the finger. Wordlessly, I handed Axel the ring and the lump of flesh it encircled.

He squinted at it, turning it over in his big paw. He looked around the bar again, at the black, stinking goo, the bits of cloth and bone and hair. His hand closed around the ring as he squeezed his eyes shut. He stayed that way for a minute, completely still.

He opened his eyes and walked to the bar, where he set the ring down carefully, gently even. Then Axel did something that, a mere hour ago, I’d have sworn he’d never do. He picked up the phone and called the Goon Squad.

6

BACK BEFORE THE PLAGUE, CREATURE COMFORTS WASN’T A bar. The space had been occupied by one of those thirty-minute circuit-training gyms. Lucky for me. Axel’s storeroom had been a locker room, and it still had a working shower. It was heaven to stand under a stream of hot water and get clean. The Goons, I knew, would be annoyed, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t stand to have that stuff—whatever it was—all over me. Axel had dug out one of the old staff uniforms: a pair of chinos and a black polo shirt with FIT-IN-30 embroidered on the pocket. The clothes were a little big and smelled musty, but they were clean.

By the time I emerged from the storage room, rubbing my hair with a bar towel, the Goons had arrived. Norden and Sykes—damn, I’d hoped their shift had ended—stood talking to Axel as Sykes scribbled in a notebook. All around them, crime scene technicians wearing gloves, surgical masks, and bags over their shoes, swabbed samples of black slime and tweezered up scraps of what used to be T.J., depositing them in plastic bags.

Norden poked Axel with his finger, but the big bartender didn’t seem to notice. He looked over Norden’s head, staring with glassy eyes at the mess. As I came down the hallway, Norden’s head snapped around and he stopped in mid-poke. “I’m not kidding,” he said to Axel, while he kept his beady eyes on me. “This is a murder scene now. You’re going to let us through that door, or I’m going to send for a battering ram and bash it off its hinges.”

Norden stepped in front of me. “You,” he sneered. “I should’ve known. How come whenever something bad happens, you’re right in the middle of it?”

I wasn’t going to bother answering that. “Do you want me to make a statement or not? Because I’d rather be home in bed than hanging around waiting for you to decide if you want to talk to me.” Not that I’d be able to sleep, not after what I’d found here.

“Sykes will take your statement.” Norden shot Axel a significant look. “I’ve gotta make a phone call.”

One booth in the back of the room was relatively slime-free. Sykes and I made our way there and sat down facing each other. Across the room, Norden finished his phone call and went back to poking Axel.

“Why on earth do you put up with that jerk?” I asked.

Sykes shrugged. “We were partners before the plague. After this happened”—he gestured to indicate his zombified self—“my choices were join the Goon Squad or quit the force. Elmer could’ve transferred, but he stuck with me.”

I didn’t know which was more of a shock, the fact that Norden had a first name—and it was Elmer—or that he’d taken a job he obviously hated to stay with his partner. If I had to list Norden’s good qualities, I’d say he was rude, annoying, and an all-around prick. Somehow, “loyal” wouldn’t have come to mind.

“Yeah, he’s loyal,” Sykes said, like he’d read my mind. “And he’s braver than you’d think. But you’re right; the guy’s a jerk. Always has been. Even his own mother couldn’t stand him. He swore the feeling was mutual, but he went to visit her at the nursing home twice a week. I don’t know, maybe they enjoyed getting on each other’s nerves. Then she caught pneumonia and died a couple of days before the plague hit.” Sykes tapped his pen on the table. “I’m no psychiatrist, but I always thought he got mad at us zombies for coming back to life while his ma stayed dead.”

I watched Norden poking Axel, to make sure I’d stay mad at the guy. I did not want to come down with a case of the warm fuzzies for Elmer Norden. The less I knew about what made him tick, the better.

Sykes flipped a page in his notebook. “So tell me what happened.” He fished a pair of half-moon reading glasses from his pocket and perched them on his nose.

“I found . . .” I was going to say the body, but there was no body. “I found this.” I swept my arm to encompass the horror of the room.

“Start from the beginning. What time did you leave here this morning?”

“Right around closing time. Six, maybe a little before.” As Sykes took notes, I described how I’d realized I’d left my watch at Creature Comforts and how T.J. had promised to drop it off at my building.

“If you expected him to leave it with your doorman, why did you come back here?”

I didn’t feel like explaining that Difethwr had invaded my dream and spooked me. I was already spooked enough by whatever had happened here, so I settled for a half-truth. “I couldn’t sleep. It’s a valuable watch, and I was worried. Since I was awake anyway, I figured I’d save T.J. the trouble. I thought once I had my watch back, I’d quit obsessing about it and be able to sleep.”

Sykes nodded as he wrote, then peered over his glasses with crimson eyes. “May I see it?”

“What, my watch?” Until that moment, I hadn’t thought to look for my watch. “I don’t have it. T.J. said he’d put it behind the bar.”

We went to the far side of the bar and looked around. On a shelf beneath the cash register was a cardboard box with LOST & FOUND written in thick black marker on the side. I rummaged through it. There were baseball caps, sunglasses, umbrellas, a black lace bra (I’d have to ask Axel about that one), a set of keys, and two watches—neither one was mine.

“It’s not here.” Queasiness clenched my gut as I flashed back to Difethwr in my dream, taunting me with the watch and then destroying it. It couldn’t have been my actual watch; it must have been a dream-image. Boston was protected by a magic shield, maintained by witches from every coven in the city, whose sole purpose was to keep Hellions out. There’d been a breach in the shield last fall, but since then the witches had strengthened the spell. No way Difethwr could’ve waltzed into town to steal my watch.

So where was it?

Axel stood guard in front of his apartment’s door. I called his name and he turned to me, shaggy eyebrows raised. “I left a watch here last night. If T.J. put it aside for me, where would it be? It’s not in the lost-and-found box.”

After a glance at Norden, who was talking to one of the techs, Axel joined us behind the bar. He looked in a couple of cupboards, opened the cash register drawer, and then stood there scratching his beard. “Dunno,” he finally said.

“T.J. was going to bring it to your building,” Sykes pointed out. “Maybe he stuck it in his pocket.”

Without wanting to, I turned to look at the mess that spattered the room. The goo was everywhere, along with scraps of fabric and lumps of . . . stuff. If T.J. had pocketed my watch, I doubted we’d find so much as a gear.

“Stuck what in whose pocket?” Norden heaved himself onto a bar stool.

“Ms. Vaughn’s watch,” Sykes said. “The victim said—”

“We’ve got a murder investigation and you’re back there trying to solve the Mystery of the Missing Watch? Jesus, Sykes, are you kidding me?”

He turned to Axel. “A SWAT team is on the way. They’re gonna smash that damned door wide open. When they do, I’m gonna take a dozen cops downstairs—whatever’s down there, we’re gonna tear it apart. And I’ll bet you a month’s pay we find something.”

“Oh, come on, Norden,” I said. “You don’t believe Axel murdered T.J.”

“Who said anything about murder? All kinds of illegal crap could be down there. Drugs, weapons, stolen property. Hell, if I find so much as an expired driver’s license, I’m shutting the place down.”

For the first time, Axel looked worried. Whether that was because he had something to hide or he thought Norden would plant something downstairs, I couldn’t tell. Maybe he just didn’t want a team of cops invading his privacy. Axel was big on privacy.

The front door opened. “Must be the SWAT guys.” Norden grinned malevolently. “I’m looking forward to this.”

The smile dropped from his face, and Sykes swore under his breath. I looked over to see what the Goons were scowling at. Two men, humans, stood inside the door, unwinding their scarves. Their I-own-the-place attitude broadcast they were detectives.

That would explain the Goons’ scowls. Boston PD and the Goon Squad shared an unfriendly rivalry, and Creature Comforts, in the middle of the New Combat Zone, was definitely on Goon Squad turf. These norm cops were overstepping a boundary.

I braced for the inevitable conflict that would erupt when the new detectives came over to confront Norden and Sykes. But instead, each went to a different member of the CSI team, drawing them aside and speaking in low voices. Within a minute, the team was packing its equipment.

Sykes and Norden exchanged a look and rushed over to one of the detectives, a bald guy in a camel coat. “What’s going on?” Sykes demanded. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The norm didn’t even glance at the zombie; he answered to Norden instead. “I’m commandeering this forensic team. We need them at a crime scene.”

“This is a crime scene,” Sykes said.

The norm kept his eyes on Norden, his gaze cool. “I don’t see any evidence of a crime.”

“Are you kidding?” Norden said. “A PDH was killed.”

“PDH? Oh, you mean a zombie. Like I said, no evidence of a crime.” He smirked. “You can’t murder something that’s already dead.”

Sykes gaped, like he couldn’t believe the norm had actually said that. Norden puffed himself up and took a step toward the detective, fists clenched. “You can’t blow this off. PDHs have rights in this state.”

“Our authorization comes from Hampson.” Fred Hampson, Boston’s police commissioner, was not a friend to paranormals. Given the chance, he’d be leading the torch-and-pitchfork crowd himself. “Anyway, show me a zombie who’s had his rights violated. I don’t see anything here but a big, stinking mess.” He gave his partner a look. “See? This is why I never go out in the Zone. Filthy goddamn monsters.”

“Who are you calling a monster, blood bag?” Sykes launched himself at the cop, who crashed to the floor. Sykes kneeled on the norm’s chest, his arms pumping like pistons. He landed a couple of good punches—zombie-strength punches—before Axel ran over and, with help from Norden, dragged him off the guy.

The norm detective sat up, pressing both hands to his face. Blood gushed from his nose, pouring through his fingers and staining his coat.

Uh-oh. Not good. If you’re a human and there’s a zombie around, bleeding is definitely a bad idea.

Everyone looked at Sykes.

The big zombie’s nostrils twitched as he caught the scent. He shook off his partner like he was flicking dandruff from his shoulder. Even Axel couldn’t hold him. Sykes took two staggering steps toward the detective, dragging Axel behind. The detective screamed, high-pitched like a terrified animal. He tried to climb to his feet, but he couldn’t get his legs under him. The best he could do was push himself halfway under a table. He lay on his side, cupping his hands around his nose like he could hide the blood with his fingers.

I ran to help Axel, grabbing Sykes’s arm and doing my best to dig my heels into the slippery floor. Maybe the two of us could hold Sykes back. The last thing this city needed was a Goon Squad zombie chomping one of Boston’s finest.

But I’d forgotten about the second detective. He stepped in front of his partner, gun drawn. “I’ve got exploding bullets,” he warned.

Sykes lurched forward.

“For God’s sake, shoot him!” shouted the detective on the ground.

“You do and you’re dead.” To my left, Norden had his gun out, too, pointed at the armed detective.

Sykes seemed oblivious. He pulled his arm from my grasp and yanked free of Axel. He took two heavy steps toward the norm, who covered his head with his arms.

The norm with the gun looked back and forth between Sykes and Norden, his eyes wild. He kept the gun on Sykes.

Then Sykes stopped.

He stood in the center of the room, his shoulders shaking, his face contorted. He made a strangled, gasping noise. And he turned around. Sykes actually turned and walked away from a cowering, bleeding human.

I’d never seen anything like it. When zombies smell human blood, they have to feed. It’s their nature.

Sykes staggered behind the bar and tore open a bag of peanuts. He tilted his head back and emptied the packet down his throat. Then he did it again. And again. He stopped and looked at his hand, where blood streaked the knuckles. He sniffed. A black tip of tongue appeared between his lips. But he didn’t taste the blood. Instead, he picked up a bar towel and wiped it from his hand. Then he went back to demolishing Axel’s peanut supply.

“You better get the hell out of here,” Norden told the detectives, but there was no need for him to say it. The bashed-up one was already on his feet and halfway to the door.

“Commissioner Hampson’s going to hear about this,” he shouted. He didn’t wait for a reply before he ran out into the daylight.

The CSI team wasn’t far behind. They finished packing their gear, every single one of them giving exaggerated concentration to the task to avoid catching either Goon’s eye. Within five minutes, the bar was empty except for Axel, the two Goons, and me.

Sykes stood ankle-deep in crumpled peanut bags. He pulled out a wallet. “How much do I owe you?” he asked Axel.

Axel shook his head, slowly. “On the house.”

Norden whirled on me. “What the hell are you hanging around for? You can go back to bed now that those assholes have pulled the goddamn rug out from under our investigation.”

“What investigation?” Sykes said bitterly. “There can’t be an investigation if there’s no crime.”

“Maybe I can help,” I said. They looked at me like I’d just suggested we all join hands and play Ring Around the Rosie. “No, really. I know Alexander Kane, and he—”

“Kane is in D.C., all tied up in that Supreme Court case,” said Sykes.

“Yes, I know, but . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence. But what? What was I thinking? Kane was putting in a hundred hours a week on his case. He hoped to make history. What was one local, shut-down investigation next to that? Kane would care—I didn’t doubt that for a second. But he had no time to do anything about it.

“That’s why Hampson’s pushing it,” said Sykes. “No paranormal rights lawyer in town to give him a hard time. This isn’t the first time the commissioner has yanked resources from a JHP case.”

JHP? Oh, right. Joint Human-Paranormal Task Force. Not quite as catchy as “Goon Squad,” but a little more dignified.

Norden was right, much as I hated to admit it; there was no point in my hanging around. I said good-bye to Axel, nodded to the Goons, and pushed through the door into the cold, clear day.

As I headed home, I thought about T.J.—smiling, friendly, eager to please. Something had obliterated that poor kid. And nobody cared. Nobody who counted, anyway.

Kane might be too busy to deal with local problems right now. But Kane wasn’t the only one who could help. I had a friend in the Boston PD. A good-looking friend with curly blond hair and blue eyes. Maybe even a bit more than a friend. As soon as I got home, I was going to call Detective Daniel Costello.

7

I SAT IN A COFFEE SHOP NEAR GOVERNMENT CENTER, WAITING for Daniel. I couldn’t describe what happened over the phone, so I’d asked him to meet me, even for a few minutes. Sometimes, you need someone there. Kind eyes, a sympathetic tilt of the head—sometimes those things can help push back the horror.

I wrapped both hands around a mug of strong coffee. I’d changed out of my borrowed clothes into something more normal for me: black jeans and a sweater. Yellow. I needed something cheerful today. I was having trouble getting warm past the deep, lingering bone-chill that had taken hold when I found T.J.’s ring and realized what it meant.

For the moment, I pushed that out of my mind. I’d have to go through it all over again when Daniel got here, but not now. Not yet.

I sat in a booth at the rear of the shop. I liked to sit with my back to the wall whenever possible, giving myself the widest possible view of a room and its entrances. It’s an action-movie cliché, yeah, but when your job puts you in situations where all kinds of nasty jumps out at you, it makes sense. Today, it seemed particularly important.

Had T.J. seen his killer approach? What the hell could have done that to him?

I wasn’t thinking about that now, I reminded myself.

The coffee shop was the kind I like best. Not flashy and trendy, but old-school Boston, the kind of place where you ordered coffee, not a half-caff soy-milk latte or double espresso mocha cappuccino whatever. The black-and-yellow floor tiles had probably been black-and-white once, but not in my lifetime. The counter was edged in chrome and fronted by those round stools that make kids spin around and around until they get dizzy. The bustling waitresses called everyone “hon.”

“Need a refill, hon?” one asked me now. I nodded. I’d managed only half an hour’s sleep, and that had been disrupted by a nightmare. It was going to take lots of refills to keep me vertical until I could crawl back into bed. I ordered a cranberry-nut muffin to put something solid in my stomach and checked the clock on the wall. Ten twenty-five. Daniel had said he’d try to get here between ten and ten thirty.

He was true to his word. The door opened to reveal his silhouette against the dazzling light outside. He came into focus when he entered: the blond curls, a little longer than you’d expect to see on a cop, the kid-in-a-candy-store smile, the eyes that were almost the same blue as the January sky outside. Seeing him reminded me there was a normal world out there. I hated pulling him into the horrors of mine, but I didn’t know who else could help.

“Hi.” Daniel slid into the booth across from me and pulled off his gloves. For a homicide detective, he didn’t have any qualms about sitting with his back to the door. Maybe we hadn’t seen the same action movies. He put a hand over mine. Although he’d just come in from the cold, his hand was warm. “This is a nice surprise,” he said. “I never get to see you during the day.”

A nice surprise. He’d change his mind about that once he heard what I had to say. Gently, I pulled back my hand. “I wish this was just a coffee date, but I need your professional help.”

The waitress brought over my muffin, called Daniel “hon,” and took his order for coffee. When she came back with the pot, she refilled my mug for good measure.

“So what’s up?” He sat back, waiting, letting me figure out how to start.

I opted for the direct approach. “A zombie was killed in the Zone this morning. Torn to pieces and . . . liquefied, somehow.”

Daniel blinked. “Jesus. Where?”

“Creature Comforts. I found him.” What was left of him.

“Vicky, I’m sorry. That must have been awful.” He took my hand again and squeezed it once. “What happened?”

I repeated the story, the same way I’d told it to Sykes. Daniel listened attentively. When I’d finished, he ran a hand through his curls.

“And you have no idea what killed him?”

“None at all. I’ve never seen anything like it, Daniel. Never.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. There’s not much I can do. It’s JHP’s jurisdiction.”

“That’s the problem. The Goon Squad was there, but two human detectives showed up and stopped the investigation.”

Daniel’s blue-sky eyes darkened a shade. “Hampson.”

I nodded. “That’s what the detective said—their authority came straight from the commissioner.”

He sighed. “There’s still not much I can do. Hampson won’t listen to me. I’m lucky to have my job after what happened in New Hampshire.” Back in the fall, a crazy biogeneticist intent on studying shapeshifters kidnapped my ten-year-old niece Maria—my sister Gwen’s kid—and held her at a research facility in New Hampshire, a state where PAs have no rights. Daniel helped me get her back, pissing off several law enforcement agencies in the process.

“There’s got to be someone in your department who can do something,” I said. “It was a homicide, after all.” I didn’t think zombicide was an official word. “Kane can’t help right now, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”

Something flickered across Daniel’s face when I mentioned Kane. “Let me talk to the CSI guys,” he said. “The way you describe the scene, it sounds like something no one’s ever come across before. Even with the investigation called off, I’ll bet somebody kept some evidence, out of curiosity if nothing else. I’ll ask around, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Thanks, Daniel. It seems wrong to shove T.J. aside as though . . . as though he never existed.”

He nodded. “I understand. I’ll see what I can find out.” He checked his watch, then drained his coffee cup and pulled on his jacket. “I’d better get back to work. How about dinner tonight?”

“Don’t you mean breakfast? I’m going straight to bed after I leave here.”

He flashed a “wish I could join you” smile, but he didn’t say the words. Not that either one of us had gotten anywhere near the other’s bed. I blushed anyway.

“Okay, breakfast. We’ll find a place that’ll whip you up an omelet. Say around seven?”

“It sounds like fun, but I can’t. I’m giving Tina a lesson tonight.”

“What time will you be done?”

“Nine-ish.” A little late for breakfast, I thought. Dinner, too. “Anyway, I’m working. I’ve got a Drude extermination in the Fenway, and I need to be at the client’s condo at ten to set up.”

He stared into the distance for a few seconds, then shook his head. “I’ve got to be up at six thirty tomorrow. So I guess a nightcap won’t work, either.”

This was why I had so few dates—with anyone, of any species. “There’s no way to tell how long the extermination will take. Depends on how many Drudes—could be midnight, could be three A.M.”

“Another time, then.” A wistful half-smile curled his lips.

“Okay.”

Daniel stood. He stepped toward me, bent slightly, and brushed his lips against my cheek. One arm found its way around my shoulders in an almost-hug. I closed my eyes and soaked in his warmth.

“Promise?” His voice, soft in my ear, was as warm as his flesh.

All my words seemed to have fled, so I nodded.

“Good.” When I opened my eyes again, he’d straightened and was smiling at me. Then his eyes changed, and he put on his cop face. I watched him walk out of the coffee shop and into the bright, cold day. But the warmth of him lingered on my skin.

I SNUGGLED UNDER MY COMFORTER, TRYING TO CONVINCE myself I was sleepy. But it was no good. I’d been tossing and turning for half an hour, and I couldn’t get warm. Any warmth I’d borrowed from Daniel was long gone. My toes were icy, even with socks on, and it’s impossible to fall asleep with cold feet. It didn’t help that I’d stayed to finish my coffee after Daniel left, and then let the waitress refill my mug one last time. How could I say no when she called me “hon”?

Too much coffee and chilly toes were just excuses, and I knew it. The truth? I was afraid to fall asleep. Now I understood how my nightmare-plagued clients felt. But it wasn’t a couple of pesky Drudes that had invaded my dream; this was a Hellion. The one I thought I’d sent back to Hell for good.

I didn’t understand how Difethwr had trespassed in my dreamscape. The Hellion was bound to me; I bore its mark on my arm. I’d strengthened that bond myself a few months ago, in order to banish the demon from Boston. It was a risky thing to do—as far as I knew, none of the Cerddorion had ever attempted such a thing. But my gambit had worked. Difethwr had stayed away. For weeks, I’d been free of the near-uncontrollable rages that my demon mark sometimes caused. The mark hadn’t even twinged. Difethwr was trapped in Hell.

Or had been, until it showed up in my dream.

Somehow, the Hellion had used me as a portal to bypass Boston’s protective shield. That was the point of destroying my watch. Difethwr wanted to demonstrate that what I saw in my dreamscape was the real thing, not some dream-image. Difethwr was real, the watch was real. The crow that delivered it was probably real, too.

In Welsh mythology, crows are a bad omen, symbolizing impending death. That omen had sure as hell come to pass.

Damn it, I was supposed to protect this city from creatures like Hellions. Not throw open my dreamscape like a door and invite them in.

But some things didn’t fit. The attack on T.J. didn’t match the Destroyer’s style. To kill, Difethwr shot flames from its eyes, mouth, and hands, burning up its victim’s soul. T.J.’s body should have been intact, but with hellfire raging inside. That was how Difethwr killed my father. But I’d never seen the Destroyer—or anything—attack in a way that was even remotely like what happened to T.J.

I turned onto my back and stared into the darkness.

I needed to talk to Aunt Mab. She’d trained me, and no one knew more about demons. I should have fessed up months ago, after I strengthened my bond to the Hellion. And I’d meant to, I really had, but when days and then weeks went by without a peep from Difethwr, I thought maybe I’d vanquished it.

That was too proud, and more than a little stupid. Because Difethwr was sure as hell peeping now.

You’d think that, at twenty-eight, I’d have lost my terror of a scolding from my aunt. But of course you’d only think such a thing if you didn’t know Mab. She was strict and stern. She made no allowances for even the teensiest mistake. But there was no better demon fighter. And if there was one person who could help me figure out what was going on, it was Mab.

I needed to talk to her. Now.

The Cerddorion have a psychic connection that functions best through the pathways of the mind that open in sleep. When Gwen and I were teenagers, we called this connection the dream phone, and we used it to chat about boys, clothes, and music long after Mom had turned out the lights. The dream phone was the quickest and most reliable way to get in touch with Aunt Mab, who’d never bothered to install a real telephone at Maenllyd, her remote manor house in north Wales.

It didn’t matter that it was early evening in Wales. Mab could communicate by dream phone even while awake. I wasn’t that advanced in my skills; I had to be asleep, or close to it, to place or receive a call. So lying board-straight in my bed, wide-awake and unable to relax, wasn’t the best idea right now.

But I couldn’t help it. Worrying about a Hellion sneaking into Boston through my dreams wasn’t much of a sleeping pill. And taking a real sleeping pill would leave me too zonked to make the call.

I willed myself to sleep—a guaranteed way to keep insomnia going. I tried counting sheep. Has that ever actually worked for anyone? I got to three hundred and forty-two before I gave up.

I was still cold. Maybe a warm bath would soothe me to slumber. Reluctantly, I threw back the covers. The bedroom was freezing. Juliet liked the apartment cold when she slept in her coffin, but this was ridiculous. When I clicked on the bedside lamp, I could see my breath form little puffs of steam. It felt like Juliet had opened all the windows to the frigid night air. I pulled on my bathrobe and stuck my feet into slippers, then opened the bedroom door and padded out into the hallway. It was even colder out here. I’d turn up the temperature a few degrees before drawing my bath. The way it was now, stepping into my nice, warm bath would feel like plunging into a tub of ice cubes. I headed for the living room to adjust the thermostat.

In the hallway, I paused as a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature prickled the back of my neck. A low murmur of voices flowed from the living room. Was Juliet watching TV? It didn’t sound like it. She always turned the sound way up, forgetting she had a roommate who might happen to be sleeping. Besides, one of the voices sounded like Juliet’s. Sort of. She spoke in a hushed monotone, like she was chanting. Other voices—two? more?—chanted something in response. I couldn’t make out the words, but they didn’t sound like English. I listened. Some kind of ritual? The voices would say something, and Juliet repeated it.

Half-blind in the dim light that spilled from my bedroom, I crept forward and tried to peer into the darkness. Juliet sat in a chair, facing me. Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved. Beside her stood a robed figure. It was tall, over six feet, and a hood shaded its face. Icy waves of bitter cold rolled off the creature. It reached out a skeletal hand and touched Juliet’s chest, over her heart.

At its touch, her eyes flew open. Immediately, they focused on me. “Vicky!” she gasped in that strange voice. The creature turned. Its hood fell back, revealing a skull-like face with massive yellow fangs. The thing snarled and launched itself through the air. It was like being tackled by an iceberg. A brickbat of ice, an explosion of stars, and then total blackness.

8

SOMETHING WAS BEEPING. SHORT, SHARP BURSTS OF HIGH-PITCHED sound pushed their way into my throbbing brain, piercing my consciousness like arrows. Eyes closed, I reached out and hit at various objects on my nightstand until I managed to turn off the alarm.

I opened one eye. It made no difference whatsoever, thanks to the blackout shades. But when I turned on my side, the glowing red numbers on my bedside clock read 6:00 P.M., the time I’d set the alarm for. I’d been out about four hours. The last thing I remembered, I’d been attacked in the hallway, but here I was, tucked into my bed and feeling like someone had split my skull open with an ax. Gingerly, I touched the pain’s epicenter on the left side of my forehead. There was no goose egg, not even a bump. In fact, the pain was already fading. By the time I sat up, it was nearly gone.

The apartment was warmer. As I got out of bed, it felt downright toasty. I opened my bedroom door and listened. No chanting, but the clink of utensils drifted from the kitchen. I picked up the bronze-bladed dagger I kept on my nightstand and held it ready as I edged down the hallway, sliding my back along the wall. I stopped short of the living room and peered around the corner. The room was empty. On the coffee table, Kane’s roses had all wilted, slumped over as if in defeat. Still clutching the dagger, I crept through the living room to the kitchen doorway.

Juliet sat alone at the black-and-chrome table, sipping coffee.

Feeling paranoid, I tucked the dagger into my waistband at the small of my back and entered the room.

“Evening.” I took a mug from the cupboard. Inhaling the fragrant steam as I filled it with coffee, I felt almost normal.

Juliet looked up from the paper she was reading—News of the Dead, a real tabloid rag but the only newspaper specifically for the paranormal community—and smiled a closed-lipped vampire smile. She went back to the paper.

“So, um, what was going on here today?” I asked.

“Oh, did I wake you when I came in? I tried to be quiet.”

I stared at her.

Juliet, normally imperturbable, fidgeted, cleared her throat, and took a sip of coffee. She picked up her paper and put it down again. “All right. So I usually don’t come in after dawn. But thanks to those Goons, I got thrown off my stride last night. It took me ages to find a meal. We went back to his place, and by the time I left the sun was already rising.”

“Juliet, this isn’t about whatever time you got home. What were you doing in the living room? What were those creatures?”

She took another sip of coffee, her eyes boring into mine over the rim of her cup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I nearly choked on my coffee. Vampires aren’t exactly famous for their honesty, but I couldn’t believe she was lying to me. “Are you kidding? You were chanting with a bunch of skeletons with industrial-sized choppers. I got attacked in my own hallway, for God’s sake.”

Juliet gave me a long, level look. “You must have been dreaming.”

I opened my mouth to deny it, to remind Juliet I never dreamed unless I wanted to. But then I remembered the Destroyer. Two dreams in a single day? Yesterday, I’d have said it was impossible. Today, I wasn’t so sure. I’d woken up in my own bed, with a fast-fading headache and no sign of injury. All Cerddorion are fast healers, so it was hard to know whether I’d really been knocked on the head.

But I’d been unconscious, not asleep. Hadn’t I?

Juliet flipped a page in the News of the Dead. She wasn’t giving anything away.

My need to talk to Aunt Mab was growing more urgent by the minute. Damn it, why didn’t she have a real phone? It would take too long to call the village pub and ask them to send her a message. And I couldn’t use the dream phone now. I had to meet Tina in less than an hour.

Juliet studied her paper intently. Maybe she wasn’t lying. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing.

If Mab couldn’t tell me how to regain control of my dreams, I didn’t know what I’d do.

AS I ENTERED THE LOBBY OF TINA’S GROUP HOME, MUSIC blasted from the lounge. The zombie house mother, who sat reading a romance novel behind the reception desk, seemed oblivious. She regarded me over her reading glasses, smoothed a strand of gray hair that had escaped her bun, and smiled absently. “Tina’s in the lounge, dear.” She licked her thumb and turned the page, then reached for an apple from the bowl by her right elbow. The bowl by her left elbow held half a dozen cores.

The music got louder as I went down the short hallway. By the time I turned left into the lounge, it was rattling my teeth.

Tina stood in the middle of the room, holding a hairbrush like a microphone and screaming into it as she wiggled her hips. Even by Tina’s standards, today’s fashion choices were over the top. Along with her tight, tiny black miniskirt and gold halter top, she wore hoop earrings that would come in handy if someone wanted to play a pickup game of basketball. Her hair was teased halfway to the ceiling.

From the speakers, a voice snarled, “Grave robber . . .” and Tina wailed, “Oooooooo.” The singer shrieked, “Stay outta my grave!” and Tina echoed the words with a shriek of her own: “Outta my graaaave!” I don’t know much about music, but to my abused ears it sounded like she’d invented her own key.

I crossed the room and twisted the stereo’s volume dial to zero. Tina’s off-pitch howling filled the room, then stopped abruptly. She spun and scowled at me.

“What’d you do that for? I was practicing.”

“We’ve got a lesson, remember?” I shrugged out of my jacket and sat in my usual chair. We were finishing Russom’s chapter on water demons tonight, and I had a good story about merpeople in Boston Harbor I’d tell her if the lesson went well. I draped my jacket over the chair’s arm and pulled out a notebook, then turned its pages until I found the one I wanted. “Okay, so what can you tell me about Shabiri?”

Tina tossed the hairbrush on the coffee table, but she didn’t sit down or look at me. “About what?”

“Shabiri.”

“Um. Some kind of water demon?”

“Yeah. Like all the demons in chapter seventeen. What else?”

She chewed a hangnail and didn’t answer.

“I’ll give you a hint: The name means ‘dazzling glare.’ Now, what’s their habitat, and what effect do they have on humans?” She remained more interested in her nails than our conversation, so I answered the questions myself. “They sit on open water, and they strike humans with blindness. Does that ring a bell yet?”

She lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “Sure, whatever.”

Okay. I knew she was excited about the Monster Paul audition. Usually, she stayed on top of the reading. Maybe I could cut her a break tonight. In all my years of training, Aunt Mab had never once done that for me, but there were times I would’ve appreciated it. “If you didn’t get through all the reading, let’s just go over what you did study. Where do you want to start?”

Tina sat on the sofa and leaned toward me. “Vicky, I’ve been thinking.”

Tina? Thinking? Uh-oh. I raised an eyebrow and waited.

“This chance to sing with Monster Paul could be my big break. I mean, fighting demons is cool and all, but you know what the best part was? Being on TV after the Halloween parade. Having people come up to me like I was a celebrity. Some even asked for my autograph.”

“Tina, there’s more—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve only said it like a hundred times. ‘There’s more to demon fighting than glory. It takes study and hard work and blah blah blah.’ And I get it, honest. But see, if Monster Paul picks me, I can have what I want now. I mean, I know I’ll have to rehearse and all, but that’ll be easy compared to learning about demons. It won’t take seven years. We’ll be on the road in a month.” Her red eyes widened. “On the road. Doesn’t that sound, like, amazing? I’ve never been out of Massachusetts. The farthest my family ever traveled was, like, Cape Cod for vacation.” She spun a finger in the air to show how little she thought of that. “Monster Paul travels all over the country to give concerts. He even gets to perform in no-rights states. And there’s this rumor he’ll do a world tour next year.”

“So you’re telling me you don’t want to be my apprentice anymore.” The pang I felt surprised me. Three months ago, I would’ve jumped for joy.

“I didn’t say that. What I was thinking was that fighting demons could be, like, my safety career.”

“Your safety career.”

“You know, like a Plan B. Something to fall back on if I get tired of traveling the world and being rich and famous and stuff.”

“It doesn’t work that way. Either you’re committed or—” I didn’t get to finish the sentence, because Jenna ran into the room. Her outfit matched Tina’s, but because Jenna was on the pudgy side, rolls of green flesh bulged out in places where they shouldn’t.

“Tina, we’ve gotta go!” she said. “Brendan just texted me and said the line is already three blocks long. He’s saving us a place, but—Oh, hi, Vicky. Are you trying out, too?”

I shook my head. “I can’t carry a tune.”

Jenna snorted. “Like that matters.” She snapped her gum, then tugged on Tina’s arm. “Come on.”

Tina got up and followed her friend but turned around in the doorway. “Are you mad?”

I shook my head. “No, Tina. It’s up to you to figure out what you want to do with your life. Go to your audition. But if you decide you want to learn demon fighting, we’re going to have a talk about commitment.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Thanks, Vicky!” She blew me a kiss and was out the door.

AFTER TINA SKIPPED OUT ON ME, I THOUGHT ABOUT CALLING Daniel to see if he still wanted to meet for dinner. But it was already almost eight. By the time we decided where to go and actually got there, it’d be past his bedtime. Or his dinnertime, anyway. And with everything that had happened in the past twelve hours—Difethwr’s return, T.J.’s death, weird creatures showing up in my apartment (or maybe in my dreams)—I wasn’t in much of a mood for socializing. If Daniel had any information from the lab guys, he’d call.

I liked Daniel. Maybe a lot. He was brave and smart and loyal. I liked the way a cloud of butterflies started fluttering in my stomach and other interesting places whenever I saw him. But that was the problem. Until I sorted out my feelings about Kane, it wasn’t fair to start something with Daniel. Plus, if I called him now, after saying I was busy tonight, I’d sound desperate. There was a whole list of good reasons not to pick up a phone.

A little voice in the back of my head called me a coward, and I told that little voice to shut the hell up.

Really, the only person I wanted to see right now was Axel. He might not be the most emotional guy around, but T.J.’s death had shaken him. I wanted to check that he was okay. So when I left Tina’s place, I returned to my apartment to pick up the equipment for tonight’s job, got the Jag out of the garage, and drove to Creature Comforts.

After I’d cleared the checkpoint, I could see something going on up the street. I pulled over to the curb and got out. Parked in front of Creature Comforts was a white van, CHANNEL 10 ON-THE-SCENE NEWS emblazoned in huge red letters on its side. Floodlights and a camera pointed at a dark-haired woman wearing a red parka, white earmuffs, and a white scarf: Lynne Hong, a sharp reporter with a reputation for her in-your-face style. She clutched a microphone in her mittened hands and nodded to a young guy holding a clipboard. Beside her stood Sykes.

The Goon Squad cop towered over the petite Hong. He wore a brown suit with a crooked red tie and squinted against the bright lights, looking like he wanted his sunglasses. At least the artificial light wouldn’t damage his eyes.

The assistant with the clipboard went back to the van and stood beside the cameraman. Hong smoothed her hair and watched the assistant, waiting. “In ten,” he called and began counting down. I moved closer to hear what they were saying.

After “one,” Hong furrowed her brow into a serious-reporter look and addressed the camera. “Tonight, your Channel 10 On-the-Scene News Team has exclusive coverage of a shocking tragedy that occurred in the New Combat Zone earlier today. With me is Brian Sykes, a previously deceased police officer with Boston’s Joint Human-Paranormal Task Force. Officer Sykes, tell us what happened.”

Sykes nodded and opened his mouth. “An employee—” His voice cracked, and he licked his lips nervously. He cleared his throat and tried again. “An employee of this establishment, Timothy John Stillwell, known as T.J., was found . . . was found dead at approximately seven thirty this morning.”

“Yet there’s been no official announcement of a death. Why is that?”

“It’s because T.J. was a PDH—um, a previously deceased human. Despite Massachusetts law, the police commissioner refuses to recognize the legal rights and protections afforded to the previously deceased.”

“Quite an inflammatory statement, Officer Sykes. Do you have evidence to support it?”

Sykes pulled at his necktie, leaving it even more crooked. “Two detectives—human detectives, I mean—stopped the JHP’s investigation and commandeered the forensics team.” He looked at Hong as though that explained it.

“Can you prove that Commissioner Hampson authorized the actions of these men?”

“They said . . .” Sykes’s words trailed off. Hong let the silence hang for a few seconds and then changed the subject.

“What caused Stillwell’s death?”

Sykes blinked and looked like he wished she hadn’t asked that question. “At this time, unfortunately, we . . . uh . . . we don’t know.”

“But you believe it was murder?”

“I do.”

“And why is that?”

“Because . . .” Sykes ran out of steam. He shut his mouth, opened it, shut it again.

The reporter pressed on. “Do you have any suspects?”

“I . . . We . . .” Sykes tugged at his collar again. Then his expression darkened. “No. There are no suspects because Commissioner Hampson shut down our investigation.”

Hong faced the camera. “Tonight, many questions remain. Was a zombie in fact murdered here? If so, how? And why are Boston police refusing to investigate? Reporting to you from the New Combat Zone, I’m Lynne Hong.”

Sykes turned toward Hong like he wanted to say something, but she was already moving toward the van. The floodlights went out. Sykes stood there, blinking rapidly.

“Okay, guys,” Hong said, “the real story’s with Hampson. I’ll try to get him on the phone.” She whipped out her cell phone, pulled off a mitten, and hit some buttons. She slid the phone under her earmuff and spoke for a few seconds. Then she snapped the phone shut and shook her head. “He’s not at headquarters. I know where he lives; it’s on Marlborough Street. Let’s get over to the Back Bay and see if we can catch him on camera.”

They clambered into the van, which took off with a screech toward the checkpoint into human-controlled Boston.

Sykes, standing in front of Creature Comforts like a giant abandoned child, stared after the vehicle. I walked over to him. “That was gutsy.”

I was thinking about Daniel’s comment that he was lucky to keep his job after helping me rescue Maria. And that incident had been hushed up. Not only was Sykes going public with T.J.’s killing, he’d effectively sent a team of reporters to camp out on Commissioner Hampson’s doorstep until they got some answers. Definitely gutsy.

“I sounded like an idiot.”

“No, you—”

“I did, damn it. I rehearsed all evening, but when those lights went on I managed to act like some kind of inarticulate, shambling brain-muncher straight out of a horror film.”

“Don’t worry about it, Sykes. Lynne Hong can be tough. How come you contacted her?”

“I wanted someone mainstream. The norms don’t watch PNN. They don’t read News of the Dead. Hong wanted an exclusive, which made me think she’d take the story seriously.” He looked at me doubtfully.

“Oh, I think she’s taking it seriously. Did you hear where they’re going? To ambush Hampson at home.”

“Good.” His face didn’t look glad. “How’s she going to play it, I wonder: focus on a dead nobody zombie or on a commissioner who looks like he’s hiding something?”

I didn’t say anything. We both knew the answer.

Sykes pounded a fist into his hand. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. I became a cop to protect people. That kid’s dead. Who’s going to speak for him now?” He shook his head. “I tried. I did a lousy job, but at least I tried.”

“You did a good thing, Sykes.”

“Maybe,” he said, his eyes distant. Then he shook himself. “I’d better go. I’ve got stuff to do before my shift.” He headed toward the Deadtown checkpoint, then stopped and turned around. “If I still have a job after the eleven o’clock news.”

I watched him walk down the empty street. Somewhere, a crow cawed. It was a bleak sound, like the cry of the last living creature in a blasted landscape.

I shook off the lonely feeling and turned toward Creature Comforts. Although Deadtown came to life when the sun went down, it’d be a few hours before things started hopping in the Zone. Still, Axel would be getting ready to open. With T.J. gone, he could probably use some help—and some company, whether he’d admit it or not.

But tacked to the door was a sign I hadn’t seen with Sykes standing there. Hand-lettered in black marker on a piece of brown cardboard, it read CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

I knocked on the door. I went into the alley behind the bar and rang the back doorbell. No response. I peered through the barred windows, but inside, all was dark and silent.

Nothing to do but drive over to the Fenway. I wasn’t hungry, but I’d stop somewhere and get a bite to eat to kill time before I had to be at the job site. As I got into the Jag, I wished I’d met Daniel after all, if for no other reason than the warm touch of his hand.

Instead, I got a chill as the crow cawed again. It sounded like desolation, like heartache, like a hunger for things forever gone. I shivered. Then I started my car and drove into the darkness.

9

MY CLIENT, TYLER BOSKIRK, LIVED ALONE IN A ONE-BEDROOM condo on Peterborough Street. Tyler was an MBA with a stalled career who suffered from anxiety dreams. The poor guy was stuck in a vicious circle. Every night, he’d lie in bed, worrying himself to a frazzle about his job. When he fell asleep, that anxiety spilled over into his dreams. In the morning, he was exhausted and even more anxious—which didn’t do a whole lot for his job performance.

“The dream always begins the same way.” Tyler sat propped against pillows in his queen-sized bed, wearing blue-and-white-striped pajamas. He was clean-cut, with short brown hair. I’d guess he was in his mid-thirties, but with his starting-to-droop jowls and receding hairline, his fifty-year-old face was already beginning to show. As he spoke, he twisted his monogrammed sheet in his hands. “I dream I have to give a presentation. But from the moment I walk into the conference room, everything goes wrong.”

“What typically happens?” I shifted in the hard wooden chair I’d carried in from the dining room.

“Um. I don’t know. Different things.” His face flushed scarlet. He looked at the sheet he was strangling in his fist, then smoothed it over his lap. “I’m not prepared. The equipment I need isn’t there. Or if it is, it won’t work. Or the room is empty and I realize I got the time wrong. Or, you know, other things . . .” He shuddered as his voice trailed off. “Whatever happens, though, I wake up in a cold sweat. My heart’s pounding, and I can’t get back to sleep.”

“Well, tonight you’re going to sleep like a baby safe in Mama’s arms.” I smiled reassuringly as I handed him the magically charged sleeping pill I dispense to keep clients slumbering through the extermination.

He gave me a funny look as he took the pill and picked up a water glass from his nightstand. He washed down the pill and set the glass back in place. “She dropped me,” he said.

I raised my eyebrows.

“My mother. When I was a baby. She dropped me on my head.” He lay back on the pillows. “I’m still working through it with my therapist.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know.” Guess I’d have to cut that line from my patter.

He yawned, his eyelids already drooping. “ ’S okay.”

The pill was hitting him fast—the magic sometimes did that—so I hurried to finish explaining my procedure. I took the dream-portal generator from my duffel bag and plugged it in. When I touched the On button, it hummed to life, sending a rainbow-hued beam of sparkling light into the room.

“This portal allows me to enter your dream. Like a door, it works both ways—it gets me into your dream and back out again. But it’s password-protected, so you don’t have to worry about any demons escaping from your dreamscape into your waking world.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Tyler punched his pillow and turned onto his side.

“This device,” I said, holding it out, “is an InDetect. It helps me locate demons. I’ve set it to Inimicus somniorum—that’s the fancy name for dream-demons, or Drudes. I won’t leave your dreamscape until I’ve exterminated all Drudes hiding in there.” I looped the InDetect’s cord around my neck.

“ ’ Kay.”

“Stay with me one more minute, Tyler. This is what I use to kill Drudes.” I pulled my pistol from the bag and checked the clip. “It’s loaded with bronze bullets. Bronze kills demons. I’m showing it to you now because I don’t want you to be alarmed if you see me firing a gun in your dream. It can’t hurt you in there. Understand?”

Tyler answered with a gentle snore. I’d take that as a yes.

I stuck an extra clip in my pocket and stood up. Whispering the password and holding my gun ready, I stepped into the dream portal’s sparkling beam. Immediately, I got that fizzy feeling in my veins, like all my blood had turned to club soda. Tyler’s bedroom faded and ran like a watercolor in the rain. The lights of the portal grew brighter, their colors more intense. Wind roared in my ears. I squinted against the flashing, swirling colors. Then the wind stopped abruptly, and I found myself in a conference room.

A dozen executive chairs surrounded a long, polished table. Oil portraits of wealthy stuffed-suit types hung along one wall. The opposite wall was floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was empty except for me. I switched on the InDetect and held it out, turning in a slow circle to check for hidden Drudes. Not a click. The room was clean.

A door opened to my right, and a group of businessmen filed in. They could have stepped out of the portraits. Each one was a white guy over sixty, wearing rimless eyeglasses, a tailored suit, and a no-nonsense expression. I pointed the InDetect their way. Nothing. These weren’t Drudes; they were legitimate dream figures, drawn from Tyler’s subconscious. As they passed, each glared at me with the same scowl and made the same harrumphing sound. These guys had to be the spitting image of Tyler’s boss. Or maybe his father. I’d bet tonight’s fee on it.

They sat at the table. As if on cue, they all turned to me, but only one spoke.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Of course I am. I’m here for the board meeting.”

Identical startled blinks ran around the table, but no one argued. Dream figures are a cinch to persuade. Usually, “of course” does the trick—say those words in a dream, and suddenly a bizarre situation makes perfect sense. If only it were that easy to convince people in waking life. But dreams have their own logic.

“Then take your seat.” The old man gestured impatiently.

“Thanks, but of course I’ll stand.” I had to be ready for action when a Drude showed up.

A door opened on the other side of the room. In walked Tyler, wearing nothing but an itsy-bitsy red Speedo and black patent-leather high heels. The outfit didn’t exactly flatter his paunchy physique, and his face was as bright red as the bathing suit.

The InDetect went crazy. Here was Tyler’s Drude. In a Speedo.

I switched off the InDetect before the Drude noticed its clicking. This kind of extermination was tricky. When a Drude takes on the dreamer’s form, the dreamer believes that the Drude is him. Right now, Tyler had a double perspective, seeing himself standing mostly naked in the boardroom and also seeing the boardroom through the Drude’s eyes. The easy route—blasting the Drude into oblivion—wouldn’t work in this situation. You’re not supposed to die in your dreams, and watching yourself get blown away can be more than a little traumatic. I wasn’t sure Tyler had been awake when I explained about the gun.

The Drude, fiddling nervously with a projector, hadn’t seen me. I holstered my pistol and slipped into a seat to look as though I belonged there. No matter that I wasn’t part of the matching set of old guys; the Drude didn’t notice. Like I said, dreams have their own logic.

“Start your presentation, Tyler,” the Bosses said in unison.

“I—I’m sorry,” said the Drude. “There’s a problem with the projector.” Out in the real world, the dreaming Tyler groaned.

The Bosses booed and threw paper airplanes at him. Tyler dodged, teetering on his heels and looking like he was going to cry.

It was clear how this Drude operated. The demon tormented Tyler through humiliation—the old “I’m naked and unprepared” dream. (As for the heels, I didn’t want to know where in my client’s psyche that fashion choice originated.) The more Tyler writhed with embarrassment and humiliation, the better meal the Drude was getting, feeding off his feelings.

That gave me an idea.

“Of course, it’s awfully hot in here,” I whispered to the Boss sitting beside me. One Boss was all it took. He pulled out a handkerchief to mop his forehead. The others followed him, using identical handkerchiefs. They all loosened their ties and unbuttoned their top buttons. A minute later, they’d taken off their suit jackets and hung them on the backs of their chairs.

That’s what I was waiting for.

Before the Drude could figure out what I was doing, I jumped up and snatched the nearest suit jacket. I ran to the front of the room and draped the jacket over Tyler’s shoulders. No more half-naked humiliation. The real Tyler, asleep in his bed, sighed with relief.

The dream-Tyler wavered and grew semi-transparent, the Drude’s true features becoming visible through the mask of Tyler’s face. Yellow eyes narrowed, a forked tongue slithered out. I’d just cut off its food supply, making this one seriously pissed-off demon.

I drew my pistol.

The Drude yowled its rage, and the last wisp of illusion disappeared. In the dream-Tyler’s place stood a fanged, clawed, scaly horror eight feet tall. Teeth gnashing, it charged me. I stepped back, bringing up the pistol and holding it steady with both hands. I fired, but the Drude leapt into the air, and I missed.

The Drude leapt again, spinning around and lashing its razor-tipped tail. I ducked, but not fast enough. The barb sliced into my cheek. Damn, that stung. At least it hadn’t caught my neck.

Smelling blood, the Drude went crazy. It came at me in a tornado of claws, teeth, and whipping tail. I dropped to a crouch, braced my arms, and fired.

Bull’s-eye. The bronze bullet tore through the Drude, which disintegrated into a cloud of sulfurous smoke and the fast-fading echo of a scream.

I let myself fall back and sat on the floor, breathing hard. I touched my slashed cheek; it was sticky with blood.

Around the conference table, the Bosses applauded politely.

I stood, wanting to finish the job and get out of here. I turned on the InDetect and opened the door the Drude had come through. It now opened on a brick wall, which I scanned with the InDetect. Silence. No more Drudes lurking back there. I crossed the room to the other door. No Drudes out there, either. I did one more sweep of the conference room, but Tyler’s dreamscape was clean. I’d expected that; humiliation dreams are usually caused by a single Drude. But it was a good thing Tyler called me before his fear and anxiety attracted more demons. The bigger the pod of Drudes infesting your dreams, the more terrifying your nightmares.

I went to check my watch, then remembered it was gone. Pity. I had no way of knowing how long I’d been inside Tyler’s dream. Watch or no watch, it was time to get out of there. I holstered my pistol and headed for dream portal that shimmered in a corner of the room.

“Wait!” said one of the Bosses. “What about Tyler’s presentation?”

“It was brilliant, of course,” I said. “You all agree Tyler deserves a raise. And a promotion.”

“Of course!” the Bosses exclaimed in unison. They slapped each other’s backs.

My suggestion wouldn’t have any effect on Tyler’s waking life. But he’d emerge from this dream feeling elated. It’s always a good idea to leave a client with sweet-dream memories after a Drude extermination. A happy client is a paying client, after all.

Again, I turned toward the dream portal. I’d mouthed no more than the password’s first syllable when the floor shook, hard, skewing the oil paintings and knocking me to the floor. Another jolt followed, this one even more intense.

A leather chair rolled past. I pushed myself onto my knees and drew my gun. The Bosses had vanished. The next shock toppled over two of their vacated chairs. The conference room went dim as something loomed in front of the windows, as if a mountain had suddenly erupted there.

“Of course,” I shouted, “such things can’t happen.”

Of course didn’t work this time. The shape grew larger.

A laugh whispered through the room, growing in volume and voices until it sounded like the roaring of a stadium-sized crowd.

Just like the laughter in my own dream yesterday.

The shape came into focus. A huge, slimy blue face peered in through the windows, eyes flickering with fire. It was Difethwr, fifty times its normal size—like the Hellion had been working out with Godzilla’s personal trainer.

I aimed my pistol at the expanse between its eyes, but the weapon slid from my hand and thunked on the floor. The demon mark on my right forearm flared with burning pain, and I doubled over, clutching the arm to my chest. The mark made that arm—my fighting arm—powerless against the Hellion.

But I’d claimed the bond, damn it. I was supposed to be in control.

Nobody told my arm that. It ached and burned and was as useless as a slab of meat.

The laughter tapered to a chuckle.

I looked up. “You have no business here, Hellion.” The words came out in gasps.

“Thou art bound to us, daughter of Ceridwen.” The thing’s voice sounded like many distinct voices, from low rumbles to high-pitched screeches, speaking not quite in unison. “Wherever thou art, there may we also be.”

“I sent you to Hell. I expect you to stay there.”

Another laugh shook the room. “Where we are, there Hell is also. This is Hell, shapeshifter.”

I tried to conjure the Sword of Saint Michael, the only weapon that could kill a Hellion. If I could pull the sword into Tyler’s dream, I could end this. I closed my eyes and concentrated, curling the fingers of my left hand around the sword’s imagined grip, hefting it, feeling its weight. I pictured the blade bursting into flame at the Hellion’s presence. At the thought of flames, my demon mark’s scorching agony yanked me back to the here and now. My nostrils filled with the stench of my own flesh burning.

The sword would not come to me. I could not fight the Destroyer here.

Hunched over, I craned my neck to look up at the massive demon. “What do you want?”

Difethwr smiled, showing swordlike teeth. Flames jetted from its eyes and licked at the windows.

“Only to show how thy power grows thin. Foolish, thou hast believed thou couldst command us. Us, when we are legion!”

The pain in my arm blazed like smoldering coals stuffed under my skin. Gasping, dizzy with the effort, I forced myself to stand up straight. Thin or otherwise, I had power over this Hellion. My right arm hanging limp at my side, I pointed at the demon with my left.

“Out of my sight, Difethwr. Leave Tyler’s dreamscape and never return.”

The Hellion winced and shrank by a tenth of its inflated size. Its eye-flames fell back and died to a glow, but its expression remained amused. “We go. We have no interest in the dreams of this puny human. But know this, daughter of Ceridwen, the time of thy race is passing.” Difethwr was leaving now, its voice growing faint, its image wavering. “A new order rises. The Morfran emerges, and Uffern overspills its boundaries. The Brenin steps forward. Already it has begun, as thou hast witnessed.”

As I’d witnessed? “Wait! What are you talking about?”

The Hellion gave no answer. Its face wavered like a reflection on water, then rippled away to nothingness.

I SAT BY TYLER’S BED, WAITING FOR HIM TO WAKE UP. HE LAY on his stomach, head turned toward me. He breathed through his mouth, his face relaxed. I could almost picture Tyler as his mother must have seen him, thirty-some-odd years before, a baby sleeping peacefully in his crib. Before she dropped him on his head.

I was imagining the infant Tyler because I was trying not to think about what Difethwr had said. Not until I could talk it over with Aunt Mab—as I should have done months ago. I needed Mab’s perspective; it was fruitless to try to figure things out on my own.

But I couldn’t help it. For the hundredth time since I’d come back through the dream portal, I replayed what Difethwr had said. That it remained in Hell, even as it ran rampant through other people’s dreamscapes. That some kind of new order was taking over. Those Welsh-sounding words I didn’t understand. Morfran. Uffern. Brenin meant “king,” I thought, but I wasn’t sure. Despite all those summers in Wales, my Welsh didn’t go much beyond “Hello, where is the train station, please?” But Mab would know what it all meant.

Tyler murmured and turned over; the sleeping pill was wearing off. I put my boot against the bed and gave it a nudge, then another. Normally I let clients wake up on their own, but Tyler was close enough, and I needed to contact Mab. I kept nudging, until I was shaking the bed hard enough to register on the Richter scale.

“Whaaa—?” Tyler snorted and sat up, wide-eyed. The eyes narrowed as they focused on me. “What’d you do that for? That was the first good sleep I’ve had in weeks.”

“You, um, seemed restless.” Yeah, that’s how I’d play it. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t having another nightmare.”

“Well, I wasn’t. So go away.” He tried to flop over on his side.

“Since you’re awake,” I said brightly, as I jumped out of the chair and snapped on the overhead light, “I’ve got a few papers for you to sign. Strictly routine stuff. Then I’ll get out of here and you can sleep until noon.”

He groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. But he struggled back to a sitting position and heaved a put-upon sigh. “Okay. It’s weird having you sit in my bedroom while I sleep.”

It couldn’t be as weird as having me run around in his dreams, but I let it go. Tyler signed my standard forms: an acknowledgment I’d performed the agreed-upon service and another that he’d received post-extermination instructions. Then he wrote out my check. I filed everything away in my bag.

“Are we done?” His voice was sharp with irritation. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

“In a minute. What do you remember about your dreams tonight?”

He smiled. “I had a good dream. The board of directors voted to give me a promotion.”

“Anything else?”

He scrunched up his face in an effort to remember. “It started off like one of those nightmares I told you about. When I have to give a presentation and I show up nake—um, I mean unprepared. But it changed. Things got kind of fuzzy. Before I knew it, the presentation was over and everyone was congratulating me.”

“Then what?”

He considered, then shook his head. “That’s all. I don’t remember any other dreams. Just wonderful, peaceful blankness.”

Good. “Which you’d like to get back to now, I know. Fair enough. Pay attention to those instructions I gave you. Avoid spicy foods and sugar and take it easy for a few days.”

He nodded and lay down again, pulling the covers up to his chin as I turned off the bedroom light.

I closed the door to his condo and gave it a tug to make sure it was locked. Then I headed down the stairs. From Tyler’s perspective, tonight had been nothing more than a routine Drude extermination. Tyler hadn’t seen the Hellion that invaded his dreamscape. That was something. But Difethwr shouldn’t have been there at all. I still didn’t understand how it was getting into dreams.

But I would, I thought, leaving the stairwell and crossing the lobby. I pulled open the front door and stepped out into the cold, crystalline night. I hurried down the street toward where I’d parked the Jag. Finally, I was going to talk to Mab.

10

THE NEW NIGHT DOORMAN, A ZOMBIE, WAS ON DUTY. HE was average height and something more than average weight. The brass buttons on his uniform looked ready to pop at the next deep breath. As I walked through the doorway, he stashed a bag of potato chips in his desk.

I crossed the lobby, my boots clicking on the marble floor. “Hi,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Vicky. I live on the fifth floor.”

Fingerprints smudged his horn-rimmed glasses. He wiped his hand on his jacket before he shook mine. “Victory Vaughn. Five-G, right? You room with Juliet Capulet?”

“That’s me.”

He beamed. “I’m Gary. It’s my first night. I’ve been studying the tenant list. When someone comes in and asks for you, I don’t want to squint at the list until I find your name. That would look bad, wouldn’t it? Unprofessional.”

“You seem to have it nailed already.”

“Oh, no. Not yet. I remembered you because you have an interesting name. And an interesting roommate. Imagine—the Juliet Capulet. I haven’t seen her yet, but I have a million questions for that young lady. I taught English at Boston College before the plague.”

Oh, boy. “Juliet will enjoy talking Shakespeare with you.” Maybe it would get me off the hook from playing her dumb let’s-quote-Shakespeare game.

“I must admit, however, I’ve always felt Romeo and Juliet to be the most overrated of the Bard’s plays. I hope that won’t offend her.”

“Gary, Juliet is going to love you.”

If a zombie could blush, the new doorman would have. To cover, he aimed for a worldly chuckle that came off more like a coughing fit. “Alas, not as she loved Romeo, I fear.”

“No, not like that.” He blinked at me through his smudged glasses, looking crestfallen. “Believe me, Gary, that’s a good thing.” Vampires didn’t suck zombies dry.

JULIET WAS OUT. NOTHING STRANGE ABOUT THAT; THIS WAS her hunting time. What was odd was the note she’d left me on the kitchen table: Don’t wait up. J. Since when had I ever waited up for my roommate?

Maybe she felt bad because she really did think she woke me up yesterday. Doubtful. Vampires never felt bad about their actions. More likely, she was warning me to stay out of the living room if I heard any weird chants in the middle of the night.

If that had even happened.

I pushed Juliet from my thoughts and got ready for bed. Tonight, I took my warm bath before I climbed into bed. It helped. Relaxing, I let my mind go blank. The room dissolved around me, and I floated in a vast, calm sea of darkness. Everything was quiet, gentle, warm. No bitter cold tonight. For a while, I let myself float. No point in waking myself up trying to place a dream-phone call before I was ready. Besides, it felt so good to rest.

I don’t know how far I dipped into sleep. Time seemed suspended. Eventually, I thought about Mab—lazily at first, then with more focus. All Cerddorion have a pair of colors unique to the individual. To call someone on the dream phone, you think of that person and summon their colors. At the other end, they see your colors, so they know who’s calling. I imagined my aunt, picturing her where I always think of her, seated in her wing chair by the library fireplace. She wore a baggy gray cardigan over a black dress; her short, gray hair was swept back from her face. It felt good to see her there. Comforting. Like home. I tinged the image of my aunt with her colors of blue and silver.

A mist rose. It billowed with Mab’s colors, drawing more blue and more silver from my image of Mab even as it blew across the scene to obscure her. The mist mounted higher, until blue and silver swirls filled my vision. Slowly it began to thin, blowing away a wisp at a time. Mab appeared first as a silhouette, then I could see her more clearly. She wasn’t in the library. She sat at her kitchen table, a mug in her hand and a teapot within reach. We were connected.

Mab looked so normal, sitting in her warm, familiar kitchen and drinking tea. A world away from the craziness of obliterated zombies and demon-haunted dreams.

“What is it, child?” she asked crisply.

That was Mab, getting right down to business. No “How are you?” No chitchat about the weather. Not even a guilt-inducing comment about how long it was since my last call.

“I’ve got a problem.”

She sipped some tea, tilted her head, and waited.

I took a deep breath. “Remember the trouble I had with that Hellion?”

“The Destroyer. Yes, yes. You told me it left the city and the shield was repaired.”

“That’s right. But I didn’t tell you the whole story.” A twinge of guilt reminded me I should have been straight with her from the start. But I hadn’t, so I told her now. I explained what happened in October, how I’d strengthened my bond with the Destroyer to wrest control away from the corrupt sorcerer who’d summoned it. How I’d driven it back to Hell. How I’d thought—hoped—it would stay there.

“Now it has approached you?”

“Twice in two days. In dreams.”

“And it spoke?”

“The first time it passed through my dream, laughing. It destroyed a watch I’d misplaced. Tonight, it appeared in a client’s dream. It spoke then.”

“A client’s dream? Are you certain it wasn’t a Drude?”

“Positive. It was the Destroyer itself. My demon mark flared as soon as it appeared, and my marked arm turned to rubber.”

She pursed her lips, thinking, and reached for the teapot. “What did it say?”

“That a new order was coming. Something about a king and a couple of Welsh words I didn’t recognize. Uffern was one.”

“Uffern means Hell. It’s not surprising that a Hellion would speak of it.”

Okay, that made sense. We’d both been talking about Hell. “The other word was Morfran. ‘The Morfran emerges’—what’s that?”

The teapot shook in Mab’s hand, but she steadied it and kept pouring. Steam billowed out. No, not steam. It was too dark—black and oily and opaque. Behind Mab, the oven belched more smoke, and so did the old cooking fireplace across the room. Thick, choking clouds filled the kitchen.

“Mab? Mab! What’s happening? Are you okay?”

I saw her mouth move, but a loud buzz obscured her answer. Then the smoke covered everything, and I couldn’t see her at all.

My heart pounded as I waved at the clouds, trying to fan them away. But I was dreaming, and my frantic movements had no effect. I focused again on Mab’s colors, trying to rein in my panic, willing the black, greasy clouds to lighten to blue and silver.

The smoke dispersed a little. I made out a dim shape.

“Mab?”

The hideous face that pushed its way through the smoke was nothing like my aunt’s.

“I’m sorry,” said Difethwr. “Your call has been disconnected.”

The Hellion clapped its hands, and a thunderbolt shoved me out of my dream.

I WOKE UP ON THE FLOOR BESIDE MY BED. MY BODY FELT bruised and broken, like I’d tumbled down several hundred feet of rocky slope to get here. I had no idea what time it was. From where I sat, I couldn’t see my bedside clock, and the blackout shades left the room in complete darkness. I rubbed my aching head, trying to get my bearings.

Mab.

Mab’s kitchen, filling with thick smoke.

I scrambled to my feet and ran to the kitchen. I flipped on the light switch and squinted as the harsh fluorescent bulb buzzed to life. The wall clock read a little past nine. Two in the afternoon in Wales.

I snatched up the phone and dialed the number for the pub in Rhydgoch, the village closest to Mab’s house. It took me three tries to remember how to place an international call, but finally I heard the burrr-burrr burrr-burrr of a British ring signal. Pick up, damn it. Again I saw Mab’s kitchen, clogged with smoke.

Someone answered mid-ring. “Cross and Crow, Wales’s most haunted pub,” said a jovial male voice.

My words tumbled out in a rush. “I need you to send someone to check on my aunt. There might have been a fire.”

“Who’s this?”

“I’m Mab Vaughn’s niece. I’m worried—”

“Mab’s niece? Is that Vicky, then? It’s Lloyd Cadogan. How’d you like the way I answered the phone?”

“Very nice, but—”

“We’ve joined the Haunted Britain tour. Run by a company from your side of the pond. Out of New York, I believe it is. Do you think lots of Yanks’ll come?”

“Mr. Cadogan, please listen. I’m worried about Mab. Can you send someone, Owen or somebody—”

“Owen? Didn’t your aunt tell you? Our Owen’s at university in Cardiff, reading history. His ma and me, we wanted him to study something useful, but—”

“It doesn’t have to be Owen. Anyone. Send anyone. I need to know that Mab is okay.”

“Well, now, speak of the devil. Here’s the lady herself, stepping through the door. Mab, you won’t believe this, but your American niece is on the phone.”

In the background, Mab said something. I couldn’t make out her words, but I recognized her no-nonsense, suffer-no-fools tone. I sagged with relief, sliding down the cupboards to sit on the floor.

“Vicky?”

“You’re all right.”

“Yes, yes. But you must—”

“Everyone’s all right?”

“Yes, of course. Jenkins drove me into Rhydgoch as soon as . . .” I pictured her turning away from Mr. Cadogan and cupping her hand around the mouthpiece. “As soon as we were cut off. Listen, Victory—”

“And Maenllyd?”

“My house? What about it?”

“All that smoke in the kitchen. Wasn’t there a fire?”

“No, child. All is quite well here, I assure you. But you must come to Wales.”

All is quite well. Beautiful words. I might not call as often as I should, but I didn’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Mab.

“You’re right. I’m way overdue for a visit. Maybe in the summer.”

“No, child, you don’t understand. You must come now. Immediately. Tonight.”

Tonight? She couldn’t be serious. “I can’t drop everything and go to Wales.”

“I’m afraid you have no choice.”

“But I’ve got clients scheduled. I’ve got things going on.”

“Cancel them. Jenkins is booking you a flight for tonight. You can pick up your ticket at the airport. The flight leaves at nine o’clock. Be there by seven. And whatever you do—this is important, child—don’t fall asleep until you get here.”

“Don’t fall—? Do you know how long it takes to get from Boston to Rhydgoch? I mean, if I were making the trip, which I’m not.”

“Don’t argue with me, Victory. You must come, and you must remain awake until you get here. I wouldn’t summon you like this if it weren’t urgent.”

“What’s urgent? Mab, I don’t understand.”

“It’s time for the next level of your training.” Her voice dropped to a tense murmur. “I only hope we’re not too late.”

11

OKAY, SO I WAS GOING TO WALES. TONIGHT. IN LESS THAN twelve hours, I’d be on a plane. And I’d be going without sleep for another twelve hours beyond that—if I made good time. Mab wouldn’t be so insistent without a reason; it took a lot to get her ruffled. In fact, I’d never seen my aunt ruffled, not even on the terrible night my father died.

I’d called the pub in hopes of easing my mind. Now I was even more worried.

I spent the morning making phone calls. I dialed Kane’s number first, staring at the dead roses and thinking I should throw them out. His voice mail picked up, and I suppressed a pang of disappointment. “Kane,” I said at the beep, “it’s Vicky. I wanted to let you know that I’ll be in Wales for . . . for a while. My aunt needs me, and she’s getting pretty old, so . . .” I let my voice trail off, giving him time to picture a frail old lady in a hospital bed. Never mind that Mab could take care of herself, me, and the entire village of Rhydgoch while whipping some serious demon butt. I gave him the number for the Cross and Crow and told him he could leave messages for me at the pub.

“Anyway, I’ll let you know when I’m back in town.” I pressed the button to end the call, then spent a minute or two wishing I could redo my message. I should have said, “Miss you” or “I hope work’s going well.” Or at least, you know, “Bye.” I thunked the phone against my forehead. Then I got up and dropped the dead roses in the trash.

Next, I went through my list of upcoming demon exterminations. My clients were furious, and I couldn’t blame them. Most demon victims are desperate by the time they’re willing to call me—and willing to pay my fee. The last thing they want to hear is that we need to reschedule, especially when I wasn’t sure how long I’d be away. The next level of your training, Mab said—how long would that take? I’d spent seven grueling summers in training with my aunt before she pronounced me ready to fight demons. No way was I going through all that again. I’d give her two weeks. Tops.

Upcoming jobs included two Drude exterminations, and one each for a Harpy and an Eidolon. Harpies are revenge demons, sent after the victim by some unscrupulous sorcerer for a fee. They’re known for their sharp, tearing beaks and talons—but not their smarts—so I advised that client to leave town for a couple of weeks. Moving out of the sorcerer’s range would confuse the Harpies; by the time they found him again, I’d be home. I hoped. Eidolons, guilt demons, look like giant maggots and gnaw the victim’s insides. They can be calmed temporarily by hypnosis, so I gave that client the phone number of a good hypnotherapist.

Drudes were most difficult for stave off for a couple of weeks. There’s not much norms can do to ensure they don’t dream. And when you’re infested with Drudes, any dream can turn into a nightmare. Those clients had two choices: pay a witch to craft a dream-catcher charm—which is expensive and quits working as soon as it fills up—or try avoiding nightmares the old-fashioned way: meditating, avoiding spicy foods and alcohol, and not watching scary movies or the news right before bed.

My last client opted for a string of highly colorful swear words instead of “good-bye,” and I wondered how many of these clients would want to hear from me when I got back. I could practically see dollar signs flying out my window and off into the sunset.

The phone rang, and I paused before answering. Maybe that last client had pulled out a thesaurus and wanted to share a few more cuss words. I picked up the phone, holding it a foot away from my ear, just in case.

Good thing, too. Because the screaming, whooping, and hollering that came through the handset would have deafened me for life if the phone had been an inch closer.

“Tina?”

“Omigod, Vicky, you’ll never guess what happened!”

All that screaming gave me a pretty good idea, but I wasn’t going to steal her thunder. I waited for a fresh bout of whooping to subside.

“He picked me! Monster Paul picked me for a backup singer. Omigod, I still can’t believe it!”

Given what I’d heard of her singing, neither could I. “Congratulations, Tina. That’s wonderful news.”

“The first rehearsal’s tonight. We’re giving a free concert on Paranormal Appreciation Day, so Paul says we’ve gotta put in long hours to get ready.”

“When’s Paranormal Appreciation Day?”

“February 2. Remember? The Council of Three announced it on TV the other night.”

Oh, right. A day set aside to celebrate monsters and ground-hogs. How had that slipped my mind?

Tina was talking a mile a minute. “. . . and Jenna is so jealous. She says she’s not, but she is.”

“Wait a minute. Jenna didn’t make the cut?” I’d assumed Tina and her friend came as a matched set. Plus Jenna came closer to carrying a tune than Tina. Then again, maybe that was the problem.

“She didn’t even try out. She got stage fright and wouldn’t go onstage. Now she wants to be my manager.”

“Not everyone is cut out for stardom.”

“Yeah, right. You sound like Jenna. She just chickened out.” Excitement charged back into her voice. “You’re coming, right? To the concert? You’ve gotta come. Promise you will.”

“I might be out of town. I have to go to Wales.”

“Where’s that? Out on the Cape?”

“No, Tina. It’s on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Oh. I must’ve been thinking of whale-watching. You mean the place where your aunt lives. Next door to France, right?”

Too bad she couldn’t see my eye-roll over the phone. “Actually, it’s to the west of England.”

“Yeah, like I said. But you’ll be back, right? The concert is, like, over a week away.”

“I don’t know, Tina. I might be gone for a while.”

“Oh.” There was a long pause. “Well, that’s okay, I guess. I’m going to be really busy. I won’t have time for school or demon fighting or anything. If you miss this concert, there’ll be others, right? I mean, you can travel and stuff. You’re not stuck in Deadtown until somebody else gets a permit to take you somewhere. You can see us another time.”

We said good-bye, and I hung up feeling like I should’ve urged Tina to finish high school. Maybe even learn how to find Wales on a map. But what was the point? Zombies didn’t go to college. Most of them did manual or menial labor. Look at Gary—he’d been a professor, and now he was glad to be working as a doorman. Zombies weren’t supposed to have dreams. But Tina did. If she had a shot at living hers, who was I to tell her to put it off?

I never thought the flighty kid was demon-fighting material, anyway. My job would be a lot easier without her tagging along and messing things up. And I could stop wasting two evenings a week trying to teach her Russom’s.

Jeez, Vicky. Sour grapes much? If Tina could hear my thoughts, she’d think I was as jealous as Jenna.

I still held the phone. I knew who I should call next—my sister, Gwen—but I wasn’t eager to talk to her. Gwen and I had been close as kids. And we’d stayed close, even though we’d made different choices. Among the Cerddorion, only females can shift—we gain the ability at puberty, and we lose it if we give birth. Gwen chose a norm lifestyle, marrying Nick Santini and having three kids. I adored my niece and nephews, but I was committed to remaining a shapeshifter and killing demons. Different strokes. Still, despite Gwen’s annoying habit of fixing me up with her husband’s norm friends, we got along.

Until that mad scientist kidnapped Maria. I’d brought my niece home safe and sound, but the poor kid was traumatized by the experience. It didn’t help that she’d seen me shift into a nightmare creature to get her out of there. Gwen had gone into protective mother-hen mode. All perfectly understandable.

What I couldn’t understand was why Gwen shut me out of her family. She’d asked me to keep my distance for a while, until Maria recovered. And I did, even though it hurt. No more phone calls to see what the kids were up to, no more family dinners at Gwen’s suburban home. My sister and I still talked, but her calls were less frequent and always came when the kids were in school. A strain arose between us, and I didn’t know how to make it go away.

Now, I was relieved—and a little ashamed to feel that way—when Gwen’s voice mail picked up. I left a brief message that Mab had summoned me to Wales and I expected to be back within a couple of weeks. She wouldn’t want to know more—when Gwen decided to go norm, she’d left the world of shapeshifting and demon slaying far behind. Besides, she and Mab had never gotten along. I ended with a quick “Give the kids my love,” wondering if she’d do it.

I hung up wishing I’d said more, just like with Kane. Then I shrugged it off. It would take time to mend my relationship with my sister, and it wasn’t going to happen today.

One more call to make, and then I could pack. I’d saved Daniel for last because I hoped he’d have news about T.J. At this point, I just wanted to hear a friendly voice.

I wasn’t disappointed. “Vicky, hi.” I could hear his smile; it made me smile, too. “I wanted to call you, but I didn’t think you’d be awake yet. Are you up for the day? Can you meet me for lunch?”

Yes, I wanted to say. I wanted a nice, normal lunch, with good food and laughter and flirting. “I can’t. My day’s going to be jam-packed. I’m leaving for Wales tonight.”

“You’re—?” I could almost see the surprised look on his face, the crease it made between his eyebrows. “I’m sorry. My ex-wife used to say I never listened. But I honestly don’t remember you telling me you’re leaving town.”

“I didn’t. I only found out myself an hour ago.” I decided to take the same tack I’d used with Kane. “It’s my aunt Mab. She’s getting on in years. She called and said she needs me there.”

“Oh, I see. It must be hard to have an elderly relative so far away.”

“She was my dad’s sister. I’m the only family she has.” Actually, Mab’s handyman, Jenkins, and his wife, Rose, were closer to my aunt than I was to my own sister right now. It felt more like Mab was my only family. “Anyway, I’ve got to pack and dig out my passport”—I hoped I hadn’t let that expire—“and rush around doing God-knows-how-many errands. I called to tell you I was leaving town, but I was also wondering whether you found out anything about T.J.”

“Hang on a minute.” There was a change in Daniel’s voice, a tension that hadn’t been there a moment ago. He spoke away from the phone, telling someone he was almost done.

“I can’t talk now.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you have any time at all today? Even ten minutes?”

“So you do have information?”

“Yeah. But I can’t talk about it over the phone. Hampson was furious when some reporter rang his doorbell last night. If it got back to him I was asking questions . . .”

“I understand. Okay, when and where?”

“What is it now, ten thirty? Let’s make it noon. At the Hatch Shell. Nobody will be around on a day like this.”

That was for sure. The Hatch Shell was an outdoor stage beside the Charles River. No concerts there when it was below freezing.

“All right. Thanks, Daniel. I know it’s risky for you to help me.”

“Wait—can you hang on again?” Away from the phone he said, “Go ahead. I’ll catch up in two seconds.” A pause of a few more beats, then he was back. “I’ll see you at noon,” he said in a low, hurried voice. “There’s more to talk about than T.J.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s happened again.”

“It’s—Daniel, what do you mean? What’s happened?”

But he’d already hung up.

12

IT’S HAPPENED AGAIN.

Another zombie had been killed. That had to be what Daniel meant. I turned on Juliet’s TV, lowered the volume a few notches, and found Channel 10. A local talk show was on: A pastry chef was teaching the host and hostess how to make crêpes suzette. The chef used a lighter to ignite the dessert, and the hostess screamed and jumped back, laughing.

Not exactly an urgent special report on mysterious zombie deaths in Deadtown.

I flipped to the Paranormal News Network. Even though Sykes had promised Lynne Hong an exclusive, now that the story was out, PNN must be following up. A photo of Tina in her audition outfit flashed on the screen for a story about the new members of Monster Paul’s Zombie Freak Show and the free Paranormal Appreciation Day concert. But even though I watched through a complete news cycle, there was nothing on PNN, either. Or any other channel I tried. Nothing about T.J., and nothing about a second death.

Maybe I was jumping to conclusions. When Daniel said, “It’s happened again,” he could’ve meant anything. Something at work or with his ex, probably. Just because I was thinking about T.J. didn’t mean Daniel was.

Back on Channel 10, a spot for the local news listed the noon broadcast’s top stories. Still no mention of any zombie death or a police cover-up.

T.J.’s story hadn’t run. Who’s going to speak for him now? Sykes had asked. He’d tried. He’d risked his career to do so. And the response was resounding silence.

I muted the TV and looked up the phone number for the Channel 10 newsroom. When someone answered, I asked for Lynne Hong. “It’s about her zombie story from last night.”

The extension rang three times, and I almost hung up, figuring there was no point in leaving a voice mail. But then she answered.

“Lynne Hong.”

“Hi, I’m calling to find out whether Channel 10 aired your story about a zombie death in the New Combat Zone.”

“How do you know about that?” she asked sharply.

“I was in the Zone last night when you interviewed Officer Sykes. I didn’t catch the news, so—”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Vicky Vaughn.”

“Well, Ms. Vaughn, the answer is no. We didn’t air the story because there was no story.”

“But Officer Sykes—”

“Has been suspended due to allegations he assaulted a fellow officer. There’s no evidence to support his claims.”

No evidence. I’d hydroplaned across Creature Comforts through the evidence. And Hong was letting the story go.

“Did you actually investigate his claims? Or did you just take Hampson’s word for it?”

“Of course I investigated—or tried to. Sykes’s partner wouldn’t talk to me. I called Creature Comforts multiple times, but no one answered. The police department maintains that no zombie was murdered in the Zone. I can’t go on the air with unsubstantiated allegations from a suspended cop with a grudge.”

“A zombie did die in Creature Comforts. And there may have been a second death.”

“A second—?” Hong paused, presumably to grab a pen. “Who? Where?”

I hesitated. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t want to get Daniel in trouble. I wasn’t even sure what he’d meant. “I don’t know. It’s just a rumor.”

Hong made a disgusted sound. “I can follow up rumors. But only if I have some information to go on.”

“You do have information. What happened to T.J. isn’t a rumor. It’s real. Keep trying with Axel, the bar’s owner. He’ll talk to you.” I started to hang up.

“Ms. Vaughn—wait, you said Vicky Vaughn? You’re the PA who pulled that vampire off a human a few months back. The story was on CNN. You never returned my calls. You’re some kind of werewolf, right?”

If there’s one surefire way to keep me talking, it’s to call me a werewolf. “No, I’m not a werewolf. I’m a shapeshifter, of the Cerddorion race. It’s not the same. Shapeshifters—”

Not that Lynne Hong cared. “That happened in Creature Comforts, too,” she said, talking over me. “What’s going on in that place?”

This time I did hang up.

A game show was coming on the silent TV. I checked the time and jumped. I had to pack. But first a shower. I turned off the television, grabbed my bathrobe, and headed down the hall. Just short of the bathroom, I stopped. Something seemed out of place, and it took me a second to figure out what it was. Juliet’s bedroom door was open—my roommate always slept with her door closed and locked. For the space of two breaths, I hesitated, then I stuck my head through the doorway. The coffin lid was open. I turned on the light and confirmed what I already knew. Juliet’s coffin was empty.

In the years we’d shared this apartment, Juliet had never stayed out all day. Not once. She wouldn’t disintegrate into dust or anything if she slept somewhere else—but she always said that nothing recharged her like returning to her own coffin each dawn.

Then again, she’d mentioned something about a new man, about going back to his place. Maybe she’d found another way to recharge her batteries.

Don’t wait up. J.

Weird chanting echoed through my mind, making me glance back at the empty living room. I shook it off, went into the bathroom, and started the shower.

Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed and rooting around the back of my closet. I dug out my small duffel bag, tossed it on the bed, and unzipped it. Armfuls of underwear and sweaters and jeans went from dresser drawers into a tangled heap in the bag. I found my passport in a desk drawer and zipped it into the outside pocket. It was still current—a good thing, too. Last time I’d renewed it, the monsters were still in hiding. Now that we were common knowledge, the government required “paranormal status”—backed up by DNA test results—on passport applications. If Kane failed with his civil rights case, I might not qualify for a passport after this one expired. For now, though, it was easier for me to leave the country than to cross a state line.

I stared at the jumble of clothes spilling out of my bag. I had no idea what I’d thrown in there. Not that it mattered. I had a closet full of clothes at Maenllyd, and Mab would make sure my bathroom there was stocked with toiletries. What I really wanted to pack were a few of my favorite weapons—the bronze dagger with the mother-of-pearl hilt, a pistol or two. And the Sword of Saint Michael, since Difethwr was back. But then I’d have to check my bag, and those weapons were too valuable to entrust to airline baggage handlers. Mab had weapons; her collection was far larger than mine.

I stuffed a couple of wayward sweater sleeves into the bag and zipped it up. It was time to go meet Daniel.

IN THE LOBBY OF MY BUILDING, THE STRONG SMELL OF AMMONIA tickled my nose and made my eyes water. Two zombies, wearing jumpsuits with DIRTY JOB CLEANING stenciled across the back, pushed mops across the floor.

Clyde looked up from his Boston Globe. No News of the Dead for Clyde—he wouldn’t be caught undead reading that rag.

I greeted him. “I met the new doorman last night,” I said. “Nice guy.”

Clyde harrumphed. “Former doorman, you mean.”

“He quit?” That surprised me.

“Presumably. He deserted his post. Lord knows how long the building went unattended last night.”

Huh. Maybe Juliet had come home. Maybe she and her admirer Gary hit it off so well that the two of them ran away together. The idea made me smile.

“That wasn’t even the worst of it,” Clyde continued. “He left the lobby in shocking condition. Filthy, just filthy. I had to call in the cleaning company, and we weren’t on their schedule for today. They’ve only just arrived. I had to sit here for hours with a reeking mess. The smell was so horrendous I was forced to cover my nose with my handkerchief.”

Dread squeezed my heart with icy fingers. One of the zombies lifted his mop to dunk it in his bucket. Black slime dripped from the mop head in long strings.

Abandoning Clyde, I ran to the nearest zombie. “Did you find any brass buttons while you were cleaning?”

He kept his head down, straight brown hair hiding his eyes, and swiped up more black goo with his mop.

The other zombie came over. He was older and shorter than the mopping one. “Ricky’s a good worker, but he’s not too bright. He’s shy around strangers. Let me.” He touched Ricky’s arm and spoke softly. “Ricky, tell the nice lady. Did you pick up anything here?”

Ricky kept looking at his boots, but he quit mopping. He stood motionless for several seconds. Then he dug into his pocket. He pulled out his hand, closed in a tight fist, and held it against his chest. He glanced at the older zombie, who nodded. Then, all at once, he smiled and held out his open palm. Sitting there were three slime-streaked buttons.

“Shiny,” said Ricky.

It’s happened again.

I closed my eyes and took deep breaths to dispel the adrenaline that had my body on red alert. Nothing to fight. Nothing to flee—as much as I’d like to run out of here screaming. I opened my eyes again. “Clyde,” I said over my shoulder, “call the Goon Squad.”

Ricky’s face tightened in panic. He dropped his mop and clutched his fist against his chest, shielding it with his other hand. “You’re not in trouble, Ricky,” I said, making my voice gentle. “But the police officers will need those buttons as evidence. Here . . .” I dug into my own pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “This money is shiny, too. Can I buy your buttons?”

“Money?” Ricky gazed at the coins doubtfully, and I moved my hand so they’d catch the light. He tilted his head at his supervisor, who nodded. Ricky carefully placed the three buttons in my hand, then scooped up the coins. He held them out to his supervisor. “Shiny!”

Clyde hadn’t picked up the phone. I strode back to his desk and dropped the buttons on the blotter. “Gary didn’t quit,” I said. “He was killed. The same thing happened yesterday to another zombie in the Zone. Call the Goon Squad, now. Ask for Brian Sykes. No, wait.” I remembered what Lynne Hong had said on the phone. “Sykes has been—Um, he’s on leave. Ask for Elmer Norden.” Norden was a jerk, but he was as outraged as Sykes when those detectives cut short the Creature Comforts investigation. “No more cleaning until he gets here.”

Clyde stared at me, phone in hand. “But the lobby—”

“Is full of evidence. Don’t disturb it any more than it’s already been disturbed.”

“What if someone comes in?”

“This is more important than a clean lobby, Clyde. Anyway, we’re in Deadtown. Besides a few day-shift workers, everyone’s home sleeping behind blackout shades. Who’s going to come in?”

My question was rhetorical. But as if in answer, the street door opened. Lynne Hong, wearing her red parka, marched across the lobby, looking determined. Pretty brave of her to venture into Deadtown alone, even in the middle of the day.

“Ms. Vaughn,” she said. “I’m glad I caught you. I have some questions about our phone conversation.”

“I can’t talk now.” I was already late for my meeting with Daniel. “But I can tell you I was right. There has been another zombie death, and it happened right here. The night doorman is dead. His name was Gary, and that black stuff over there is all that’s left of him.”

Hong pulled a reporter’s notebook from her bag. “You said Gary?” she asked. “Last name?”

“I don’t know.” I nodded toward the doorman’s desk. “Clyde can fill you in. And Norden—Sykes’s partner—should be here in a few minutes. I’m late for an appointment.”

Hong started to protest, but I pushed past her and headed toward the door. In a clean corner of the floor, Ricky sat sorting his coins into piles. His supervisor stared at the pool of black stuff, rubbing his neck.

Poor Gary, I thought, pushing open the door. He never did get the chance to talk Shakespeare with Juliet.

13

AS I CROSSED BOSTON COMMON, THICK CLOUDS LOOMED overhead, threatening snow, but at least the cloud cover warmed up the day a little. If you call five or six degrees below freezing warm. The skaters on the Frog Pond didn’t seem to mind the cold. Bundled up in a rainbow of brightly colored jackets, hats, and mittens, they laughed and twirled and zipped around and around the frozen pond. Couples held hands. Little kids toppled over and got up again, standing shakily on their skates and waving away Mom’s or Nanny’s proffered hand.

The cold, gloomy weather matched my mood better than theirs. I exited the Common, crossed Beacon Street, and turned left, passing tall, stately houses built of brick and stone, unable to blot out the images that pushed into my mind. A stub of finger wearing a ring. Three brass buttons streaked with filth. Pools of stinking black goo. I hoped Daniel had some answers.

As I turned right toward the footbridge over Storrow Drive, I also hoped I hadn’t missed him. I was ten minutes late, and it was the middle of a workday for him. A crazy workday, from what he’d said, with Commissioner Hampson up in arms. He was taking a risk to meet me.

It was colder on the footbridge. The icy wind from the Charles River smacked me full in the face. I narrowed my watering eyes and hurried across the bridge. From here, I could see a few lunchtime fitness fanatics running along the Esplanade. And a single pacing figure, his collar turned up against the wind.

“Daniel!” I shouted, but the wind blew my words away. I doubted he could hear me over the roar of Storrow Drive traffic, anyway. But he was waiting for me. I broke into a jog.

He was checking his watch as I puffed up to him. He saw me and grinned, his smile a sudden beam of sunlight in the dim day. He stepped forward, raising his arms like he wanted to give me a hug, but he stopped and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. His smile stayed in place.

I could’ve used the hug. Why was Daniel always so tentative around me?

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, then blurted out the question that had bothered me all the way over here. “Why didn’t you tell me the second zombie death happened in my building?”

Daniel’s smile melted into a puzzled half-scowl. That’s when it hit me: Daniel couldn’t have known about Gary’s death. Until I’d stumbled across the scene half an hour ago, Clyde hadn’t called anyone besides the cleaning company.

When Daniel had said, “It’s happened again,” he’d been talking about someone else.

We stared at each other, horrified realization dawning. “Who was killed in your building?” Daniel asked.

“The night doorman, Gary. He was new. But this is the first you’ve heard about it, right?”

He nodded. “I was talking about a Goon Squad officer. Brian Sykes.”

Oh, God, no.

A gust from the river slammed into me. Not Sykes. Not the one zombie who could walk away from a bleeding human. Not the guy who put up with an asshole partner and tried to do the right thing.

“I knew him, Daniel.” My voice shook. “I knew all of them.”

More than two thousand zombies lived in Deadtown. I was on speaking terms with—how many? Maybe fifty, sixty? All three deaths were zombies I knew. I didn’t like those odds.

“You’re shivering,” Daniel said, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s walk.”

My feet started moving, but I didn’t see where we were going. What I saw was Difethwr’s hideous face, laughing at me in my dreams. Since its return, the Destroyer had appeared to me three times: in the dream where it destroyed my watch, in Tyler’s dream, and in my dream-phone call to Mab. Three visits from the Destroyer. Three zombie deaths.

The day darkened as another realization hit me. I thought back. Yes, it was true. In each case, the zombie who died was the last zombie I’d spoken to before I encountered the Destroyer in a dream.

I called T.J. to ask about my watch, and then I went to bed.

I spoke to Sykes outside Creature Comforts, and then I left the Zone and went to work in Tyler’s dream.

I introduced myself to Gary, and then I called Mab on the dream phone.

Shit. It was me. Somehow, the Destroyer had used me to zero in on each victim.

No wonder Mab didn’t want me to fall asleep.

I explained all this to Daniel, who listened without interruption, nodding from time to time. “When did Sykes die?” I asked.

“Between the time he talked to that reporter and the time his partner knocked on his door at about two thirty A.M.”

That fit. I’d been in Tyler’s dream until two. “Norden found him?”

“Yeah. He wanted to see how Sykes was holding up after the commissioner suspended him. When Norden discovered Sykes’s remains, he went straight to headquarters and tore the place apart. That’s how I heard about it.”

“What happened?”

“Norden got suspended. There’s talk of pressing charges against him.”

“Hampson has to open an investigation now,” I said. “A police officer has been killed.”

Daniel shook his head. “Not going to happen. He’d like nothing better than to dismantle the Goon Squad. He can’t because they’re the only ones willing to patrol Deadtown and the Zone. He’s probably hoping that whatever did this will wipe out all the zombies in Deadtown.”

“I won’t let that happen.” I’d beaten Difethwr once before; I could do it again—somehow. We stopped walking and stared gloomily over the Charles. “I get it that the Destroyer is using our bond to sneak into dreams. What I don’t understand is how it’s killing the zombies. You know how the Hellion kills. It burns.”

“Yeah. Without leaving a mark on the body.”

I nodded, touching my jacket sleeve over my own demon mark. The scar there wasn’t from Difethwr’s fire; my aunt had slashed the spot with a knife to let out the Hellion’s essence. If she hadn’t, I’d have died within days, burned from the inside out.

“I’ve never encountered a demon that kills this way.” That didn’t mean such demons didn’t exist, of course. It’s time for the next level of your training. I’d thought I was an expert demon fighter, but apparently I still had a lot to learn. “I was hoping you could tell me more about that. You said you had information about T.J.”

“Right. I talked to one of the lab guys.” A half-smile touched his lips. “It’s ironic. If there’d been an official investigation, we would’ve waited at least a month to get test results. But because the guy was curious, he stayed late last night to run the analysis.”

“And what—?”

“Ms. Vaughn!” A woman’s voice shouted behind us, from the direction of Storrow Drive. I stepped away from Daniel and turned around to see a woman in a red parka running over the frosted grass.

“It’s Lynne Hong,” I said. Damn it, how did she know I was here? “The reporter Sykes talked to. Maybe you should take off.” Daniel was already walking a thin line at work.

He watched her approach, then turned to me. His blue eyes searched my face. “I’ll stay.”

Hong was panting by the time she made it across the grass to where we stood.

“We’re out here freezing our butts off because we wanted some privacy,” I said by way of a greeting. “How did you find me?”

“My driver was waiting outside the checkpoint. I called and told him to follow you.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “He almost lost you when you cut across the Common.”

I wasn’t in the mood to praise her driver’s people-following skills, so I didn’t say anything. Plus I was annoyed I hadn’t spotted the guy.

She held out a mittened hand to Daniel. “I’m Lynne Hong,” she said. “And you are?”

“Not sure I want to talk to you.” He kept his hands in his pockets.

Hong let her hand drop. Her eyes went back and forth, regarding us both. “How can I convince you I’m not the enemy?”

“By going away and leaving us alone,” I said. It was a good suggestion. I liked it a lot. But somehow, I didn’t think she’d take it.

“Ms. Vaughn, Officer Sykes wants me to get this story out. I haven’t been able to reach him today, but as soon as I do, I’ll set up another interview.”

“You didn’t care enough about the story to air it yesterday,” I said, my voice thrumming with anger. “And today Brian Sykes is dead.”

Her mouth dropped open, but no sound emerged.

“Sykes died the same way as the other two,” Daniel said. “And Hampson is suppressing all attempts to investigate.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m a cop.”

Hong’s eyes widened, and she started digging in her bag for her notebook.

“Wait.” I laid my hand on Daniel’s arm. “You don’t have to talk to her. Don’t endanger your job.” Sykes had wanted to be a voice for T.J. Who was going to speak for Sykes? Someone, but it didn’t have to be Daniel. I could do it. I turned to Hong, “I’ll—”

But she was eyeballing Daniel and seemed to have forgotten all about me. “You can remain anonymous.”

Daniel stared off into the distance, the wind ruffling his curls. He ran both hands through his hair. “What Hampson’s doing is wrong,” he said. “He’s supposed to uphold the law. If three humans died like that in two days . . .” His voice trailed off. He offered Hong his hand. “My name is Daniel Costello. I’m a homicide detective, and I have some information about the zombie deaths. But if I talk to you and Hampson finds out, I’ll lose my job.”

“I won’t release your name.”

Daniel barked a bitter-sounding laugh. “Not even when Hampson subpoenas you? He will. When this story hits the airwaves, expect a knock on your door within an hour.”

“I’ve been subpoenaed before. I protect my sources.” Hong squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She seemed to mean it, even though she looked kind of like a Chihuahua getting ready to do battle with a Great Dane.

“Daniel, are you sure?” I asked. He was a third-generation Boston cop. His job was his life.

He nodded. “Someone’s got to speak for Sykes.” The same thing I’d been thinking a few minutes ago. All right. Daniel would speak for him. And I’d stop the Destroyer—for good this time—to avenge him.

Hong looked at Daniel admiringly. Or maybe her eyes shone that way because she was on the trail of a big story. She opened her notebook. “So bring me up to speed.”

Together, Daniel and I told her the story. I talked about T.J. and Gary; Daniel talked about Sykes. “And,” he said, “as I was telling Vicky when you arrived, one of the CSI techs saved a sample from Creature Comforts. He analyzed it last night on his own time.” He glanced at me, then at Hong. “I hope you have a strong stomach.”

“Go on,” she said.

“According to the lab guy, that black liquid was a by-product of an anaerobic decomposition process.”

“And did the lab guy happen to translate that into English?” I asked.

“It’s kind of like what’s left behind when digestive fluid does its thing on meat.”

It took a few seconds for that to sink in. “They were eaten,” I said. And I’d gone surfing through the leftovers. Lynne Hong looked a little green, too.

“Did he say what could do that?” she asked.

Daniel shook his head. “No clue. He said the sludge—that’s what he called the black stuff—is similar to the end result of a process that’s used to dispose of diseased animal carcasses. But that happens in a special machine, called a digester, without oxygen, and at temperatures of at least a hundred degrees.”

A gust of wind blew grit into our faces. “So Boston in January isn’t what you’d call the right conditions,” I said.

“Exactly. But the result is the same.”

Hong’s forehead wrinkled as she wrote. “Will the technician talk to me?”

“You can call the lab on a fishing expedition if you want, but I can’t give you his name.”

“I’d love to ask him if this was due to some new virus, or a mutation of the one that created the zombies in the first place.”

“Doubt it,” I said. “Viruses don’t rip their hosts into tiny pieces.”

“You’re a demon expert,” she said to me. “Do you think these deaths have a supernatural cause?”

“They may.” I knew they did, but I didn’t want to say anything to her until I understood more about what was going on. No point in sending Boston into a panic about a Hellion on the loose. And Difethwr wouldn’t be on the loose if I could manage to stay awake until I got to Wales. “But what you said last night was right: The real story is with Hampson. He has to allow an investigation.”

Daniel nodded. “The whole reason I’m talking to you,” he said, “is to keep pressure on the commissioner. He failed to protect one of his officers. If he hadn’t cut short the initial investigation, Sykes might still be alive.”

That could be true. But if Sykes hadn’t talked to me last night, he’d definitely be alive. I couldn’t undo the past. The best I could do was try to set things right.

AFTER HONG LEFT, THERE WAS NO TIME FOR LENGTHY GOOD-BYES. Daniel had to get back to work. I still had a million and one things to do—well, I was mostly packed, so I’d whittled down my to-do list to a million items—before catching a cab to the airport. We crossed the footbridge and walked silently, side by side, along Beacon Street. Where Charles Street went off to the left, we stopped. Daniel turned to me and took both my hands in his. His blue eyes blazed deep into mine.

Butterflies in January? Who ever heard of such a thing?

“I’ll miss you,” he said and kissed me full on the mouth.

I kissed him back.

He let go of my hands and put his arms around me, pulling me close. He was warm, so warm, and he smelled like summer, like sunshine and citrus and fresh-mowed grass. We stood, our bodies pressed against each other, in a soul-deep kiss.

My knees didn’t buckle. No one told us to get a room. Miracles do happen.

After several eternities, I opened my eyes and stepped back. I was surprised to see it was still a cold, cloudy afternoon in Boston. At least there should have been rainbows or something.

“Wow,” I said.

His blue eyes sparkled. “Something to remember me by.” He squeezed my hand, and then he turned and plunged into the crowd, walking down Charles Street and not looking back.

As I watched him go, I put a hand to my lips. It had been a terrific kiss, a world-class kiss, the kind of kiss that, when you step back from it, makes you wonder who tilted the room.

So why, as I headed toward Deadtown and those million things I had to do, did my mind conjure an image of Kane, clutching a handful of wilted roses?

14

“CHAMPAGNE?”

A smiling, redheaded flight attendant held out a tray of glasses. I was fiddling with my seatbelt, sitting in a seat roomy enough to hold two of me. When I’d arrived at Logan Airport—running late, thanks to hellish traffic in the tunnel—and claimed my ticket, the agent handed over a business-class boarding pass. Way to go, Aunt Mab. By the time I got through the mile-long security line, it was already eight thirty and the plane was boarding. There’d been no time to check out the executive club. But a free cocktail and complimentary massage probably wouldn’t have been a great idea, anyway. Not when I had to get through the next thirteen or fourteen hours without dozing off.

“No champagne, thanks. Do you have any coffee?”

“Certainly. We’re brewing some now. I’ll bring you a fresh cup as soon as it’s ready.” She smiled again, like bringing me a cup of coffee would be the highlight of her day.

I settled back into my seat, which was actually comfortable. Comfort on an airplane? I could get used to this.

My seatmate arrived at the same time as the coffee. She was tall, her sleek brown hair cut in a chic, chin-length style, and she wore a stylish black suit. A businesswoman in business class. Made sense.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hello.” She gave me a dubious once-over. So maybe my sweater and jeans didn’t fit in the way her elegant suit did. I wondered what she’d think of the ratty duffel bag I’d crammed into the overhead compartment. And of course there were the dark circles under my bloodshot eyes. I looked around at other passengers staring at computer screens, getting in some quality time with their laptops before they had to stow them. Maybe the bloodshot eyes were a must-have accessory for business class.

My seatmate—she accepted the champagne—was happy enough to chat as passengers finished boarding, as everyone ignored the safety video, and as the plane lumbered toward the runway. She told me she was the director of Harvard’s libraries, heading to some international librarians’ conference in London. But as soon as we got into the air, she pulled a thick paperback from her carry-on and stuck her nose into it.

Guess I wasn’t going to stay awake by chatting all the way across the Atlantic.

Tiredness was starting to kick in as a major problem. The comfy seat, the soothing cabin lights, even the hum of the engines as we reached cruising altitude, all conspired to make me very, very sleepy. I almost wished Mab had stuck me in economy class. Back there, I’d be crammed into a narrow seat, fighting with my neighbor for an armrest. A crying baby or two would be a real bonus. No such luck in business class.

It was up to me to keep myself awake. I had more than a hundred in-flight movies to choose from. I chose an action-adventure film, figuring that explosions and car chases would demand attention. But the flickering images just made my eyelids heavier. So I wiggled around in my seat—keep that blood moving—and switched to a video game, because shooting at things does tend to keep me awake. A couple of times, I sensed the librarian watching me play. Was she rooting for me or wanting to shush me? I wasn’t making any noise, even through the headphones; I’d turned the volume all the way down. But still. Something about librarians just gives that impression.

When dinner came, she put down her book and ordered red wine. I asked for more coffee. I was on my sixth or seventh cup since I’d boarded and feeling wired. The edges of my vision were cluttered with cobwebs and my stomach was sour from too much French roast. I probably should eat something, I thought, to soak up some of the acid sloshing around, but a full stomach equals a sleepy body. I pushed the tray to the side and sipped my coffee. At least it was good coffee. Definitely not the dishwater they serve in economy.

“Aren’t you eating?” the librarian asked.

“Oh, um, no. I’m not hungry.” Just so, so tired. But now that she’d spoken to me again, maybe some conversation would help me through the next half hour. “You’re going to a conference for libraries? What’s that like? I’ve never been to one. A library conference, I mean. I’ve been to libraries. I mean—” I heard myself babbling and shut up midsentence.

She smiled kindly, and I felt absurdly grateful to her for not treating me like the idiot I was demonstrating myself to be. “Oh, you know. Panels, mixers, keynotes. A chance to network with other professionals. The usual things you encounter at a conference.”

“We don’t have conferences in my line of work.”

“No? What do you do?”

“I’m, um . . . I’m an exterminator.” I left out the part about demons. The library director at one of the world’s most prestigious universities probably didn’t believe in them. Just like Professor Milsap at MIT. I wondered if he’d gotten all the Glitch spit out of his hair yet.

She made a polite huh noise. Nice way to keep a conversation going, Vicky. Now she thinks you kill bugs for a living. Not a topic for a chat—unless she had cockroaches in her kitchen, which probably wasn’t something she’d care to think about while eating.

God, I’d be hallucinating in a minute.

Then her eyes widened. “Demons! You exterminate demons, don’t you?” She sat up straight, rattling the dishes on her tray. “That’s why you look familiar! I saw you on CNN a couple of months ago.”

Not that again. Wouldn’t that story ever dry up and blow away?

“I’m an amateur demonologist myself,” she was saying. From there, she launched into a detailed explanation of her research with all the hyped-up enthusiasm of a hobbyist with a captive audience. I smiled and nodded and couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

She kept going for most of an hour. I don’t know how she could talk so long without pausing for breath. She gave her opinion about Russom’s (terribly in need of updating) and whether incubi and succubae were more properly classified as soul suckers or energy vampires. But she really got passionate when she launched into her issues with how the Library of Congress catalogs demonology books. “You can find them in BF 1501 to BF 1562, which is the sub-subclass for Demonology, Satanism, and Possession. Makes sense, right? I mean, that’s where anyone would look for them first. But then there’s BT 975, Invisible Worlds, which includes some books about demons. And don’t even get me started about the GR subclass. That’s folklore. Folklore! Even though people like you have proved beyond any doubt that demons are real. But no. You’ll find still demonology books shelved in the Folklore section, GR 500 to GR 615 . . .” It was hard to share her sense of outrage when my eyelids kept sliding shut.

Eventually, she yawned. “This has been fascinating. I’m so thrilled to have met you. But I’d better get some sleep. I’ve got a late-morning meeting in London.” She laid her seat out completely flat, pulled a blanket over herself, put on a sleeping mask, and was gently snoring within a couple of minutes.

So unfair. The only time I’ve ever crossed the Atlantic in a seat that turns into a bed, and I couldn’t try it out.

I got up to use the can’t-turn-around-in-it bathroom. It felt good to move around, so I walked up and down the aisle to stretch my legs. But the combination of caffeine-jittery and utterly exhausted didn’t keep me steady on my feet. The second time I lurched sideways into a sleeping passenger, a flight attendant came over and touched my arm.

“I’m afraid you’re disturbing other passengers,” she said in a low voice, ushering me along. “Could you please return to your seat?”

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I can’t sleep.”

“Can I get you some chamomile tea? That always helps me nod off.” We arrived at my seat. “Let me help you make up your bed.”

“No, you don’t understand. I can’t sleep.” As in If I fall asleep, I’ll invite a Hellion onto the plane.

She tilted her head, waiting for me to explain.

“Just bring me another cup of coffee, please.” I sat down, rubbed my sand-filled eyes, and waited for the miles to pass.

WE ARRIVED IN LONDON AT SEVEN IN THE MORNING. THE sky was thick with clouds—lots of bumps during the descent. The temperature was warmer than in Boston, but the dampness made it feel almost as cold.

Before we deplaned, the amateur demonologist librarian asked for my card. When I told her I didn’t have one, she gave me hers. I stuck it in my back pocket. If I ever hear of a demonologists’ conference, maybe I’ll give her a call.

Somehow I made it through customs, changed some money, and snagged a cab. Heathrow is in a western suburb of London, and I had to get to Euston Station in the northern part of the city. In the taxi, I tried not to let my head loll back on the seat, making myself sit upright and watching buildings blur past. Little sparkles shimmered across my vision. I blinked, trying to clear them, then gave up and watched the light show.

At Euston, I bought a one-way ticket to Rhydgoch, Wales. The agent handed me three tickets: Euston Station to Chester, Chester to Wrexham, and then the little puff-puff local to Rhydgoch. Two changes—not bad for the trek to my aunt’s remote village.

I bought a phone card and found a bank of phones. There, I made a quick call to the Cross and Crow and left a message in case Mab or Jenkins came in, letting them know the time of my train. I talked to someone named Anna, who said she was the day cleaner and seemed annoyed I was asking her to play secretary. I’d rather have spoken to Mr. or Mrs. Cadogan; they knew me and would make sure Mab got the info one way or another. But it was okay. Once I made it to Rhydgoch, I’d be on familiar turf.

But first I had to get there. I stopped in a newsagent’s and bought the thickest magazine I could find, then made my way across the concourse, past kiosks and coffee stands, dodging briefcase-toting, rush hour-crazed commuters determined to mow down anything in their path. I double-checked the large electronic boards for my train, found the platform, and walked, oh, five hundred or so miles along that platform until I reached the right car. Clutching the railing, I heaved myself up the steep steps onto the train. I staggered a bit as I walked along the aisle in search of my seat, and my head spun with the effort of lifting my duffel onto the luggage rack. At last, I could plop down into my seat.

All that effort left my heart pounding as though I’d sprinted across London. I was moving into that stage of exhaustion where every little motion wrings you out. Just as well. With my heart racing the way it was, I wouldn’t fall asleep anytime soon.

Whistles blew, doors closed, and the train lurched forward. We rolled out of the station into the thin winter daylight, past soot-stained, graffiti-covered brick walls, then the backs of tiny, run-down row houses with graying net curtains at the windows. London. It felt unreal to be here. I could almost believe I was dreaming—all I needed was to have Difethwr pop up and wave to me from someone’s back garden.

After a few minutes of watching buildings go by, I pulled out my magazine and opened it to a random page. Hostile-looking models with pointy chins and even pointier elbows wore dresses that looked like burlap sacks with ruffles. So not my style. Another fashion spread showed models in gray-green makeup posing stiffly in torn gowns. Zombie chic. Tina would love it. Maybe she’d take up modeling next.

The train picked up speed as we moved beyond the city, and I gazed out the window, feeling dizzy as suburban London houses gave way to fields and villages. An attendant wheeled a snack trolley down the aisle. I bought another cup of coffee but passed on the plastic-wrapped sandwiches and muffins. Hang on, Vicky. I sipped the hot, bitter drink. You’re almost there, only six hours, two train changes, and a dozen more cups of coffee to go.

Trying to shake off the heaviness, I wiggled my shoulders, crossed my legs one way, and then crossed them the other way. I stood up, stretched, walked to the end of the car, stretched again, came back, sat down. Eventually, I went back to flipping magazine pages. When I saw a familiar face smiling at me from a moody black-and-white photograph, I blinked—twice—thinking maybe I’d finally started hallucinating. But no, there was Mr. Cadogan, his sleeves rolled up, leaning over the bar at the Cross and Crow and looking serious, despite the characteristic twinkle in his eye. The caption read, “Lloyd Cadogan owns the Cross and Crow, in the Welsh village of Rhydgoch, whose resident ghost is nicknamed ‘Spooky Lil.’ ” Below the photo of Mr. Cadogan was another black-and-white shot of the pub’s interior, showing a blurry column of mist in front of the massive old fireplace. For this photo, the caption asked, “Fact or figment: Does ‘Spooky Lil’ haunt the site of her centuries-old murder?”

I turned back the page to find the name of the article: “Britain’s Most Haunted Pubs.” Half a dozen pubs were featured; I skimmed until I found the part about the Cross and Crow. I’d known Mr. Cadogan since I was a little girl, so the story of Spooky Lil was a familiar one. According to legend—or at least the legend dreamed up by Mr. Cadogan—Lil was an eighteenth-century barmaid who’d gotten pregnant by the local squire’s son. When the boy wanted to marry Lil, his enraged father ordered his henchmen to get rid of the problem. They’d strangled Lil and buried her body in the cellar. Ever since, Spooky Lil had haunted the pub, moaning for her lost love.

Even though Mr. Cadogan swore Lil was real, his tragic tale of a strangled barmaid was a ploy to draw in tourists. The Cross and Crow had half a dozen rooms for rent, and Mr. Cadogan could charge double the usual rate for the haunted bedroom—somehow, the bedroom that was “haunted” always seemed to be the highest-priced room available. Nothing like sleeping in a haunted bedroom for a good, safe thrill. Maybe that was because so many real monsters had come out into the open in the past few years that norms preferred their close encounters to be of the make-believe kind.

Norm psychology. Who could tell?

The haunted pubs article kept me diverted until it was time to change trains in Chester. For the rest of the trip, time lost all meaning and everything went by in a blur. I’d long ago grown used to the itchy eyes; the sparkly, bleary, wavy vision; the feeling of moving underwater. I was sick with tiredness, but I could deal with that, too. I was getting there. I switched trains again in Wrexham. Wales, I thought, looking around. I’ve made it to Wales.

When the slow-moving local train finally pulled into Rhydgoch station, brakes screeching, I wanted to sing with triumph. There it was: the sooty, one-story, redbrick building, the crooked RHYDGOCH sign. If this were summer, there’d be hanging baskets overflowing with red and white flowers. But it was late January, and the only decoration was a dusting of snow on the station roof.

Several people waited on the platform, scanning the train’s windows. I didn’t see Mab or Jenkins, but they might be in the car park. Or maybe they hadn’t gotten my message. No problem. I knew where I was now.

Eager to get off the train, I stood. The car seemed to slide away from me, and I had to grab the back of the seat in front of me to steady myself. My ears rang, and I was sweating despite the cold air pouring in through the open door. I’d gone so far beyond tired that tired would feel refreshing. But I was almost there. Almost safe. When I got to Maenllyd, Mab would take away the burden I’d been carrying since Difethwr had entered my dreamscape. I didn’t know how, but I trusted that she would.

I yanked on my duffel bag to pull it down from the luggage rack. As its full weight hit my chest, the ringing in my ears clamored to a roar and darkness edged my vision. My legs turned to spaghetti and the car tilted at a crazy angle. My vision shrank to a pinprick, and that was the last thing I knew before I hit the floor.

15

THREE OR FOUR FACES HOVERED OVER ME. I LAY ON MY BACK, in a narrow space that felt way too crowded. The faces wouldn’t come into focus. I closed my eyes and tried again.

“Give her some air,” said a man’s voice with a Welsh accent. Oh, right. I’m in Wales.

The blurred, shadowy faces pulled back. Above me was a curved white ceiling, bright with fluorescent lights. I turned my head a little to the right, and it felt like the floor tipped with the movement. Again I closed my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to subside.

Before it could, my eyes flew open and I sat up in a panic. “I’m not asleep!” I shouted.

“Take it easy, miss,” said the voice. “You fainted.”

I searched my memory—no dreams of Difethwr. I relaxed a hair. “How long was I out?”

“Only a minute or two. We’re still at Rhydgoch station. Are you hurt?”

I did a quick survey. No sharp pains anywhere, just a dull ache pressing at the backs of my eyes and a feeling like someone tried to mummify my head. “No,” I said. “I’m all right.”

The conductor—the guy who’d been speaking—wanted to call an ambulance. I think he was afraid I’d broken my neck or something when I fell on his train. I convinced him an ambulance wasn’t necessary, and he was happy to carry my bag off the train. I drew the line, though, at carrying me off. Hands reached down and grasped my arms. I got my legs under me, and leaned on my helpers as I got vertical again. Shakily, I made it onto the platform on my own.

My duffel bag waited by a bench. I sat down and bent over, trying to clear my head. A minute later, I heard the train chug out of the station. Someone put a hand on my back. “Here, dearie. You’ll feel good as new.”

I looked up. The world didn’t slide away with the movement of my head; I took that as a good sign. A grandmotherly woman—not Mab—smiled and offered me a plastic cup. I took it and sipped the hot tea it held. Yuck, awful—the tea had come from a machine and she’d loaded it with sugar—but it revived me. “Thank you.”

She nodded, picked up her shopping bags, and went inside the station.

I was alone on the platform. The chilly air felt good on my sweaty face, and so did the hot tea going down my throat. Despite being so close to my goal, I was in no hurry to get there. Part of me didn’t see why I couldn’t just sit on this bench, sweet tea warm in my belly, forever. Jenkins hadn’t met the train—I was pretty sure of that. Or if he’d stayed with the Bentley out in the car park, he’d have seen the train pull out of the station and figured I missed a connection. Maybe he’d gone to the Cross and Crow for a pint to pass the hour’s wait for the next train.

I supposed I should go and see. If Jenkins wasn’t there, Mr. Cadogan would call a taxi for me. I dropped the empty cup in a bin next to my bench and started to get to my feet.

That’s when I noticed someone standing directly in front of me.

I blinked. The figure was still there, silhouetted against the low sun. I wondered if maybe I’d passed out again briefly. One second I’d been alone, the next a man was right there, invading my personal space.

“You must be Vicky,” he said with a Welsh accent. “So sorry I’m late.”

I squinted up at him. He was about five-eleven and close to my age, with black hair and pale skin. Long, black lashes framed the darkest eyes I’d ever seen. They were velvety and opaque and seemed to suck the light in. He was handsome, but there was a touch of grimness in the way he held his mouth. He wore a black cashmere coat with a gray scarf, and I had absolutely no idea who he was.

“Do I know you?” When in doubt, be blunt.

“Where are my manners?” he said, grasping my elbow and helping me stand. “I’m your cousin Pryce. I’m here to give you a lift to Maenllyd.”

I stared at him. Cousin? He might as well have said, “I’m a talking chicken” for all the sense he made. Mom was an only child, and Dad’s only sister was Mab. As far as I knew, I was completely cousinless.

A door opened, and the Rhydgoch stationmaster came out onto the platform. “I see you found her, Mr. Maddox.” He tilted his head at me, “All right, luv?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”

Pryce hoisted my duffel bag. “Let’s get you to the house. I know Mab is anxious to see you.”

A BLACK PORSCHE WAITED IN A NO-PARKING ZONE IN FRONT of the station. Pryce tossed my bag in the trunk and then opened the passenger door for me with a sweeping gesture. “Your carriage awaits,” he said with a grin.

The smile emphasized how good-looking he was, erasing his grim expression and making the corners of his eyes tilt up. Yet there was no sparkle or gleam. You know how some people’s smiles light up a room? Pryce wasn’t one of those people. His smile felt more like a cloud had crossed the sun. It was those dark, light-eating eyes.

Then again, the whole world felt darker around the edges in my sleep-deprived state.

I’d barely fastened my seatbelt when Pryce accelerated and sped across the car park, fishtailing. Maybe we were going to fly to Maenllyd.

On the main road, though, he slowed down. Good thing, too. Once it left the village, the road became a country lane with high hedges on both sides as it twisted up and down through the hills. The road was too narrow for two cars to easily pass each other, so there were periodic lay-bys where one car could squeeze up against the hedge to let the other go past.

I studied Pryce’s profile as he drove. He had a square jaw, with hints of a five-o’clock shadow at half past three, and a long, straight nose. Those features kept his dark eyelashes from making him too pretty. A shock of black hair fell sideways across his forehead.

He didn’t look like anyone in my family.

Should I be worried? I’d climbed into a car with a complete stranger. Admittedly not my smartest move. But the stationmaster had called him by name, which made Pryce seem a little less sinister. And we were on the road to Mab’s house. If he passed Maenllyd’s gate, there was a sharp turn up the road that was impossible to take fast. If I had to, I could jump out of the car at that spot.

Or maybe Pryce could clarify the family connection and I could quit feeling paranoid. That sounded like a better idea than gearing up to hurl myself from the car.

“I’m probably too jet-lagged to think straight,” I said, “but I can’t figure out this cousin thing. I didn’t know I had a cousin. I mean, Mab is my only aunt, and she never had children.”

Pryce threw his head back and laughed. “No, you’re right there.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Our Mab as a mum. Amusing to imagine, you must admit.”

“But my dad had no other siblings. So . . .”

I thought he was going to laugh again, but he swallowed it. A small, tight smile returned the grimness to his face. “Surely you don’t believe Mab was Evan’s sister.”

Well, he knew my father’s name, at least. “She’s my aunt.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. More like . . . a great-aunt.” Again, that private smile.

I thought about the last time the three of us had been together—Dad, Aunt Mab, and me—at dinner the night my father died. We’d been laughing around the table; Dad was the only person I knew who could make Mab crack a smile, let alone laugh. Even to my eighteen-year-old eyes, Dad had looked young that night, his eyes sparkling with good humor. Mab, at the head of the table, had caught that sparkle, but her white hair and lined face made her seem old enough to be his mother. She could easily have been seventy to his forty-five. Now, I realized that I’d always lumped Aunt Mab in with all the other grown-ups. Like my parents, she was older than me and therefore just old. It was the perspective of someone very young and self-centered, but I’d never thought to question it.

Okay, it was possible. Maybe Mab was my grandfather’s sister, not my father’s.

“So where do you fit into the family?” I asked.

He slid his gaze sideways toward me, then went back to watching the road. “Don’t you ever wonder about dear Aunt Mab? Who is she, exactly? What’s your actual relationship?”

“No, I don’t.” I didn’t like his oily tone. “She’s always been my aunt Mab, ever since I was born. I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, but—”

“I? Insinuate? My dear cousin, I would never presume to insinuate anything. My apologies if it seemed that way.”

I half-turned in my seat to see whether he was mocking me, but he radiated sincerity. I’d probably misunderstood him. Half an hour ago, I’d passed out from exhaustion and hunger, so misunderstandings were definitely within the realm of possibility.

The Porsche turned right, and I relaxed as we passed through a stone gateway and onto the driveway that, after a long curve, led to Maenllyd. I craned to get a glimpse of the house.

“To answer your question,” Pryce said, “I’m what you might call a distant cousin. We share a common ancestor at a more remote point in history.”

“Oh, well, that makes sense.” He was Cerddorion—that was all he meant. Probably a sixth cousin twice removed or something like that. But I lost interest in Pryce as Maenllyd came into view. Breathtaking. A gray stone house, L-shaped, three stories high with a slate roof against a distant background of misty purple mountains.

Home. If there was any place in the world I could really call home, it was Maenllyd.

“Can you guess?” Pryce asked.

I kept my eyes on the house. “Guess what?”

“Our common ancestor.”

“I don’t know. A great-grandparent, I suppose. On Mom’s side?”

He laughed. “Further back than that, cousin. Much further. I’m referring to the goddess Ceridwen herself.”

“But—” Exhaustion was fogging my brain, because from what I’d just heard, Pryce was stating the obvious, like saying we had a lot in common because we both breathed air. “But all Cerddorion are descended from Ceridwen.”

He pulled into the gravel courtyard in front of Maenllyd and stopped the car. When he looked at me, his opaque eyes tugged unpleasantly at my soul. “Ah, but I’m not Cerddorion.”

“Then what—” The front door opened and Mab came down the stone steps. She was as poker-straight and dignified as always, but I could see she was hurrying.

God, it was wonderful to see her.

I opened my door and leapt from the car. The world wobbled as a fresh wave of dizziness hit, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I ran to my aunt and threw my arms around her. It was a little like hugging the wooden statue of Saint David in the village church, but I was used to that. She smelled like lavender. Mab tolerated my embrace, then gave me three brisk, light pats on the back: onetwothree. I’d always counted those pats—there were always three—ever since I was a child. Now, Mab followed them up with a quick squeeze. She was happy to see me, too.

I stepped back and grinned at her. She looked past my shoulder and frowned.

I turned. Pryce had gotten out of the Porsche and was leaning against the driver’s side door. “Hello, Mab. You never told me your niece was so charming.” He put a slight, sour emphasis on niece.

“I’m sure I’ve never told you anything about her.” Mab’s eyes were as cold as if she were staring down a demon. “And now you may leave my property.”

Pryce’s smile didn’t falter, but it grew as icy as Mab’s stare. He walked to the rear of the car, opened the trunk, and got out my bag. He kept his distance, setting the bag down near the car. Then he bowed to me, a stiff, courtly movement. “A pleasure, cousin.”

Mab’s frown deepened.

“Thanks for the ride,” I called as he slid back into the driver’s seat.

Gravel shot out from under the tires as he peeled out of the courtyard.

Mab stared after him until the Porsche disappeared around the driveway’s curve. Only then did her features relax.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“Come,” she said, taking my hand and tucking it under her arm. “You need to rest. Jenkins will attend to your bag.” She started toward the front steps.

“Mab . . .” I dug in my heels.

“I’m not patronizing you, child. There will be time for explanations later. Now you must sleep.”

Sleep, I had to admit, sounded like a terrific idea. “Okay, but I’ll carry my own bag.” I went over and picked up the duffel bag, getting the strap over my shoulder and lifting with my legs. No dizziness. I tucked my arm in my aunt’s, and together we walked into her house.

“I’ve had your old room made up,” she said as we entered the paneled front hall. “But of course, if you’d prefer any of the guest rooms . . .”

I shook my head. My first summer at Maenllyd, Mab let me choose the room where I’d sleep. I’d picked a narrow third-floor bedroom—previously a maid’s room—because I loved the sloping ceiling and the view of the mountains. Even now, I wouldn’t consider sleeping anywhere else.

Jenkins, Mab’s driver, gardener, and general handyman, entered the hall through a side door. “It’s our Miss Vicky come back to us at last!” he exclaimed, and kissed the top of my head as though I were a small child. Jenkins is six-three and built like a rugby player, so he can do that.

“Hello, Jenkins. It’s great to see you. How’ve you been?”

“Right as rain, Miss Vicky, right as rain. When your aunt’s not running me to exhaustion.” He twinkled at Mab. “Speaking of exhaustion, hand over that bag. I’ll just nip upstairs with it.”

I started to protest, then thought about climbing two flights of stairs, the second flight steep and narrow, up to my room. The idea made me want to sink down and fall asleep right here on the parquet floor. “Thank you, Jenkins.”

He plucked the bag from my shoulder and took the stairs two at a time.

“We’ll get you to bed in a few minutes, child, but first come with me to the kitchen. Rose is there.”

I followed her through the dining room, down a narrow hallway, and into the cavernous kitchen at the back of the house. By the big pine table stood Rose, Jenkins’s wife, looking exactly as I remembered her: plump and red-cheeked, strands of fair hair escaping her ponytail, wearing a pink-and-green floral apron smudged with flour. She ran over and folded me in a soft, warm hug that smelled of vanilla and cinnamon. “Oh, welcome home!” she cried. She let up on the hug long enough to tell Mab she’d put the kettle on, then pressed me to her again. I hugged back. I’ve always liked Rose. In the summers I’d spent here, her kindness often cushioned my aunt’s sternness.

We exchanged bits of small talk, and Rose said, “I’ll leave you two be, then.” She patted my hand. “Plenty of time to chat tomorrow.” With that, she bustled out of the kitchen.

“Sit, child,” Mab said. “I’m going to brew you some herbal tea. It will ensure that your sleep is free of dreams.”

Perfect. Take that, Destroyer.

I sat at the table while Mab got out the teapot and busied herself measuring dried leaves from various jars. I ran a hand along the table. It was silky smooth, worn from many years of use. In front of where I sat, along the bottom edge, were notches I’d made the summer I was fifteen and feeling rebellious. Mab was often hard on me—too hard, I’d thought. All my friends were having fun during vacation, and here I was slaving away, trying to please a teacher who was a hundred times tougher than any at school. So that summer I vowed I’d cut a notch for each time Mab said “Good job.” And I had. I’d sawed those notches with a butter knife. I ran my thumb over them now. All three of them.

Mab was a hard teacher, but she’d taught me well. Or so I’d thought, until Difethwr invaded my dreams.

“Tomorrow,” Mab said, “I’ll show you how to brew this tea. But bear in mind it’s only a temporary solution.”

My head drooped, partly because I was so tired—but partly because I was ashamed. I’d lost control of my own dreamscape.

“Don’t fret, child.” The kettle boiled, and Mab poured hot water into the teapot. The rising steam was fragrant with herbs—mossy, with hints of pine and flowers whose names I didn’t know. It smelled relaxing, like a safe, shady forest glade where a person could lie down and rest. Mab sat beside me and patted my hand, onetwothree. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Everything is unfolding as it must. Believe that.”

“But you don’t know what’s happened.” Thinking of T.J. and Gary and Sykes, I shuddered. “Terrible things.”

“I know more than you imagine. But now is not the time to discuss it. Tomorrow we’ll talk. And we’ll begin doing what we must do. Now, it’s time for you to sleep.” She looked at her watch. “The tea needs to steep for a few minutes more. Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready for bed? I’ve laid out a nightgown for you.”

The only time I ever wore nightgowns was at Maenllyd; I usually slept in sweats and a T-shirt. But the thought of putting on a clean nightgown and finally being able to lie down, snuggle under the covers, and unclench brought tears to my eyes.

“Go on,” Mab said. “I’ll bring up your tea.”

I took the back stairs from the kitchen to the third floor. Climbing those stairs felt like climbing Mount Snowdon, and I was grateful to Jenkins for carrying my bag. Five minutes later I wore a nightgown—white flannel sprinkled with violets, ruffles at the wrists and neck. I’d never choose it for myself. But it was clean and soft and warm and it smelled wonderful, like a gentle wind blowing up from the valley.

By the time Mab tapped on the door, bearing a tray with the teapot and a mug, I was sitting in bed, leaning against a pillow, my feet thawing under the covers. Mab set the tray on the nightstand, then poured tea through a strainer into the mug. It smelled as warm and safe as it had in the kitchen.

“Drink this, then sleep,” she said, handing me the mug. “No one will wake you.” She sat on the edge of my bed and smoothed back my hair with her cool hand. “All’s well for now, child.”

For now. Well, so be it. I was in no shape at the moment to fight whatever waited to do battle with me.

I took the mug in both hands and sipped. The tea tasted even better than it smelled. Its warmth wrapped me in a soft blanket, inside and out. Although it was hot, I drank it greedily. The warmth spread, along with a feeling of utter well-being. I slid down the pillow and curled up on my side. It felt good, so good, to close my eyes, and I was asleep before Mab clicked off the light.

16

I AWOKE TO GOLDEN LIGHT STREAMING THROUGH THE window. I didn’t need to look at the clock to know what time it was: an hour past sunrise at the latest. The early-morning light at Maenllyd has a special quality I’ve never seen anywhere else. It saturates everything it touches with a deep golden hue, intensifying colors and shooting them through with a magical quality that seems to purify the whole world.

My bedroom was cold. I wrapped the comforter around me and got up to look outside. The rag rug felt cozy under my feet, but stepping from it onto the wide floorboards was almost like stepping onto the frost that covered the lawn.

My breath fogged the pane; I wiped it clean with my sleeve. The scene below me, still and somehow holy in this light, was one I’d gazed on countless times. When I came here as Mab’s apprentice, there was nothing to do in this room besides study the stack of books Mab gave me and look out the window. I spent a lot of time at the window. I could have drawn its view from memory. Maenllyd is a big, L-shaped house. From the side wing, where my room was, I could see the main wing. Chimneys, four of them visible from here, bristled along the slate roof. The house was built of stone—Maenllyd means “gray stones” in Welsh—although the morning light washed the house with gold. The front door was at the far end of the main wing, with wide stone steps leading down to the gravel courtyard—the “coaching yard,” Mab called it. From the coaching yard, the driveway ran in a long, sweeping curve to the front gate. Past that, the road wound over the hills toward Rhydgoch in one direction and in the other toward the distant mountains, faint purple shadows against the sky.

Frost traced icy cobwebs in the windowpanes’ corners. My toes felt like icicles, and I turned away to find my clothes. My duffel bag was stashed under the bed, empty. Someone, Mab or Rose, had unpacked it as I slept. I found a pair of socks in the top dresser drawer and pulled them onto my grateful feet. What I really needed to warm me up was a shower—and showers were a particular pleasure at Maenllyd.

Years ago, after I’d chosen the third-floor maid’s room for my bedroom, Mab had surprised me when I returned the next summer with a luxury bathroom installed just for me. Two former servants’ rooms had been knocked into one and fitted with marble tile, gold taps—the works. In my bathroom, the floor would be warm, thanks to under-floor heating. But the best part was the shower, in a stall separate from the sunken whirlpool tub. Multiple showerheads streamed hot water from several directions and heights. After yesterday’s endless trip, a shower was going to feel glorious.

I found my underwear in the dresser and took a soft gray sweater and a pair of jeans from the wardrobe. I carried the bundle of clothes into the bathroom. Yup, the floor was warm; someone had cranked up the heat for me. I turned on the shower, then yanked the nightgown over my head and stepped into the shower stall. Jets of water soothed away the aches of travel. I lathered up with lavender-scented soap and washed my hair with shampoo that smelled like a whole bouquet of flowers.

I dried off with a thick, white towel, massaging wakefulness into my limbs. Then I got dressed, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair. Despite yesterday’s trials, I looked like myself today—no dark circles under my eyes, no exhaustion-induced sag to my skin. I was ready to face the world.

Almost. Mab insisted on a neatly made bed. In Boston, I wasn’t always so meticulous; it was nice sometimes to come back to the apartment and crawl into a messy nest. But that wasn’t an option at Maenllyd. I punched the pillow into shape, tightened the sheets, and dragged up the comforter. Smoothing out wrinkles, I realized how good I felt. Awake. Alive. Not only had I snoozed ’round the clock without interruption, I hadn’t dreamed. Hadn’t even worried about dreaming. It felt like I’d been born anew with that beautiful morning light.

That tea was good stuff. If my Drude-tormented clients could get hold of it, I’d be out of business.

I ran down the narrow back stairs from the third floor to the second. In the upstairs hall, I crossed the faded Persian rug to the main staircase. Here was where the décor got fancy—a carved teak banister, polished within an inch of its life, curved along wide stairs that descended gracefully into the front hall. I knew Mab would be in the kitchen at this hour, so it would have been more direct to take the back stairs, but it was a tradition for me to come down the grand staircase my first morning at Maenllyd.

Mab wasn’t in the kitchen. She stood waiting at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the newel post. Most people would find the thin, straight line of her mouth austere, but I could see the almost-invisible upturn at the corners that showed my aunt was smiling.

“Now I can say it: Welcome home, child.” Her smile quirked up another degree. “How are you feeling?”

I ran down the last few stairs and planted a kiss on her papery cheek. “Wonderful. Better than new.”

Her eyes scrutinized my face, and she gave a short, sharp nod. “Good. Because we must start work immediately after breakfast.”

“WHERE’S ROSE?” I ASKED AS WE ENTERED THE EMPTY KITCHEN.

“At the cottage. She and Jenkins are preparing for a shopping trip to the village.” So they were giving us privacy to talk. “Rose brewed a pot of coffee for you.”

After yesterday, my stomach clenched in rebellion at the thought of more coffee, but the delicious aroma won out, and I poured myself a mug. I was starving. I toasted two slices of bread, then slathered them with butter and Rose’s homemade strawberry jam. Mab watched me, sipping tea. She never drank coffee.

Plate in one hand, mug in the other, I sat in my usual place. My aunt watched me intently, her clear eyes—amber like mine—never leaving my face as I took a big bite of toast. Mmm. Rose made the world’s best strawberry jam.

“So,” I said, swallowing, “tell me about Pryce.”

“First, child, you must inform me of everything that’s happened since autumn. How long since you bound the Destroyer to yourself?”

She fixed me with her patented Mab stare, which blasted all thoughts of arguing. Okay, I’d go first—but she was going to answer my questions, too. “Nearly three months. It was the only way I could think of to send it back to Hell. I thought I’d defeated it.” Blood rose in my face. “Now I know that was dumb. But for months, it stayed away. For the first time in years, my demon mark was quiet.”

“No rages?”

“None at all. That’s why—”

“You should have told me, child.” Her voice sounded wistful, nothing like the reprimand I expected. I looked up in surprise. Mab had never gone easy on me. Not once. Now, her expression showed something like compassion. “If I’d known, we’d be better prepared, that’s all. But one can only begin from where one stands.” She blinked, and the brisk, no-nonsense Mab I knew was back. “You said the Destroyer spoke of Uffern, yes?”

“That’s right. You told me it means Hell.”

“Yes. The Destroyer is using your dreamscape to expand Uffern’s territory.”

Uffern overspills its boundaries. “That’s why it could appear in my dreams even though I banished it to Hell.”

“Precisely. And that’s also why it was so important for you not to sleep until I could give you that tea. Your dreamscape has been breached.”

Remembering yesterday’s exhausting journey sent a wave of tiredness through me. “You couldn’t give me the recipe over the phone?”

Mab tutted. “Is there an aisle in one of your American-style supermarkets where you can buy comfrey leaves gathered with a sickle-shaped silver knife on the east slope of a hill during a cloudless night of a new moon?”

You could pick up a lot of essentials at Star Market, but no, that wasn’t one of them. The witch-supply stores in Brookline weren’t even that picky about their herbs.

“It’s not just the Destroyer showing up in my dreams and creeping me out.” I told Mab about the three zombies who’d died. “Each victim was the last zombie I’d spoken to before I had a dream-encounter with the Destroyer. But their deaths were nothing like how the Destroyer kills.” I described the scene I’d encountered at Creature Comforts and in the lobby of my building and told Mab about the lab guy’s report.

She pursed her lips. “So it’s true. The Morfran is gathering.”

I glanced nervously at the teapot, then at the old cooking fireplace. The last time I’d tried to ask about the Morfran, Mab’s kitchen had filled with smoke. Today, though, not a puff.

“The Destroyer mentioned that,” I said. “ ‘ The Morfran emerges.’ What does it mean?”

“Morfran comes from two Welsh words that mean ‘great crow.’ The best way to describe it is . . .” Her eyes went vague as she thought. “As a spirit of insatiable, destructive hunger. For centuries, most of the Morfran has been imprisoned, only wisps of it loose in the world. Sometimes, one of those wisps of Morfran will possess a human and drive that person to commit terrible, destructive acts. Serial murderers, for example, are usually possessed by the Morfran.”

“No.” I shook my head. “That can’t be it. There’s no way a norm could have done that to those zombies.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right. But I hadn’t finished. It seems that Boston has attracted enough free-floating Morfran that the spirit doesn’t need to possess a human.”

“Why?”

“It’s your zombies, the walking dead. Crows are carrion-eaters. And the essence of the Morfran is hunger.”

It was like Daniel’s lab guy had said. T.J.—and by extension, Gary and Sykes—had been eaten. I closed my eyes, remembering the horror of black goo and leftover scraps of flesh. It must have been a real feeding frenzy.

There was one thing I didn’t understand. “The zombies have been around for three years. Why is this happening now?”

“There’s been only a very small amount of the Morfran free in the world, although I suspect that has changed in recent weeks. Even so, it would take time for enough free Morfran to find its way to Boston, coalesce, and consume one of your zombies. Presumably, wisps of the Morfran have been feeding on previously deceased Bostonians all along—an unexplained hole in a face or limb, a finger or toe missing.”

Yeah, we had zombies like that. Medical researchers labeled the condition “leprosy-like necrosis.” They thought it was an aftereffect of the virus. Wouldn’t they be surprised to learn it was a hungry spirit gnawing on zombie flesh?

Mab continued: “The Morfran cannot act on its own. It’s a feeling, a hunger, and it needs direction. The Destroyer used you as a lens to focus the Morfran’s destructive energies.”

Guilt stabbed at me. It was all my fault. Difethwr needed a bridge to send the Morfran after those zombies, and I’d lay down and said, Hey, why don’t you just walk over me?

Mab sat in silence. I figured it was time for me to get some answers. “Who’s Pryce?” I asked. “Why does he call himself my cousin? And how could he be descended from Ceridwen and not be Cerddorion?”

“Where did he approach you?”

I gave her a long look to show I knew she was avoiding my questions. At least she was addressing the topic, sort of. “At the train station. I thought you’d sent him to pick me up.”

“I didn’t know when you were arriving, or I’d have been there to meet you myself.”

“I tried to let you know. I called before I boarded at Euston and left a message with the cleaner at the Cross and Crow.”

“No message arrived here; Cadogan usually sends along any phone messages with the postman. So Pryce intercepted it, probably by chatting up the girl at the pub. He can be quite charming when he wants something.” She pulled a notebook and pencil from her pocket and made a note. “He must be staying there. I’ll ask Cadogan to keep an eye on him.”

“Pryce doesn’t live around here?”

“No. But I’m not surprised he’s arrived. Or that he tried to influence your first impression of him before I could warn you.”

No hurry there. It was like pulling teeth trying to get her to say two words about Pryce. “Well, now’s your chance.”

“Don’t be cheeky, child. I promise you’ll understand before the morning is done. What I can tell you now is that yes, I expected Pryce to come here. I’ve expected it ever since the Destroyer interrupted our communication.”

“They’re connected? The Destroyer and Pryce?” Somehow that didn’t surprise me. Something about Pryce—his dead eyes, maybe—suggested he’d be at home with Hellions.

Mab nodded.

“What is he, a sorcerer? Because my bond with the Destroyer takes precedence over any sorcerer who tries to command it.” That was how I’d stopped a power-crazed lunatic from flattening Boston last October.

“Pryce is no mere sorcerer, child.”

“Okay, so he’s not a sorcerer. He’s not my cousin. That’s two things he isn’t, but I still don’t know what he is.”

“You will, and soon. Today.” Something in her tone, something almost like pity, hinted that I’d end up wishing I’d stayed ignorant. “Our enemies have had three months to prepare. We must work quickly. Your first lesson will be to understand who those enemies are.” She stood and pushed her chair back from the table. “And that lesson begins now.”

17

I FOLLOWED MAB DOWN THE HALLWAY, THROUGH THE DINING room, and into the library. More than any room in this house, the library had “Mab” stamped all over it. Bookcases, full to overflowing, lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Four rolling ladders, one on each wall, were mounted on tracks, making it easier to retrieve books from the upper shelves. To my right, wing chairs flanked a huge fireplace, and in the far wall, French doors opened to the garden. A desk, chair, and sofa completed the furniture. Otherwise, everything was books, books, books.

“Sit, child.” Mab nodded toward the wing chairs as she went to a bookcase.

I paused in the doorway, reluctant to cross the threshold. In ten years, I’d never been able to shake the dread that gripped me whenever I entered this room. A particular spot on the Persian carpet drew my reluctant gaze. I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t stop myself. I never could. Through a watery veil of sudden tears, I looked at the place where my father had fallen the night he died.

That had been my fault, too. Damn it, how many would die before I defeated that Hellion?

I squared my shoulders and crossed the room, making a detour to avoid walking over the site of my father’s last moments on Earth. I went to the fireplace and sat in the chair across from Mab’s. I miss you, Dad. If you were here, we’d fight this thing together.

But I had Mab on my side, and you couldn’t ask for a better demon fighter. I turned around to see what my aunt was doing.

She’d taken down a book, and she clasped it to her chest with both arms as she came toward me. Instead of taking her seat, she knelt beside my chair. She moved easily, no stiffness to betray her age, and for a moment I remembered Pryce’s words: Don’t you ever wonder about dear Aunt Mab? Who is she, exactly?

Mab’s eyes bored into mine. How many times had I searched those eyes for some glimmer of approval? Now, they showed worry. But I could see my father in them, and myself. Whatever doubts Pryce wanted to raise, I knew this woman. She was family. I trusted her with my life.

Mab cleared her throat, like she was searching for the right place to begin. “When we spoke on the telephone, I said it was time to start your next level of training. After this morning’s conversation, I’m certain of it.”

I nodded. That’s why I’d dropped everything and flown across the Atlantic.

Clutching the book with her left arm, she laid her right hand on my knee. “The trouble is, I’m not quite as certain you’re ready for it. But I’m afraid we have no choice. The situation has outpaced us.” She took a deep breath, and something flickered in her eyes. “This book will be the basis of your training.” She held the book toward me so I could see its cover.

“No!”

I was out of my chair and halfway across the room before I realized I’d moved. My heart pounded against my ribs like it wanted to escape from my body every bit as much as I wanted to get out of that room.

That book. It was evil. I couldn’t bear to look at it. It was the book my aunt had told me never to touch. The one I’d taken down in spite of—no, because of—her prohibition and used to summon Difethwr. I was just acting out; I hadn’t meant to call the Hellion. But Difethwr came anyway. And it killed my father.

In ten years, I’d never stopped regretting I’d ever seen the damn book. And now it was going to be the basis of my training?

No.

No no no.

Mab appeared beside me. She took my hand, her grasp cool and calming. “I know you’re afraid,” she said, her voice gentle. “I know this feels like something you cannot do. But please sit down so I can explain.”

I let her lead me back to the fireplace. I stopped at a chair. My knees bent. I settled on the seat. My body did these things automatically, puppetlike. My mind, fogged by grief and shock, couldn’t be bothered with things like walking and sitting.

That book had caused the greatest tragedy of my life. I’d vowed never to touch it again. And now Mab wanted to assign me homework from it.

She sat opposite me, the book resting on her lap. Its cover was leather, an odd, pale shade that had always set it apart from the other books on the shelf.

“Is it really bound in human skin?” It was the only question I could formulate. The other questions, the essential ones, refused to be put into words.

“Yes, but that’s not important. What’s important, Victory, is that you understand why it’s necessary to do this now.”

“Necessary? How could it be necessary? You told me so many times that I was never, ever to touch that book. Never means never, Mab. It doesn’t mean, ‘We’ll wait until you’re in need of a little light reading.’ ”

“Enough of your cheek, young lady.” Mab’s voice was sharp. She took a deep breath and made an effort to soften it. “I always knew the book would become necessary to your training. But you were such a headstrong child that had I said, ‘Someday,’ you’d have insisted, ‘Now,’ and peeked into the book long before you did.”

“Maybe that would have been a good thing!” I was shouting, but I couldn’t help it. “Maybe I would have gotten myself killed, and Dad would be alive.” The book sat on my aunt’s lap, a malevolent presence. I could feel evil emanating from it like radioactive waves. “I won’t touch it, Mab. I won’t!”

“Victory, child, hush. Just for a few minutes, just so I can explain. This book tells the long history of the struggle between our kind and demons. It also prophesies how that struggle will end. The events you’ve described suggest its prophecies are coming to pass. For that reason, you must now familiarize yourself with its contents.”

“Why? So I can sit back and watch the end of the world happen? If it’s a prophecy, there’s nothing I can do to change it. It’s fate.” My clammy hands were clenched into fists, so tight my nails cut into my palms. Forcing them open and wiping them on my jeans, I wondered whether the book foretold my own death.

“A prophecy is not a script, child. It can be interpreted in many ways.”

“How am I supposed to interpret anything? The night I took that book down, I didn’t recognize its language. I can’t read it.” Even if I wanted to—which I didn’t.

“I believe that has changed. Look.”

She lifted the book from her lap and held its cover toward me. The title, stamped in gold and outlined in crimson, was an unintelligible jumble of letters. I shook my head. “No, I—” Then something altered. As I stared at the letters, words formed in my mind. The Book of Utter Darkness.

I blinked. I rubbed my eyes and blinked again. I couldn’t read the words, but I could understand them.

Confused, I looked at Mab. She nodded. “When you bound that Hellion to yourself, you gained the ability to understand the language of this book.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Your desires are beside the point. You need this book. It has information to help you battle the Destroyer.”

“Can you read it?”

“Parts of it. Certain parts remain hidden to me.”

“But you’ve never bound a Hellion to yourself.” Don’t you ever wonder about dear Aunt Mab? “Have you?”

“Don’t be silly. There are other ways to gain understanding of the language of Hell.”

The language of Hell. Great. “Like what?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

She ignored my question. “This book does not easily yield its secrets. You will find it frustrating to work with. You might stare at a passage for hours to no avail. Then, as you look away, understanding floods your mind. Or you may return to a passage you understood yesterday and find it closed to you. The book will also try to trick you. You must be vigilant.”

“What do you mean? How can a book trick someone?”

“You’ll see.” She leaned closer, holding out the book. “Take it, child. We need to find out what you can understand.”

Even from a foot away, the book gave off a stinging heat. I shrank back in my chair. I didn’t want it near me. Then I looked at my aunt. Her eyes blazed with an urgency that lit up her face. Mab believed it was important—necessary, she’d said. She wouldn’t put me through this if she didn’t have to. Mab was stern, she was tough, but she’d never been cruel.

Feeling like I was reaching into a pit of vipers, I took the book from my aunt’s hand.

A high-voltage shock zapped my arm. A bolt of lightning shot from my demon mark and scorched the ceiling. I shrieked and tried to hurl the book away. But it stuck to my hand like it was glued there.

I jumped up. Mab leaned away from me in her chair, her features round with surprise. I shook my hand, trying to shake the book away. My fingers gripped it like a vise, so hard they hurt. I couldn’t let go.

Something in my peripheral vision glowed red. That lightning bolt—was there a fire? I turned. No flames, but the place where my father fell glowed with red, misty light. The light brightened until it blazed as vivid as a sunset at its peak, the red shot through with streaks of purple and green—Dad’s colors. Then, like a sunset but faster, the light faded. Tears welled as I watched the glow disappear. When it was gone, the tears spilled over, wetting my cheeks.

My father had been dead for ten years. Yet he’d just told me he wanted me to do this.

I still held the book, although my fingers had relaxed their death grip. A residual tingle and odors of sulfur and charred flesh lingered, but otherwise I felt normal. I was standing in my aunt’s library, holding a book, something I’d done hundreds of times.

I sat down and turned to the first page.

IT WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE TO RECORD WHAT THE BOOK ACTUALLY said. It wasn’t like normal reading, where you run your eyes over the page, noticing how letters form words and words are arranged into sentences. Instead, I stared at the jumble of odd-shaped letters until my vision blurred. And then—sometimes sooner, sometimes later—a block of knowledge appeared in my mind.

Later, I tried to decipher the language by matching bits of that knowledge to groups of letters and symbols, but it always fell apart. Understanding receded and the letters closed ranks, moving around on the page to hide what I’d thought were divisions between words.

Mab had said it was the language of Hell. She said the book would try to trick me. To someone who got straight Cs in English, this wasn’t great news.

The book’s first chapter, and the only part I could read that day, was a history: the origins of the Cerddorion and demons we oppose. In that sense, it was like the Cerddorion history I’d studied at the start of my training, including the Mabinogion, a group of medieval Welsh stories, poems, and myths. Dad was a scholar of Old Welsh literature, and he loved the Mabinogion, but I’d never been all that interested. Mostly, it narrated endless battles and knights performing impossible tasks. The little bit about the origins of my race was written by a norm who clearly didn’t approve of magic or believe in shapeshifting. For starters, the Mabinogion demoted Ceridwen, the mother of my race, from a goddess to a witch. I’ve known some perfectly nice witches, but a goddess is a goddess.

The Book of Utter Darkness told the story from the demons’ point of view. It began like other histories, with the birth of Ceridwen’s first child, a son. Traditionally, Ceridwen’s baby was described as ugly, even hideous, but not here. According to The Book of Utter Darkness, the child had a noble bearing. He was also hungry, insatiably so. The moment his mother stopped feeding him, he screamed and howled. And each time he opened his mouth, the spirit of his hunger emerged—the Morfran. And so the essence of demons was created.

That’s why Morfran had sounded familiar: I’d seen the word in the Mabinogion. There, though, “Morfran” was a nickname for Ceridwen’s baby, who was so ugly his own mother called him “Great Crow.” Maybe the author of that account didn’t want to believe a newborn baby could be the source of all demons.

I turned the page to a hand-drawn illustration: A naked infant lay on the ground, arms and legs waving. From his wide-open mouth emerged a huge black bird—the Morfran, the great crow, created by the child’s hunger. I studied the picture for several minutes, then stared at the incomprehensible words until the story continued in my mind.

The constant feedings exhausted Ceridwen as the infant literally drained her life. She named the baby Avagddu—the name means “utter darkness”—because each time she fed him, he suckled so hard and so long the world began to go black. Unwilling to let the child deplete her life force, she gathered herbs to make a potion that would allow the baby to change its shape. That way, the hungry infant could become a calf, goat, sheep, or dog and suckle from other animals, letting Ceridwen regain her strength. She hired a shepherd boy, Gwion, to stir the potion as it boiled in a cauldron over an open fire. Gwion’s instructions were to keep the fire going and stir without ceasing until only three drops of potion remained. Those three drops would hold the concentrated magic to turn Avagddu into a shapeshifter.

As the shepherd boy stirred, the exhausted Ceridwen stuffed rags in her ears and went to sleep. She slept for weeks without waking. As Avagddu cried, more and more Morfran emerged. The cauldron absorbed some of it, and some possessed Gwion, already a greedy child, who began to hunger for the potion. At the crucial moment, Gwion scooped up the last three drops and, hot as they were, swallowed them. The overheated cauldron shattered, and Avagddu’s enraged howls reached a new pitch.

The Book of Utter Darkness depicted Gwion differently from other sources. Here, he was grasping and sneaky—a prime target for Morfran possession. In other histories, the boy started off as either ambitious or foolish, but he gained great wisdom from Ceridwen’s potion.

Back to the book. The shattering of the cauldron awoke Ceridwen, who saw what had happened. Furious at Gwion for consuming the magical drops, she chased the boy. As he ran, he changed into a rabbit to gain speed. Ceridwen shifted into a greyhound. When she gained on him, he leapt into a river and transformed into a fish; Ceridwen became an otter to hunt him there. The chase continued like that: Gwion shifting as he tried to escape and Ceridwen right behind him, her shifts always erasing his advantage. At last, when Gwion could run no more, he hid in a barn, where he dived into a storage bin and became a grain of wheat, hiding in a huge pile of other grains. Ceridwen changed into a black hen and pecked inside the bin. She, too, had a great capacity for hunger, and she gobbled up every grain—including Gwion.

The book implied this was a suitable end to Gwion: A greedy, treacherous boy succumbed to his hunger and landed in another’s stomach. But, as anyone who’d read the Mabinogion knew, it wasn’t his end. I turned the page. The story was appearing fast in my mind, as fast as if I were reading it. The next section related a scene new to me.

Ceridwen returned home to find Avagddu quiet, playing with a fragment of the shattered cauldron, cooing and smiling. Ceridwen knew the cauldron had absorbed much of the Morfran and become saturated with poison as the potion boiled. She tried to snatch the shard away from her son, but the hot iron burned her hand. Avagddu laughed at her pain, then went back to babbling at the fragment. Ceridwen watched him. He looked like he was having a conversation with the shard. Although the iron had burned her, the child seemed unharmed. And for the first time in months, the baby wasn’t howling. She let Avagddu keep his plaything.

Nine months later, Ceridwen gave birth to Gwion anew. The baby was perfect, and she named him Taliesin—“radiant brow”—to honor his beauty. Ceridwen favored the new baby, igniting a fierce hatred in Avagddu. The older boy spent his time huddled with his precious cauldron fragments. Ceridwen still couldn’t touch them without burning herself.

Avagddu drew dark magic from the fragments and transformed himself into a poisonous mist. The mist spread over Taliesin in his cradle, and the baby cried out for their mother’s help. Ceridwen came running and fanned Avagddu away. The older boy approached Taliesin as a snake, a beautiful butterfly, and a rain shower—all poisonous. Each time, Ceridwen rescued her younger son. But she realized Avagddu would never quit trying to kill his brother, so she sent Taliesin away to be raised by a human family. Frustrated that his hated brother was beyond his reach, Avagddu swore eternal enmity against Taliesin and the humans who fostered him.

And so three races were born with these events. Taliesin’s descendants were the Cerddorion. Avagddu fathered a race of demi-demons, the Meibion Avagddu, or Sons of Utter Darkness. And each searing, poisonous, iron-hard fragment of the shattered cauldron became a Hellion. The largest of them, Difethwr, remained Avagddu’s companion and chief retainer throughout his life.

I LOOKED OVER AT MAB, WHO STARED INTO THE FLAMES dancing in the fireplace. I’d been so deeply absorbed in the book, I didn’t notice her build a fire. Her eyes met mine.

“Are you all right, child?”

“Yes.” And I was, despite a slight ache behind my eyes from staring at the pages as the book whispered its story in my mind. The story had been familiar, yet different, with its emphasis on Avagddu and demons. In the Mabinogion and the Cerddorion histories I’d read, the whole point of the story was Taliesin’s birth. To the norms, Taliesin was a hero and the greatest Welsh bard. To the Cerddorion, he was the first member of a glorious race of shapeshifters. But in The Book of Utter Darkness, Taliesin was the enemy.

“This is the first I’ve heard of the Meibion Avagddu,” I said. “What are demi-demons?”

“They’re half demon, just as you are half human. Their shapeshifting powers are different. They have a human form, which enables them to move about in daylight. But they cannot turn into other creatures, as we can. Rather, they have shadow demons. That means they can assume their demonic form from twilight until dawn. But even in full daylight, the demonic half shadows them, following them in the demon plane.”

She held out her hand for the book. I was happy to pass it to her. As she took it, a cool, soothing sensation spread over my demon mark, like aloe vera on sunburn.

“The Meibion Avagddu are a depleted race,” Mab continued, holding the book in her lap and smoothing a hand across its pale cover. “Their females are barren. The males sometimes mate with human women, but two-thirds of the children from such couplings are stillborn. Of those born alive, half die in infancy.”

“Is that why I’ve never run into any?” Then I realized. I had run into one—who’d said we shared a common ancestor although he wasn’t Cerddorion. “Pryce is a demi-demon.”

She looked pleased I’d managed to put two and two together. “A powerful one. He fancies himself the leader of the Meibion Avagddu.”

Great. Sworn enemy of the Cerddorion and humans alike. And I’d hitched a ride with him. “He told me he was my cousin.”

“Do not trust him. Whatever Pryce says, he means harm—always. Remember that.”

I needed to read up on this other branch of the family, so I asked Mab for a book about the Meibion Avagddu. To my surprise, she told me my lessons were done for the day. “Your only text will be The Book of Utter Darkness. Your study of it can proceed only as the book is forced to reveal itself to you.”

It would be a lot easier if I could just get the Cliffs Notes. “How do I force it?”

“Not through effort. ‘Force’ was the wrong word, perhaps, because the things we associate with physical force—violence, weapons—have no power over the book. Rather, they feed it. You, yourself, must become such that the book can no longer resist you.”

“That sounds awfully Zen for a demon fighter.”

The corners of Mab’s mouth twitched in a tiny half-smile. “Binding the Destroyer to yourself was the first step. And that part is done; you need not deepen that connection. Now, you must focus on purity.”

Purity. That shouldn’t be too hard. Kane was absorbed in his case and Daniel, except for that one heart-thumping kiss, kept his distance. Anyway, both of them were on the wrong side of the Atlantic.

Mab noticed my blush. “I don’t mean physical purity, Victory. You must be purely yourself. That’s the simplest thing in the world, yet not as simple as it sounds. You bear a Hellion’s mark, and you’ve put your own mark upon the Hellion in turn.”

My heart sank. “It’s a lost cause, then. I’m contaminated.”

“No. The Hellion’s essence marks you, it’s true. But in the marking were the seeds of your purity. Only because you’ve been marked can you gain real purity.”

Whoa, definitely Zen. As in making your head hurt if you tried to make sense of it.

She reached over and patted my hand, then stood. “Now, spend the afternoon as you wish. Sleep if you like; you may find the book drains you. Take a walk. Or go visit Mr. Cadogan at the pub—but keep your distance from Pryce. Would you like Jenkins to drive you to the village?”

“No, I don’t feel up to socializing. But a walk sounds good.”

“That’s fine. I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

I lifted my jacket from the peg by the kitchen door and stepped out into a damp, gray day. Turning up my collar, I thought about what I had to do: Keep from dreaming, read a book written in a language I didn’t understand, and become pure through contamination. Piece of cake.

18

THE SUN STRUGGLED TO PUSH THROUGH THE CLOUDS AS I crossed Maenllyd’s sloping back lawn, heading toward the woods behind the house, where a public footpath would take me across neighboring fields and through more woods. The wind rattled tree branches and carried a scent of damp earth. The air was warm enough that yesterday’s powdering of snow had vanished.

As I walked, I tried to figure out what Mab meant about being pure. I climbed a stile over a stone wall to follow the path through a field, scattering a flock of sheep as I went. As the sheep broke and ran, I thought about how they were effortlessly pure, each one true to its nature as a sheep. The color of this animal’s fleece or whether that one had a long nose—none of that mattered. Each was simply what it was.

Well, hooray for the sheep.

Easy for them. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t be pure. That polluting Hellion essence was inside me, an ugly, permanent blot on my soul. Like a stain that would never come out no matter how much you scrubbed. I was marked by the Destroyer’s essence, and now I’d learned that essence was the Morfran. Those rages I’d suffered for ten years—yeah, “spirit of destructive hunger” described them perfectly.

I was polluted by the very thing I hoped to defeat.

You must be purely yourself. The burden of Mab’s words weighed on me like some kind of metaphysical backpack loaded with metaphysical bricks.

Forget it. I gave up thinking about purity and focused on recent events. Three zombies were dead, killed by the Morfran. Difethwr seized on our bond to invade any dreamscape where I was, using me as a lens to focus the Morfran, to send it after the last zombie I’d spoken to before I went off to dream-land. For now, thanks to Mab’s tea, the zombies were safe. But Mab said the tea was only a stopgap. We had to find something more permanent.

Preferably something that didn’t involve being pure, because I sucked at that.

“Hello, cousin.”

I whipped around and slammed him in the chest with an elbow strike before I realized it was Pryce. He grunted and staggered back, a hand on his chest. Two seconds ago, I’d been alone on the path.

“Where in hell did you come from?”

“In a manner of speaking, you could say that, yes,” he gasped.

His answer made no sense, but I wasn’t going to ask for an explanation. I wasn’t going to apologize, either. He shouldn’t have snuck up on me. Anyway, Mab said to avoid Pryce, and that was my plan. I moved past him and kept walking. A moment later, he fell into step beside me.

He wore gray trousers and a black cashmere sweater—no coat—and he carried a carved staff, using it as a walking stick. His shiny black shoes weren’t exactly hiking boots, but his feet seemed to glide over the trail.

“Go away,” I said. He didn’t reply, keeping pace at my side. Short of running down the trail like a crazy woman, I couldn’t do much to avoid him. I just wouldn’t talk to him.

But Pryce wasn’t interested in talking. He didn’t say a word. We came to a place where the footpath crossed a country lane. I turned right, onto the road. Half a mile along was another path that would take me back to Maenllyd. Pryce turned with me.

I stopped and faced him. “What do you want?”

His face was all innocent puzzlement. “Same as you, I’d imagine. I’m out for a walk.”

“Well, I’m out for a solitary walk. So you can take a hike. But not with me.” I started down the lane, away from him. Immediately he was beside me again.

“You do speak English, right?” I said.

“There’s no need for enmity between us, cousin. I’d prefer we were friends.”

“I’m not your cousin.” I walked faster, but he kept up with me.

After several tense, silent minutes, we reached a gate in a low stone wall—the entry to the footpath back to Maenllyd. I turned to tell him again to get lost, but he spoke first.

“You’ve begun reading The Book of Utter Darkness.”

“How do you know that?” I thought of my demon mark’s reaction when I touched the book. “Did your pet Hellion tell you?”

He grabbed my arm, digging in his fingers. “Difethwr is no one’s pet. Make no mistake about that.” His dark eyes pulled at mine. “Things that happen in Uffern—what you call the demon plane—are within my purview. That book, stolen by your aunt, belongs to Uffern. I’ve allowed her to keep it because I was waiting for you to find it again. It’s more than ten years since you last touched it.”

Ten years since the night my father died. The pain hit me as raw as it had that night. I leaned against the stone wall. I pictured my father, crumpled in a heap on the library carpet, his body so still. He looked unhurt, but the Destroyer’s flames burned inside him. My fault. It was all my fault. He’d died trying to protect me after I’d taken down that damned book. Mab didn’t understand how hard it was for me to read it now.

Pryce’s hand rested lightly on my shoulder. I wanted to push it away, but the contact felt good—solid, comforting. When I didn’t move, the hand settled a little more firmly. At that, I did shake it off.

“Mab doesn’t understand,” Pryce said.

Could demi-demons read minds? Or maybe he knew what it felt like to lose someone. I searched his face. It was hard to read; his grim mouth and eyes gave nothing away. But I didn’t detect any malice there. He wanted to be friends, he’d said. Maybe he meant it. To overcome centuries of hatred, someone had to make the first move.

Maybe Mab didn’t understand everything. Pryce didn’t seem hostile. He’d given me a lift when I was stranded at the train station, and he hadn’t even hit back when I nailed him with my elbow. I’d talk to him, cautiously. Maybe I’d learn something. He held the gate open, gesturing me through with his staff. We started across the field.

“So, you’re a demi-demon?” Great conversation starter, Vicky.

“I prefer the term Meibion Avagddu, the Sons of Avagddu.”

“You mean the Sons of Utter Darkness.”

He shrugged. “My ancestor didn’t choose his name any more than you chose to be called Victory.”

True. My father had given me that name, thanks to a prophetic dream he had before I was born. But I didn’t want to talk about me. “You said the Destroyer is no one’s pet. What’s your relationship with it?”

“The alliance between Hellions and the Meibion Avagddu is as old as our kinds. We cooperate to our mutual benefit.”

“Hellions don’t cooperate with anyone.”

“With anyone human, you mean. Hellions, like the Meibion Avagddu, are sworn enemies of humankind. That makes us natural allies.”

“And it makes you and me natural enemies.” I was a demi-human, after all.

His smile was tight, private. “After Gwion stole the potion, Ceridwen wanted to destroy the cauldron, and with it all Hellions. You can’t blame them for hating her—and the descendants she favored. But there’s no need for my branch of the family to be at war with yours.”

“That’s not what the book says. Do the words eternal enmity ring a bell?”

“What does ‘eternal’ mean, really? Not much. Times do change.” His dark eyes drilled into mine; it was like staring into the depths of a cave. “Wouldn’t you prefer reconciliation?”

Those eyes creeped me out. I looked away, at some sheep grazing far across the field.

“My ancestor Avagddu was a powerful spirit,” Pryce continued. “He was furious to find himself in the weak, helpless body of an infant. His cries were howls of rage and a hunger for the power that was rightfully his.”

“I can’t see Avagddu as a victim. Those howls created the Morfran.” And I’d seen firsthand what the Morfran could do.

“The time has come for the Morfran to reemerge.” He stated it as a fact, like the time had come for lunch. “For centuries, the Morfran has been weak. Imprisoned by your kind and kept from feeding. Its hunger is never sated, but when it cannot feed at all . . .” He let the thought trail off. “It’s been difficult. The condition of the Morfran is the condition of those who dwell in Uffern. We have been greatly weakened.”

And that’s a good thing. “But you’re not a demon. Only half.”

“Ah, but in that half lies all my power. I take this form in the Ordinary—that’s what we call your world—but I draw strength from Cysgod in Uffern.”

Cysgod was Welsh for “shadow”—I knew that one. “Cysgod is your shadow demon?”

“I prefer to say the greater, stronger part of me that’s not limited to this pathetic human form. Where you and I stand now, here in the Ordinary, Cysgod is no more than a shadow. But if you were to peek into Uffern, you’d see my demon side in all its glory.”

Something in his expression made me wary. “I’m not a big fan of hanging out in the demon plane.”

“Another time.” From the way he said it, he thought it was a sure thing.

“So this shadow demon of yours—Cysgod—is weak now.”

“ ‘ Weak’ is a relative term, is it not? Cysgod is exponentially stronger than any human. But no, that part of me is not at full strength. As the Morfran feeds, Cysgod will grow stronger.”

“It’s you.” I stopped and stared at him. “You sent the Destroyer into my dreams. You’re behind the Morfran attacks.”

“I’m doing what I can to bring an ancient prophecy to pass.” He ducked his head, like I’d complimented him and he was trying to be modest. “The Meibion Avagddu have waited centuries for the prophecy’s fulfillment. The first sign was the creation of your so-called zombies in Boston. They are food for the Morfran.”

They’re people, not food. I thought about T.J.’s easy grin. About how Gary’s bloodred eyes lit up at the prospect of talking Shakespeare with Juliet. About the look of determination on Sykes’s face as he turned away from freshly spilled human blood.

“This conversation is over. Reconciliation is impossible. I’ll do whatever I can to stop you.” I walked away from him, toward Maenllyd. He stuck with me.

“But cousin, you’ve already helped us. We couldn’t act until you brought the second sign to pass, binding Difethwr to yourself. When you did that, you created the bridge we needed between Uffern and the Ordinary. Since then, we’ve been gathering the Morfran and sending it to Boston to feed.”

“You can give up on that plan. I’m not letting you use me anymore.”

“It won’t be your choice.” His tone was ominous. “Soon we’ll no longer need a bridge.” Then his voice lightened again, and he sounded almost cheerful. “They’re in the book, all the signs and prophecies. Keep studying it. You’ll understand.”

Now I knew why Mab insisted that it was necessary for me to read that book. Pryce was using it like a road map. A new order rises. The Morfran emerges, and Uffern spills over its boundaries. The Brenin steps forward. He believed its prophecies pointed him toward power, that he was destined to expand Hell and become its king. My so-called cousin had serious ego issues.

“Yeah, I’ll keep studying, but only to learn how to defeat you.” And Difethwr. And the Morfran.

That made him laugh. “I’ve never understood the Cerddorion insistence on helping humans. They fostered your ancestor Taliesin, but so what? It’s proper for the weak to serve those more powerful. Yet Taliesin subverted the natural order and served humans instead. As have all the Cerddorion since.”

He grabbed my arm, yanking me a stop. His voice hissed in my ear. “Don’t you feel it’s wrong that humans run everything? They are weak, stupid herd animals, like those sheep.” He pointed at the grazing animals. “You and I, cousin, we’re descended from a goddess. We are greater, stronger. But through sheer numbers and dumb luck—and Cerddorion support—humans have unjustly seized rulership of the world.”

I shook my arm loose. “I told you, I’m not your cousin.”

“But surely you wish to be counted among the strong, the powerful. The time of weakness—the humans’ time—is passing. The Morfran’s emergence ensures that the descendants of Ceridwen finally assume their rightful place in the new world order.”

“And I suppose you’re the natural leader of this ‘new world order.’ ”

“Of course. But not myself alone.” He jumped in front of me and bowed low. “It is your destiny to share that power with me.”

This time I was the one to laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

His face was completely serious. “You cannot escape your destiny. No one can.”

“Oh, and you know my destiny?”

“Of course. Your father wasn’t the only one who received a prophecy before your birth. I did, as well.”

“Now I know you’re kidding.” I scrutinized his face. It was unlined, and his black hair was full and thick. “You couldn’t have been more than a couple of years old when I was born.”

“I’m much older than I appear. As is your aunt, by the way.”

“Don’t talk to me about Mab. I’m not interested in anything you say about her.”

“As you prefer.”

We walked in silence for several minutes. I knew he was waiting for me to ask. But I wasn’t going to. I had no intention of asking. There was no way in hell I was going to ask.

I asked anyway. “What prophecy?”

His smile was smug. “From a goddess two lines diverged, but they shall be reunited in Victory.”

“That could mean anything. I don’t see how it makes me part of your ‘new world order.’ ”

“I fail to see how it could be clearer. In you, Victory, the two lines—demi-human and demi-demon, Cerddorion and Meibion Avagddu—will become one again.”

“But—”

Pryce gestured, like he was swatting away my stupidity. “Don’t you get it? It means you’re destined to be the mother of my sons.”

I nearly tripped over my own feet. No way, no how, would I ever let Pryce touch me, let alone that way. If he wanted to hear the pitter-patter of little cloven hooves, he’d have to find someone else to beget his demon brood upon.

I turned to tell him so, and he punched me in my solar plexus.

The air whuffed out of my lungs as I doubled over. Pryce stepped back, and I twisted away. The wooden staff whooshed past my head, clipped my shoulder in a starburst of pain, and slammed into the ground.

I couldn’t get a breath.

The staff disappeared. As Pryce lifted it, I launched myself forward, head-butting him in the stomach. He grunted, staggering.

Rape. The ugly word clanged like an alarm bell in my head as I reached for the knife in my boot. He knows I’ll never give him what he wants, so he’s going to rape me.

There was no knife.

I was just taking a daytime walk, damn it. I hadn’t gone armed. Maenllyd was supposed to be safe.

My lungs started working again. I felt dizzy with the rush of oxygen, but I straightened, keeping my knees bent in a fighting stance. Pryce swung the staff at me like a club.

I jumped back, and he pressed forward, swinging the staff. His face twisted in an ugly scowl. He gave a particularly vicious swing, and as soon as the staff swept away from me, back toward his shoulder, I rushed in and smashed his knee with a stomp kick.

There was a pop. Pryce screamed and gripped his knee with one hand.

I wrenched the staff from his other hand and swung it as hard as I could, slamming it into his side. He flew sideways and hit the ground, one leg stretched out, the other bent at a weird angle.

I raised the staff to bring it down on his head. Why not? He’d tried to do it to me. The asshole wanted to rape me. I was acting in self-defense. He deserved to die. He deserved to be annihilated.

Fiery pain slashed my right arm. My demon mark glowed red.

Do it, something urged. Crack open his skull. Smash his face to a bloody pulp. Kill him. Kill him now! DO IT!

Cutting through that urging came Mab’s calm voice: You must be purely yourself.

Purity.

Shit.

It didn’t matter what Pryce deserved. The rage, the overwhelming compulsion to pound his head into a grisly mosaic—those didn’t come from me. They came from the demon mark, and I would not let that control me.

I would not kill anyone lying injured and helpless on the ground.

I hurled the staff like a javelin, as far as I could throw it. It landed among the sheep. The animals bleated and ran.

The voice clamoring for blood grew silent. My demon mark cooled, paled to pink.

At my feet, Pryce moaned. I kicked his shin, hard enough to get his attention.

He twisted his head to look at me. Sweat coated his forehead.

“If you ever try to rape me again,” I said, “I’ll kill you.”

He moaned and closed his eyes. Then he disappeared.

What the—? I stared at the place he’d lain a second ago. Something hit me hard from behind, knocking me onto my hands and knees. A vicious kick, then another, cracked my ribs. A shoe smashed into my nose. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breathe. Pain exploded in my back, my sides, my head. I curled up, covering my head with my arms and trying to make myself too small to be a target. The attack continued, the blows kept coming, and the world dissolved into an agonizing haze of hurting, hurting, hurting.

Then it stopped.

Something grabbed my hair and yanked my head up. “Understand one thing, cousin,” Pryce’s voice growled in my ear. “I’ve no need to take by force what is mine by destiny.”

He let go, shoving my head back onto the ground. Cloth rustled. I blinked the blood out of my eyes and squinted up at him. He stood over me, whole and unhurt. “I wanted to see what you’re made of,” he said, “and I must say your performance was disappointing. It worries me. Prophecies, after all, are tricky things. So I’m glad for the tests.”

Tests. The word drifted on a dark sea of pain. I couldn’t grab hold of it. What was he talking about?

His voice changed, becoming loud and echo-y, like he was shouting across a canyon. “There will be three tests. If you survive them, I’ll know you are fated to bear my sons.”

Light flashed; tremors shook the earth. When the quaking stopped, I was alone.

19

EVERYTHING HURT. I TRIED TO TAKE AN INVENTORY OF MY injuries, but the individual pains blended into one big ball of agony. I knew several ribs had cracked, my nose was broken, and probably my right arm, too. My liver and kidneys throbbed with pain. One eye swelled shut; the other was a mere slit. I coughed, and pain wracked my chest. Bloody mucus spewed onto the ground.

When I tried to sit up, pain stabbed me in so many places I gave up and fell back to the ground. I had two choices. I coughed up more blood, then groaned. Make that three choices: I could just die right now. But I wouldn’t let Pryce win so easily.

So, two choices: I could lie here and wait for Mab to send a search party. But that would take hours, especially because she didn’t know which way I’d set out walking. Cold seeped from the ground into my fractured bones. I didn’t know if I’d make it that long.

Or I could shift. Shifting would fix my broken bones. Soft tissue was trickier. My internal injuries might heal imperfectly, or not at all. And the effort of making the shift might require more energy than I could summon. If I tried to shift and failed, I’d be left in this battered form, too weak to heal. I’d die before Mab could find me.

A freezing raindrop hit my face. More followed, a few random splatters that soon became a steady downpour. Each drop felt like a needle of ice piercing my flesh. I couldn’t lie here helpless until someone happened to find me, wounded and half-frozen. What if no one did? And what if Pryce came back?

There was really only one choice. I’d have to try shifting.

A gentle bleat wafted across the field, and I remembered the flock of sheep we’d seen. Pryce had nothing but contempt for the creatures, but right now they sounded like safety to me. I could hide among them. If Pryce returned, he’d never know I was here. He’d find nothing but bloodstains on the ground and a flock of stupid sheep.

I closed the eye that still worked—even that small movement hurt—and concentrated. I pulled the sheep’s bleating into me, filling my mind with it. I thought of fleece, thick and soft and warm, protecting me from the rain. I sniffed the air, searching for a hint of grass. I focused on these sensations, letting them fill me, folding them into the core of my being.

And I began to change. An energy field glowed around me as my arms and legs thinned, as my nails hardened and thickened into hooves. Woolly fleece sprouted, diminishing the cold as it grew along my belly and back, my neck and head. My nose lengthened and broadened. Sounds sharpened as my ears grew. The shift hurt—God, it hurt—as my body reshaped itself. But the pain was different. This was the pain of creation.

The energy field flared . . . then flickered. Panic sped my heartbeats. It wasn’t working. I’d fall back to my usual form or, worse, end up half-shifted and dead from the effort. I couldn’t let that happen. Pushing aside the fear, I poured every ounce of concentration into changing. The energy glowed brighter, then a little brighter. With a flash, it exploded outward in sparks and stars and fiery spirals.

Why did I lie here alone? Bleating over there. My kind, calling me. Flock meant safe. I bleated back. Other voices answered. I stood up, trotted to the flock.

Into the midst of them I went. Smell of sheep all around me, warm and safe. I bleated, happy. Grass smell. Old grass, winter grass, not new. Hungry. I lowered my head to graze.

I ate and ate. Warm, fleecy bodies on all sides. Safe. Ate more. Light dimmed. Then sudden movement on this side and that, all around. The flock bleated a warning. I ran, bleating too, keeping with the flock. Must stay together. Others slowed. I slowed with them, stopped. Looked back. What made us run? A two-legs walked through our field. Just walked. No danger. I bent to graze. The two-legs bleated in a high, strong voice.

“Vicky!”

Up jerked my head. I looked at the two-legs. Why did her bleat call to me?

“Vicky!”

Something good about this one. Carrots? Apple? I stepped toward her. She kept walking, toward the stone barrier. I bleated, went faster. Had to catch up. Something good.

The two-legs stopped. Looked at me. I trotted to her. Nudged at pockets. No apple smell. No carrot smell. But the two-legs’ smell was good. Safe. Like home.

“Oh, Vicky.” She scratched behind my ears. It felt good. I leaned into her. Warm. Happy. She stepped away. I stepped with her. She walked on the path, away from the trees. A bleat behind. I stopped, turned. There was the flock. But here was the two-legs who felt like home. I stood, not sure where to go.

“Vicky, come.” Two-legs clicked her tongue and patted her pocket. Apples, maybe. Or carrots. I followed her across the field.

WHEN I OPENED MY EYES, I KNEW EXACTLY WHERE I WAS—home at Maenllyd, in the shift room. What I didn’t know was how I’d arrived here. I had only dim, fuzzy memories of following Mab away from the flock.

The shift room is a special room in Maenllyd’s cellar. Ten by twelve, its cement floor has a drain in the center. Small, barred, horizontal windows near the ceiling let in light. A cot is pushed against one wall. There’s only one door, with an automatic lock. Beside the door is a numbered keypad.

Although it sounds like a prison cell, the shift room is really a recovery room. It’s a place where Mab or a visiting relative or I can go in animal form, a place where we’ll be safe until we shift back to our human forms. The locked door keeps any animal contained, but once someone shifts back to human form, they just tap a four-digit code, written on the wall, into the keypad to open the door.

I lay under a blanket on the cot, feeling like an elephant had been flamenco dancing on my skull. Experimentally, I stretched to see what else hurt. Pretty much everything. But it was an achy soreness, not the battered agony that made me believe I was dying.

Something was in my mouth. I spit it into my hand: a disgusting mess of semi-digested grass and bits of other stuff. Gross. Brilliant idea, shifting into a cud-chewing animal. At least there was no blood in it. I sat up and threw the mess on the floor. I’d come back and clean it up later. The room needed to be hosed down, anyway.

“Here, child, use this handkerchief.”

I bunched up the blanket in front of me. Mab sat in a wooden chair a few feet from the cot’s head. Her face looked grim, even fierce. To me, that look was beautiful. My aunt—strong, formidable, watching over me, never letting the bad guys win.

I took the handkerchief and wiped my mouth and hands. “What time is it?”

“Just past seven in the morning. You shifted back eight hours after I found you.” The corners of her mouth quirked. “We must have made quite a sight, me lifting you over the stile. I was quite terrified Farmer Davies would shoot me for stealing one of his sheep.”

I rubbed my temples and tried to remember. In human form, it’s hard to make sense of animal memories, all flashes and sensations and nudges of instinct. I remembered following Mab across the field, squirming and kicking as she lifted me in her preternaturally strong arms. Being on the other side of the stone wall. Trotting behind her. Balking at the kitchen door, then tempted inside as someone—Rose?—gave me a whiff of chopped-up apples in a bowl. My hooves clicking strangely on the flagstone floor. Eating. Feeling sleepy.

“You put sleeping herbs into the apples?”

She nodded. “And the herbs to prevent dreams. Also some for healing.”

That explained my headache. I’d probably ingested enough magical herbs to knock a human into next month.

“You were weak,” Mab went on. “It was clear you needed rest. When you shifted back to human form, you had bruises all over. You must have been very badly hurt, especially considering the moon phase.”

Shifts are strongest around the time of a full moon. The animal brain takes over more strongly—and healing happens faster. Tonight would be the first night of the full moon. Mab was telling me that, without shifting, I would have died.

She set her mouth in a grim line. “What happened, child?”

I stood and wrapped the blanket around me, then sat on the cot. Every muscle screamed; I felt like I’d sprinted a marathon.

“Is it bad now?” I asked.

Mab reached into her pocket and produced a hand mirror. “I thought you’d ask.”

I studied my reflection. Two black eyes, faded so that they looked like they’d happened a week ago. My nose was straight and unbroken. No cuts, although a new scar, thin and white, marked a corner of my mouth. I peeked under the blanket. Faint, yellow-green bruises mottled my torso.

I returned the mirror. “You were right about Pryce. He definitely means harm.”

Mab drew in a sharp breath. “He attacked you?”

“Right after he shared his evil plan for world domination.”

Her brows slanted downward, like she thought I was making an unfunny joke. I sat on the cot and told her about my conversation with Pryce, how he was using the Morfran to strengthen Uffern’s demons and expand the demon plane into the human world. I left out one thing: Pryce’s desire to make little demon babies with me. I knew I should tell Mab, but I decided not to. Yet. From a goddess two lines diverged, but they shall be reunited in Victory. It was too crazy. I needed time to think about it.

“I said I’d stop him,” I said, “and he got me with a sucker punch. I fought back. I thought I had him, too. One second he was moaning on the ground at my feet, the next he was gone. Somehow he got behind me. Once he did, he beat the crap out of me.”

“He went into the demon plane. His human form regenerates there.”

“So he can pop into the demon plane, and then pop out again at another location?”

“If the sites are close together, yes. Otherwise, he must pass deeper through Hell, but he can travel anywhere on Earth that way.” She paused for a moment, her eyes distant, then gave a single, brisk nod. “Get washed and dressed. We must press forward with your training.”

I stood. I wasn’t eager for another session with The Book of Utter Darkness. The Book of Utter Evil was more like it. But it was necessary—I could see that. Pryce had to be stopped. Aside from the whole world domination thing, he’d just made it personal.

“Vicky.” Mab put her hand on my arm. “If Pryce attacked you, it’s because he fears you.”

“Maybe,” I said and kissed the top of my aunt’s head. Or maybe demi-demons just had peculiar ways of courting a girl. But if Pryce didn’t fear me now, he would—and soon.

IN MY LUXURIOUS BATHROOM, THE FIRST THING I DID WAS vomit long and violently into the toilet. When I’d puked up all the cud a sheep’s stomach could produce, I rinsed with mouthwash. Not yet minty-fresh enough, I brushed my teeth and flossed out some stray blades of grass, then went back to the mouthwash bottle for another round. Then I took a long, steamy shower, letting those jets of water soothe away my aches.

Being a shapeshifter wasn’t always a nonstop glamor-fest.

I put on some jeans but had trouble choosing a sweater. No wool—anything but wool. I found a ribbed red cotton turtleneck and pulled it on. If I shifted today, I’d better not choose a turtle. I wouldn’t have anything left to wear.

My stomach was feeling better, so I headed downstairs and grabbed some coffee and a fresh-baked muffin from the kitchen. Rose’s eyes widened when she saw my battered face. “It looks worse than it is,” I told her. She gave me another muffin.

Soon, I was in the library, stretched out on the sofa studying The Book of Utter Darkness as Mab sat in her chair by the fireplace. The illustration I’d seen yesterday had changed. Before, Avagddu had looked angry, howling with hunger and rage. Now, the infant was laughing. Instead of a single crow flying out of Avagddu’s mouth, there were hundreds. The sky was dark with crows. The Morfran emerges.

When I tried to read the story again, the meaning wouldn’t take shape in my mind. Here and there, I caught a single word or phrase—Avagddu, Great Crow, hunger—but the story itself remained obscure, nothing but incomprehensible combinations of letters.

I turned pages until I reached the end of the story of Avagddu and Taliesin. Or where I thought the end was. Without being able to read the words on the pages, I couldn’t be sure. So I began again.

It took forever. I’d stare at a page until I started to go cross-eyed, waiting to see whether understanding would flood my mind. The process wasn’t helping my headache. I tried to be patient, to be calm, to keep myself centered. But I’m not a patient person on my best day, and the frustration of trying and trying and trying to understand a book I couldn’t read drove me crazy.

I turned a page, snapping it and nearly tearing the parchment. Take it easy, Victory. Then I realized that Victory wasn’t self-talk—the book was sending the word into my thoughts. I stared at a group of letters, and the impression of Victory grew stronger. Keeping still, as though moving would dissolve the meaning, I waited. More words appeared in my mind.

When the dead walk, then shall Victory bind itself to the legions of Hell.

Pryce’s first two signs: zombies in Boston, and the strengthening of my bond with Difethwr. I’d done that for my own reasons, not to fulfill some stupid prophecy. And I didn’t appreciate being referred to as an it. Or did the sentence even refer to me? Maybe the book was predicting some kind of triumph for the Hellions. Mab said the book would try to trick me; I shouldn’t jump to conclusions about its meaning.

I moved my eyes to the next line: A new order shall rise when the Morfran emerges anew. Then shall Uffern breach its boundaries and the Brenin step forward.

That was what Difethwr had said to me in Tyler’s dream. It was happening now. The Morfran was out there, killing zombies. Uffern—the demon plane, Hell, whatever you wanted to call it—expanded into any dreamscape I entered. And Pryce, styling himself as King of the Demons, had stepped forward in a big way. I had the bruises to prove it.

The next line exploded in my mind like fireworks. Then shall the prophecy be fulfilled: From a goddess two lines diverged, but they shall be reunited in Victory.

I threw the book across the room.

“Victory!” Mab jumped from her chair. I couldn’t help it. I wanted those words out of my mind. And I didn’t want that damn book anywhere near me.

Mab picked up the book and inspected it for damage. I expected a scolding, but she sat beside me on the sofa. She placed one hand on my leg and the other on the book in her lap.

“What did it tell you, child?”

Instead of answering, I stood and walked to the French doors. My heart beat like a moth slamming itself over and over against a lighted window. I reached up to smooth my hair and realized I was shaking. I didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to be part of some goddamn prophecy from Hell. Rain dripped from the eaves and splashed onto the flagstones.

Mab came up behind me. I didn’t hear her, but I saw her reflection in the glass. Transparent, silent, like a ghost. She reached for my shoulder. I flinched, and she dropped her hand.

“I know this is difficult, child. But as I said when we began, it’s necessary.”

I nodded. The rain went drip-splash, drip-splash. That book had killed my father. It would be the end of me, too. I could feel it.

“Come. At least show me which section you were reading.”

I let her take my hand and guide me over to her desk. She sat me down in the chair and opened the book in front of me.

I lifted a hand to turn the page but froze halfway there.

Mab leaned over from where she stood behind me. “I’ll turn the pages. Tell me when we reach the part that upset you.”

Okay. I could do that.

Slowly, she paged through the book. She passed the picture of Avagddu, passed the dozen or so pages beyond it I hadn’t been able to understand. Then, as before, the word Victory appeared in my mind. “Stop!” I grabbed her wrist.

The page contained an illustration that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was a different page—it was impossible to know. The picture showed a rocky hill with a small, square opening, like a darkened doorway: some sort of cave, or maybe a mine or a dolmen. Beside the cave, bigger than the hill itself, stood Difethwr, pointing. A cloud of bats flew out of the cave and in the direction of Difethwr’s pointing claw. I looked closer. Those weren’t bats. They were crows. The Morfran emerges anew.

Mab put on her reading glasses and peered over my shoulder to examine the page. After a few minutes, she took a magnifying glass from her desk drawer and leaned in closer. More minutes passed before she shook her head.

“That part of the book has always been closed to me,” she said. “I thought perhaps I could read it today, since the book granted you understanding. But I cannot. The new illustration gives me an idea, but it may be misleading.” She closed the book and put her hand on my arm. “So I’m afraid I must ask you again, child. What did it tell you?”

“It was a prophecy. Parts of it have already come true.” I told her about the dead walking and Victory binding itself to a Hellion. She nodded. “The next part was what the Destroyer said to me in my client’s dream. About a new order and the Morfran emerging and a king stepping forward. Pryce thinks he’s that king, doesn’t he? He talked about a new world order, too.”

“Did the book say ‘king’ or ‘Brenin’?”

“Isn’t brenin Welsh for king?”

“Yes, but it’s also a title. The Brenin is a sort of emperor of the demon realm.”

“That’s what the book said. Brenin.”

“Is that what upset you? That the book echoed the Destroyer’s words? Don’t let that frighten you. All Hellions know this book by heart.”

“No, there was something else.” I didn’t want to say Pryce’s prophecy out loud, but maybe Mab could help me understand it differently. I took a deep breath and said the words: “ ‘ From a goddess two lines diverged, but they shall be reunited in Victory. ’ ”

The expression on Mab’s face showed she was as disgusted by the idea as I was.

But she shook her head. “I’m sorry, child. I didn’t catch that. Could you say it again?”

I repeated the words, just as Pryce had said them, just as the book had shoved them into my head.

Mab shook her head. “I can’t understand you. It’s as though you’re speaking in tongues.”

I stared at her. “Can you understand what I’m saying now?”

“Yes, perfectly well.”

“Okay, let me try again. ‘From a goddess two lines diverged, but they shall be reunited in Victory.’ ”

“You repeated the prophecy exactly each time? Word for word?”

“Yes.” By now I’d said it so many times that the hated words were etched into my mind in fiery letters. They really were starting to feel like destiny.

Mab inspected the book through the magnifying glass again, then sighed and rubbed her eyes. “The prophecy is cloaked. I can’t read the book. When you spoke, the words sounded different each time, not in any language I recognize. Just random sounds.” She thought for a moment. “Try paraphrasing. Say it in your own words.”

“Pryce thinks it’s my destiny to reunite the Cerddorion and the Meibion Avagddu by having his baby.”

Mab heaved an exasperated sigh. “I can’t understand.”

This was ridiculous. I grabbed a pen and a pad of paper from Mab’s desk and wrote out the prophecy. I can’t claim to have the world’s greatest handwriting, but it was legible. I read it over to make sure, then passed the pad to Mab.

“It’s gibberish, child.”

I looked again. She was right; the words had changed. The sentence I’d written had morphed into a long string of random letters.

I stared at the page, willing the letters to change back, to say what I’d written. But they stubbornly remained as they were. Something was forcing me to keep Pryce’s prophecy secret.

AFTER ANOTHER HALF HOUR OF TRYING, I COULDN’T GET anything else from the book. Every line I stared at, every page I turned, trumpeted the same message: From a goddess two lines diverged, but they shall be reunited in Victory.

The damn book was taunting me.

When I looked up, bleary-eyed, Mab was watching me as intently as if the book’s meaning were reflected in my face. “Anything?” she asked.

“No.” I rubbed my temples, trying to ease my persistent headache. “Just that same prophecy, over and over.” I took another stab at saying it out loud, but Mab shook her head.

“Why can’t I make you understand? Is there a spell on me?”

“No. But the book owns its words and decides who may receive them.”

“That’s one hell of a copyright.”

“Indeed. Never forget, child: The book tries to control your understanding of what you read. There’s a part of the prophecy it doesn’t want you to discuss with me. That suggests your current understanding of the prophecy is aligned with what the book wants you to think. Do not consider your understanding true or inevitable. Be open to other interpretations.”

I nodded, but I had my doubts. What else could it mean? Pryce had made it so clear.

“Enough of the book. Now,” Mab said, standing, “it’s time for lunch. Then I’m going to teach you how to fight the Morfran.”

20

I STOOD ON THE SLOPING BACK LAWN. HUGE, PUFFY CLOUDS filled the sky. A steady wind blew, and I was glad my hair was short enough to stay out of my face. Something told me I’d need my concentration.

Beside me, Mab wore her usual weapons-practice outfit: a black turtleneck and narrow black pants. No helmet, and no elbow or knee pads, so she didn’t expect things to get too physical. Good. The shower helped, but I still ached from yesterday’s beating.

I was ready to learn how to kick some Morfran ass, and I said so.

Mab frowned at my choice of words. “The Morfran lacks that anatomical part,” she said in her lecturer voice. “It’s different from any demon you’re accustomed to fighting. As I told you yesterday, it’s a hunger. It requires direction, which it gets in one of two ways. The Morfran can take possession of someone who already has a propensity for destructive hunger.”

“You mentioned serial killers.”

“Yes. Mass murderers also, and those who commit wartime atrocities. But Morfran-possessed humans are relatively rare, and they’re not our concern.” She gestured, pushing that topic away. “As you’ve learned,” she continued, “the Morfran is the essence of all demons, created by Avagddu. Demons can direct the Morfran, but only within their own realm.”

“Uffern.”

“Yes. That’s why Pryce needed your bond with the Destroyer as a bridge. Through you, he could push demonic control of the Morfran into the human plane.”

“So why not just set me up with a lifetime supply of that no-dreaming tea?” As soon as I said it, I knew it wouldn’t work. “It’s not only my dreams. The Destroyer got into that client’s dream. I’d never be able to make a living if I couldn’t enter anyone’s dreamscape.” Drude exterminations were my number-one source of income.

“There are two additional concerns. One”—she held up a finger—“the tea is a temporary solution. No one can live for long shut out of their own dreamscape. In time, your body would circumvent its effects. Two”—she held up a second finger—“as the Morfran grows stronger, Pryce needs you less.”

“He said something like that yesterday.”

Mab dropped her hand, and urgency tightened her features. “The Morfran has already fed three times. As it strengthens, so do demons. And the Morfran calls more of itself to itself. When the Morfran reaches critical mass, the demons will gain power they haven’t possessed in centuries.”

Bad news. I’d been fighting demons for ten years. More than once, I’d nearly been killed on the job. But Mab was saying that those demons were a bunch of wimps compared to what was coming if we didn’t stop the Morfran.

As if to confirm my thoughts, Mab nodded. “Humanity thrives because our kind has kept the Morfran contained. Most of it, anyway. But now, I fear, Pryce has discovered how to release the Morfran. I’m going to teach you to put it back where it belongs.”

“Good. I’m ready.”

She picked up a piece of dark gray slate, about three feet high by two feet wide, like the slate flagstones lining the terrace behind Maenllyd, only bigger. She lifted the heavy tile like it weighed nothing, carried it across the lawn, and leaned it against the trunk of a tree five yards away. Then she returned to where I stood.

“Have you ever heard the expression stone the crows?” she asked.

“Um, no.”

“It expresses disbelief or annoyance. As in ‘Stone the crows, my bloody car broke down again.’ ”

I shrugged, suppressing a smile. Swearing—even a mild oath like “bloody”—was so out of character for my aunt.

“No matter,” she went on. “It’s more than an expression. It’s an ancient practice.”

“Like farmers throwing stones at crows to shoo them away from their crops?”

“There is that. But I’m speaking of an ancient magical practice. Remember that Morfran means ‘great crow.’ The Morfran can be imprisoned in stone. In slate, to be specific.”

She produced a dagger, easily the most beautiful I’d ever seen. Its bone hilt seethed with carvings of twining vines, symbols, and letters. The blade, six inches long, was made of glassy black stone that glowed with silver light. My fingers itched to heft it and feel its balance. I doubted Mab would let me touch it today. I’d had to practice with wooden swords for two years before she let me try the real thing—and then it was another whole summer with a blunted blade.

“It’s an obsidian athame,” Mab said.

“An athame? I don’t know anything about witchcraft.”

“You don’t need to. Witches call their ceremonial dagger an athame because it’s not a weapon but a tool for directing energy. That’s how we use this knife, as well.” She spun it a few times, like a gunfighter in a classic Western. “What are the magical properties of obsidian?”

Oh, crap. Minerals and gemstones were my weakest area. I hadn’t thought about that stuff in years. “You could’ve told me there’d be a quiz. I would’ve studied.”

“Don’t be flippant. Obsidian—as you should know—disperses and redirects negative energy. The bone hilt lends strength and acts as an intensifier; its carvings are spells written in the language of The Book of Utter Darkness. The athame’s name is Hellforged.”

“Wait . . . Hellforged?” Suddenly, the dagger looked more ominous than beautiful.

Mab nodded. “It was created in Hell, by Hellions, as a tool for directing the Morfran. Your ancestor Nimuë stole it and used it to imprison the Morfran.” Nimuë, a formidable Cerddorion demon fighter, shows up in norm culture as the Lady of the Lake in legends about King Arthur. She gave Arthur his sword Excalibur and caused Merlin some trouble.

“It’s a powerful tool,” Mab said. She held out the athame, hilt first. “Take it.”

I couldn’t have heard her right. “Now?”

Mab gestured impatiently. “I’d prefer to proceed more slowly, but there’s no time.”

The dagger was a beautiful object, well wrought and glowing with a mystical silver light. But I didn’t want to touch it, not if it was Hellion-made. Any time I messed with Hellions, I came out on the losing side.

Mab gestured again, and I reluctantly took the athame. When my fingers closed around the grip, a jolt of electricity shot up my arm. The dagger leapt skyward, yanking my arm with it.

“Hey!” I let go before the damn knife pulled my shoulder from the socket. When I did, the athame fell to the grass and lay there, looking innocent. If the thing had a face, it would’ve been wearing a “Who, me?” expression.

I rubbed my shoulder. “What the hell happened?”

Mab, bending over to pick up the dagger, glanced at me. “Purity, child.”

At first I thought she was telling me to watch my language, then I remembered what she’d said yesterday.

“You mean I’m not pure enough to use it.”

She balanced the athame on her open palm. “You are marked by Hellion essence. It’s not surprising there’s a reaction.”

“So why are you wasting my time showing it to me? I mean, it’s pretty and all, but give me something I can use.”

“You can use this.” She twirled it again. It was annoying to see her handle the knife so easily, like she was provoking me.

“No, I can’t.” I rarely raised my voice with my aunt, but I didn’t try to tone it down. “Not if it requires some impossible purity. I can’t help it that the Destroyer marked me. I’d cut the mark from my flesh if I could. But it’s part of me, and there’s no way to change that.”

“You can’t cut out the Hellion mark, true. But you can overcome it. That’s why I told you to focus on being purely yourself.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I muttered, still angry. Yesterday’s attempt to be pure had been a disaster. Instead of achieving some mystical purity, I’d gotten beat up and turned into a sheep. If anything, I’d taken three giant steps back from purity.

“Enough, child. I can’t explain to you what purity means, but I can show you how to use Hellforged. Hold out your hand, like this.” She stretched out her empty hand, palm up.

I shot her a look, but did as she said.

“Now, close your eyes and take a moment to center yourself. Listen to your heartbeat. Control your breathing.”

I did. My heart was still galloping from anger and the shock of the athame’s reaction, but as I moved inside myself, focusing, it slowed to a strong, steady beat. My breaths lengthened as I pulled in calming energy on the inhale and sent out pent-up emotion on the exhale. I repeated those breaths, over and over. Gradually, my emotions smoothed out.

“Open your eyes, child.”

I did. The athame balanced on my palm, just as Mab had held it a minute ago. It seemed weightless, although it vibrated slightly.

“Stay centered,” Mab said. “Don’t think about what I’m doing.”

“That’s like saying, ‘Don’t think about an elephant.’ ”

“What?”

“Never mind. Give me a second.” Eyes shut, I found my center again. I stayed there for five heartbeats, then opened my eyes and nodded.

Mab put her right hand beneath mine. Adjusting the dagger with her left, she gently closed my fingers around the grip. Sparks flicked against my hand, and a buzzing sensation ran from my demon mark up my arm. Hellforged twitched, but it didn’t launch into orbit. I focused on my breathing, and the athame settled down. Mab gave my fingers a slight squeeze, then took her hand away.

As soon as she did, Hellforged bucked like a rodeo bronco. But instead of clamping down, trying to control it, I worked at keeping a double focus—staying centered while inspecting the tool in my hand. It was a gorgeous dagger, lightweight and well made. Silver light shimmered along the glassy obsidian blade, flickering with the athame’s vibration. Gradually, the vibration changed to a pulse, one that matched my own heartbeat. When I felt that, I went from holding the athame to moving it, getting a sense of its balance—perfect—and feel. I wasn’t about to start spinning it, but Hellforged and I were getting to know each other.

“Good.” Mab’s voice startled me, and the athame rocketed from my hand. It landed point first in the lawn ten feet away, where it stood upright, quivering. “What have you learned so far?” she asked, pulling Hellforged from the grass and wiping its blade with a handkerchief.

“That it likes you better than me.”

Mab’s “We are not amused” face frowned.

“Okay, okay. If I stay centered, the athame aligns with me and I can move it.”

“Yes. Using this tool requires more focus than you’re accustomed to using. If you let go of that focus—even for a moment, as you just did—you lose control.”

Fighting takes plenty of concentration. Going after Drudes or Harpies wasn’t exactly shooting monkeys in a barrel, or however that expression goes. But Mab was right. Keeping the double focus, plus doing whatever I’d have to do to fight the Morfran, would be tough.

For the next hour, I practiced staying centered while holding and maneuvering Hellforged, getting the feel of it. I moved in superslow motion, as if I were practicing slowed-down tai chi. The athame was jumpy at first, ready to fly out of my hand as soon as my concentration flagged. But with practice, my focus improved. At the end of the hour, the dagger almost felt like a normal one.

Mab checked her watch. “That’s enough for now. You’ll need to do an hour’s practice like that every day.” She put out her hand.

“All right,” I said, returning the athame. Hellforged and I definitely needed more bonding time, but I was glad to quit for now. Maintaining that level of concentration was tiring. Even though I’d moved slowly, I’d been tense the whole time, and I ached worse than before. Ready for a nap, I started across the lawn to the house.

“Where are you going, young lady?” Mab’s voice halted me in my tracks. “We’ve more work to do.”

“But I thought . . . You said . . .”

“I said you were done practicing with Hellforged for today. I didn’t say we were finished.” I walked back to where Mab stood on the lawn. “I’m going to show you how to contain the Morfran,” she said.

“Time to stone the crows?”

“Precisely.” She gestured at the piece of slate she’d leaned against the tree trunk. “That tile is made of good Welsh slate, mined not far from here. As I mentioned before, slate is binding to the Morfran. The tricky part, of course, is to get the Morfran into the slate. Once it’s there, it can’t escape unless it’s released.”

“And Pryce knows how to release it.”

“I believe he does, yes. Years ago, an ancient manuscript, the Cerddorion counterpart to The Book of Utter Darkness, disappeared from my library. It contains the history of our race, along with spells and prophecies—including spells for imprisoning and releasing the Morfran. I always suspected Pryce stole it, but I wasn’t overly worried. I know the book by heart, and its spells are written in code and protected by wards to prevent their magic from being misused.” She frowned. “But it seems he’s found a way around the protections. North Wales has major Morfran deposits. When Pryce moves to free that Morfran, we must be ready to counter him. We must prevent the Morfran from reaching its critical mass.”

“Okay. Show me.”

She squared her shoulders and stood with her feet hip-width apart. “First you must coalesce the Morfran energy, like this.” She held the athame in her left hand and swung her arm in big, clockwise circles over her head, like she was swinging a lasso. “You do it with me.”

Feeling way too Annie Oakley, I used my left arm to copy the circles she was making.

“Left pulls the energy in,” Mab said as her arm circled. “By making this motion with the athame, you’re drawing the Morfran toward you.”

Given what the Morfran had done to those three zombies, bringing the Morfran closer sounded like a bad idea, but I nodded and kept spinning my imaginary lasso.

“You’ll feel coldness pass into the blade. When you do, make the circles smaller. Like this.” She demonstrated, and I followed her. “Draw the Morfran in very close. Let the coldness move up your arm. Watch for a shift in the Morfran energy. It feels—how to describe it?—it feels the way it sounds when one instrument in an orchestra plays a terribly wrong note. That’s the signal to do this.”

In a lightning-fast movement, chanting unfamiliar words, she shifted the athame to her right hand and pointed it at the slate tile.

She moved too fast for me to follow her. I realized I was still making circles with my left arm, so I stopped.

“Use your right hand to project outward, sending the energy where you want it to go. Basically, you throw the Morfran into the slate. Once it lands there, it can’t get out.”

“What’s the incantation?”

“A word of command, a word of direction, and a word of binding: Parhau! Ireos! Mantrigo!”

“What language is that?”

“An ancient language of power. It’s never been spoken in the ordinary world.”

There are other ways, Mab had said, to gain understanding of the language of Hell. Was that the language that commanded the Morfran? A chill shot down my spine. I mouthed the words several times, trying to remember them. My demon mark itched with each syllable.

“Mab, what about my demon mark? You used your right arm to point Hellforged at the slate. What if the mark won’t let me do that?”

She pursed her lips, considering. “I don’t believe that will be a problem. The mark prevents you from raising that arm against the Destroyer, true. But it should be no impediment to directing the Morfran. I’d imagine, rather, that the mark should aid you in sending the Morfran where you wish.”

The Destroyer’s mark might help me? That’d be a first.

We kept practicing, Mab holding the athame and me empty-handed, until I had the basic sequence down: Circle, draw the Morfran in—closer, closer—then switch hands and hurl the energy at the target, locking it there with the incantation. Each time I said the command words in that strange language, a pulse of energy buzzed down my arm, through the demon mark, and out the tips of my fingers. I was almost eager to try the ritual with Hellforged in my hand.

By the time we finished, my left arm was sore from circling and the long Welsh twilight had settled in. Mab took Hellforged into the house, while I stayed outside to do some stretches. As I worked the kinks out of my shoulders, a motion overhead caught my eye. I let my arms drop and looked up. A crow flew silently from the woods that edged the lawn, its wings moving in slow, heavy flaps, and alighted in the tree above the practice target. The bird sat in the winter-bare branches and cocked its head. There were no colors in the dim light, just a black crow in a black tree against a gray landscape, its bright black eye staring at me.

Maybe I’d been hearing too much about the Great Crow, but the sight unnerved me. I walked a few paces toward the house, then turned back. The bird didn’t move, but it watched me. I stared at it, then slowly raised my right arm and pointed at the slate. “Parhau,” I whispered. “Ireos. Mantrigo.” Energy fizzed along my arm.

The crow cawed once, but that was all.

Immediately I felt silly. It was only a bird. And I hadn’t even done the ritual right. I turned and hurried toward Maenllyd and its warm, yellow windows, feeling the crow’s gaze on my back every step of the way.

21

THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS FOLLOWED A PATTERN: MORNINGS, I’d try to read The Book of Utter Darkness. After lunch, a nap, and then I’d practice with Hellforged. Despite Mab’s repeated reminders that we were running out of time, I didn’t make much progress. The book refused to cooperate. Hour after hour, I’d stare at its pages, keeping my mind blank, never knowing for sure whether a thought was arising from my own mind or coming from the book. Lights swam across my vision and my head ached, but the book kept its secrets or mocked me by repeating Pryce’s damn prophecy: From a goddess two lines diverged, but they shall be reunited in Victory. One morning, I got a glimmer of something else: And shall thrice-tested Victory be conquered? The words flickered across my mind, then went dark. One whole sentence—big deal. Pryce had proclaimed there’d be three tests, so it wasn’t even news. The book remained silent about the things I needed to know—like what even one of those tests would be.

From afternoon into evening, I practiced with Hellforged. Each session began like the first; the athame was skittish and flew out of my hand. By centering, I could calm it down and line it up with my own vibration. Keeping it in alignment was another matter. The moment my concentration slipped, Hellforged bucked and jumped and, nine times out of ten, got away from me. Staying in control meant maintaining intense, unwavering focus. By the time I knocked off for the day, usually when it was getting too dark to see, my nerves thrummed with fatigue.

When I wasn’t training or trying to read, I slept. No matter how many hours I spent in bed, I couldn’t sleep enough. The exertion of my daytime activities wore me out, but worse was the effect of Mab’s no-dreaming tea. The tea kept Difethwr out of my dreamscape, but it kept me out, too. Sleeping was like standing on the wrong side of a brick wall that stretched up, up, up—into the sky and out of sight. I slept without dreams and woke up exhausted, like I’d spent the dreamless hours beating my head against that wall. Mab was right—nobody could live this way for long. Dark-shadowed hollows etched themselves under my eyes, my features sharpened, and my skin took on a yellow-gray undertone. Although I was sleeping more than ever, I looked like I hadn’t shut my eyes for a week.

The still-fading black eyes added to my ghoulish look. I wasn’t going to be ready for my close-up anytime soon, that was for sure.

On the third afternoon, Mab said I was ready to practice the “stoning the crows” ritual with Hellforged, rather than empty-handed. I took a few minutes to get centered, then held out my left hand, open and palm up. Mab placed the athame there. It trembled, and I focused on my breathing until it settled down. I closed my fingers lightly around the grip. Hellforged hiccupped a couple of times. I worked on the double focus, noticing the dagger’s behavior and staying deeply centered at the same time. When I felt us move into alignment, I began making big lasso-circles. So far, so good.

Rose came out on the terrace and called to Mab.

My arm kept circling, but Hellforged didn’t. The athame leapt from my hand, soaring several yards before it landed on the grass.

“Rose has a question about dinner,” Mab said. “I must speak with her for a moment.” She started toward the house, then stopped and turned around. “Why don’t you come in, too? It’s all but dark.”

“In a minute. Let me try again.” I wanted to get through the entire ritual once before I quit for the day.

Mab nodded approvingly and walked over to where Rose waited on the terrace. They spoke for a moment, then went inside together.

The light was failing, but I found Hellforged by the dim silver glow of its blade. I picked it up, stilled it, and began the long, slow circles again. I moved slower than I’d practiced because Hellforged kept twitching, and I couldn’t circle as smoothly as Mab had.

The athame twitched again and pulled upward. I kept hold of it, but it jerked my arm out of the circle. I stopped, sighing. The dagger wrenched itself from my hand and landed at my feet. I’d worry about smooth circles after I’d actually made it through the whole ritual.

One more try. It was almost too dark now to see the slate target. Feeling weary, I picked up the dagger. I looked toward the tree to locate the target. A flash lit up the night, and Pryce stood beside the slate, holding his carved staff. He waved to me, then held up one finger.

Hellforged shot from my hand and disappeared into the darkness.

The athame. Pryce must be here to steal it. It was our only weapon against the Morfran—if he got it away from me, there’d be no way to stop him.

I ran in the direction the dagger had gone, tensed against the tackle I expected. Ahead, a silver glow shone in the grass. I lunged, pinning Hellforged under my hand. It jumped like crazy, but I held it down with both hands, screaming for Mab. Pryce had beaten me when he had the advantage of surprise, but there was no way he could win against the two of us.

Where was Pryce? Keeping Hellforged trapped and yelling for Mab, I whipped my head around, trying to spot him. He wasn’t beside me, drawing back his leg for one of his sadistic kicks. There. He stood by the tree, bending over the slate target. He passed a hand over its surface in a circle, and I heard him say something, but I couldn’t make out the words. He glanced toward the house. I looked that way, too, and saw Mab’s silhouette in the open doorway. She carried a shotgun.

Pryce stepped back and hit the slate three times with his staff. Each strike rang out like a gong.

On the terrace, Mab worked the shotgun’s bolt.

Pryce disappeared a split second before the gun roared. A dark mist swirled out of the slate, a deep black smudge against the night. The mist rose and gathered into a cloud.

I took three long breaths and closed my hand around Hellforged. Focus. At any moment, Pryce could pop out of the demon plane right in front of me. I needed to get Hellforged into the house, behind the safety of Maenllyd’s wards. I rose to my knees, athame in hand. A buzzing started in my ears. Mab shouted something from the terrace, but the noise swelled, drowning her out.

The buzzing crescendoed to a fierce, throbbing pressure in my head, like a migraine times ten. I pressed my fists against my temples, realizing only then I’d lost Hellforged again. I patted the grass, looking for the dagger and trying to get centered through the agonizing throbbing. As I reached forward, a sudden, sharp stab bit my arm. I touched the spot. My jacket was torn, the sleeve wet with blood. The pain in my head fractured into a million shrieks.

A stab to my thigh: more blood, another gouge in my flesh. And it kept happening—to my arms, my legs, my back—I felt like the bull’s-eye for a barrage of arrows. I couldn’t see what was attacking me. I hit out in all directions, but my flailing arms met empty air. More slashes and tears opened in my body, like it was spontaneously destroying itself.

I looked up. Above me, dozens of jet-black crows cawed and shrieked in an insane chorus. Their lightning-fast dives were almost too fast to see, as they ripped me with their talons, their beaks. I screamed and waved my arms, trying to beat them away.

Still they came at me. The world was a boiling fury of wings and feathers, of pain and blood and beaks and claws. A crow slashed my cheek, and I covered my face with both arms, terrified the creatures would gouge out my eyes. I fell forward, trying to protect my face as the crows pecked my back into hamburger.

Then the attack stopped.

I didn’t realize it at first, I was so frantic with pain and panic. Screams tore at my ears, and pain lacerated my flesh. I gulped in a breath, and the screaming stopped. It was me, my own voice—the demonic shrieking had ceased, making my ears ring with silence. No cruel beaks tore at me. I peeked out from between my arms. The crows were gone.

Gingerly, I sat up. Five feet away, Mab whirled the athame over her head. She shone with silver light. The crows circled, following the motion of her arm, blurring together. Mab’s circles grew smaller, and the crows, blurring into black mist, moved in toward her, swirling faster and tighter, like water going down a drain. In another second, they’d touch the blade.

Suddenly the athame was in Mab’s right hand. She pointed it at the slate as though hurling a spear and shouted the incantation. Like a bolt of black lightning, the crows shot into the slate. The heavy tile leapt into the air and belched smoke. It fell over and lay still, wisps of smoke curling from its surface.

Mab rushed to me. “Show me your wounds, child.”

Where to start? I was nothing but wounds. I held up an arm, and she probed some of the gouges. I winced, but she kept going, checking my shoulders, my cheek, my other arm. At last she let out her breath and sat beside me on the grass. Her lips were thin and white; tension etched lines across her face.

“Thank heaven I could stop it in time. The attack didn’t progress beyond the first phase, so your injuries will heal quickly.”

She was right. The pain was already receding and, as I watched, cuts shrank and scabs formed. Weird. I’d never healed that fast before. This was more like werewolf speed.

“Let’s get you into the house,” Mab said. “I have some salve that will facilitate the healing process. Can you walk?”

“Give me a minute.” I drew the sweet night air into my lungs. Breathing, seeing, even hurting—these things seemed miraculous, and I drank them in. Beside me, Mab sat with her arms resting on her bent knees, Hellforged dangling from her hand. She stared across the dark lawn.

“So that was the Morfran,” I said. Without shifting her gaze, Mab nodded. “I thought it only did that to zombies.”

“Strictly speaking, it feeds on any kind of undead—liches, ghouls, revenants, even some vampires. The Morfran is a carrion-eater, so the most corpselike undead beings, such as your zombies, are most vulnerable. But you’re correct. It shouldn’t have attacked you.” She blinked rapidly and pressed a hand over her eyes. Tears—from Mab? “Victory, child, if I’d imagined such a thing could occur, I’d never have used a live slate.” She covered her face with both hands and drew in a long, deep, shaky breath.

When she lowered her hands, she looked and sounded like the Mab I knew. “I intended, as soon as you were ready, to release the Morfran imprisoned in that slate so you could practice on the real thing. The worst that could happen—so I believed—was that a bit of Morfran would escape and find its way to Boston. But that seemed a small risk.” She took another deep breath. “I don’t know what happened.”

I flashed on Pryce, standing by the tile and holding up one finger. “I think it’s related to Pryce’s prophecy, the one the book won’t let me tell you about.” I tried again to say it, but Mab shrugged; my words remained gibberish to her. “Pryce said there’d be three tests. If I survive them, I’m fated to fulfill his damn prophecy—did you understand that?”

She nodded. “I’ve seen that in the book. ‘And shall thrice-tested Victory be conquered?’ But I’ve never been able to discover the tests’ purpose or what they would be.”

“I think you just helped me pass test number one.” A test where failure meant death. If Mab hadn’t been there . . .

Mab stood, breaking off my thought. “Come inside, child. I want you to use that salve. It will minimize scarring.” She extended a hand to help me up.

I reached for it, then paused. “Mab, look.” My jacket was a tattered mass of ribbons, except for one spot untouched by cuts and slashes. “The Morfran left my demon mark alone. It was the Destroyer. Pryce released the Morfran, and the Destroyer used our bond to call it to me.”

She inspected the jacket, looking thoughtful. “That does seem likely.” I groaned as she helped me to my feet. The pain had diminished, but I still felt like I’d lost a fight with a giant cheese grater.

Mab put an arm around my shoulders, and I leaned on her. Together, we made our way across the lawn. As I limped past the fallen slate tile, I thought about the Morfran locked inside. It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “a murder of crows.”

22

I MAY NOT HAVE BEEN THE MORFRAN’S USUAL TARGET, BUT I sure looked like a zombie as I staggered into the house in my torn blood-covered clothes, slashed and gouged from head to toe. When she saw me, Rose screamed and covered her face with her apron.

“Get the comfrey salve in the blue jar,” Mab instructed her. “Bring it to Vicky’s room.”

Rose’s wide eyes appeared over the edge of the apron. She nodded vigorously and scurried off toward the kitchen.

Mab helped me up the stairs. It was hard going at first, but by the time we made it halfway up the second staircase, I was managing by myself.

Rose had left the jar of salve on my bedroom dresser. Mab helped me undress, which was harder and more painful than it sounds, because my clothes stuck to my newly formed scabs.

“I’ll do your back,” she said. “Then I’ll leave you to take care of the rest.”

The salve felt like a blessing on my skin. As Mab spread it on, a tingly coolness washed away the burning. When Mab left and I took over, the wounds closed almost as I watched. Gouges filled in and smoothed over without a scar. Good stuff. I wondered if it worked on regular wounds or just the kind inflicted by bloodthirsty, demonic crows.

I dropped the shreds of my clothes into the wastebasket, then took a long, hot shower. I dried off, marveling at the wholeness of my skin, put on a clean sweater and jeans, and felt good, almost back to normal. I was even hungry. I went downstairs to see what was for dinner.

Mab waited for me in the dining room. For a large, formal manor house, Maenllyd’s dining room was surprisingly intimate. A small chandelier hung over the round table, which seated four. French windows overlooked the terrace and lawn, although now the drapes, moss-green and cream stripes, were drawn. The walls were cream above mahogany wainscoting. The buffet was also mahogany. Gilt-framed landscapes of the green Welsh hills hung on two walls. Mab sat at the table, holding an empty sherry glass. Although her pursed-lip expression didn’t change when she saw me, a light came into her eyes.

“How are you feeling, child?”

“Better. Amazingly so. I want some of that salve.”

“You shall have some. Although I don’t think you’ll need it again.”

As I sat down, Rose appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray. She beamed a smile at me. “Oh, Miss Vicky, you’re looking well now. I do hope you’re hungry.”

“For your cooking, Rose, always.”

Her smile broadened as she set down the tray and served up two bowls of cawl, a Welsh stew made of lamb, bacon, leeks, potatoes, and whatever other veggies Rose had to toss in. Nobody cooked like Rose. She’d written down some recipes for me in the past, but since my acquaintance with my own kitchen was limited to knowing which drawer held the can opener, I’d never been able to reproduce them.

Mab poured herself a glass of red wine and held up the carafe, eyebrows raised. I shook my head. We both seemed reluctant to say anything. The subject of the Morfran attack sat between us like an impossible pink rhinoceros that had plunked itself down in the middle of the table. So we talked of other things. I told Mab about Tina and how she’d given up being my apprentice to pursue a career as a zombie pop star, and Mab got me up to speed on the village gossip. Then she asked a question that made me choke on my stew: “And what of you? Surely you’re seeing a young man?”

I wiped my mouth with my napkin, like that would do something about the heat rising in my face. In all my life, Mab had never asked me such a question. Never. I didn’t want her to ask it now. But in my world, when Aunt Mab asked something, I answered. Truthfully. “Um, two, actually. Sort of.”

She lifted her wineglass, took a sip, and replaced it on the table. “Tell me about them.”

“Oh. Okay,” I said, trying to look nonchalant despite my scarlet face. “Well, there’s Alexander Kane. We’ve dated off and on for a couple of years. He’s a lawyer.”

“And a werewolf, yes? Active in promoting paranormal rights in the States? I’ve heard of his work.” U.K. laws about paranormals were more enlightened than America’s hodgepodge of wildly varying state regulations. And the European Union was using U.K. policies as a model for its own draft policy for paranormal rights. Here, paranormal rights were a given, and people watched Kane’s progress stateside with a combination of admiration and bemusement.

I nodded. “That’s Kane. He’s all about work. And that’s our problem—we never see each other. He’s been in Washington for three months, but even when he’s home our schedules keep us apart.” I felt a pang as I said it. “When we do get together, half the time we’re arguing. I mean, I like him, but he can be politically correct and just plain pigheaded.”

Mab raised her napkin to her lips, but she wasn’t quick enough to hide the smile.

“Okay, so I can be pigheaded, too. Occasionally. But maybe that means we’re not a good match.”

“And your other young man?”

“Daniel Costello. He’s human, a homicide detective. When Maria was kidnapped, he helped me rescue her. And he saw me shift—believe me, that wasn’t pretty—and still wanted to know me afterward.” I swallowed a spoonful of stew, then shrugged. “But I don’t know him very well. And he’s not used to being around paranormals. He’s trying, but . . .” Okay, there’d been that one toe-curling kiss. But there were even more awkward moments. “I feel like he’s way too careful around me. One time, we were out together and a sip of my drink went down my windpipe. I had a coughing fit. When it passed, he was gripping the edge of the table, looking like he expected me to shift into God-knows-what at any second.”

Mab laughed, and I looked up in surprise. Her eyes twinkled. “Don’t be too quick to judge, child. Human or otherwise, it takes time for two people to understand each other.”

“I know. But maybe we’re too different. In his world, I’m a liability. His boss hates paranormals—I don’t want him to get fired because of me.” I’d spent more than enough time entertaining Mab with the lowdown on my personal life. “Anyway, there it is. My lack of a love life, in a nutshell. Two guys, and neither is destined to be my soul mate.” Not that I needed a soul mate, or even wanted one. “Can we please change the subject?”

“Relationships are important, child. For you especially, I think. Don’t take them lightly.”

Oh, come on. This was Aunt Mab, not Dear Abby. I’d listen to anything she had to say about fighting demons, but I didn’t need her advice on relationships.

“Why not? I’m not going to take Gwen’s path—settle down and raise a family. I thought you of all people would understand. You’ve always told me that demon fighting takes complete dedication. That’s how you’ve lived. Why should my life be any different?”

Now it was Mab’s face that reddened. “Do not assume you know everything about me.” Her voice was gentle, but her words stung with rebuke.

“That’s what Pryce said, that there are all kind of things I don’t know about you.”

“And so there are.” She toyed with the stem of her empty wineglass. “He probably told you I’m older than I appear. That’s true; some of our kind are blessed with extraordinary longevity. But it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young.” Her eyes went unfocused, like she was gazing far into the past. She blinked and pushed her glass away. “Forgive me, child. Tonight’s attack frightened me, and I know so little about your life. If I’d lost you . . .”

She didn’t finish the thought, because Rose bustled in to clear the table.

“Ready for dessert? I made your favorite, Miss Vicky: chocolate-toffee trifle. Would you like tea or coffee to go with it?”

“Coffee, please.”

“And I know you’ll be wanting a nice cup of tea, Miss Mab.”

“Yes, Rose. Thank you.”

We sat in silence while Rose was in the kitchen. I felt like a self-centered jerk. When did I bother to get in touch with Mab? When I needed something from her. I never called to say hi or ask how she was doing or tell her my news. She wasn’t asking about my love life out of nosiness; she was asking because I never told her a damn thing. I’d known Kane for three years, dated him for two, and tonight was the first time I’d mentioned his name to her.

And it had never occurred to me, ever, to ask Mab about her life. I thought I knew her so well, but all I knew was the teacher, the role model, the authority figure. She’d always been there, eternal and permanent, like the State House in Boston. Now, she studied her hands, neatly folded on the table. What was she thinking about? Her long-ago youth? Maybe a lost love? How would I have the slightest clue if I never asked?

“Mab—” I began.

“Hush, child.” She patted my hand, briskly. “You must overlook my moment of weakness. And we must not lose our focus on the task at hand.”

Rose, still in bustling mode, reentered the room, carrying a tray that looked bigger than she was. It was laden with a silver coffeepot, Mab’s favorite teapot, an entire trifle, plus cream and sugar and the cups, dishes, and silverware required to consume it all. I jumped up to help, but Rose had already eased the tray onto the buffet.

“You sit and relax, Miss Vicky. Let me do my job.”

Soon she’d served up everything. She stood by my chair, twisting her apron and watching me. Knowing what she was waiting for, I spooned up some trifle and tasted it. It was sweet and gooey and crunchy and creamy, all in one bite.

“Delicious, as always.”

She clapped her hands together, then bounced out of the dining room. I smiled as I watched her go. I felt a little less like a self-centered jerk when I could make Rose so happy just by complimenting her food.

When Mab and I were alone again, my aunt was ready to get back to business. “We must discuss what happened tonight. Obviously, my suspicion was correct. Pryce knows how to release the Morfran.”

“He said an incantation as he passed his hand over the slate. Then he hit it three times with an oversized walking stick.”

“An oaken staff.” I thought she’d quiz me on the magical properties of oak, but I got a reprieve. “And the Destroyer called the freed Morfran to your mark. We are so fortunate that the attack didn’t progress beyond the first phase.”

I checked my hands. The skin was smooth, not even a scar. Amazing. “You mentioned that before, the first phase. What is it?”

“A Morfran attack has three phases. Initially, the victim feels a pressure inside the head and the Morfran tears out chunks of flesh. That’s the first and least serious phase.”

That sounded way too familiar. But least serious? Given my experience of phase one, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear about the next two.

“In the second phase, which lasts longest,” Mab continued, “the wounds inflicted by the Morfran become harder to heal, because in this phase the Morfran feeds. The Morfran enters the first-phase wounds, pushing its way inside the victim. The pressure that began in the head fills the entire body and grows stronger. The Morfran invades the digestive tract, from which it forces the victim’s own digestive fluids to the surface of the body. You can tell this is happening when the edges of the wounds begin to blacken and dissolve.”

My stomach roiled. “You’re saying that Morfran victims digest themselves?”

She nodded. “With demonically enhanced gastric juices. The Morfran feeds off this process.”

Now I really didn’t want to hear about what came next. But I needed to know. “And in phase three?”

“The victim explodes.”

My mind flashed back to Creature Comforts, to the mess that used to be T.J. The black goo, the shreds of flesh, bone, and clothes. Exploded. No kidding. It looked like he’d swallowed a hand grenade.

“The internal pressure becomes unbearable as more and more of the Morfran pushes its way inside,” Mab explained, scraping the last spoonful of trifle from her bowl.

I still held my own spoon, but I put it down, my dessert unfinished. Just this once, Rose would have to understand. For a spirit of insatiable hunger, the Morfran sure had a way of killing my appetite.

23

THE NEXT MORNING, I WAS BACK ON THE LAWN FOR MORE practice—if you call three hours before dawn “morning.” Mab said I needed extra practice, and it had to be before sunrise. I didn’t like the sound of that, but here I was. Clouds blew across the gibbous moon, making darker shadows against the dark lawn. Branches rattled like old bones. I zipped up my jacket against the wind. The Morfran had shredded the one I’d worn yesterday, but I’d dug another out of my closet. When you’re a shapeshifter, you learn to keep extra clothes around.

Mab brought me a thermos of coffee, and we began. I’d lost ground with Hellforged. It took ten full minutes of centering meditation before the athame would lie flat in my palm. By the end of the first hour, I was doing super-slow-motion circles and managing to hold on to the dagger most of the time.

Mab watched, occasionally offering advice: “Don’t clutch the grip so tightly; you’re strangling it,” or “Purity, child. Remember purity.”

I was purely sick and tired of wrestling with the damn knife, but I nodded and tried to hold my double focus.

After two hours of practice, I’d made it through the whole routine—decreasing circles with the left hand, transfer to the right, and pointing at the slate while saying the magic words—three times in a row. But way too slowly. Whenever I tried to move with Mab’s lightning-quickness, I lost Hellforged in the transfer.

Mab picked up a two-foot-long stick that lay on the ground by her feet.

“This stick is oak. I’m going to—”

“No!” A sick tide of panic flooded me. “No, don’t. I’m not ready. I can barely get Hellforged from one hand to the other without it rocketing across the lawn.”

“I know, child. I’d prefer to have you work with just the left hand for a month.” Her words were sympathetic, but her tone was steel-edged. “There’s no time. Pryce can release the Morfran. He’s not going to wait until we’re ready before he makes his next move.”

She tapped the ground once with the stick and walked to the tile. Oh, God, please no. Not that pain again. My throat constricted, and Hellforged went crazy. I wasn’t centered. I couldn’t get centered, not when I couldn’t even breathe.

“Mab, wait. I can’t do it!”

“Of course you can. What’s more, you must.” But she paused. “Relax, child. Last night’s attack was Pryce’s first test. I don’t believe the Morfran will attack you again. But whatever happens, I won’t let it hurt you. You must learn this, Victory. Take a moment to collect yourself. Bear in mind, though, you won’t have that luxury in battle.”

Still panicking, I tried to relax, to turn inward, to notice my heartbeat and breathing. Easy. Take it easy. I pushed away all thoughts of pain and fear; muscle by muscle, I unclenched. Hellforged calmed, grew still. The cramping in my fingers showed how hard I’d been squeezing the grip.

Three gonglike chimes rang out as Mab struck the slate once . . . again . . . again. My stomach lurched. As the dark mist emerged from the stone, I began to make slow, wide circles with my left hand. The mist rose up and floated in my direction, tendrils reaching for me like tentacles. Focus, Vicky. The mist stopped a few feet away, and the tendrils changed direction, reaching upward, toward the athame. They thinned as the mist was drawn into Hellforged’s orbit.

There was no buzzing, no headache. The dark mist swirled in wide arcs above me, following the motion of my arm.

I was doing it. A sensation of bitter cold passed into the athame as the Morfran locked onto my movement. The coldness traveled into my hand and crept up my arm; as it did, I made smaller circles and pulled my hand closer to my body. The Morfran followed. In another minute, the cold had reached my shoulder. My arm felt like it was encased in ice.

A jolt hit the obsidian blade and shot up my arm like a freezing-cold spark. Now. I switched Hellforged to my right hand; it jumped in the transfer but didn’t get away. I pointed at the slate, pushing the Morfran with my mind.

And forgot the incantation.

I stood on the grass, pointing at the target, my mind a complete blank.

The Morfran energy flowed up the blade, moving into my right arm. My fingers turned frostbite black. My wrist, my forearm, my elbow seized up from the icy energy.

Mab clasped her right hand around mine. She drew back both our arms, then flung the Morfran at the slate, yelling the words of power.

“Parhau! Ireos! Mantrigo!”

The cold shot from my arm. The Morfran hurtled into the slate target. It hit so hard, I thought the slate would shatter, but the tile stayed in one piece.

My arm ached and stung as though I’d mainlined a hypodermic of snake venom. I rubbed it, trying to chafe normal feeling back into my skin. I flexed my fingers, watching as they gradually grew pink, then red. I’d learned something about the Morfran—if it didn’t gouge you to pieces and digest you from the inside out, it froze you to death. I had an image of my frozen-solid body cracking into Vicky-flavored ice cubes for the Morfran to snack on.

Mab waited, holding the athame. I looked in surprise at my empty hand.

“Guess I screwed that one up.” Need someone to state the obvious? Call me.

“Practice the incantation again. I’ll do it with you.”

We said the words, over and over. If we’d been in a school-room, I’d have been writing them five hundred times on the blackboard.

After the fiftieth repetition or so, Mab dropped out, motioning for me to continue. The words began to burn themselves into my brain. I could see them, written in a thin, fiery script. I could taste them. Parhau had a chalky, mineral-like flavor. Ireos was salty, Mantrigo sharp and bitter. After a few hundred repetitions, there was no way I could ever forget those words again.

Until I did. We practiced for another hour, and each time Mab came to my rescue. Hellforged would jump from my hand. Or, fearful of that cold, painful spark shooting up my arm, I’d switch hands too soon. Or else the words tripped me up—I’d leave one out or say them in the wrong order. Maybe I just wasn’t fluent in the language of Hell.

AFTER PRACTICE, I DRANK SOME NO-DREAMING TEA AND FELL back into bed. Sleeping was less like sinking into blackness than it was like wandering through a featureless gray fog. I woke up in the afternoon, feeling like I hadn’t slept at all and wondering if the tea was already losing its potency. Mab was right—time was slipping away from us.

I got up, dressed, and went downstairs. On the kitchen table was a note saying that Jenkins had driven Mab and Rose into Rhydgoch for some shopping. The village’s only retail establishments were a tiny grocer and a shop that sold tobacco, candy, and newspapers, so I wasn’t missing much. Still, I would’ve liked to pop into the Cross and Crow to make some phone calls. Telling Mab about Kane and Daniel made me want to hear their voices. I needed to update Daniel on what I’d learned about the Morfran. And I wanted to find out if the local packs had finally left Kane alone at his full-moon retreat.

Jenkins usually went into town for a couple of after-dinner pints at the pub, so I’d hitch a ride with him tonight. My black eyes were gone, and I was more or less presentable. In the meantime, I’d do what Mab’s note suggested: spend some time with The Book of Utter Darkness. Lucky me.

I opened the book to where I thought I’d left off last time, where I’d gotten a brief flash of meaning about the three tests. Almost immediately, the question I’d seen then appeared in my mind: And shall thrice-tested Victory be conquered?

No, I thought. She shall not. Not by Pryce, not by his stupid tests, and not by some bogus prophecy. Next question.

For several minutes, though, that question was all that the book offered. Then, like a blurry movie slowly coming into focus, two more sentences emerged. First, the carrion-eater consumes living flesh. Second, a battle in the world between the worlds.

I stared at the page until a headache clamped my temples, but that was all the book would give me. I closed the cover and sat back to think about what it might mean.

First, the carrion-eater consumes living flesh. Okay, in test number one the Morfran snacked on something other than its usual din-din—that would be me. But what did the next sentence mean? Second, a battle in the world between the worlds. I knew of only two worlds: the demon plane and the human plane, what Pryce called Uffern and the Ordinary. What was between them? My dreamscape? Difethwr used that as a bridge between the realms. But the Hellion said Uffern had expanded, claiming my dreamscape within its territory. The prophecy didn’t make sense.

Not that I expected crystal clarity, but still.

“Don’t try to figure it out,” Mab said when I asked her about it later. “If you grasp at a meaning, you’re likely to latch onto the wrong one. Just hold the sentence lightly in your mind, and be ready for anything.”

Great. So the book would drop me clues, but if I tried to understand them, I’d be wrong. And Pryce’s next attack could jump out at me any time, any place. Helpful, really helpful. I might as well choose random words from the dictionary and string them together into “prophecies.”

“Now, look at this,” Mab said, like she was addressing an overexcited toddler. “See what I’ve brought you from the village.”

She handed me a white tissue paper-wrapped rectangle. Inside was a plaque, about six inches wide by eight inches high. Hand painted, with flowers and a curlicued border and the words HOME SWEET HOME, it looked like something that would hang in a grandmother’s gingham-curtained kitchen, right next to the cross-stitch sampler of a girl in an oversized bonnet watering sunflowers.

“Um . . . thanks?”

“Look closely. What do you notice?”

Mostly that Juliet would choke herself laughing if I ever brought this piece of décor into our apartment. Then I realized what Mab was getting at.

“It’s made of slate.”

“Very good. I commissioned it from Mrs. Hughes; she’s a highly accomplished witch who lives in the village. The plaque is magically enhanced to hold many, many times the amount of Morfran a slate of this size could normally contain. Everything that looks like decoration, such as these yarrow flowers and the symbols in the border, serves a magical purpose.”

A portable Morfran prison. Cool.

“Well, everything but the inscription,” she went on. “Home Sweet Home was my idea.” The corners of her mouth twitched. It was the closest my aunt had ever come to making a joke.

“My other purchase,” she said, digging in her shopping bag, “was also custom-made. It’s something you’ll see an immediate use for, I think.” She handed me a leather ankle sheath. It had an extra strap at the top, which curved over the hilt and snapped into the main part of the sheath, holding the knife in place. Not very useful for a quick draw in a fight, but perfect for hanging on to an athame that tried to run away every chance it got.

“I want you to wear that sheath, with Hellforged inside, as often as possible. Keeping the athame close against your body will align it with your vibration.”

That sounded like a good idea. I strapped on the sheath and adjusted its buckles. Mab handed me Hellforged, and I slid it inside. I held the dagger in place while Mab snapped the top strap over it. The dagger pushed and struggled. If it could talk, it would have yelled, “Let me out of here!” It strained at the strap until I thought it would rip the snap from the leather.

Eventually, it settled down. The athame lay against my calf, shuddering from time to time, so that I never forgot it was there. It was probably every bit as aware of me. Either we’d drive each other crazy, or we’d finally figure out how to get along.

THAT EVENING, JENKINS AGREED TO DRIVE ME TO THE CROSS and Crow. Mab didn’t like the idea, though she didn’t try to keep me home. She gave me a second ankle sheath and a bronze-bladed knife. Then she asked about five times whether I had Hellforged and the slate, and she fussed over me in a way she hadn’t since . . . well, ever. By the time Jenkins and I made it out the door, it was past nine.

As we pulled into the car park, the Bentley’s headlights swept across the pub. Mr. Cadogan had made some improvements since the last time I’d been here. He’d put up a new pub sign and installed floodlights that lit up the building’s stone walls, giving it an Olde Worlde, slightly eerie look, the very picture of a haunted pub.

I got out and inspected the sign, illuminated with its own bright lights. Against a background of a gigantic full moon and darkened hills, an eagle-sized crow perched on a gallows, complete with dangling noose. The huge bird looked like it could swallow the next hanged man in a single gulp. I shuddered. This new sign was overdoing the spooky look. Instead of inviting people in to quench their thirst with a relaxing drink, the sign shouted Danger! Death! Run away!

Jenkins paused at the front door, holding it open. “Coming in?”

I hurried over, and we went inside. The ominous feel of the pub’s exterior disappeared as soon as I stepped into the warm, fire-lit barroom with its smells of wood smoke, varnish, and beer. Massive beams stretched across the low ceiling, lending solidity and coziness. In the huge fireplace, a roaring fire cast light and heat into the room. Hunting scenes and nineteenth-century prints of the village church decorated the whitewashed walls, along with crossed dueling pistols, old muskets, and an ancient military rifle, complete with bayonet. The wide-board floor slanted the way floors do in old buildings; so did the diamond-paned windows, framed by faded red velvet drapes. I passed a cluster of tables, making my way to the bar. Mr. Cadogan stood there, bald, red-faced, and jovial, talking to a customer. He looked up as I approached.

“Here’s our Vicky, then,” he said, grinning, like he’d been expecting me any minute. “We was wondering when we’d see you.” He noticed Jenkins behind me, took down a glass, and pulled a pint, filling the tilted glass with amber-colored beer. As he poured, he spoke to me in Welsh: “Noswaith dda, geneth. Sut wyt ti?” Good evening, lass. How are you?

“Hi, Mr. Cadogan,” I replied in English because he always teased me about my terrible Welsh pronunciation—in a good-natured way, but still. “I’m fine. I’d have come in sooner, but I’ve fallen asleep right after dinner most evenings. Still getting over my jet lag, I guess.”

“Oh, jet lag.” He handed the pint to Jenkins, who took a long drink and smacked his lips. “Terrible affliction. When the missus and me flew to the Costa del Sol, it took us nearly the whole blasted week to recover.”

Spain’s Costa del Sol was one time zone away, unlike the five I’d had to cross to get here from Boston, but I wasn’t going to challenge him to a jet-lag duel. “How’s Mrs. Cadogan?”

“She’s down in Cardiff, visiting Owen. Be back Monday.” He rubbed his hands. “Now, Vicky, what’re you havin’ to drink?”

“How about a glass of seltzer?”

“Pshaw. That’s no kind of homecoming drink. I’m givin’ it to you on the house, now, miss. Don’t insult me.” He reached for a glass large enough for me to bathe in and started filling it with lager.

“No, really, Mr. Cadogan. I could never drink all that.”

“I’ll take it,” said the farmer who stood at the bar.

“You’ll take it and you’ll pay for it.” The publican straightened the glass to put a head on the beer, then set it in front of the farmer.

“How ’bout a nice perry, then?” Mr. Cadogan asked me. Perry, a hard cider made from pears, was a local specialty. He found a half-pint glass and filled it with a liquid the color of ginger ale. “Half a perry for the lady.”

I took a small sip. It was fizzy, with a light sweetness followed by enough of a kick that you wouldn’t forget it had alcohol. Mr. Cadogan watched me anxiously as I tasted it. “Good,” I said. He mopped his brow with exaggerated relief and grinned again, then refilled his own glass with the same beer he’d pulled for Jenkins.

I looked around. Besides a young couple at a table by the fireplace and those of us at the bar, the pub was empty. “How’s business?” I asked. “I read about the Cross and Crow in a magazine article.”

“Oh, you saw ‘Britain’s Most Haunted Pubs,’ did you? Nice photos, I thought. Hasn’t brought in many customers, though. It’s the bleedin’ economy.”

“It’ll pick up in the spring, maybe,” Jenkins said. “Who comes to north Wales in the middle of winter?”

The three men stared gloomily into their beers.

“How is Spooky Lil, anyway?” I asked.

Mr. Cadogan frowned. “Don’t talk to me about our Lil. Had it up to here with her.” He held his hand a good half a foot above his head to show how fed up he was. “Weren’t enough for her to scare the tourists upstairs. No, she had to start carryin’ on in the pub, too. It’s all very well when she bangs around a bedstead and moans a bit, but she soured two kegs of beer!” He said it with so much righteous anger you’d think Lil had been gobbling up the village children. “An’ she throwed the missus’s pots and pans around the kitchen. Broke a rack of new pint glasses.”

Mr. Cadogan had been busy making up new stories to entertain those anticipated throngs of tourists.

“It all got to be too much,” he said, leaning forward. “So I had the cellar dug up and found her bones. Gave her a proper churchyard burial—cost me a fortune, it did. And how d’you think she thanked me for it?”

His eyes bugged as he waited for my reply.

“How?”

“She up and brought her old bones right back here! The very day after I buried her proper, I flipped on a light switch upstairs and blew a bloody fuse. So I went down to the cellar to change it, an’ I tripped over her bones in the dark, right where we’d dug ’em up. Nearly broke me poor old neck.”

He glanced at Jenkins and, without changing his indignant expression, snapped a quick wink. Jenkins smiled into his pint.

“So what does our Vicky think of all that, then, eh?”

“I think the tourists will be spellbound by your stories, Mr. Cadogan.”

He guffawed and slapped the bar. “She don’t believe me! Every word is true. I swear it on me dear old mum’s grave.”

“Your dear old mum doesn’t have a grave,” the farmer objected. “She’s living in a retirement home in Llangollen.”

“She does, too. She’s paying for a burial plot on the installment plan.”

“It’s bad luck for both of you if you swear on it,” the farmer insisted.

“Now, Tom, you know I’m just—”

Now would be a good time to make my calls. Pulling my phone card from my back pocket, I left them arguing and went over to the payphone, which hung on the wall by the rear door. As I lifted the handset from its cradle, Mr. Cadogan called out to me.

“That reminds me, Vicky. Anna—you haven’t met our Anna yet, she’s the new cleaner. She took a coupla messages for you. I found ’em mixed in with a stack of bills. Just came across ’em this afternoon, else I’d have sent ’em out your aunt’s way with the postman. Now,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his apron and scratching his bald head, “where’d I put those?”

He dug around behind the bar. Then, with a triumphant yelp, he held up two crumpled, beer-stained pieces of paper and waved them at me.

“Thanks,” I said, taking them. I looked around for a table where I could sit and read the messages. The pub wasn’t busy, but the layout of the old building made it impossible to find a seat where I could keep an eye on all the room’s entrances. I chose a bench along the rear wall under one of the windows. Cold air poured in through the skewed frame, but from here I had a good view of the room—unless something decided to crash through the window behind me. I sipped my perry and decided not to think about that.

I spread the crumpled message slips flat on the table. There was no date on either. The first one read For Vicky. Call Cain ASAP. An eight-digit number followed. Eight. Too long for a regular phone number but too short for the number plus an area code. And it didn’t bear any resemblance to either number I had for Kane—his cell phone or the D.C. law firm.

I put the message aside to read the other, which was from Daniel. Anna wrote, Vicky. Everything’s OK. Daniel. I took that to mean no more zombies had died. I hoped it also meant that all was well at Daniel’s job, that Hampson hadn’t found out he’d leaked information to Lynne Hong.

I wondered what else Kane and Daniel might have said. “Our Anna” wasn’t exactly proficient at taking messages.

I checked my watch. Ten past ten, ten past five Eastern time. Daniel was probably on his way home from work; I’d try Kane first. I looked at the slip again, wondering when Kane had called. I wished Anna had bothered to write down the date. ASAP. I hoped there wasn’t a problem. Knowing Kane, if it was anything truly urgent, he’d have called back a couple more times—or six or seven. Unless Anna had filed those messages under a pile of dirty bar towels.

As soon as I stood to make the call, I felt it. Something was wrong.

The room was quiet, but it wasn’t a normal silence. It was heavy, stifling, like someone had stuffed the room with cotton balls. Colors bled away. And I was alone. The publican, Jenkins, the farmer at the bar, the couple by the fireplace—they’d all vanished.

“Mr. Cadogan? Jenkins?” I could barely hear my own voice. It was like trying to call out underwater.

I slid Mab’s bronze-bladed knife from its sheath.

A spark shot from the fireplace and landed on the wood floor. Smoke snaked upward.

Gripping the knife, I went over to stamp out the still-glowing spark. Whatever was going on, there was no point in burning down the pub.

I crossed the room slowly, alert for any movement. There was too much smoke pouring out of that one little ember. It massed into a vertical cloud about five feet tall. Then the ember quit glowing, and the cloud began to form itself into a shape.

I stopped—watching, ready—my fingers tense on the knife’s grip.

The shape was human. It wore a dress with skirts that swept the floor. A woman. She was semi-transparent and looked way too much like an eighteenth-century barmaid. Dark, bruiselike spots marked her throat.

I stared at Spooky Lil herself, in the flesh. Or whatever it is ghosts are made of.

24

SPOOKY LIL’S EYES LOCKED ONTO ME. SHE LOOKED SAD, abandoned, lonely. It can’t be easy to wait hundreds of years in a cold grave for a lover who’s not coming. I tried to remember something—anything—about ghosts and how to deal with them. But I never believed in them, so I hadn’t paid much attention.

Ghosts don’t know they’re dead. That was true, wasn’t it? It was their whole problem, the reason they hang around long after their bodies have decayed. I thought of Mr. Cadogan’s story about bones in the cellar. If I showed Lil her bones, maybe she’d understand she was dead and pass peacefully into the next realm.

It was the only plan I had, so I decided to go for it. I set the knife down on a table and raised my hand in a calming gesture. “Lil, I mean you no harm. I want to help you move on to where you’re meant to be.” Mr. Cadogan would kill me for exorcising his moneymaking ghost.

She tilted her head and regarded me with milky eyes. She moved a step toward me—except it wasn’t a step, the way she floated over the floor—then stopped and drew back. She looked scared. I smiled, hoping to encourage her.

Lil glided a few inches closer. She raised her hand in a gesture that mirrored mine. The corners of her mouth lifted in a timid smile.

Good, we’re making progress.

The smile widened. Lil’s lips peeled back to reveal two rows of razor-sharp teeth.

A shock of energy blasted the room and knocked me on my ass. Claws sprouted from the fingers of Lil’s outstretched hand. She shrieked—the sound was muffled by the room’s strange atmosphere, but it was clear this ghost meant business. She rose into the air and dived at me.

I rolled under a table, feeling a rush of air as Lil swept past. Too close. I grabbed the table legs and pulled, yanking the table over sideways and putting a barrier between me and the ghost.

Could ghosts pass through solid things, like walls and tables? How the hell should I know? Ten minutes ago, I’d have sworn they didn’t exist.

But Lil didn’t charge at me. She flew up to the ceiling, hovering between two beams. Energy glowed around her clawed hands. She cupped her hands and made circular motions, shaping the energy into a ball. When it was the size of a softball, she hurled it at me.

I ducked under another table just in time. The fireball exploded against the tabletop, sending flames and a scalding wind blasting past me. Hot air singed my throat and lungs, and I scrunched up as small as I could to avoid the flames.

This wasn’t souring beer and tossing pots and pans around. Lil was serious.

Above me, the ghost made another fireball. She swooped toward the floor and rolled it under the table. I lifted my legs, and the fireball passed under them. It hit the back wall and erupted into heat and flames. Pain hit my back, and I smelled burning flesh. My sweater was on fire. I shot out from under the table, rolling to extinguish the flames. It felt like passing over red-hot coals as the burning fabric pressed into my back. Burns hurt like hell, and hurting makes me angry.

Another fireball streaked toward me. I changed direction and grabbed a chair by its legs, flinging it between me and the fireball. The chair shielded me, taking the brunt of the flames, so this time I didn’t catch fire.

But I was still angry.

I scrambled to my feet, then grabbed another chair and held it like a lion tamer would. When the next fireball streaked toward me, I threw the chair to meet it. Sparks shot out in every direction as the chair burst into flame.

The pub was an inferno, fires burning everywhere like a sneak preview of Hell. If I didn’t get proactive, I’d go up in flames with it.

I don’t know what ghosts are made of, but flames are flames. I dodged another fireball and ran toward the bar. In one leap, I vaulted the counter and got behind it as fire exploded across its surface. I counted to three—the time it took Lil to create a new fireball—then popped up holding the spray nozzle. A stream of seltzer intercepted the fireball that blazed toward me, hitting it dead-on. The fireball sputtered and sizzled into a clump of ashes and fell to the floor.

Lil hovered over the bar, molding energy into another ball. I squirted seltzer at it. The fireball fizzled in her hands. Some of the water sprayed Lil, sending puffs of steam from her body. The ghost screamed and batted at the wet spots. Her ectoplasm—or whatever it was—ran like blood where the seltzer hit her, and I remembered hearing somewhere that ghosts can’t cross water. Now I knew why.

The water trapped Lil against the ceiling. I gave her a good soaking, moving the stream from her head downward, across her shoulders, along her arms and torso, and down both legs all the way to her toes. Stinking steam filled the room as Lil dissolved in midair, falling like rain into a puddle on the floor. I couldn’t see my hand in front of me. The pub reeked with a gag-inducing bouquet of rotting flesh, wet ashes, and sulfur.

Seltzer might take care of ghosts, but it wasn’t going to put out a burning pub. I had to get out of here.

I grabbed a bar towel and held it over my nose and mouth. Keeping low, I felt my way out from behind the bar. As I crawled cautiously into the room, the steam was rapidly thinning. In a moment I could see that the flames had extinguished. All of them. Only the usual fire in the big fireplace still burned. The energy from Lil’s fireballs had died with her.

Mr. Cadogan would be unhappy that I’d obliterated his prize tourist attraction. Maybe it’d be some consolation that I’d stopped her from burning down the pub.

Where was Mr. Cadogan? And what about Jenkins and the farmer? I waved the towel, trying to clear the steam faster. The room didn’t feel right—still no colors. I stood in a black-and-white photo, that stuffed-with-cotton feeling pressing my ears. I was caught in Lil’s world, with no clue how to return to mine.

I inspected the puddle of melted ghost. Getting rid of Lil had extinguished the fires—would getting rid of her remains put everything back to normal? Short of finding a bucket and scrub brush, I had no idea how to clean up ghost goop. I’d just about decided to start looking for a bucket when a bubble formed in the puddle. It grew, then burst. Glub. Another bubble followed, then two more—glub, glub. Soon the puddle was boiling. A beam of light shot upward and the goo rose up in a column, higher and higher until it touched the ceiling.

I ran back behind the bar and got the sprayer ready. If Lil could rematerialize, I’d keep knocking her out with water until I’d knocked her out of existence for good.

The column took shape. It didn’t look like Lil. It didn’t look like anything that had ever been human. Not even in the eighteenth century.

The creature was over seven feet tall, with scales and a flat, horned head. Its neck was like a tree trunk, and muscles bulged in its arms, legs, and massive chest. Black bat wings sprouted and stretched out to an eight-foot span. The creature’s spiked tail thumped the floor, shuddering the room. This was no ghost. This was a demon.

Suddenly, the nozzle in my hand didn’t seem like such a great weapon.

The demon shook itself, then looked at me and roared. Fire flared behind its eyes and in its open mouth. Moving way too fast for something that big, it leapt at me.

I went for Mab’s bronze knife. It wasn’t in its sheath. Shit. I’d drawn the knife when the room went weird, then lost it when I was dodging fireballs. It could be anywhere.

The demon landed on the bar with a bone-jarring thud. Its long, forked tongue flicked out, shimmering with flames. It drew back a taloned foot and kicked me in the chest.

I flew backward, smashing into a row of bottles and landing on a heap of broken glass. Shards stabbed into my back. More glass and rivers of liquor rained down on me. The demon jumped from the bar and lifted its foot to stomp me. I grabbed its ankle and yanked, making the demon pitch forward onto its knees. I scooted past it and got to my feet. I needed to find the bronze knife. I didn’t go more than two steps before something heavy hit me in the back. I went down, twisting as I fell, so the object the demon had thrown—the cash register—didn’t land on me. Pound coins and pennies rolled around my head like planets in a crazy orbit. I managed to get to my hands and knees and scurried around the bar before the thing could try again to stomp me.

I was halfway to my feet when the demon backhanded me across the room. My head cracked against the fireplace mantel and I fell awkwardly, inches from the flames, knocking over one of the heavy andirons. I groaned and pulled the andiron out from under me. It was bronze. A blunt instrument wouldn’t kill the demon, but a bronze blunt instrument might slow it down long enough for me to find my knife.

The floor shook as the demon landed behind me. I sat up and smashed the andiron into its shin. Smoke erupted where the bronze made contact with the demon’s scales, and the creature howled and clutched its leg. I brought down the andiron as hard as I could on its other foot. The demon toppled over.

Before it hit the floor, I was on my feet, racing through the room, knocking over tables and chairs as I searched for my knife. I’d hurt the demon, but it wouldn’t be down for long. The bronze had to pierce its hide to do any real damage.

I spotted the dagger six feet away, under a table. I ran over and grabbed for it, but the demon got there first, swiping with its tail and knocking the knife out of my reach. At the touch of bronze, smoke puffed from the tail and the demon screeched. The knife skittered across the room and landed in the fire. I ran to the fireplace and tried to snatch it, burning my hand in the attempt. I couldn’t hold the hot metal. And the demon was right behind me.

I swung the other andiron, connecting with the demon’s gut. The creature grunted but stayed put. It grabbed the andiron with both hands and wrenched it away from me. Clouds of sulfurous smoke poured from its hands, but it held on. The andiron swooshed toward my head. I ducked and ran behind the demon. The force of the swing sent it off balance, and I shoved it with both hands. It tottered and fell on its face.

It was up in seconds, throwing the andiron at me with the force of a runaway locomotive. I ducked again. The andiron crashed through a back window. Beside the window, shining like the answer to a prayer, was what I needed: a junky old military rifle. With a bayonet. A bronze one.

I ran over, leapt onto the bench, and pulled the rifle from the wall. The demon hit me from behind. I went flying again, but I hung on to the rifle. When the demon jumped in front of me, its arm drawn back for another blow, I lunged, goring its abdomen. The demon’s hide was tough, but I moved the rifle as much as I could—up and down, side to side—pushing hard and getting the bronze in contact with the maximum amount of demon guts.

The creature batted me away like a fly. I flew across the pub, thudded into the far wall, and crashed to the floor. The demon looked down at the thing sticking into its belly, as if trying to figure out what the object could be. Even from where I lay twenty feet away, I could see the smoke and melting flesh where the bronze had made contact.

It took hold of the rifle. Wincing, it pulled out the bayonet. It shuddered when the point appeared, then threw the weapon on the floor. The demon turned its head back and forth, like it was looking for me, but the fire behind its eyes had dimmed. It took a step, then grabbed at its abdomen and fell to one knee. As I watched, the demon began to shrink. The air around it shimmered as it grew smaller and smaller, until it was no larger than the spark that had started this whole crazy battle.

The demon disappeared.

I half-sat, half-lay against the wall. Any moment now, I’d see if my body still worked well enough to stand up. Yup, any moment. Before I could rouse myself to try, a thunderclap shook the room, and a flash of light blinded me. I blinked, trying to get my vision back so I could face whatever new threat approached. Somehow, I found my feet. I was standing at the back of the room, leaning against the wall beside the phone.

“There she is!” Mr. Cadogan called from the bar. “We was about to send a search party into the ladies’.”

My ears rang from that sonic boom. But Mr. Cadogan’s voice came to me clear and strong. Colors had returned. The dusty velvet drapes hanging by the unbroken back window were the most beautiful shade of red I’d ever seen.

I did a discreet self-check. No blood. No slashes, cuts, or burns. I looked exactly as I did when I walked into the pub. Even the pain was gone.

I smiled at the publican. “I wasn’t gone that long, was I? Just went, um, outside for some air.” I strove to keep my voice light, but I sounded like someone who’d barely survived a battle. Wonder why. I took a couple of steps—I was shaky as hell—and sat down at the table where I’d left my drink. I picked up the glass and downed the perry in three gulps.

“It’s past last call. Jenkins was getting anxious about you.”

Jenkins nodded, peering at me like he knew something strange had happened.

I set the glass down and wiped my mouth. Everything in the pub was exactly as it had been before I’d gotten sucked into that alternate reality. Tables and chairs were upright, arranged as usual. Bottles lined up in their places behind the bar. The bayoneted rifle hung where it always had. The young couple and the farmer were gone, but it was closing time. I surreptitiously checked for my knife. Missing. My heart lurched and I checked the other sheath, but Hellforged was there, strapped into place and jumping in time with my booming pulse.

“Sorry, Jenkins,” I said. “I guess I lost track of the time.” I stood and carried my glass over to the bar. “Thanks for the drink, Mr. Cadogan.”

“Sure you won’t have another? The pub’s closed, but there’s no reason we can’t have a quick tipple amongst friends.”

Jenkins squinted at me, concern showing in his face. “Vicky looks tired,” he said. “I’m a bit knackered myself. We’d best be getting home.”

“Are you sure? I’ve got another ghost story to try out on Vicky. She can tell me whether American tourists would like it.”

“Let’s save it for another day, Mr. Cadogan.” It would be a long, long time before I was ready to hear another story about Spooky Lil. “I’m probably not the best judge, anyway. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

At least, I didn’t think I did.

25

JENKINS WAS QUIET AS WE DROVE HOME, GIVING ME THE opportunity to talk about what had happened, but not pressing, either. I didn’t feel like discussing it. How could I when I wasn’t sure what had happened?

Second, a battle in the world between the worlds. I’d just fought my way through the second test—that was clear. Wherever I’d been tonight, it was like nowhere I’d gone before, in the human or the demon plane. But what had I been fighting? A ghost? A demon? Both?

At Maenllyd, the kitchen was empty. Rose would be home at her cottage at this hour, and Mab had gone to bed. She left out a jar of the anti-dreaming tea on the table. I filled the kettle with water. When it boiled, I spooned two teaspoons of the herbs into a teapot. I reached for the kettle, then stopped and added a third teaspoon of herbs to make sure the mixture would do its thing. I poured hot water into the pot, got a mug, and waited for the tea to brew.

When the tea was ready, I carried the mug up the back stairs to the third floor. I changed into the warm flannel nightgown and climbed into bed, pulling the covers over my lap and sitting back against the pillows, the mug warm in my hands. I drank it all, then scooted down and closed my eyes. As I lay in my narrow bed, feeling warm and safe, I wondered drowsily about the creature—or creatures—I’d battled at the Cross and Crow. Wondered where, exactly, “the world between the worlds” was. Then the gray haze of sleep enclosed me, and I stopped wondering about anything at all.

A PHONE WAS RINGING. BUT THAT COULDN’T BE RIGHT; MAB didn’t have a phone. Plus I was still asleep, and I’d swigged a whole mug of extra-strong tea to make sure I didn’t dream. Therefore, I reasoned in my sleep, a phone couldn’t be ringing.

Still, the phone rang.

I let my attention probe toward the sound. A black-and-olive cloud appeared and thickened into a dense fog. A dream-phone call. But I didn’t know anyone with those colors. I waited, peering through the bruise-colored mist to see who was contacting me. A figure stepped forward. Pryce.

“Don’t call me cousin,” I said, before he could speak. “In fact, don’t call me at all.”

I concentrated to bring the fog back. To hang up on him, I only had to summon enough mist to obscure his features. Not as satisfying as slamming a door in his face, but it would do.

“Wait.” He extended his hands and pressed downward, lowering the fog I’d stirred up. “I didn’t call you. You called me.”

I scowled, and lightning flashed a couple of times as thunder rumbled. “That’s a lie.”

“You asked a question, and I know the answer.” He bowed. “I hastened to be of service.”

“Well, how about you hasten to get out of here?”

“Don’t you want to know about tonight’s test? I’m happy to explain all. Difethwr will not trouble you tonight. You have my word.”

I wouldn’t trade a gum wrapper for Pryce’s word, but it would be helpful to know what I’d fought so I’d be prepared if I ever had to face it again. “All right. Explain.”

Pryce snapped his fingers and a chair appeared. A ridiculous-looking chair—all golden curlicues and plush red cushioning, like a throne. Pryce the Demon King. Hah. He sat down, crossed his legs, and clasped his knee. “The ‘world between the worlds’ is Limbo.”

“You mean Purgatory?”

“Yes and no. Mostly no. That’s one way the norms have attempted to explain Limbo but, as with most things, they got it wrong.” He sneered. “Limbo is a border region between Uffern and the Ordinary. It is of both but belongs to neither. And so it is the home of things that belong to neither realm.”

“Like ghosts.”

He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Please, cousin, let’s not be superstitious. There’s no such thing as ghosts. But there are forms. Bits and pieces of Uffern or the Ordinary that, for whatever reason, can no longer dwell in their original realm. These things seep into Limbo. Generally, they merely exist there. But they can be put to use.”

“So that’s what you did tonight.” Whatever was left of Lil—or maybe just the idea of her that Mr. Cadogan had fostered all these years—had been used to attack me.

“Strictly speaking, it was Cysgod who did the work. Cysgod caused Limbo to rise around you. Cysgod manipulated the form you perceived as a ghost. When you got lucky with your water gun, Cysgod stepped in to continue the test.”

“Why didn’t it die when I stabbed it with the bayonet?”

“Nothing dies in Limbo. Not even you would have died tonight; you’d simply have remained trapped in the world between the worlds.” He laughed again, with a nasty edge. “Probably that idiotic barman, Cadogan, would have added you to his collection of ghosts. But you did cause Cysgod to withdraw to Uffern to regain strength. When that happened, Limbo dropped away, and you returned to the Ordinary.”

“How did you know I’d be at the Cross and Crow tonight?”

“Difethwr, of course. Thanks to your bond, the Hellion is constantly aware of your location. If I care to know where you are, Difethwr informs me.”

So that’s why Pryce was always showing up—the Destroyer told him where to find me. Wherever I went, Pryce could pop out of the demon plane, right into my face. Wonderful.

He sat back, settling in, and snapped his fingers again. Instantly he held a huge, golden, gem-studded goblet. Tacky. He tipped the goblet and drank deeply, then smacked his lips. “And so, cousin, you survived test number two.” He held up two fingers, then waggled his hand in a so-so gesture. “If I were grading you, I’d give you a D-minus. You bumbled through, but frankly you showed no finesse whatsoever.”

“I’m not interested in proving myself to you.” I plucked the goblet from his hand and threw it on the ground. “So we can skip the third test, whatever it is. You can say I failed it, if that makes you happy.”

“If you fail the next test, you die. That’s how it works.” He shrugged. “I understand your reluctance to proceed. You’ve barely squeaked by so far. Mab rescued you the first time, and tonight you survived through dumb luck. You’re worried that someone of your inferiority won’t make a suitable consort for me. I have concerns about that myself. The more I see of you, the more I doubt the prophecy refers to you.”

Arrogant bastard. Again, I started to summon the mist that would end the call, but then I had an idea. I’d have to put up with him for a few minutes more, but it might be worth it.

“And here I thought you were hot for me.” As I spoke, I set up a mental shield, partitioning off part of my mind. I imagined the shield as a one-way mirror, the kind you could look through without being seen. Behind the shield, I focused on Mab, calling up her colors.

“Don’t flatter yourself, cousin. You’re not remotely my type. You’re scrawny, rude, mouthy, and you wear your hair absurdly short. I prefer my females more . . . feminine.”

The crack about my hair was a low blow. Whatever I’d tried to do with it—grow it out, put in a few highlights—it always reverted to the same style after a shift. I reached a hand toward it, then stopped myself. Focus on Mab.

In the shielded part of my mind, Mab’s colors swirled and billowed up, blue and silver. The call was going through. I muted the colors a few degrees, hoping Mab would understand it as a warning to stay quiet.

“If you don’t like me, why not find yourself a nice, ‘feminine’ demi-demon and settle down?”

“I’m as bound by the prophecy as you are. If you pass the third test, all will be settled. I believe, however, that you’ll fail. You’ve been lucky so far, but luck won’t carry you to a destiny that’s not truly yours.”

Mab’s shape appeared as a shadow in the mist. I watched her from a tiny corner of my consciousness. She held a finger to her lips and nodded.

I turned my full attention to Pryce.

“So what’s the third test?”

He wagged his finger at me like I was a naughty child. “If the book sees fit to withhold that information, I won’t give it away. It’s much more fun as a surprise.”

“Why? I thought—” I had to tread carefully. If I tried to say the prophecy and it came out garbled, Pryce would know something was up. “You know, the other prophecy. The one you claimed to receive before my birth.”

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Don’t add stupidity to the list of your shortcomings. I told you before, prophecies can be tricky. One must guard against letting them lead one down the wrong path. All the signs and omens appear to be in order, but then boom!” He clapped his hands, and a fireball exploded from them. “Everything blows up in your face.”

“So what if this particular prophecy doesn’t point to me? What will you do?”

He waved his hand, dismissing the issue. “I’ll look elsewhere for a mate.”

I risked a glance at Mab to see if she’d heard. The set of her mouth told me she had. But looking at her had been a mistake.

“What are you—?” Pryce clapped his hands again, and this time the explosion shattered the shield. Mab stepped forward. Pryce leapt from his chair, his features twisted in fury, but immediately he smoothed out his expression. “A conference call, is it? Hello, Mab. I’d say you’re looking well, but frankly you look terrible.”

“You won’t win, Pryce,” Mab said. “Understand that now, before you escalate things. You have two choices: You can go back to wherever you’ve been and live. Or you can pursue your ambitions and die.”

“Thanks for the advice, Auntie. But neither of your suggestions fits with my plan. Truth be told, you don’t fit with my plan. I take it you haven’t yet read about yourself in the book?”

“The book lies. And there are other prophecies than those you choose to heed.”

Pryce laughed his nasty laugh. “I know what’s coming. I feel my power growing. All the Cerddorion heroes of old fighting together couldn’t stop me. A miserable old hag like you certainly can’t do it alone.”

“Don’t insult her.” From nowhere, the Sword of Saint Michael appeared in my hand, its blade in full flame. I stepped between Mab and Pryce, extending the sword to within an inch of his face. “She’s not alone. I stand with her.”

Pryce’s face rippled. The skin boiled, then split, revealing his demon form, the same hideous monster I’d fought in the pub. “We shall see about that, shan’t we?” he growled. He moved away from the sword, and his human appearance returned, his face knitting itself back together.

“You’ve said what you came to say.” I advanced with the sword, hoping he’d stand his ground so I could see what happened when I pressed the sword against his neck. I wanted to see his human form split like a banana peel. I wanted to drive the flaming blade deep into his disgusting demon body. Even if it wasn’t real, it’d be so, so satisfying.

“I’m going.” The black-and-olive mist swirled up around his knees. I concentrated, making the mist rise thicker and faster, until it obscured Pryce. With a single, strong puff, I blew the mist away. All trace of Pryce blew away with it.

I turned to Mab, eager to hear her thoughts about Pryce’s prophecy. But her colors were rising around her.

“Sleep now, child,” she said. “You need to rest for tomorrow.” Then she, too, was gone. Before I could call her back, sleep swallowed me whole.

26

I SLEPT UNTIL ALMOST NOON, THEN FOUND MAB IN THE library. She sat at her desk, bent over a book, probably the book, and looked up when she heard me. She wore her black training clothes, and there was a determined set to her jaw that showed how worried she was.

She didn’t waste time with good morning. “So Pryce believes you’re destined to bear his child.”

Picturing Cysgod’s hideous face, I couldn’t suppress a shudder as I nodded. “Have you ever heard a prophecy like that?”

“No. But I consulted the book this morning and there it was, clear as a bell. From a goddess two lines diverged, but they shall be reunited in Victory. Is that what it said to you?”

“Word for word.” I felt almost giddy with relief to finally share the burden of that prophecy with my aunt. “But there’s got to be another way to interpret it, right? What do you think it means?”

“Don’t ask me that, child. Pryce has tried to force your thoughts about its meaning down a certain track. I won’t influence you that way. Remember what I said before: Hold the words lightly in your mind. Don’t allow anyone—not Pryce, not me, not even yourself—to sway you toward one meaning or another.”

“What’s the point in wrestling with the damn book if I can’t try to understand it?”

“You can try. In fact, you must try. Pryce refers to the book to plot his moves. But the book works against us as we attempt to use it. Try to understand, but don’t accept any meaning as definitive. And above all—”

“I know, I know. Be pure.”

“It’s the only way to defeat him, child.”

I could see that, sort of. Pryce wanted to make me into something I wasn’t. So being pure meant protecting myself from his manipulations. Still, my future didn’t look too great from where I stood: Fail the third test and die, or make demon babies with Pryce.

Whoa, stop right there. That was exactly the kind of thinking Mab was warning me about.

“The book revealed more than the prophecy. It narrated last night’s battle at the pub. I’ll attempt to repeat it as the book gave it to me.” She described what she’d read. “Is that accurate?”

“Yeah, except it makes Cysgod sound like a hero and me like a complete klutz.”

She smiled. “You’re no klutz, child. Pryce would have you believe you won by sheer luck. But the ability to improvise is an important skill for any fighter.” She scrutinized my face, as though trying to read my thoughts. “If you do believe it was luck, think of it this way: Luck means destiny is on your side, not working against you.”

“Do you believe in destiny?”

“I believe we make our own. Here”—she got up from her desk chair—“you have a go. I’ve worked with the book all morning. ‘Wrestled’ would be an apt metaphor. But it gave me more information than it has in a long time. Perhaps it will show you something new.”

The book waited on my aunt’s desk like a steel trap, ready to snap off my hand when I touched it. I stalled. “Why did the dream phone work last night? I made the tea extra strong.”

“I warned you the tea’s power would lessen.” She rapped the book and gestured toward the chair. “Time’s short, child.”

I plopped myself down and reached for the open book, thinking I’d rather be outside taking my chances with the Morfran again.

Mab pulled up a chair beside me as I studied the page. It was Pryce’s damn prophecy again. I was sick to death of hearing about my destiny to reunite the lines. I stared and stared, the letters blurring, but I didn’t get anything more than what I already knew: And shall thrice-tested Victory be conquered? First, the carrion-eater consumes living flesh. Second, a battle in the world between the worlds.

Third. The third test had to come next. What was it?

The next page showed an illustration I’d seen before, although I could have sworn it appeared earlier in the book—not that it mattered. Things seemed to move around inside this book as they pleased. Difethwr pointing at a hill, crows flying out of a square cave mouth. I focused on the picture; understanding didn’t always come through the text. Third . . .

I leaned forward.

Third, Victory falls . . .

An explosion of words blasted through my mind. Victory, tested, conquered, Morfran, falls, lady, Cerddorion, death. I tried to catch hold of the meanings, but it was like trying to grab individual snowflakes in a blizzard. The contents of the book flooded my consciousness—not word by word or phrase by phrase, but everything, all at once. My head screamed with noise and pain.

I tried to look away from the page, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move, couldn’t close my eyes. The illustration changed. Crows—thousands of them—poured from the cave. They darkened the sky. And they kept coming. They blacked out the picture, then the page. Still they kept coming, spilling onto the next page and obscuring its text. They flooded the pages to the very edges.

From the cacophony in my head, a single word emerged. Death. It pounded like a drumbeat: Death. Death, death, death, death, death.

I jumped up, knocking over the chair, and backed away. The screaming in my head grew louder. I screamed back to drown it out. Deathdeathdeathdeath. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my hands against my ears, trying to make it stop. Stop! Deathdeathdeathdeathdeath. I staggered a few steps, then fell to my knees. Deathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeathdeath.

Abruptly, it ceased. I stopped screaming, too, my throat raw. My ears felt like they were bleeding.

“Vicky—can you hear me, child? Are you all right?” Mab was beside me, shouting, her hand on my shoulder. I sensed she’d been shouting for a while.

I put my hand on hers. “I’m okay,” I croaked. “Give me a minute.” I sat still, waiting for my heart to stop pounding. My mind felt dirty, like it had been smeared by a filthy rag. But it was quiet.

When I opened my eyes, I saw where I’d fallen. The one place in this room I’d avoided for ten years. I kneeled in the exact spot where my father had died. The outline of his body glowed faintly beneath me.

Death. Victory falls.

Mab tugged at my arm. “Can you get up?”

I nodded, shook off her help, and climbed shakily to my feet.

“Come sit by the fire. Tell me what happened.”

“The damn book hit me like a freight train, that’s what happened.” I sat in a wing chair. “When the picture changed—”

“Wait, child. Slow down. What do you mean, the picture changed? How?”

“You didn’t see it?”

She shook her head.

I told her what I’d experienced: how the whole book crammed itself into my head in a shrieking jumble, how the Morfran emerged from the cave and spread across the pages.

Mab jumped to her feet. “Pryce is making his move,” she said. “We have to stop him.” She paced in front of the fireplace. “There’s an abandoned slate mine about a hundred miles from here. It holds an enormous Morfran deposit. What you saw in the book, the way the illustration changed, tells me he’s on his way to release it. We must keep it contained.” She hurried across the room, calling for Jenkins. At the doorway, she turned back. “Be ready to leave in ten minutes.” She rushed into the hall.

Sitting in my chair beside the warm, cheerful fire, I shivered as a cold shadow passed over me. Yet I felt calm. The spot where my father had died no longer glowed. There was nothing to mark it but my memory.

Victory falls.

Death.

No ambiguity there. I’d try, and I’d fall in the attempt. I was going to join my father.

I was glad I hadn’t told Mab about the third test or how death had flooded my mind. There was no point in worrying her about my fate. Pryce said failure meant death, but some fates really were worse than death.

And if I was going to die today, I’d drag him to Hell with me.

I SPENT MY TEN MINUTES CHOOSING WEAPONS FROM MAB’S armory. I loaded up on bronze-bladed throwing knives—one went into a wrist sheath and two more into thigh sheaths—and a knuckle-duster trench knife for my belt. I wished I had the Sword of Saint Michael. But it was locked in my cabinet with the rest of my gear, two thousand miles away. A sword that size wasn’t practical for fighting in a narrow mineshaft, anyway, so I opted for a baselard, a Swiss short sword with an eighteen-inch blade.

I longed for a gun. I could’ve used an assault rifle or even a nice, compact nine-millimeter pistol. But Mab fought the old-fashioned way: with swords and knives and incantations. Fine for demons, but if Pryce was in his human form, it’d be a lot easier and surer to slow him down with a spray of bullets than with fancy sword work.

Selecting weapons felt good. It was something I knew how to do. If I was striving to be purely myself, maybe this was it. Preparing for battle, ready to step forward to protect those who needed it. Like Boston’s two thousand zombies.

That was one consolation. When I died, Pryce would lose his precious bridge between Uffern and the Ordinary. Mab wouldn’t let him get the critical Morfran mass he needed to attack the zombies without me. Even if I failed to kill him, my death would be a setback.

But I was going to kill him.

I met Mab in the front hall. Like me, she was bristling with knives. “I’ll carry Hellforged,” she said. She patted a sheath at her right hip. From there, she could easily draw the athame quickly with her left hand.

“Good idea. This isn’t a training exercise.” I took off the special ankle sheath and removed the athame. It was much calmer as I handled it, twitching only once or twice before I gave it to Mab. “Now that I have a free ankle, let me get another knife.”

“Don’t be long. Jenkins is bringing round the Land Rover.”

I went back to Mab’s weapons cabinet and chose a dagger, along with a regular ankle sheath, one without the strap over the top. When I was ready, I hurried toward the front door, almost colliding with Rose in the front hall.

“Oh, Miss Vicky. I was afraid you’d already gone. Here.” She thrust a basket at me. “It’s sandwiches and things. In case you get hungry.”

I hugged Rose and took the basket. “Come back safe,” she said.

If only she knew.

I walked outside, armed to the teeth and toting a picnic basket. Jenkins pulled the Land Rover into the coaching yard. The big vehicle crunched over the gravel and came to a stop at the front steps. Jenkins started to get out to do his chauffeur thing, but Mab marched to the car and got in the front passenger side. I was opening the door behind her when I noticed a movement in the driveway.

I shaded my eyes against the afternoon sun. A blue Mercedes, dust rising from its tires, drove into the coaching yard and stopped beside the Land Rover.

The driver’s door opened, and a man got out. A man with silver hair, broad shoulders, and a wolfish grin.

Kane.

Kane was here. In Wales. At Maenllyd.

Not a mirage, not a daydream—he was really there. He opened his arms. I rushed around the Land Rover, around the Mercedes, and flew into his arms.

He was warm and solid, and he smelled like a moonlit winter forest with distant wood smoke on the breeze. We clutched each other. I tilted my head back to see his face, and his mouth met mine in a long, deep kiss.

Kane. Oh, God, the taste of him. I’d almost forgotten.

A car door opened, then closed. “Vicky, we must go.” Mab’s voice pushed its way between us. I didn’t want to step back. To hold Kane, to breathe him in, to press my lips against his—those things were to be alive. To break apart would be to return to my new world, the world of death. I lingered another moment, just one more. Then I moved away.

He let me go. But he caught my hand and held it.

My aunt stood beside the Land Rover, her door open. “Mab,” I said, “this is Kane. I’ve told you about him.” I was so glad I actually had.

Kane gave her a dazzling smile, but she responded with a dismissive nod. “Delighted. Please go inside and tell Rose I said to make up the blue bedroom for you. I’m sorry I can’t give you a warmer welcome, but we’re dealing with a matter of extreme urgency and we must leave at once.”

Kane took in Mab’s grim expression, the arsenal of weapons we both wore. “Where are you going?”

“To make sure something nasty doesn’t escape from a slate mine.” I squeezed Kane’s hand and reluctantly let it go. I went back to the Land Rover and opened the door.

“I’ll come with you.”

Mab pursed her lips, looking him over. “All right. You might prove useful.”

Kane popped open the Mercedes’ trunk and removed a suitcase. “I’m not exactly dressed for a fight”—no kidding, he wore a black mohair coat and steel-gray suit—“so I’ll bring this along.” He opened the back of the Land Rover and hoisted his suitcase inside. Then he got in the door opposite mine.

I slid across the seat, until the side of my leg touched his. He took my hand again.

Jenkins put the car in gear and steered down the driveway. I twisted in my seat to take one last look at Maenllyd. Home. I was leaving it behind, riding toward my own death.

When we rounded the driveway’s curve, I turned to Kane. “What are you doing here?” There was no way he’d leave his Supreme Court case to zip across the Atlantic for a visit.

“You first,” he said. “Fill me in on what’s happening.”

As I spoke, I rested against his shoulder. It gave me strength. I told him about Pryce and the Morfran, concentrating on the essentials. How the Morfran had killed three zombies in Boston. How the Destroyer had pushed its way into my dreams to choose the Morfran’s victims. How my so-called cousin had a crazy scheme for letting demons overrun the world by freeing as much Morfran as he could, and how I’d been reading The Book of Utter Darkness to try to anticipate his moves. I left out Pryce’s tests and his stupid prophecy. Since there was no way I’d ever be mommy to his demon brood, there was no point in bringing it up.

I also left out how the book had pushed death into my mind. The word still echoed through my thoughts in sandpapery whispers. No one—not Mab, not Kane—would be distracted from our mission by worrying about me.

For two hours, we drove in near silence. I wanted to know why Kane had walked away from his court case and come to Wales, but he insisted it could wait. He squeezed my hand when he said it, meaning he wanted to tell me when we were alone. I put it out of my mind for now. I’d find out later. If there was a later.

And if there wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter.

I stared out the window, watching the fields and wooded hills give way to steeper slopes and heath-covered ridges as we climbed toward the mountains. I’d miss the breathtaking Welsh landscape. I’d miss Boston, too—the zombie-thronged streets of Deadtown, the grittiness of the New Combat Zone. Kane’s presence reminded me of everything else I’d miss. He sat quietly beside me, but I could feel his coiled power: in his muscular thigh, in the large hand that hid my own. I thought about the last time we’d made love, months ago—why hadn’t we managed it more often? It was too late now. And it was too late to patch things up with Gwen. I’d never watch her kids grow up. I’d never know if Maria would become a shapeshifter like me.

I’d miss Juliet and her dumb Shakespeare obsession. I’d even miss Tina, although she’d driven me crazy every second I’d known her.

I probably shouldn’t be thinking about Daniel as I held hands with Kane, but I’d miss him, too—his blue eyes, boyish smile, his slightly-too-long blond curls. He’d glimpsed something in me, something good, I’d never quite seen myself.

But Kane. I hadn’t realized how much I missed him until he got out of that car. Why had he arrived now, when I needed him beside me? Maybe it was destiny. The thought made me smile.

Then I put all thoughts aside to prepare for the task at hand. I closed my eyes and worked on getting centered. I wasn’t worried about purity anymore. Instead, I dug down to find the core of my being, the calm place where all was still, the place from which I could meet my destiny.

27

“TURN HERE, JENKINS.”

I opened my eyes at the sound of Mab’s voice.

The Land Rover slowed and made a cautious right turn, then bumped along a rutted dirt road. We were in the mountains now, traveling along a narrow valley hemmed in by steep, rocky slopes. It was late afternoon, nearly twilight. The Land Rover crept down the overgrown track. We’d make faster progress if we got out and walked, but I didn’t say that. I was trying to hang on to the calm, centered place I’d found on the drive.

For ten minutes, we jounced along at a snail’s pace. Then slabs of slate, irregular in shape and standing upright like gravestones, appeared on both sides of the road.

Mab turned around in her seat. “Slate fences were once common in this part of Wales,” she told Kane, as though narrating a pleasure tour of the countryside. This fence was in bad shape, some of the stones had split, and others tilted at drunken angles or lay on the ground. We were getting close to the mine.

The track curved along the shore of a lake, gray under the leaden sky. In the dim light, the lake seemed to absorb whatever light there was, giving nothing back. Like Pryce’s eyes.

Beyond the lake rose steep, gray-and-brown hills. A place devoid of color or sparkle, it reminded me of Limbo, the world between the worlds.

The track turned away from the lake, and we came to a flat, empty, gravel-filled yard. Crumbling stone buildings—roofless, windowless, walls collapsing—stood in clusters and climbed the surrounding hills. The ruins gave the place an air of failure, of activity long stilled, of silence that stretched endlessly past the final echo. It was a place where the dead called to the dead in an unspoken language the living could not perceive. I wondered if they were calling to me.

I shook off the feeling. Centered—I had to stay centered. As though he shared my unease, Kane put his arm around me and pulled me close.

On the west side of the yard, a hill ascended, its slope covered with piles of loose rock, waste from the mine. A short, square doorway led into the mine itself. I sat up straighter. The scene looked exactly like the illustration in The Book of Utter Darkness.

Jenkins stopped by the mine’s entrance. The sun dropped behind the hill, casting shadows over us, over everything. It felt like we’d reached the end of the world.

We climbed out of the Land Rover. “No other cars,” Kane pointed out. “Looks like we got here first.”

“He’s here,” Mab said. She gestured at the entrance. A twisted metal gate and broken padlock lay on the ground. “Pryce can travel through the demon plane. He’s been here for hours, I’d wager. But he cannot release the Morfran until dark.” She glanced at the hill that now hid the sun. “We must hurry.”

Pryce was here. I’d expected that, of course, but the thought still prickled the back of my neck. Those dead eyes could be watching us right now from Uffern. At any moment, he could attack out of nowhere. Maybe I could locate him. I opened to the demon plane.

Uffern was stiflingly hot, as though invisible fires burned all around, consuming all the oxygen. The landscape was even more gloomy and desolate than it looked to human eyes, like a dirty veil had been pulled across the scene. I stretched out my senses, searching for Pryce. Mab was right; he’d beaten us here. Cysgod’s sulfur-and-brimstone stench hung in the air. From deep inside the mine came the muffled sound of frantic cawing, the Morfran trapped in the slate. But I couldn’t find Pryce.

I pulled my senses back—or tried to. Nothing changed. The filth, the stink, the heat, and sounds of the demon plane persisted. It was like being trapped in a dream where you try to shut your eyes to some horror but can’t stop seeing it.

I held my breath to block the smell. I closed my eyes and covered my ears, willing myself to return to the Ordinary. It did no good; I remained in Uffern. Panic rising, I tried again, yanking at my senses, trying to reel them in. It wasn’t working. Somewhere, demonic laughter cackled. I pulled harder.

With an almost audible pop, the world snapped back into focus. My ears rang, and it took my eyes a minute to adjust.

I sat on the gravel beside the demolished gate. Kane’s hand gripped my shoulder, and Mab studied me like a doctor inspecting X-rays for a hidden hairline fracture.

“What happened, child?”

I stood, wiping sweat from my forehead. “I checked the demon plane for Pryce. I couldn’t locate him, and I . . . um, kind of got stuck.”

“What do you mean, ‘stuck’?”

“You know how opening and closing to the demon plane is kind of like raising and lowering a window shade? The shade wouldn’t lower. I had to tug really hard to get it down.”

Mab turned to Kane. “Could you please leave us for a moment? I must speak to my niece privately.”

From the way Kane’s face fell, it was clear he thought Mab disliked him. He glanced at me, and I nodded. “Of course,” he said, all graciousness, and went back to the Land Rover.

When he was out of earshot, Mab grasped my arm. “Be careful. Here, you must resist the demon plane. We’re standing in a place of legend, near the spot where Hellions were born.”

“You mean Ceridwen, Avagddu, the cauldron?” No wonder the demon plane felt creepier than usual here.

She nodded, her expression grave. “This is a place of power for the Destroyer.”

“The Destroyer’s here?” If Difethwr fought on Pryce’s side, there was no way we could win. Not without the Sword of Saint Michael. We were dead, all of us.

“No. You sent the Destroyer to Hell, and there it must stay until you call it forth. But your bond . . . It troubles me. I’m not sure what might happen if you open to the demon plane again.”

“How am I supposed to fight demons if I can’t enter the demon plane?”

“You won’t be fighting demons. We’re here to stop Pryce from releasing the Morfran, and he must do the ritual in his human form. Focus on Pryce.”

I nodded. Cysgod would shadow Pryce, as always, but if Pryce had to maintain his human form to do his dirty work, Cysgod would be restricted to Uffern, unable to materialize in the Ordinary.

“Now, about Mr. Kane.” Mab jutted her chin toward the Land Rover. “Can he hold his own in a fight?”

I knew why she was asking. Kane was tall and muscular, but with his tailored suits and expensive haircut, he didn’t look like a fighter. For the three days of the full moon, he became a ravenous wolf-monster. For the rest of the month, he was a cultivated sophisticate who loved art and wine and believed passionately in justice. If a full moon had been rising, I’d tell Mab, Sure, no problem, Kane could take on half a dozen Pryces all by himself. But we were several days past the full moon, which meant Kane’s beast was waning, too.

At the Land Rover, Kane was stowing his suitcase. He’d changed into jeans and a heavy gray sweatshirt. He looked good but strange; he almost never wore casual clothes. A pang hit me. I didn’t want him to get hurt.

Mab cleared her throat, waiting for me to answer her question.

“I don’t know, Mab. Once he helped me pull a vampire and a zombie off a human, but I’ve never seen him fight.”

“He’s a lone wolf?”

I nodded.

“All right,” she said decisively. “I think he’ll do.”

“No, wait.” Suddenly I wished with all my heart that Kane was at Maenllyd, safely holed up in the blue bedroom. “Why do we need him? You and I have trained for this. We know what we’re up against. Kane doesn’t. He just got off a plane, for God’s sake.”

“We’ll ask him, shall we?” She spun on her heel and marched toward the Land Rover.

Great. Kane would never agree to sit around and twiddle his thumbs while my aunt and I went into the mine to face Pryce.

I caught up with Mab, who was already speaking with Kane. I barged between them. “Kane,” I said, “wait out here with Jenkins, okay? You’re tired, you’ve had a long trip. It’s not fair to push you into the middle of our fight.”

Kane scowled, like I knew he would. “I’m fine. I slept on the plane. And nobody’s pushing me. When have you ever seen me back down from a fight?”

“Pryce will be armed, and you’re not a swordsman. What are you going to do in there?” I gestured toward the mine. “File a motion?”

His gray eyes darkened. Good. I knew how to rile him. If I got him angry enough, maybe he’d storm off—preferably far, far away from the mine.

Mab stepped forward. “Victory, there’s no time for an argument. Mr. Kane wishes to join us, and I agree he could prove useful. End of conversation.”

I glared at both of them. I never expected to keep Kane out of the mine, not really, but I had to try. And now I’d lost the equilibrium I’d worked to achieve. I was so far off my center it was amazing I could stand up straight.

“All right.” I threw up my hands. “Let’s do this.”

Mab handed out supplies. She gave us each a miner’s headlamp and a flashlight for backup. She also gave Kane two bronze-bladed knives. I clipped the flashlight to my belt and put on my headlamp, adjusting the straps so they were secure but not too tight. I flicked the switch a couple of times, testing it. A spot of light appeared and disappeared on the stones that tumbled down the hillside.

“Now,” said Mab, “here’s how we’ll proceed. Jenkins, you’ll remain here with the car. You know what Pryce looks like?”

Jenkins nodded. “I’ve run across him once or twice at the Cross and Crow.”

“Good. If Pryce emerges from the mine, whether in human or demon form, do not challenge him. Let him go. If one of us fails to follow him within ten minutes, drive to the village and summon assistance.”

“Ten minutes. Got it.”

She turned to Kane and me. “Our objective is to prevent Pryce from releasing the Morfran imprisoned in the slate here. The main Morfran deposit is in a cavern two levels down, and that’s what Pryce is after. Getting there will be treacherous. The passageways slope quite steeply; they’re narrow and filled with loose rock and debris. Watch out for sudden drop-offs. Watch out for water, as well. There’s an underground river, and I don’t know how it may have changed course since I was last here. Parts of the mine may be flooded.”

Kane nodded, looking like the star quarterback on a college football team taking instructions from his coach.

“As I said to Jenkins,” Mab continued, “Pryce may appear as a human”—she briefly described him to Kane—“or, if threatened, he may take his demon form. To release the Morfran, however, he must be in human form. I believe that’s how we’ll encounter him here.”

Kane nodded again. Got it, Coach.

“Should Pryce manage to free any Morfran, I will perform the ritual that returns it to the slate. In that case, your job is to distract Pryce so I can work. He’ll be carrying an oaken staff; get it away from him if you can. Without the oak, he cannot free the Morfran. But at any rate, you must keep him busy. Wound either arm; it will weaken his ability to do the releasing spell. Drive him from the cavern. If you can, kill him.”

Kane’s face paled. Could he kill Pryce—or anyone? As a wolf, he ran down the deer that stocked his werewolf retreat. But take a person’s life? I didn’t know.

Mab appraised him. “Mr. Kane, you say you wish to go into that mine with us. Good. But if you do, you must be prepared to kill Pryce. He looks human, but he’s of demonic stock. He’s killed many times, gladly and without pity. Even knowing that, you may be reluctant to end his life. Perhaps you’ll understand his nature better if I supply the details Victory left out of her account of her dealings with her ‘cousin.’ ”

“No, don’t—”

She talked over me. “In the short time Vicky has been in Wales, Pryce has beaten her severely and twice attempted to kill her. He’ll certainly try again, most likely today. If she survives, he intends to force her to bear his children.”

Her words had their desired effect. Kane bristled, his eyes glowing with a dangerous light. No longer the handsome college quarterback, he growled, a low, deadly, terrifying sound.

“Mab, stop.” If she made him any angrier, he’d get reckless—a sure way to get hurt. “I don’t need protecting. I can take care of myself.”

And I could.

Third, Victory falls.

Except maybe not this time.

STEPPING INTO THE MINE WAS LIKE DIVING INTO AN INKWELL. The darkness, immediate and absolute, swallowed up whatever daylight lingered outside. We turned on our headlamps; spots of light jittered across the stone walls like nervous ghosts.

The tunnel had a damp, mineral, musty smell. Here, it was wide enough for two people to walk beside each other, but the curved ceiling was low. I couldn’t stand up straight, and Kane, walking ahead of me, had to bend at the waist. Huge, half-rotted wooden beams braced the walls and ceiling, some buckling under the weight of the hill. I hoped they’d hold long enough for us to get out.

Iron rails were set into the tunnel’s floor, tracks for wagons that had long ago carried loads of slate. The rusty tracks jutted up from the floor here and there. Old junk never hauled from the mine—broken machinery, rusted tools—littered the path. But the real hazard was loose rock. We were constantly stumbling over the chunks of slate that littered the floor, and in places we had to scramble over heaps of fallen rock.

We wriggled over a large pile—there was a gap of about two feet between the shifting stones and the tunnel’s ceiling—and emerged into a vast cavern. Here, the ceiling stretched up maybe twenty feet; it was hard to judge in the narrow light from my headlamp. The damp smell was stronger. Water trickled somewhere, and puddles shone on the floor.

“The cavern we want is on a lower level.” Mab started across the cavern. “Be careful on the wet slate. It’s slippery.”

I motioned to Kane to follow her. I wasn’t going to let Pryce sneak up behind us and attack him. He paused, like he was having the same thought about me, then turned and followed Mab. She was already way ahead of us.

Half a dozen steps later, Kane stopped so suddenly that I bumped into him. “What the hell—?” He brushed at the back of his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Is something on me? It feels like something’s pulling my hair.” He wiggled his shoulders and brushed at his head again.

It must be a demon, something unmaterialized. Kane could sense its presence but not its body.

I drew my dagger and started to open to the demon plane. Then I remembered Mab’s warning and how I’d gotten stuck before. What now? I couldn’t kill the thing, whatever it was, if I couldn’t see it.

But an unmaterialized demon can’t attack, either. Just cause a creepy feeling, like ice-coated cobwebs grazing your skin.

“Keep going,” I said. “As long as it doesn’t materialize—”

The demon chose that moment to take form. It was an imp, a foot tall with slimy green skin. Both clawed hands clutched Kane’s hair. The imp reared back and opened its mouth wide, showing its jagged teeth, preparing to bite a chunk out of Kane’s neck.

“Hold still!” I shouted and stabbed the imp through its throat. The demon collapsed, and I plucked its body from Kane’s shoulders.

“An imp,” I said, showing him the materialized corpse. “Pryce must have conjured them.” I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Mab!” I shouted. “Imps!”

Before the echo faded, a chorus of insane giggles ricocheted around the cavern. We looked up. The ceiling was lit with a strange glow, the light from dozens of pairs of yellow imp eyes. Like bats, they crouched upside down, clinging to the bare rock.

A hailstorm of imps dropped on us.

Three landed on me—on my head, shoulders, and back—and two more bit at my ankles. Imps are easy to kill, just a nick from a bronze blade does the job, but there were dozens of them pinching, pulling, biting, and scratching. I’d kill one, and two more moved in to attack.

The imp on my head stabbed at my face with its claws, trying to gouge my eyes. I slashed its arm, yanked it off me, and flung it away. Kane was getting swarmed worse than I was. Five imps grasped his legs, another scrambled up his back. Two sat on his head, clawing his face, and he had one on each shoulder and another weighing down the arm holding his blade. I nailed that one with a throwing knife, freeing his hand. He pulled an imp off his head and slammed it to the ground. He held it in place with his foot and drove his blade into the center of its chest.

“You don’t have to do that,” I yelled. “Just cut them—if you break the skin, the bronze does the rest.”

I didn’t see his response, because another imp launched itself at me, landing square on my face and hugging my head. A face full of imp belly—yuck. I slashed my knife across its back and went to work on the others, never-ending waves of them. It was dirty, tiring work. And it was slowing us down—which was exactly what Pryce wanted.

To my right, Kane had got the hang of it. Dead imps piled up to his shins. He twisted to get at one that hung from his back, stumbled, and fell. A dozen imps swarmed over him, hiding him from view. His arm burst from the heap, waving the knife wildly. I waded through imp corpses to help. I slashed three with one stroke and swept them away. I skewered another and hurled it into the darkness. I grabbed Kane’s arm and pulled him to his feet. A new wave attacked. We stood back to back and resumed our slice-and-dice routine.

Eventually, the attack subsided. The ranks thinned; the imps came more slowly. When the last imp was toast, its dead comrades began to dematerialize, melting into the ether. Soon, the stone floor was clear.

“Are you okay?” I asked. Kane breathed hard, his clothes ripped and speckled with blood. A nasty-looking gash bled on his cheek. As I watched, the blood stopped flowing and the cut’s edges crept toward each other. Even in human form, werewolves healed fast.

“Fine,” he said. “You?”

My clothes weren’t in any better shape than Kane’s, but I was more or less unhurt. But the imps had cost us time; we’d lost ten minutes. I called to Mab, but she didn’t answer. In the fight, I’d lost track of the direction she’d taken.

We explored the cavern’s perimeter. Besides the way we’d come, which was easy to identify from the pile of slate at its entrance, there were two other tunnels. Nothing indicated which one Mab had taken. I called down one, then the other. No answer.

“We need to split up,” I said. “You take this tunnel,” I indicated the tunnel to our right, which proceeded more or less levelly, “and I’ll take the other one.” The second tunnel, across the cavern, sloped steeply downward. Mab had said we needed to go deeper into the mine to find the cavern with the Morfran.

Kane opened his mouth like he was going to object. Yeah, yeah—he never let anyone tell him what to do. Well, neither did I, and we’d already lost too much time.

“We have no choice,” I said, my voice sharp. “One of us has to find Mab.”

His gray eyes glowed almost silver in the darkness. “I agree. I was just going to say good luck.” He pulled me to him and kissed me hard, a deep, lingering kiss.

I put my arms around him and pressed my cheek against his chest, letting his scent of moonlit forest overpower the smell of cold, dead rock. For a minute, I held him. A minute we didn’t have, but it was one I needed.

I let go. Kane squeezed my hand and ducked into the right tunnel. I watched his light bob along the walls. Then I turned and hurried across the cavern. I plunged into the tunnel and started down the steep incline.

28

I HALF-RAN, HALF-SLID DOWN THE TUNNEL. THE MINE FELT darker as the stone walls crowded in. Again, I couldn’t stand up straight, and with my head bent forward the slope felt even steeper—I kept expecting to pitch forward and somersault to the bottom. To make things worse, each step loosed a small landslide of rocks. I couldn’t have made more noise leading a brass band.

Since it was obvious I was coming, I called out Mab’s name every few feet. If she answered, I’d know I’d chosen the right tunnel.

Instead of Mab’s voice, a booming tone reverberated through the mine, like someone had struck a huge gong. The noise bounced and echoed, until it seemed to come from inside my own head. I called Mab again.

One word came back, short and sharp: “Here!”

I was almost at the bottom of the incline. My headlamp showed the floor flatten out ahead. Beyond was blackness.

Another gong sounded. One more strike, and the Morfran would be free. I drew my baselard and scrambled down the last of the incline. The floor leveled out and the walls fell away as I stepped into the cavern.

The cavern seemed immense in contrast with the tight passage I’d just left, though it was impossible to see more than a yard or two in any direction. I listened. There was a sound of rushing water—a river? A waterfall? Scuffling noises came from my right. I looked that way but couldn’t see anything. Where was Mab’s light?

A blade sliced the air with a whoosh. Metal crashed into metal, punctuated by grunts of effort. I moved toward the noise, my headlamp cutting through the darkness like a lighthouse beam through fog. After I’d taken a dozen steps, the light splashed across Mab and Pryce. They faced each other, swords drawn. Mab thrust; Pryce counter-parried. Mab moved in with a doublé attack, but he evaded her.

We had him. Pryce couldn’t fight us both at the same time. I rushed in to help.

Pryce must have heard me coming. He turned and gestured at me. It looked like he threw something, so I ducked. Mab saw his distraction and lunged. But I couldn’t see whether she hit him, because my headlamp went out.

The darkness, its suddenness and absoluteness, froze me in place. I fumbled for the flashlight on my belt. It would be awkward to fight and hold a flashlight at the same time, but I’d have to manage. I clicked the switch. Nothing happened. I tried again, but no light pierced the cavern’s darkness. Flick, flick. I moved the switch back and forth, then shook the damn thing.

I was hundreds of feet underground, and I had no light.

I pushed down the urge to scream. This was no time to panic. But how was I supposed to fight in this endless, crushing, utter darkness? Pryce was one of the Meibion Avagddu, the Sons of Utter Darkness. He could probably see in here. In fact, he must feel right at home.

Blade hit blade, slid off, hit again. Feet shuffled, grunts sounded. The fight moved deeper into the cavern. It was eerie, hearing hard fighting when I could see nothing. I crept toward the sounds. My sword was still drawn, but I might as well have left it in the car. What use was it if I couldn’t see? I didn’t want to aim for Pryce and hit Mab instead. In the darkness, Pryce cursed. I hoped Mab had gotten a good hit.

Mab had to be fighting in the demon plane. It was the only way she could expand her senses enough to see in the dark. Mab had no demon mark, no bond to a Hellion, so there was no reason for her to hold back. For me, though, it was too risky. I was too close to the place where demons had been born to step into their world.

Then Mab gasped and cried out. Pryce laughed. There was a loud groan—a sound laced with pain. Was it Mab? I couldn’t be sure. Then Pryce laughed again, and nothing else mattered. Mab needed me. I took a deep breath and opened my senses to the demon plane.

In a blaze of agony, my demon mark ignited. I screamed. A flare shot from my arm, lighting the cavern like a torch. Beyond it, a dim gray light—the eternal twilight of Uffern—spread feebly throughout the cavern. Cawing, muted but frantic, called from the slate. Mab and Pryce stood thirty feet ahead. They’d paused their fight. Both stood and stared at me.

Mab looked like an avenging angel, fifty years younger and shining with the same silver radiance that lit up Hellforged’s obsidian blade. Pryce showed his double form. He still looked like the tall, elegant, black-haired human who called himself my cousin, but his demon self hulked behind like a nightmare shadow. Cysgod was bigger and uglier than in the pub; it towered over Mab by a dozen feet. The demon held a sword, longer than I was tall. Fire reeled in and out of its mouth as it breathed. It laughed, and flames shot toward me.

I jumped back, and the flames extinguished on the ground at my feet. But the blaze from my demon mark grew, jetting toward the cavern’s ceiling in a fountain of fire. I batted at it with my left hand, burning myself but unable to smother the flame. The heat blistered my left palm but left the skin around the mark untouched.

I looked to Mab for help. She gaped at me across the gloom, her mouth hanging open in horror.

Pryce bounded behind her. His shadow demon lifted its sword.

“Mab, look out!”

My warning came too late. Cysgod rammed its sword into her back, skewering her. Steel glinted where the tip protruded from her chest, although the demon itself remained a shadow. Pain squeezed my aunt’s features. The creature drew back its arm, lifting Mab off her feet, then whipped the sword forward and flung her across the cavern. She hit the far wall and crumpled onto the floor.

“No!” Iran to her.

Pryce’s laughter echoed through the cavern.

Mab had rolled onto her back. Her chest wound, four inches long, pumped out blood. Her clothes were soaked with it, and it puddled on the floor. I reached out to put pressure on the wound, but my damn demon mark still spit flames, so I used my left hand. Blood welled between my fingers.

“Mab,” I choked out. “You’re going to be all right.”

Behind me, the third gong-strike sounded. As if in answer, frenzied cawing and the flapping of wings burst into the cavern.

Mab’s eyes fluttered open. “The athame, child,” she whispered. I had to lean over to hear her. “Don’t let the Morfran escape.”

“It already has, you old fool.” Pryce sneered from the darkness behind us. “Today sees the death of the Lady of the Cerddorion, as prophesied. Your niece knew it was coming; the book told her. Yet she did nothing to save you. She chose my side.”

A look of revulsion crossed my aunt’s face.

“Liar!” I shouted. I bent over Mab. “Don’t listen to him,” I said. “I’ll get you out of here, get you to a hospital.”

Mab opened her mouth, but instead of words, a thick gout of blood surged out. She shuddered, then lay motionless. Under my hand, the pulsing blood stilled.

“We’ve defeated her.” Pryce was jubilant. “Thanks to you, cousin. If you hadn’t entered Uffern—”

I was on my feet, charging him, before he could finish. I grasped my sword in both hands, lifting it high over my head, ready to split him down the center.

Pryce danced out of the way. Instead of drawing his own sword to fight me, the coward turned and sprinted toward the tunnel. He leapt into it and scrambled up the slope on his hands and knees. Cysgod squeezed into the tunnel after him.

I hurled a knife at his receding figure. The angle was too awkward; the knife struck the tunnel’s ceiling short of its target, fell to the ground, and slid down the slope. I scooped it up as I ran.

Rocks and debris rained down as Pryce made his way up the incline. I didn’t need a lamp because my demon mark still burned with its own fire. As long as I didn’t try to put it out, it didn’t burn me. Ahead, Cysgod snatched up junk from the floor and tore chunks of rock from the walls to throw at me. I dodged them as I climbed, but I still got hit in the face, the shoulders, the chest. I barely felt the blows.

Pryce reached the top of the tunnel and disappeared into the upper cavern. Two seconds later, a yelp of pain echoed.

I emerged from the tunnel and saw Kane sitting on the cavern floor, holding his dagger and looking dazed. Pryce was already almost to the next tunnel.

I paused beside him. “Are you okay?”

“I think I winged him,” Kane said. His eyes widened when he saw my flaming arm, but he didn’t ask. “Something just . . . swatted me away.”

Cysgod. Kane’s a solid two hundred pounds, but the shadow demon was huge. Kane got to his feet, rubbing his jaw. Across the cavern, Pryce climbed over the pile of slate at the entry to the tunnel that led back to the surface. Kane started after him.

“Mab’s hurt,” I said. “She needs help. She’s in the cavern at the bottom of that steep tunnel. When you get to the bottom, turn left. She’s by the wall.”

I don’t know why I lied. Maybe I couldn’t face the fact that Mab was dead. Maybe I couldn’t bear the thought of her body lying alone in that cold, dark, underground tomb. Maybe I wanted to kill Pryce myself, with no help from anyone. Maybe all of the above. I pushed past Kane and ran after Pryce. I didn’t hear any footsteps behind me, so I knew Kane had gone the other way. Good. He’d watch over Mab’s body until I could get back to her.

I slipped and fell once on the wet slate, but I was up and running again a second after I’d hit the ground. I clambered over the slate pile on my hands and knees, then sped up the incline in a crouching run. I couldn’t see Pryce or Cysgod, and no hunks of slate or rusty pickaxes came flying at my head. I was too far behind. I went faster.

Then, before I knew it, I was outside. There was no proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, just tight walls giving way to open space. If anything, it was darker out here than inside the mine. It should have been twilight still—how long had we been underground? I looked skyward and saw why it had grown midnight-dark. Overhead, thousands of crows flew. More than that—tens of thousands. They circled silently, as if waiting for something.

Shit. I’d left Hellforged in the mine.

I couldn’t go back for it now. If the Morfran attacked, I’d never make it as far as the first cavern. I’d rather get to Pryce and kill him before the third phase blew me to pieces.

Flame continued to spout from my demon mark. I held my arm high, like a torch, so it cast light ahead of me, bathing the night in a red glow. I went forward, listening for the cawing that would escalate to a scream before the Morfran attacked, waiting for the buzzing to start in my head. The crows circled and circled, but they didn’t make a sound. Another step, then two more. Nothing changed. I proceeded toward the center of the gravel yard, toward the hub of the circle traced by the crows’ flight. I went cautiously, tense and alert, watching for an ambush. In the mine, Pryce had run away. Why hadn’t he attacked? Because he’d be in a better position to strike here, with Cysgod and this huge mass of Morfran as his troops.

I passed the Land Rover and glanced inside. Jenkins lay facedown, his body wedged behind the front seats.

I’m going to kill you, Pryce. For Jenkins. For those zombies. But most of all for Mab.

The yard appeared deserted. If not for the massive flock of crows circling overhead, I’d have thought Pryce was long gone.

“Pryce!” I shouted. “Quit hiding, damn you. Let’s end this now.”

Fire sprang up in the center of the yard. Its flames glowed bright red, the shade of fresh blood. Pryce stood in the center of the conflagration, Cysgod towering behind him. Crimson light splashed across Pryce, illuminating his human features with a demonic glow. Cysgod’s figure was opaque, sucking in whatever light touched it.

I raised my sword and ran at them, bellowing a furious war cry. I struck, but my sword bounced off the flames like they were made of iron, wrenching my arm at the shoulder. Pryce laughed. I hated his laugh.

“Nothing ends tonight, cousin. Unless we’re talking about Mab, of course. Poor old dear, eh? Thanks for helping me send her to her destiny.”

I struck at the fire—four, five, six times—hacking and stabbing as though I could bash my way through. The flames didn’t flicker; my sword couldn’t penetrate them.

I stopped, panting, holding my sword at the ready in case Pryce’s protection failed.

“I’d never hurt Mab.” As I said the words, I remembered how she’d stared at me, at the flame that burst from my arm when I slipped into the demon plane. She’d warned me, and I’d ignored her warning. Pryce was right: It was my fault. Again. I’d given Cysgod the opening to strike Mab down.

“That’s two of your relatives you’ve killed now, isn’t it? Mab and your father. Are you certain you’re Cerddorion? It’s like you’ve been on my side all along.” Each word punched me like a fist. When the sword fell from my hand, I barely noticed. Pryce sneered. “Welcome to Hell, cousin.”

The flames blazed up. I staggered back, shielding my eyes. Pryce’s human form grew taller and taller, until it reached Cysgod’s height. The two forms melted into each other, blending into a huge, hideous demon gleaming with bloody light. The demon blew me a kiss.

An explosion blasted out, hurling me backward through the air. I slammed into the Land Rover and slid to the ground, blinded by the brilliant flash and deaf to everything except the echo of demonic laughter.

29

SOMEONE WAS SHAKING MY SHOULDER. IT HURT. IT FELT LIKE all my bones, broken into inch-long fragments, were rattling around in a burlap bag.

“Miss Vicky?”

I swatted at the hand that insisted on rattling my poor bones.

“Miss Vicky! Thank God! Where’s Miss Mab and your gentleman friend?”

I peeled my eyelids back to a squint—it was the most I could manage—and saw Jenkins’s anxious face inches from my own.

“You’re alive,” I said.

“Me? ’Course I am. Soon as them crows started flying out of the mine—looked like smoke from a seven-alarm fire, they did—I hid in the Land Rover. They’re all gone now, thank God. Disappeared with that explosion.”

Gravel bit my palms as I sat up. I checked my arm—the demon mark no longer burned—and looked up. Jenkins was right; the sky was clear. A waning gibbous moon hung in the east, casting silvery light over the landscape. Across the sky, stars winked and sparkled. Somewhere, people were calling this a beautiful night. But not here. Not in Hell.

Welcome to Hell, cousin.

Jenkins shook my shoulder again. “Where’s Miss Mab? What did that Pryce mean, what he said about her?”

Jenkins’s face was taut with worry, his eyes afraid. I closed my own eyes to keep the tears from spilling over. Jenkins and Rose had been with Mab for so many years, humans who lived with and accepted the family’s strangeness—and, yes, even managed to love us. How could I tell him Mab was dead? Especially when it was because of me.

I couldn’t say the words. I couldn’t.

Closing my eyes didn’t help. The tears escaped, anyway. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed.

“Oh, dear Lord.” Jenkins’s hand tightened on my shoulder.

I had to pull myself together. Jenkins deserved to know what happened, that Mab had fought well and died bravely. And I had to go back and help Kane carry out her body.

“Jenkins . . .” I began, opening my eyes.

But he wasn’t looking at me. He stared at the entrance to the mine.

I turned and stared, too. Kane was coming across the yard, head bowed, carrying something across his shoulders. It wasn’t Mab; it was some sort of animal. I couldn’t make out what. Jenkins was already hurrying toward him. I jumped up and followed.

Kane carried a huge gray wolf.

“I’ll explain in a minute,” he said. “Let me set her down.”

Jenkins opened the Land Rover’s rear door, and I helped him fold down the backseat. The three of us eased the wolf into the vehicle. She lay on her side, eyes closed, tongue lolling, ribs moving quickly in shallow pants.

“It’s Miss Mab, isn’t it?” Jenkins said.

Kane nodded.

“I thought she was dead,” I said, so quietly I could barely hear my own words. “If I’d realized . . . I never would have left her alone in there, not even to stop Pryce.”

Kane put his arm around me and pulled me close. “You didn’t. You sent me to be with her. I thought she was dead, too, Vicky. But I decided to try a healing technique that works on my kind—I don’t know why I did. To do something, I guess. I didn’t expect it to work.”

Mab’s fur was matted with blood from her chest down to her belly, but I couldn’t see an open wound. “What did you do?”

“When a werewolf is severely injured—in wolf or human form, it doesn’t matter—sometimes even our bodies can’t heal fast enough to sustain life. But a sort of blood transfusion can help. That’s what I did. I cut my arm”—he pulled up his tattered sleeve to show the spot, but his skin was unscarred—“and let the blood run into Mab’s wound. It started to close immediately, and she gasped, like she’d been holding her breath for too long. But then she changed into a wolf. I didn’t know that would happen.”

“It’s okay. It’s good, actually. Changing form will help her heal faster. The wound closed before she shifted?”

“I think so. I was watching it, but the energy blast of her shift drove me back.”

I ran my hand over the wolf’s thick, coarse fur. She stirred, then sighed and sank back into sleep. Mab was alive. Tears—how different they felt—spilled over again. I glanced at Jenkins; he wiped his sleeve across his eyes.

“Thank you,” I said to Kane. Jenkins swallowed, like he had a big lump in his throat, and nodded.

Blood smudged Kane’s face and stained his sweatshirt in rust-colored patches. He was dirty and disheveled, his gray eyes dark with exhaustion and worry. Then something blazed in those eyes. I put my hands on his face, feeling rough stubble under my fingers, and pulled him to me. He still smelled like moonlit forest, his scent now intermingled with blood and sweat and wet rock. My lips found his—brushing them, then pressing harder. He caught his breath, and as he did my heart tumbled over itself. I pushed forward, molding my body against him. His hands touched my back, resting there lightly, then his grip tightened and he clasped me to him.

Everything I’d felt this day—fear, love, grief, hate, anger, relief—swirled together and swelled into a bigger emotion, one I couldn’t name. The feeling surged up in me, lifted me, and poured into him. Poured through my lips, my fingers. Kane drank it in and returned it. His mouth roved over my skin; his teeth grazed my flesh. Warmth filled me. There was nothing but his heat and mine, the press of our bodies. His scent. His taste. His touch.

Footsteps crunched on gravel, and the world snapped back into place. I opened my eyes to see Jenkins trying to move discreetly away. I turned toward the Land Rover, my heart still hammering, my pulse crashing to the tips of my fingers and toes. Kane’s hand rested on my hip. I’d never felt so strongly alive. I looked at Mab. Both of us, alive.

“I couldn’t carry out her sword,” Kane said, almost apologetically, his voice hoarse.

“Aw, don’t worry ’bout that,” Jenkins said, venturing back. “Miss Mab’s got plenty of swords.”

Dread grabbed me. Hellforged. Mab had tried to give me the athame, but I’d been so frantic with worry, grief, and anger. “Did you pick up a dagger?” I asked Kane. “With a bone hilt and a black stone blade?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t see anything like that. I was focused on getting her out.”

“Of course.” I hugged him to let him know how grateful I was. “But that dagger is one of a kind. And it’s the only way to stop the Morfran. I’ve got to go back and get it.”

KANE GAVE ME HIS HEADLAMP, SINCE PRYCE HAD FRAZZLED Mab’s and mine. The light played over dark walls and the debris-strewn tunnel. The going wasn’t any easier this time, but I knew my destination and how to get there, and there were no attacking imps, so the trip through the first tunnel, across the first cavern, and down the incline was quicker.

The lower cavern reeked of blood and sulfur. I turned left, toward the wall where Mab had fallen. Halfway across the cavern I began to see bits of cloth on the floor—pieces of Mab’s clothing shredded in her shift’s energy blast. I picked up a bronze dagger and stuck it in my belt. I found her sword but left it where it lay. As Jenkins said, Mab had plenty of swords. But there was only one Hellforged.

Sticky, red-brown blood marked the spot where Mab had fallen. God, there was so much of it. It didn’t seem possible to lose all that blood and live. Again I saw Mab’s blood pulsing out between my fingers as I tried to make it stop. Dried blood still coated my hand. I shuddered and pushed the vision from my mind. Mab was alive. She was healing. Kane had saved her life.

And to think I’d wanted him to wait by the car with Jenkins.

Kane. By the car. That kiss . . . the taste of him lingered in my mouth.

I shook my head, clearing it. Priorities, Vicky. We had to get Mab home. And I had to find Hellforged, so I could stop Pryce and put the Morfran back where it belonged.

Starting where Mab had fallen, I searched in a circle, feeling in cracks, looking under pieces of slate. I followed the perimeter of the energy blast, marked by pieces of clothing. What if the athame hadn’t survived the blast? Some of these pieces of dark rock could be shards of obsidian. But until I found the bone hilt, or a fragment of it, I’d assume Hellforged was intact. It had been forged in Hellfire; it should be able to survive one little Cerddorion energy blast.

I went over every inch of the circle. No athame. Had Pryce grabbed it before he ran? Not possible. He hadn’t come near the place where Mab fell, and she’d tried to give it to me, so she had it then. Mab could control the athame when she held it, but the thing had a life of its own. Maybe it had used the energy blast as a springboard to fly across the cavern.

It would take hours to search the cavern thoroughly. I’d never find it.

And then I remembered that the athame’s blade gave off a faint silver glow. In the absolute darkness of an underground cavern, that glow might be enough light to reveal Hellforged’s hiding place.

I didn’t want to be in the dark again, alone and so far underground. Fear weighed on me like the hundreds of tons of rock overhead. I looked around, hoping Hellforged would appear to me simply because I willed it, simply because I didn’t want to turn off my light. I clenched my fists. This was ridiculous. Demon fighters aren’t afraid of the dark. But never had I been in darkness so devoid of any trace of light.

Stop it. Mab didn’t train a coward.

I switched off my headlamp.

Darkness crashed in. I fought down panic, blinking rapidly, but the eyes can’t adjust to pure, endless, unrelieved darkness. I inhaled deeply and waited for my heart to quit speed-drumming in my chest. Breathe . . . Breathe. I wasn’t centered, exactly, but I was calmer. I looked around the cavern.

The only way I knew I was looking around was because I turned in a circle. With no visual reference point, I couldn’t tell when I’d made it back to where I’d started. I kept moving slowly, following my right shoulder, around and around, positioning my head at different angles and hoping I wasn’t overlooking a spot.

There—maybe—something glimmered. It was hard to pick out, like a single silver thread on an acre of black velvet, but I thought there was something. I locked my gaze onto the spot and turned on my headlamp. As soon as the light streamed forth, the glimmer disappeared. Great. I’d have to find my way across the cavern in the dark. I flicked off my headlamp and the faint, silvery glimmer reappeared.

I moved slowly across the uneven, rock-strewn floor, not daring to look away. Keeping my gaze fixed to one spot did weird things to my sight—or what passed for sight down here. Wavy lines in purple and yellow danced around my peripheral vision and my eyes felt bone-dry; more than anything, I wanted to blink. But I clung to that silver thread like a lifeline. When my right foot stumbled into a hole and I crashed down, cutting my knee and wrenching my ankle, I didn’t look away. I kicked and yanked at my foot, ignoring the pain, until I’d freed it. Then I crawled forward, sweeping away debris with my hands.

It couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes to cross the cavern, but it seemed like days. Despite the damp, cold, and darkness of the mine, I felt like I was crawling and crawling across an endless expanse of desert toward an oasis I knew was a mirage. But Hellforged was no mirage. When I finally arrived at the silver glimmer, I hauled myself up onto my knees and turned on the headlamp. There it was, the obsidian athame, whole and undamaged.

I grabbed it. Hellforged flew from my hand and shot off like an arrow across the cavern, disappearing once more into the darkness beyond my headlamp. Damn it—why hadn’t I taken a few seconds to get centered? And why did the dagger have to be so damn jittery? I didn’t have time or patience for its crap right now.

I limped in the direction the athame had gone, but I’d lost sight of it. So again, I turned off my headlamp, located the glimmer a few feet ahead of me, and approached it. This time, I took several minutes to let my impatience drain away, breathing deeply and slowly and going inside myself until it didn’t matter whether I was deep in an abandoned mine or snug in my own bed. When I’d achieved that feeling of centeredness, I switched on my headlamp.

The light didn’t come on.

I tried the switch again. Still no thin beam boring through the darkness. Oh, no. Please, no. Not now.

My hand went to the flashlight on my belt. As I touched it I knew it was the one Pryce had fried earlier, but I tried anyway, flicking the switch half a dozen times like I had before. It didn’t work. What a surprise.

The panic I’d experienced before was the baby brother of what hit me now. I fought down the urge to scream, but not for long. I shrieked and howled and tore at my hair and just wanted to run. My sprained ankle saved me. As soon as I tried to take a step, pain shot up my leg and the ankle gave way. I fell sideways onto the floor, clutching my leg. My face landed in a puddle, but the shock of cold water and hard stone did nothing to snap me out of it. I kept screaming, the sound echoing like a chorus of the damned, until I drew a breath and inhaled a mouthful of water. I sputtered and pushed myself to a sitting position.

I coughed my lungs inside out, but by the time I finished I no longer felt like screaming. The cavern was silent, except for a steady drip drip drip nearby and, farther off, the muted rush of running water. Mab had mentioned an underground river. If I’d run off in a blind panic, I might have fallen in and been swept away by the icy water. Mab and Kane would never know what happened to me.

Okay. No more running, no more screaming, no more panic. I had to get out of here, so we could get Mab back to civilization. I wasn’t going to wait around for a rescue party, and I refused to enter the demon plane. If I stepped into Uffern carrying Hellforged, I might was well wrap up the athame with a pretty bow and give it to Difethwr as a birthday present. The only way out was to shift.

I’d have to be careful. It was difficult, sometimes impossible, to hang on to my human thoughts and intentions when I shifted to an animal. And the animal I had in mind was so much smaller than my human form that its tiny brain might not serve my purpose.

One thing I had going for me—the only thing, as far as I could see—was that we were just a few days into the new lunar cycle. This early in the cycle, my animal form would be weak. Maybe my human side could retain enough control to get Hellforged out of here.

I stood and placed the athame on the ground at my feet. Then I concentrated. Like a mantra, I repeated three words: “Knife. Out. Car. Knife. Out. Car.” For several minutes I said them out loud, then I drew them inside myself. Knife. Out. Car. I repeated the words until they were etched into my mind. I hoped my reshaped brain would be big enough to hold all three.

Knife. Out. Car.

I took off my boots and shivered at the clammy touch of the cold, damp floor on my bare feet. Lightly, so as not to send the athame rocketing off again, I placed my feet over Hellforged, favoring my throbbing ankle, and curled my toes around the grip. Knife. Out. Car.

I extended my hearing, sharpening it, listening for tiny sounds I wouldn’t usually notice. Knife. Out. Car. I thought of wide, leathery wings; a snub nose; beady eyes. Knife. Out. Car. I thought of hanging upside down, wings wrapped around me like a blanket. Knife. Out. Car.

I started shrinking. Big, I thought, big enough to carry a dagger. Then I resumed my mental chant: Knife. Out. Car. Pain squeezed my head as my skull compressed and my ears slid to the top of my head. My arms stretched and grew impossibly long, my fingers spreading out, webbing growing between them. My legs shortened to little more than feet and ankles; my toe-nails became sharp, strong claws. As it felt like my head was being crushed to powder, I managed to repeat my mantra one last time. Knife. Out. Car. Then the energy blasted out, and I changed.

Water sounds. Dripping, trickling, rippling. Rock groaning. A pebble rolling. I leapt into the air, wings going fast. Cried out. Sound bounced back at me. Too many echoes. Too many sounds. Walls, floor, rock, dust—crowding in. Confused. I couldn’t hear where I was. I slammed into rock, fell. Something fell with me, clattered onto rock.

I shook myself. I stretched my wings, flapped. No hurts. I cried out again, many times, listened. Cried out, listened. Sounds came back to me, gave me the shape of the nearby wall. I cried out again, again, again, listening for shapes. I could hear my location. Into the air I went, wings carrying me. I cried out, cried out. Listened. Heard shapes, heard spaces. Moved through them. Wings beating fast, fast.

Through the sounds, a light. Small, color of the thinnest moon. Near where I fell. Knife—a shapeless sound inside my head. I wanted the silver light. I swooped, touched rock. My feet found the light, grasped it. At its touch, I wanted out. Out. Under the moon, the big moon, where air smells like grass, not rock. Out where sounds go a long way before they come back.

I called. Heard an open space that went up. Up meant out. I flew up, toward out.

Narrower here. No water sounds, just my cries, bouncing off stone. I flew fast. My ears brushed stone. The tip of one wing, the other wing, brushed stone. But no crashing. I heard the shapes. I flew through a tunnel of sounds.

Now, echoes took longer to come back. Wider space here. But rock smells, not out yet. I heard another up-slanting space, flew there. Echoes closed in. Up I flew. Other sounds now. Voices—coarse, two-legs, no-wing sounds. Wind. Grass rustling. A big water lapping its shore.

I flew toward the sounds, toward out, carrying the sliver of moonlight.

I burst out of the rocky place, into the wide air. Cold. Many sounds, but long echoes. I flew up, dipped, swooped. Cold. I listened for food. Too cold. Cold felt wrong. Felt like sleep.

No-wings below, pointing. I dodged, moved fast. Too fast for no-wings to see. Out is no good when it’s cold. I wanted shelter, warmth. Wanted to fold my wings and sleep.

Back to cave, to shelter. No, cave felt wrong. Where was good shelter? Warmth came from no-wings, from a shelter beside them. Car. It looked warm, a good place to sleep. I swooped down. A no-wings made an opening, and in I flew. A four-legs, gray and furry, lay on its side, eyes closed. Yes, a good place to sleep.

I dropped the sliver of moon, moved in close to the four-legs. Warm fur. Safe smells. Sounds of breathing, heart beating. Good feelings inside me. I found a perch, covered myself with my wings, and slept.

30

THE ENERGY BLASTED OUT, AND I WAS NAKED AND FREEZING and it was dark and I didn’t know where I was.

“Knife! Out! Car!” I heard the words before I realized I was the one shouting them.

“It worked, Vicky.” Kane’s voice came from behind me. “You did it. You can let go now.” Warmth enveloped me as he draped a blanket around my shoulders. “We’re almost back to your aunt’s house. When you woke up and started flying around the car, Jenkins realized you were about to shift back. He pulled over and we let you out.”

Woke up—I’d fallen asleep without Mab’s tea. I sifted through the kaleidoscope of memories and impressions from the shift. I remembered darkness, three dimensions of sounds, a glimmer of light, cold, sleepiness . . . but no Difethwr. Maybe a bat’s dreamscape was too small for a Hellion to squeeze into.

Kane and I stood in a field tinted silver by moonlight. About ten feet away, the Land Rover waited at the side of the road.

“Mab—” I wrapped the blanket around me and started toward the car.

“She’s doing fine,” Kane said. “I just checked on her.”

Mab slept in the back of the Land Rover, still in wolf form. I ran a hand over her fur; she whimpered softly and twitched in her sleep. I didn’t know how to check a wolf for a fever—was it like a dog? Gently, I touched her black nose. It was dry but not hot.

“She’s fine,” Kane repeated. He put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed.

I borrowed a sweatshirt from Kane’s suitcase. I never would have guessed he owned one, let alone two. This one was dark blue and smelled like laundry detergent with the slightest trace of Kane beneath the soap. It was big on me and covered most of what needed covering. I tied the blanket around my waist like a sarong to keep my legs warm.

Now that I had my bearings, I recognized where we were—no more than a few minutes from Maenllyd. I climbed into the back of the car and sat by Mab, my hand on her shoulder. Kane got in front, beside Jenkins, and we made our way home.

Given the length of the drive, I calculated that I’d been in bat form for a little over two hours. Shifts can last different lengths of time, depending on a number of factors: the moon phase, the type of animal, the strength of emotion at the time of shifting. Smaller animals generally mean shorter shifts. As a wolf, Mab could stay in animal form for another eight to ten hours. Healing her injuries might keep her in wolf form even longer.

Jenkins turned left, and we went through Maenllyd’s gates and along the driveway. When the Land Rover pulled into the coaching yard, the front door burst open to reveal an anxious-looking Rose. She ran down the steps and peered into the car, counting heads. Her hands flew to her mouth when she saw Mab.

“She got hurt, but she’s recovering,” I said. Kane’s promise of she’s fine echoed in my mind. “Kane saved her.”

Kane shouldered Mab into the house, like when he’d brought her out of the mine. We got her settled in the shift room, where Rose insisted on sitting with her. I showed Kane the blue bedroom, the guest room Rose had prepared for him. We both needed to clean up.

“I’ll meet you in the library in half an hour,” I told him. “Go down the stairs and across the front hall. Turn right and keep going until you get to the room with all the books.” He nodded and reached for me, but I turned away. I went down the hall and climbed the stairs to my room.

HALF AN HOUR LATER, I WAS SHOWERED, DRESSED, AND FEELING human again—a phrase that really means something to a shapeshifter. I hurried down to the shift room to check on Mab. She was still asleep. She lay on her side, tongue lolling, one paw hanging over the edge of the bed. Rose sat beside her, knitting. She put a finger to her lips, and I nodded, backing out of the room.

Time to go meet Kane.

As I crossed the kitchen, nervousness rippled through my belly. That kiss. The memory of it made me stop and lean against the table. What if he’d read too much into it? I didn’t want him to think I was throwing myself at him or getting all clingy. We’d always given each other plenty of space; that’s what worked for us. Tonight, he’d saved Mab and I was overcome with emotion. If he didn’t see that was all there was to it, I’d set him straight. He’d understand. In fact, he’d be relieved.

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and went to the library.

Kane sat by the fire, the flames’ light and shadows playing over his silver hair. This was the Kane I recognized, wearing knife-creased black trousers and a light-blue dress shirt. He smiled when he saw me—God, he lit up the room when he smiled—and started to stand. “Don’t get up,” I said, my voice squeakier than the brisk tone I’d intended. I sat in Mab’s chair, and he stayed where he was. But he leaned toward me, a question in his eyes I couldn’t decipher.

I was glad there was a fire to stare into. “Mab’s still asleep.”

“I know.” He paused, and it felt like he was waiting for something from me. The flames danced and fluttered, yellow and white, above pulsing orange embers. Kane sighed, and I heard him settle back in his chair. And just like that the moment passed.

“Yes, Jenkins told me when he brought me this.” He lifted a glass of wine. It was a deep red, shimmering with reflected firelight. “May I pour you some? Château Latour Paulliac 1970.”

“That’s older than you are. You sure it’s safe to drink?” When feeling awkward, make a lame joke.

He eyeballed me over his glass. “I hope you’re kidding. Do you want some or not?”

I wouldn’t know the difference between Château Whatever and the stuff the winos drink out of paper bags in the New Combat Zone, but a drink sounded good. “Okay.”

Kane poured some wine. He swirled it around the glass a few times and gave it to me.

I rolled my eyes at the performance and drank. Yup, it tasted like wine. I wondered if Jenkins could pick up some of that lite beer Axel served at Creature Comforts.

Kane watched me intently. “Do you like it?”

“It’s wet, it’s got alcohol. What’s not to like?”

“Philistine.” He sipped and closed his eyes, savoring the taste.

Jenkins must have discovered Kane liked wine and dusted off one of Mab’s best bottles. He and Rose would be treating Kane very well for as long as he stayed here. I wondered how long that would be.

“You didn’t come all the way to Wales to drink my aunt’s wine. What are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you for months, not until you’d argued your case.”

“Didn’t you see it on the news?”

“What news? There’s no TV in the house, and Mab doesn’t get a newspaper. Just like there’s no phone. Maenllyd is . . . outside of time.”

“I can see that.” He waved his arm. “This place feels like something out of Masterpiece Theatre.”

There was more to it than that, but I didn’t know how to explain. Time moved differently here. Maybe that was why Mab didn’t age like everyone else.

“So what was in the news?”

A cloud crossed his face. “The case has been postponed. Indefinitely—maybe forever, I don’t know. Everything’s in disarray.”

“Kane, what happened?”

“Justice Frederickson was murdered.”

My glass stopped halfway to my mouth. Carol Frederickson, the Chief Justice whose opinions on civil rights had worried Kane.

“Who killed her? Do they know?”

Kane’s laugh rang bitterly. “They thought it was me. Her throat was torn out. And it happened on the first night of the full moon. Who else but a werewolf?”

“But . . . but . . .” I sputtered as my thoughts pulled themselves together. “What would your motive be? You’ve waited years to get a case in front of the court.”

“And I thought I was going to lose, thanks to Frederickson—that’s how the theory went, anyway. I heard it about a hundred times when the cops questioned me.”

“But you were in Virginia at the werewolf retreat, so you had an alibi. Why would they even look at you?”

“I did have an alibi—thank whatever gods may be up there—but not that one. On Wednesday, I stayed later at the office than I should have. It was the first night of the full moon, and I’d be at the retreat for three days. There were a couple of things I wanted to finish.” That was typical. Kane the workaholic werewolf. “When I finally left, it was starting to get dark, but I could make it to the retreat before moonrise, no problem, as long as I didn’t get stopped for speeding.”

Doubly typical. Finishing one last thing at work and running late for whatever came next.

“My damn car wouldn’t start. I tried calling a taxi, and three different companies told me there was a twenty-minute wait. Some convention in town. But twenty minutes was too long. I wasn’t going to make it.”

“What did you do?”

“After I finished cursing?” He gave a wry smile, sipped some wine. “Nothing. I was trying to figure out who else I could call when somebody jumped me from behind.”

Whoa. Mugging a werewolf was about as dumb as a dumb move could get. I waited for Kane to tell me about how he’d taught the mugger a lesson. But that wasn’t what he said.

“I think I was out for a couple of seconds, because I don’t remember hitting the pavement. When I came to, it felt like the temperature had dropped fifty degrees. And this thing was peering into my face, like this.” He held up a hand about an inch from his nose to show how close it had been. “Vicky, I don’t know how to describe it. Its skin looked like dried-out leather, stretched taut over the skull like it was painted on. No nose, no lips. Fangs like a vampire’s, only bigger—so big they stuck out of its mouth. They were yellow like old ivory. And there was a smell like grave dust—old and stale and long since dead.” His nostrils twitched at the memory.

I put down my wineglass and shifted in my chair. He could’ve been describing the creature I’d seen in my living room in Boston—the one Juliet insisted I’d dreamed. But what really astonished me was Kane’s horror. Kane, champion of all things paranormal, the politically correct werewolf who scolded me every time I said “zombie” or “monster.” I’d never heard him call any paranormal being a “thing” before.

Rose came in, carrying a tray. “Sandwiches again,” she apologized as she set it on an end table. “But I thought you’d be hungry, and I’ve got to get back to Miss Mab.” She smiled shyly at Kane. “I’ll feed you proper tomorrow.”

“She’s still sleeping?” I asked.

Rose nodded. “Deep, like. She got restless for a bit and I thought she was getting ready to shift back, but then she quieted down again.”

“It’s good she’s sleeping,” said Kane. “Among my kind it can take two or three days of sleep before someone’s fully healed.”

I hoped it wouldn’t take Mab that long. We’d failed tonight. Pryce had released that huge deposit of Morfran, and I needed her help to plan our next move.

Rose turned around in the doorway. “There’s cheese sandwiches, and bacon, and lamb. I left out the pickle from some of the cheese ones for you, Miss Vicky.”

We attacked the huge pile of sandwiches. Kane gulped down two before he reached again for his wine. Lamb, both of them. I was glad he hadn’t been around earlier, when I was a sheep. You can take the man out of the wolf, but . . .

“So this creature that attacked me,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I thought maybe it was a demon. Does it sound like anything you’ve ever come across?”

“Yeah, in my living room. But it wasn’t a demon.” I didn’t know what it was any better than Kane did, but I was sure of that much. Demons can’t cover up their sulfur-and-brimstone smell, and Kane’s werewolf nose couldn’t have missed that. Now, he stared, forgetting about his wine. “I’ll tell you about it after you finish telling me what happened in Washington. What did you do when you woke up and found that creature in your face?”

“I remember jumping up and snarling at it. Moonrise was approaching, and the shock of seeing the damn thing nearly forced me to change early. It backed away, but a second one came at me out of the shadows. I snapped at that one, and it retreated a few steps. Then another advanced. There were definitely three of them, maybe four. I couldn’t be sure, because I kept whirling around, trying to keep an eye on all of them at once.”

“They were tall and skinny?”

He nodded. “Like stick figures. They were playing their bizarre game of tag because they were trying to keep me in place so I’d shift out in the open, in the middle of the city. They almost did, too. The damn things were fast. But one got too close, and I grabbed it. I lifted it over my head and threw it into its friends, then ran like hell. I don’t know where I thought I was going. But I got lucky. One of those taxis I hadn’t actually ordered showed up. I jumped in and told the guy I’d give him a five-hundred-dollar tip if he could get me to the National Zoo in five minutes.”

The zoo? Kane? His story hadn’t exactly been a laugh riot so far, but this had to be a joke. Kane, with his suit and briefcase, checking into a zoo? It defied imagination. And anyway, not even the strongest zoo cage could hold a werewolf.

He saw my amazement and nodded. “The zoo has a safe room for werewolves who can’t get to a retreat during a full moon. Most big-city zoos have one. The safe room is usually underground, with a six-inch-thick, silver-plated steel door. Multiple surveillance cameras. And no windows, so you don’t feel the moon as strongly.”

“I never knew that.”

“Most people don’t. Or didn’t, until it came out in the news after the murder. I got there with two minutes to spare—not even. I could feel the change begin as I tried to make it down the stairs. I had to scramble into the room on all fours. The night zookeeper was right behind me, aiming a gun loaded with silver bullets at my head.”

Of course. I’d been picturing something like the shift room where Mab now slept downstairs. But Kane’s safe room was nothing like that. “Safe” room meant keeping the norm population safe, not the unfortunate werewolf who got caught in the city at the wrong time. Kane had come close, really close to being killed. I reached over and squeezed his hand.

“It was a bad night,” he said, squeezing back. “That no-window theory? It’s a crock. The moon hit me strong, and it was worse not to see it. I was restless and cooped up and boiling over with rage. All night I paced and howled and hurled myself against the door. I’ve still got silver burns on my shoulder.”

“And while you were in there, someone murdered the judge.”

“Yes, and set me up for it. An anonymous call to the police reported a werewolf in the judge’s neighborhood. And somebody called the retreat in Virginia to ask if I’d checked in. When the story hit the news—judge dead, werewolf seen in vicinity—the retreat staff called the D.C. cops and reported I’d never arrived.

“You can imagine what happened after that. When the safe room door opened the next morning, it wasn’t to let me out. A paranormal SWAT team burst in and arrested me. They had assault weapons, silver-plated handcuffs, the works.” He smiled ruefully. “At least they let me put on some pants before they hauled me out in front of the TV cameras.”

“Oh, Kane.” How humiliating. Kane was all about respect. To be treated like a criminal and a monster on television, arrested at the National Zoo of all places, must have been worse for him than the ordeal itself. I wanted to kick the crap out of whoever had done this to him.

“Who’d want to frame you?”

He shrugged. “Who wouldn’t? A lot of humans want to make sure PAs never get full legal status.” He drained his glass, but I could tell from his faraway look that he hadn’t tasted the expensive wine. “It was a perfect plan. If they’d succeeded in pinning the murder on me, it would’ve been all over. The crusading werewolf lawyer turns out to be just another monster after all.” I’d never heard him sound so bitter. “But they couldn’t charge me because my whole night was captured by the safe room’s surveillance cameras: See Kane change. See the wolf pace. See Kane change back. From four different angles.”

“So there was no question you were innocent.”

“Right. But whoever set me up still won. My credibility has taken a serious hit. When people hear my name, they’re going to remember those images of the SWAT team shoving me into their van.”

I was glad I hadn’t seen those images. They would have made me want to hurt somebody. Or somebodies—saber-toothed somebodies with ice-cold auras.

“Those creatures weren’t humans trying to derail PA rights.”

“That’s why I wondered if they were demons. I thought maybe some sorcerer . . .” His voice trailed off as I shook my head.

“Definitely not demons. I don’t know what they are.” I told him about the chanting in my living room, how Juliet had seemed to be in a trance, how the creature standing next to her had attacked me. “So I know what it feels like to get jumped by one of those things. But the next day Juliet denied it all. She said I was dreaming.”

But I couldn’t have been dreaming—I knew that now, because no zombies had died. I’d been unconscious, stuck in a blank, twilit world outside my dreamscape. Why had Juliet lied?

Kane jumped up and paced before the fireplace, like the enraged wolf locked in that underground room. “Juliet’s involved, Vicky. She was seen near the site where Justice Frederickson was killed.”

“Oh, come on. Juliet, in D.C.? She never leaves Boston. It must have been someone who looks like her.”

“Surveillance cameras again, this time outside a bank. I saw the images. It was Juliet.” Contrary to some legends, vampires do show up on film. In mirrors, too. How else would my roommate manage to apply her bloodred lipstick so perfectly?

“But that still doesn’t—”

Kane held up a hand to show he wasn’t done yet. “A guy came forward and said she’d fed from him that night. The saliva sample matched Juliet’s profile.”

“You are not going to convince me that Juliet murdered a judge and tried to blame it on you.” But she’d lied to me. Even as I shook my head, I wondered just what the hell she’d been doing with those things in the living room. And I remembered something else, something Juliet had said in Creature Comforts: about how she missed the old days, when vampires could drain a body dry. Did she want to force the monsters back into hiding, just so she could kill norms again? I couldn’t believe it.

“I honestly don’t know, Vicky. She’s disappeared.”

I caught his hand and held it to make him stop pacing. “What do you mean?”

“After the third full-moon night, I was free to go back to Boston. Nobody had seen her for several days. Not Axel, not your doorman, not Councilor Hadrian.” Juliet never went more than a day or two without calling Hadrian to complain about something. If he hadn’t heard from her, that was a bad sign. “I tried calling you to see if you knew where she was, but you didn’t call back—”

A surge of anger made me fling his hand away. “So you hopped on a plane and came to Wales to see if I was harboring the fugitive who tried to frame you.” Everything made sense now. Why he’d shown up, why he’d come with us today. The hell with stopping Pryce; he probably thought we were on our way to Juliet’s hiding place. No wonder he didn’t want to explain anything in the car.

“No, Vicky. That’s not it.” He sat down again. Leaning toward me, he caught my hand between his. I tried to tug it back, but he wouldn’t let go. “You’ve got to understand. Yesterday was a real low point for me. Everything I’d worked for lay in ruins at my feet. Everything I cared about had been ripped away. I asked myself, what the hell did I care about? What was worth fighting and struggling and sacrificing for? Anything—anything at all?” He dipped his head, toying with my fingers, and was silent for a long time. When he looked up again, his gray eyes shone. “There was one thing, Vicky, just one. And that was you.”

He raised my hand and pressed his lips against the palm. His eyes never left my face. “Suddenly, it seemed very important to find you and tell you that.”

My voice wouldn’t come. I leaned my forehead against his, and we stayed that way for half a dozen heartbeats. Then he made a sound low in his throat and pulled me to him, lifting me onto his lap. He kissed me with deep hunger, lips pressing mine, tongue exploring. I leaned into him, meeting his kiss with equal hunger, as need, fathomless and intense, opened in me. He held me like he’d never get close enough. My hands traced the broad contours of his shoulders, kneaded the hard muscles of his back. Everything about him—his scent, the feel of his body, the thrill of his kisses—was familiar, but also new.

He pulled back, breathing hard. “Vicky, I know I haven’t—”

I silenced him with a kiss. Wherever we might be headed, we didn’t have to figure it out tonight. I tucked my head under his chin and nestled against him as he stroked my hair, caressed my neck. If only I could stay here, like this, for hours. Days even. Warm, safe, held. Nothing to fight, nothing to save. Just us.

But it wasn’t just us, and I couldn’t stay here any longer. Reluctantly, I stood up. Kane stood, too. He took both my hands in his.

“Mab—” I began.

“I know, and you’re right. You should be with her.” He kissed the top of my head, both eyes, my nose, and finally my mouth. Gently, but with so much promise it took my breath away. “Go on. I’ll see you in the morning.”

HIS TOUCH LINGERED ON MY SKIN AS I MOVED AROUND THE kitchen, brewing a mug of no-dreaming tea. I carried the mug downstairs to the shift room. Mab, still in wolf form, lay on the cot; Rose dozed beside her in a chair. When I touched Rose’s shoulder, she jumped. “Go home and get some sleep, Rose. I’ll sit with her.”

She wiped her face with her apron and nodded. She squeezed my shoulder, mumbled something that sounded like “good night,” and went out. I took her place in the chair.

I sipped the herbal tea and stroked Mab’s fur. She sighed in her sleep. Her ribs rose and fell under my hand. That small motion was a miracle. Beside it, everything that had gone wrong—the freed Morfran, Pryce’s escape, Kane’s fiasco in Washington, Juliet’s disappearance—seemed small and insignificant. Mab was alive. She was breathing. It was what mattered.

I watched her for a long time. When exhaustion crept up on me, I lay down on the floor near the door, out of range of the energy blast that would come if Mab shifted back. Tomorrow, I’d throw myself back into the fight. For now, my aunt and I both needed to rest.

31

“WAKE UP, CHILD.” MAB’S VOICE AND THE SMELL OF COFFEE pushed through my sleep. I lay on the shift room’s cot. Everything was backward. Mab wasn’t supposed to be sitting by the cot waiting for me to wake up—it was supposed to be the other way around.

And yet, there she was.

“Mab!” I jumped out of bed and threw my arms around her.

“Careful, you’re spilling the coffee.” Mab tutted and said she was sure she didn’t know what I was making a fuss about. But she laughed a little, too.

I stepped back, keeping my hands on her shoulders. She looked like she always did, wearing her long black dress and a blue cardigan. “So you’re all right?”

“Yes, child, I’m fine. Still weak, but nothing a few days’ rest won’t cure.”

“When—?”

“I shifted back at about three o’clock this morning, and there you were, fast asleep on the floor.” She nodded toward where I’d lain down. “I lifted you onto the cot. I had a fright because I nearly dropped you. That’s when I realized how weak I was.”

For Mab, “weak” was stronger than most norm bodybuilders. If she’d had trouble lifting my 115 pounds, she wasn’t yet recovered. Still, it was wonderful to have my aunt back.

I hugged her again, sloshing more coffee. She bore it stiffly, then patted my back—onetwothree—and gently pushed me away. I took the now-half-empty coffee mug.

Mab crossed her arms and quirked her mouth in a smile, but my head drooped as I looked at the cement floor. “Yesterday . . . it was my fault.”

“Nonsense. You startled me, but I should never have let my guard down. I knew better.”

“I don’t mean in the mine.” Although that was my fault, too. “I mean before, in the library. I should have warned you.” I sat down heavily on the cot.

She looked at me, waiting.

“The book told me. The message was confused, a big jumble of words. But one word came through loud and clear: death. I thought it referred to me, and I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to worry you.” Tears brimmed. “But it was you. You’re the one who almost died.”

She batted away my words and sat beside me. “We’ve discussed this before. The book is deceptive. It tricked you the first time you opened it ten years ago, and it tricked you yesterday. If you’d tried to warn me, I suspect your words would have been muddled again. Or if not that, the book would have tricked me, too.” Her voice softened. “You were correct in your assumption, child. I would have worried about you. Perhaps I would have fallen sooner for it. So it’s possible, young Victory, that your attempt to protect me did indeed save my life.”

My aunt was arguing herself dizzy trying to make me feel better. Not that Mab had ever done such a thing before. Huh. Maybe she meant it.

“Yesterday, in the mine,” Mab said, “you entered the demon plane?”

“I had to. Pryce fried my headlamp and my flashlight. It was so dark. Then you cried out, and I thought you were hurt. I was trying to help, not startle you. I didn’t know my demon mark would flare up like that.”

“It wasn’t that, child.” She paused, her mouth a thin line. “You had a shadow demon.”

“No, that’s impossible.” Mab had been through one hell of an ordeal; of course her memory was blurry. “You must have seen Pryce’s shadow demon.”

She shook her head. “I know Cysgod, child. The demon that shadows Pryce is part of him, like a human’s soul. It’s his nature as a demi-demon.”

“Well, see? Impossible. I’m not one of the Meibion Avagddu with a demon soul.”

“It was faint, which was why I stopped and stared. I wasn’t certain of what I saw. But it was there.” She put her hand on my arm, bracing me. “Victory, it was the Destroyer.”

“No!” Coffee spilled as the mug clattered to the floor. No, it was bad enough that the Destroyer could get into my dreams. It wasn’t shadowing me, too. Mab was wrong. She had to be.

But something inside me—a twitch of my demon mark, an echo of laughter—told me she was right.

“I saw it, child. It loomed behind you, and it moved with you. Not a second or two behind you, but exactly as you moved.”

I looked helplessly at my aunt. “What does it mean, Mab?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I haven’t been able to think about anything else since I awoke.” She lifted my right arm and turned it so the forearm was facing up. Gently, her fingers traced the scar that marked the place where Difethwr’s flames had touched me. “A bond works both ways. Ten years ago, the Destroyer marked you, and for most of the interim you were subject to the Hellion’s essence.” I nodded, thinking about those years of unpredictable, barely controllable rages. “Last autumn, you used the bond to reverse the situation, making the Destroyer subject to you. Now, I believe Pryce and the Destroyer are attempting to reverse it again.”

“Putting me in the Destroyer’s power.”

“I’m afraid so. The Hellion is attempting to encroach upon your soul. It wants to make you a demi-demon, just like Pryce and his kin.”

“Is that possible?”

“I don’t know. They believe it is, or they wouldn’t try.”

The idea sat like a lead ball in my stomach. “So the Destroyer wants to take over my soul. And as Pryce feeds the Morfran, the Hellion will only get stronger.”

I didn’t look at her because I didn’t want to see her nod. But she changed the subject.

“Victory, this morning I found something new in The Book of Utter Darkness: ‘As the dead dance, the Brenin shall claim what’s his.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

“Pryce considers himself King of All Demons, so he’d think ‘Brenin’ refers to him.”

“I agree. What about the rest of it?”

“Elsewhere, when the book mentioned the dead, it meant the zombies.” When the dead dance . . . I saw Tina wiggling her hips as she practiced for her Monster Paul audition. I grasped Mab’s hand. “There’s going to be a free concert in Boston for Paranormal Appreciation Day. Hundreds of zombies will be there.”

“When is this planned?”

“February second.”

“That’s tomorrow.”

Upstairs, someone banged on the kitchen door. A moment later, Rose appeared in the doorway of the shift room. “There’s a boy rode out from the village on his bicycle,” she told us. “He says he’s got a message from Mr. Cadogan at the pub. Has to give it to Miss Mab herself.”

Mab rose and went upstairs. I followed her. At the kitchen door, she handed some coins to a boy who looked about twelve. He gave her a folded piece of paper and left. She closed the kitchen door, read the note, and turned to me.

“I can’t say this surprises me after what we were just discussing. Pryce checked out of the Cross and Crow this morning, making sure to tell Cadogan he’s been called suddenly to the States.” She crumpled the note in her hand. “He’s traveling to Boston this afternoon.”

I looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was a little past eight. “I’ll get packed.”

“And I’ll have Jenkins book you a flight.”

Kane chose that moment to stroll into the kitchen. He wore new-looking jeans and a soft, charcoal-gray sweater. “Good morning, ladies. Do I smell coffee?”

Rhetorical question. Kane’s werewolf nose could smell coffee half a mile away. Rose brought him a mug. He kissed my cheek and nodded to Mab. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “Better, I hope.”

She nodded, looking regal, a queen answering a courtier’s question.

Kane grinned. But he must have seen something in our faces because the grin faded. “What’s going on?”

“Pryce is on his way to Boston,” I said. “We think he’s going to launch a major Morfran attack on the zombies.”

“Don’t say ‘zombies.’ ” He turned to Mab. “In Boston, we call them the ‘previously deceased,’ ” he explained. Then he turned to me again. “You’re going back?”

“On the first flight Jenkins can book me on.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Mab nodded her approval. “I’ll tell Jenkins.” She pulled open the kitchen door.

“Mab, wait.” I tried, not successfully, to keep the fear out of my voice. I couldn’t do this by myself. I hadn’t yet managed to stone a single crow. Pryce had loosed a critical mass of Morfran—that sky-darkening flock of crows—and I wasn’t good enough with Hellforged to do anything about it. Now I’d learned that the Destroyer was shadowing me, waiting for its chance to bump out my soul and take over. I was going to lose. Deadtown would be a slaughter zone.

My aunt stood with her hand on the doorknob, eyebrows raised. “Tell Jenkins to book three tickets,” I said. “Come with us. Please.”

The expression in her eyes told me she understood my fears. But she shook her head. “I can’t, child. I’m not strong enough to travel. Although Mr. Kane saved my life, I’m not a werewolf. I . . . my heart. It’s not fully healed.”

She put out a hand to stop me from asking. “I’ll be fine, child. But I’d be no help to you now. Quite the opposite.”

What could I say? It was my fault that Mab had been wounded; I wasn’t going to ask her to risk her recovery.

There was no time for long good-byes. Within an hour we’d packed our bags and loaded Kane’s rental car. Jenkins shook Kane’s hand and clapped him on the back, then gave me a hug. Rose pressed a bag of sandwiches on us—“For the drive,” she said—and hugged us both.

Mab shook Kane’s hand. “Thank you again for saving my life. I owe you a very large debt of gratitude. I do hope you’ll accept my hospitality for an extended visit at some future time. Under happier circumstances.”

“It’s a date.” Kane smiled his thousand-watt smile and kissed Mab’s hand. The way she pressed her other hand to her chest made me worry for a second about her heart. It took a lot to fluster Mab, but Kane had managed it.

Everyone pulled back so I could say good-bye to my aunt. Kane went around to the driver’s side of the car, and Jenkins and Rose withdrew to Maenllyd’s front steps. Mab asked me for the fifteenth time if I had Hellforged. I nodded. I wasn’t trusting my voice just then. “And the book? The Home Sweet Home slate?” I kept nodding. “And you remember the words of the incantation?” I mouthed them silently. I did—for now, anyway.

Mab squeezed my arm. “You can do this, child. Remember what you’ve been working on. Be pure. Purity will help you overcome all threats from the demon plane.”

I still didn’t know what that meant. Mab was pure. Looking at her now, I realized I’d never known anyone purer. Truer to who and what they were. I, on the other hand, was one big bundle of fear and confusion, with some Hellion essence and a shadow demon thrown in. I’d never get all that sorted out before I had to fight Pryce and tackle the Morfran.

Mab’s face was smooth and unlined, her eyes clear. Whatever she was feeling, she didn’t wear it on the surface. I crushed her to me in a hug. She hugged back—for once, just as hard and nearly as long. Then, with her onetwothree pat, she dismissed me. Wiping my eyes with the heels of both hands, I went to the car where Kane waited. I got in, and there was much waving as we started down the driveway. Around the curve, all the way to the front gate, I kept waving.

As we turned onto the main road to start our drive south, I knew the trip would feel much, much longer than the four hours it would take us to reach the airport.

32

AT HEATHROW, WITH HELLFORGED STRAPPED TO MY ANKLE, I held my breath as we waited in various security lines. But I got through without incident—even the body scanner—thanks to a cloaking charm provided by Mab. The fact that I didn’t get picked at random for supernatural screening was pure dumb luck.

In the crammed boarding area, we sat on the floor with our backs against a wall. Haggard-looking passengers stood or slumped in chairs, surrounded by carry-ons and shopping bags. Others peered at laptops, ignoring the crowd. Bored kids ran around or cried.

I wasn’t looking forward to the flight. We had economy seats at the very back of the plane, judging from the row number. Jenkins almost hadn’t been able to get us on a flight today, so we were lucky. Still, sitting in this hot, crowded, stuffy corral watching business- and first-class passengers waltz onto the plane, where I knew they’d be greeted by smiling flight attendants offering them free drinks, I felt irritable.

Then I saw something that made me sit up straight and grab Kane’s arm. “There’s Pryce,” I whispered. He had his back to us as he handed his boarding pass to the gate attendant. His black suit looked as expensive and well cut as something Kane would wear.

“You’re right,” Kane said, as Pryce disappeared down the gangway. “I caught his scent.”

I didn’t think Pryce had seen us. He had no reason to look at the corner of the boarding area where we were jammed in among all the other economy passengers.

This was amazing luck. Or maybe not luck—after all, there were a limited number of afternoon flights to Boston. But Pryce wouldn’t be wreaking havoc in Boston while he was sitting on the plane. And we could follow him after we landed. Or Kane could. If I followed Pryce, the Destroyer might warn him. Once Kane learned where Pryce was staying, I’d figure out a reason to go there, something that wouldn’t put the Destroyer on red alert.

Boarding, I felt almost cheerful, even when a dozen people trying to cram too-big carry-ons into too-small overhead bins slowed our progress down the endless aisle. Even when we got to our seats in the very last row, center section, right in front of the toilets. Perfect. Pryce and his first-class ticket would never come back here. When we landed at Logan, Kane could pick up his scent again, and my “cousin” wouldn’t know we were onto him until I sliced off his damned demi-demon head.

I LET KANE TAKE THE AISLE SEAT. WITH HIS HEIGHT, HIS KNEES were right under his chin unless he could stretch his legs into the aisle. Not that he got much chance. From the moment the FASTEN SEATBELT light blinked out, a parade of passengers marched back and forth to the bathrooms behind us. The line held steady at three or four people deep, which meant there was always someone standing in the aisle beside Kane, crowding him.

Wolves need lots of personal space. After a while Kane snarled and sprang from his seat, startling the flannel-shirted guy who’d been leaning against it. Kane stalked up the aisle. A couple of minutes later he came back down the other side. When he got near the bathroom crowd, he turned around and walked up the aisle again. He kept going like that, pacing up one aisle and down the other. All coiled energy and nowhere go.

As the hours passed, he’d come back and sit for a little while, then jump up and go back on the prowl. When the flight attendants blocked the aisles with their meal carts, I thought he was going to explode.

While Kane paced, I thought about tomorrow night’s Monster Paul concert. With a critical mass of Morfran in Boston, did Pryce still need me as a bridge? How would he proceed? There was only one place to look for that information. I removed The Book of Utter Darkness from my bag and set the book on my tray table. Its pale-tan cover radiated malevolence. I didn’t want to open it. I didn’t want that cacophony of words to push its way into my mind again. The other passengers wouldn’t like it; people get nervous when someone starts screaming on a plane.

I touched the cover, and Hellforged twitched in its sheath. I’d better get centered first; maybe that would make it easier to deal with the damn book. I closed my eyes, ignoring the roar of the engines, the crush of people around me, the nauseating chemical-and-shit bathroom smell. I went inside myself, deep, listening to my own breathing, my own heartbeat. When I felt calm and sure, I opened my eyes. The book still gave off its evil vibe, but it bothered me less. It was only a book; I was stronger. I opened to a random page. No storm of words swirled into my head; Hellforged lay calm against my calf. So far, so good. I turned the pages slowly, scanning the text, waiting for understanding to creep into my thoughts.

Instead, a suitcase-sized purse landed half on my tray.

“Sorry,” smirked the thirty-something woman on my left. She was styled to within an inch of her life: spidery mascara-laden eyelashes, fake tan, so much goopy lip gloss that if a fly landed on her mouth, it’d be stuck there forever. I could’ve rapped my knuckles on her stiff hair without making a dent. She didn’t look the least bit sorry.

I shoved Ms. Iron Hair’s purse off my tray and returned to the book. Right away, understanding flooded my mind. And shall thrice-tested Victory be conquered? First, the carrion-eater consumes living flesh. Second, a battle in the world between the worlds. Third, Victory falls.

Yeah, yeah. I had all that down. I wanted the book to tell me something I didn’t know.

The words pulsed in my mind like a heartbeat. I’d survived all three tests: the Morfran attack, the battle in the pub, the race through the slate mine. Maybe the book was taunting me because I’d passed them, reminding me that I’d proved myself worthy of becoming the last thing I ever wanted to be.

Lucky me.

I looked up to see Kane coming back down the aisle, then returned to the book. I called to mind the new prophecy Mab told me about that morning: As the dead dance, the Brenin shall claim what’s his. Maybe focusing on that would force the book to reveal more.

But I never got the chance, because the plane dropped.

Kane, along with the entire bathroom line, flew upward and smacked the ceiling, then came down and hit the floor hard. Ms. Iron Hair slammed into the seat in front of her, somersaulting halfway over it. Screams erupted. The overhead bins popped open. A blizzard of papers flew everywhere and iPods, laptops, briefcases, and dozens of other items tumbled through the cabin like clothes in a dryer.

For too many heart-stopping seconds, the plane fell. Then it leveled off.

The Book of Utter Darkness was still on my tray. I’d slapped my hand on it when the plane dropped. I stuffed the book into the seat pocket and started to close the tray.

The FASTEN SEATBELT sign flicked on, as sobs and groans filled the cabin. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said a shaky female voice over the PA system, “the captain has turned on the FASTEN SEATBELT sign. Please return to your seats and—”

Before anyone could move, it happened again. People who’d been trying to stand were tossed back into the air. Kane landed half on me, half in his seat, snapping my tray from its brackets. I helped him into his seat and scrambled to get the seatbelt around him. But what good does a seatbelt do when you’re dropping like a stone out of the sky? How far can a plane going 500 miles an hour fall in ten seconds? The math was beyond me, and I didn’t think I wanted to know the answer.

Once again, the plane leveled off. This time, the screaming didn’t stop.

“Are you okay?” I asked Kane.

“I think I broke my shoulder blade,” he said. “I’ll be all right.” His superfast werewolf healing would take care of a broken bone, but even Kane couldn’t recover from a plane crash.

On my other side, Ms. Iron Hair clutched my arm, crying.

The plane nosed upward. The pilot was trying to regain some height.

The PA system bonged. People shushed each other so they could hear the message. Other than the thrumming engines and a couple of hysterical screamers, the plane was quiet. “This is your captain speaking. Please remain calm. It seems we have a glitch in the aircraft’s stabilization system.”

Glitch. As soon as he said the word, I felt a tug, and everything went gray. Demonic laughter rang out; something had grabbed my perception and yanked it into the demon plane. I whipped my head around to see if Difethwr shadowed me. As I turned, a movement outside the window caught my eye.

Pryce, in his demon form, his massive wings expanded, flew beside the plane. He held up three taloned fingers.

Third, Victory falls.

The plane dropped again.

Oh, God, no.

This was the third test. Not “Victory falls in battle” but “Victory falls from the sky.” How the hell was I supposed to keep a jumbo jet in the air?

I braced against the seat in front of me as the plane fell. Pryce had loosed a Glitch and escaped into the demon plane. The Glitch was frying the system that kept the plane in the air. And there was nothing below us except thirty thousand feet of empty space and the Atlantic Ocean.

33

I HAD NOTHING WITH ME TO FIGHT A GLITCH. NO BRONZE weapons, no Glitch Gone. Nothing. And the plane was bucking and swooping like an out-of-control roller coaster.

Ms. Iron Hair half-tore my arm out of its socket. I pulled away, but she grabbed me again. Mascara smeared her face in two black streaks, but not a single hair was out of place.

That stiff hair—I had an idea. “Do you have any hairspray with you?”

She actually reached up a hand to check her hairstyle.

“No, for me. I need hairspray.” It sprayed, it was sticky. It might work like Glitch Gone. Or it might not. But it was the only idea I had. “It could fix the plane.”

She looked at me the way people look at a scary-crazy seatmate, but just then the plane dropped with another stomach-lurching jolt. “My purse! It’s in my purse.” She scrabbled around under the seat in front of her. “Oh, no! It spilled.”

Pens and lipsticks rolled around our feet, along with gum, a cell phone, a makeup compact, keys—no hairspray. I bent over to get another look and whacked heads with her. I couldn’t see the hairspray anywhere.

“What are you looking for?” Kane asked.

“Hairspray. I think I can use it to draw the Glitch out of the instrument panel.”

He went up the aisle on his hands and knees, peering under seats. A woman screamed when he lunged toward her. “Got it!”

He tossed the bottle back to me. I grabbed it from the air and shoved it into the front pocket of my jeans. Then I unclipped my seatbelt and started up the aisle.

It was like trying to walk with one foot on each side of the fault line during an earthquake. Kane had the right idea; I dropped to all fours. I met him a few feet up the aisle. “Vicky,” he said, looking into my eyes. “If you can’t—”

“No. No good-byes. I’ll stop it.” I wasn’t sure how, armed with nothing more than three ounces of hairspray, but I was not going to let Pryce kill all these people. I brushed my lips against Kane’s and crawled past him.

It was rough going. The plane would dive, and I’d slide or tumble or somersault forward, banging into seats, legs, junk that had fallen into the aisle. Then it’d rock violently the other way, making moving forward like climbing a cliff. I grabbed the seat legs and pulled myself forward with my arms.

Somehow, I made it to the front of the plane. A flight attendant was strapped into a seat by the cockpit door. She clutched the sides of her head; panic contorted her features.

“Get me into the cockpit,” I said.

“You can’t go in there. Federal regulations prohibit—” The plane lurched, and her scream cut off her words. I slid forward, whacking my head on the cockpit door with a bang. I started banging with my fists, too. “Let me in! I can stop the Glitch!”

The door remained closed.

“Stop it,” the flight attendant hissed. “They’re trying to keep this plane in the air.”

“So am I.” I climbed to my knees. I closed my eyes and thought of strength—eight-hundred-pound gorillas, elephants, the Incredible Hulk. Not enough concentration to shift, but enough to bulk up my arm. Strength surged into me. I made a fist and hit the door, right above the lock. The door buckled. I drew back and hit it again, and then once more. The lock gave way. I yanked the door open.

Two pilots sat at an instrument panel that shot sparks like Fourth of July fireworks. The pilot on the left wrestled with the controls. The one on the right aimed a gun at me. Or tried to—the way the plane jumped around, it was impossible to keep steady. “Get out!” he yelled.

“I can help!” I yelled back, grabbing the door frame to keep from sliding away as the plane bucked upward. “A Glitch is a demon. I kill demons!”

His eyes narrowed, and I thought he was going to shoot. I got ready to duck in case by some fluke he got lucky. Instead, he lowered the gun. “It’s a . . . demon?”

“A Glitch. They hate technology.” Understatement of the year.

He must have decided that anything was worth trying, because he motioned me in. I crawled into the cockpit and braced myself against the wall. The view outside the windshield was dizzying—sea, sky, sea, sky—as the plane seesawed. I focused on the instrument panel. A fountain of sparks shot from its center, showing the Glitch’s location. I dug the hairspray from my pocket and leaned forward.

“Is that hairspray?” The copilot clearly thought he’d let a lunatic into the cockpit.

“This? Um, no,” I lied. “It’s a magical Glitch-fighting elixir. I put it in a hairspray bottle to get it through security. You never know when a Glitch might strike.”

Aiming at the sparks, I pumped a dozen quick squirts at the instrument panel, praying it would work.

I held my breath. Nothing changed.

Then a blast of sparks erupted from the instrument panel, and the plane took a nose dive.

“Shit!” shouted the pilot. “I can’t hold it!” We screamed straight toward the ocean. The plane shuddered like it was breaking apart.

With a loud pop and a stink of ozone, grapes, and rotten fish, the Glitch sprang from the instrument panel. It landed in the lap of the copilot, who screamed and shook as a couple thousand Glitch-volts zapped him. The demon slashed the man’s face with its claws and ran from cockpit. I nailed it with more hairspray as it leapt over me. It howled with rage and took off down the aisle.

The pilot pulled the plane out of its dive. Slowly, groaning, the plane began to climb.

I ran after the Glitch.

The hairspray had forced the Glitch to materialize in daylight, and it wasn’t happy about that. It leapt around the cabin, landing on seatbacks, on the floor, on people’s heads, trying to avoid the light that streamed in through the windows. Its skin smoked where sunlight touched it, giving off an odor of charred Glitch-flesh.

A woman screamed when the Glitch landed on the back of her seat and grabbed her head with its claws. Electricity sizzled over her skin.

“Open your shade!” I yelled. “It can’t take sunlight!”

Shades flew up along both sides of the plane. The Glitch jumped toward the center row, clawing at people’s ankles as it scrabbled under a seat.

“Over here!” a man called. “What the hell is that thing?”

“The Glitch that was making the plane fall—don’t let it spit at you! And watch out for its claws.” I ran to him, kicking debris out of my way. I had to make sure it didn’t re-infest the controls.

I dived to the floor by the row of seats where the Glitch was hiding—and flinched away as a wad of spit sailed out. But not fast enough. The spit landed in my hair and stung my scalp. Damn. I hate getting Glitch spit in my hair. The Glitch snapped and swiped its claws at me, but its movements were restricted by the limited space under the seats. Passengers had barricaded it in with bags and coats and laptops and anything else within reach. Its only way out was the narrow opening I was watching. The demon convulsed, hawking up another wad of spit.

This Glitch wasn’t trying to escape; it was guarding its hiding place. I squirted more hairspray at it and considered. If the Glitch stayed trapped, it couldn’t jump back into the stabilization system. The hairspray seemed to work better than that damn expensive Glitch Gone; I’d never seen a Glitch stay in physical form for so long. The extreme stickiness that did its thing for Ms. Iron Hair’s helmet head kept the Glitch from shifting into its energy form.

Another wad of spit flew out. It missed, and I nailed the Glitch with more squirts. The trouble was, I didn’t know how long the hairspray’s effect would last. And even under the seats, there were plenty of places where the Glitch could go if it switched to its energy form—laptops, cell phones, all the electronic gadgets people carry with them on long flights. Even the aircraft’s entertainment system. It was too risky. We were still over the ocean. We had to fly far enough to land somewhere, and there was no way to stay in the air safely with a Glitch on the plane.

I’d have given anything for a simple bronze knife. A fast stick and it’d be over. I squirted the Glitch, then shook the bottle. The hairspray was getting low. As I rose to my knees, another wad of smelly spit shot past me, splatting against the arm of a seat a couple of rows back.

“Does anyone have anything that’s bronze?” I called. “A pin? Bracelet? Cuff links?”

People stared at me. I probably looked crazy—although I was getting used to that, especially with a sticky purple lump of Glitch spit in my hair.

“Bronze kills demons. It’ll get rid of this Glitch so it can’t crash the plane.”

A buzz went up and down the rows of seats as people asked their neighbors for bronze. I dropped to the floor again to keep an eye on the Glitch and gave it another spritz.

“Here,” said the man who’d pointed out the Glitch. “Will any of this work?”

I kneeled up and he poured a pile of costume jewelry into my hands. Bronze obviously wasn’t on this season’s list of must-have fashion accessories. People had donated gold, gold-plated stuff, even silver, but not a single piece was bronze.

I dropped back down and recoiled as a claw struck, missing my face by a quarter inch. I pressed the pump on the spray bottle. Nothing came out. I unscrewed the top and flung what little was left onto the Glitch. I was out of time. Evening sunlight slanted through the windows, but it wouldn’t for much longer.

I pulled off my leather jacket and wrapped it around my hand to get some insulation against the Glitch’s electrical field. I put my face within striking range. A claw swiped at me. Moving fast, I grabbed the demon’s hand and pulled.

The Glitch howled with rage and lobbed wads of spit at me. The man in the seat next to me reached down to help and got a nasty shock before I could warn him away. Electricity sizzled through the jacket and buzzed up my arm. The leather smoked. The Glitch grabbed at the seat legs with its free hand, but I was stronger. I kept pulling. The Glitch let go and launched itself at me, attacking with claws and teeth. Slashes of electrifying pain tore through my face and arms, but I hung on. The man saw what I was doing and called for a leather jacket. Someone tossed him one. He wrapped it around both hands and hugged the Glitch. A third person joined us.

“Help me get it in the sunlight,” I said, and we made our way down the aisle with the struggling, screeching Glitch to a patch of sun a little longer than the demon’s body. We lowered it to the floor, smack in the middle of the light patch, and held it there. It fought and squirmed and howled and spit, but we kept it pinned.

Sparks erupted from the Glitch, and its body wavered under my hands. No, not now! It couldn’t change to energy. I started to ask for hairspray, but the sparks came faster—bigger, brighter—little flickers of flame burning whatever they landed on. I turned my face away.

The Glitch exploded. Energy pulsed, and shreds of slimy purple gunk flew everywhere. A sizzle of blue energy flared up where the demon had lain, then burned itself out.

The plane cruised smoothly through the sky.

I rose to my feet, shaking, as passengers clapped, cheered, and stomped their feet. I thanked the guy who had helped me. His face was dotted with exploded Glitch, like a bad case of purple acne. “Better wash that off.” I explained about Glitch venom.

I turned to thank my other helper and saw who it was: Kane. Somehow, he’d avoided getting Glitch goop all over him. I was glad. I’d hate to see clumps of purple gumming up that beautiful silver mane. I touched my own Glitch-gunked hair.

Kane caught my wrist and gently pulled my hand away, then kissed it. He raised his gray eyes to meet mine.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said.

Yeah, right. I was scratched and burned and streaked with purple. Ready for my photo shoot as cover girl of Demon Slayer Monthly.

“So this is what you do for a living?” he asked.

“Yup.”

He grinned and shook his head. “I think I’ll stick with lawyering.”

He lifted me off my feet and held me close. His mouth found mine, I wrapped myself around him, and we kissed. Again, the plane erupted in applause.

34

THE PLANE MADE AN EMERGENCY LANDING IN REYKJAVIK. The moment we touched down, a lot of things happened fast: Passengers rocketed from their seats, emergency doors flew open, and everyone stampeded to the nearest exit.

A flight attendant guarded the rear exit, directing people down the inflatable slide. She tried to tell me to leave my duffel bag on the plane and take off my boots, but I elbowed past her and jumped, clutching my bag in both arms, keeping my feet up so my heels wouldn’t puncture the slide. I didn’t give a damn about proper exit procedure. I needed my bag. And those were my favorite boots.

Airport workers herded us toward the terminal, and suddenly I realized that I hadn’t felt a twitch from Hellforged since the Glitch infested the plane. Panic shot through me; I stopped and bent over to check its sheath. Someone bumped me from behind, and I nearly sprawled onto the tarmac, but I staggered forward a couple of steps and kept my balance. I felt through the leg of my jeans. Hellforged was there, calm and still like an ordinary dagger. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I followed everyone into the terminal.

Kane and I got separated. I was escorted, solo, to a room where I answered endless questions—from airport officials, airline representatives, an Icelandic paranormal investigation team. I even did a conference call with some U.S. military brass who wanted to hire me to get rid of a Glitch in their prototype combat helicopter. I don’t know whether they wrote down the brand of hairspray I recommended, but the call ended pretty fast after that.

I’d always wanted to visit Iceland, but the trip I imagined didn’t include being stuck in a windowless room deep in the bowels of the airport. By the time they gave me a boarding pass and said I was free to go, I was more than ready to get home.

IT WAS A COUPLE OF HOURS BEFORE SUNRISE WHEN I CAUGHT a cab outside Logan Airport. The werewolf driver didn’t glance twice at my sticky purple hair. The streets of human-controlled Boston were empty, and we made good time through the tunnel and across the city. As soon as we passed through the first checkpoint, into the New Combat Zone, things got livelier. The bars were closing, and customers spilled onto the sidewalks: humans turning toward their part of the city, PAs heading to Deadtown. The door of Creature Comforts opened, and Axel tossed a vampire junkie onto the pavement. The guy landed on his ass, rubbed his head, and then scrambled to his feet and staggered toward a blonde vampire waiting in line at the checkpoint. Good to see Axel back in business.

Throughout the Zone and Deadtown itself, dozens of posters, plastered over every surface, advertised the free Paranormal Appreciation Day concert by Monster Paul and the Zombie Freak Show. The posters had black text on an orange background, along with a huge picture of Monster Paul’s snarling face. The concert was set for tomorrow night—tonight, now—at seven o’clock on Tremont Street in front of the Granary Burying Ground, one of Boston’s oldest cemeteries.

Zombies would be dancing, no question. And I had no idea how to find Pryce and stop him before they did.

In my building, Clyde was on duty. “Ah. Welcome back, Ms. Vaughn.” He raised both eyebrows as he took in the Glitch spit, assorted bruises, and the condition of my clothes. “Perhaps I won’t inquire whether you had a pleasant trip.”

“Good thought, Clyde, because I don’t want to talk about it.” I crossed the lobby, shuddering as I passed the spot where the cleaning crew had mopped up what was left of Gary. I had to make sure that didn’t happen to another zombie—let alone hundreds.

The other problem nagging at my mind nagged a little louder. I turned around and went to Clyde’s desk. “Is Juliet back?”

“I’m afraid not. I haven’t seen Ms. Capulet for a week. Mr. Kane came by to inquire about her, as well.”

“Yes, he told me. Did anyone else ask about her?”

“Three different pairs of JHP officers.” He looked at me so sourly I felt like I was supposed to apologize for being a bad influence on my roommate.

“Did they go upstairs?”

“Not while I was on duty.”

Good. A homecoming was never all that homey when your place had been torn apart by cops in the interim. “So that was it?”

“As far as I can recall. I didn’t realize anything was amiss until Mr. Kane came by.” He wrinkled his pitted, gray-green brow and tapped a finger against his chin. “There may have been a vampire,” he said, mostly to himself. He shuffled some papers on his desk. “Yes. His name was unusual, so I wrote it down. It’s embarrassing when you call upstairs and can’t recall a visitor’s name after they just gave it to you. If I didn’t discard the paper . . . Here it is. Piotr.”

He showed me the paper.

“That’s it? No last name?”

“That’s all he gave me. You know how it is with vampires. So many of them use only a single name. It’s an affectation, really.”

I pictured the skeletal, hooded figure who’d stood over Juliet in our living room. “What did this Piotr look like? Was he tall?”

“No, I’d say he was slightly below average in height. Five-eight, perhaps? Dark hair, slicked back. Slavic features—you know, high cheekbones. Quite a handsome man, except he was terribly thin.”

I couldn’t recall meeting anyone who fit that description, but I didn’t know all of Juliet’s friends. She’d had several centuries to make them before I was born.

Clyde continued his chin-tapping, like it could jog his memory. “Yes, quite thin. If he were human, I’d be concerned he was ill. And his manner was odd, as I recall. At first I thought it was because he was foreign. Piotr is a Polish name, I believe. But that wasn’t it. He seemed . . . vacant. As though he were extremely tired, but it was only an hour or two past dark. Perhaps he hadn’t fed yet; he did look pale.” Tap, tap, tap. “But there was more to it than that. Talking to him was like conversing with a robot. There was interaction, but little meaning was exchanged.”

“The lights were on but no one was home, huh?”

“That’s a way of putting it,” he agreed. “If you specify that the lights were of extremely low wattage.”

This vampire didn’t sound like someone Juliet would hang out with. She preferred life-of-the-party types.

“What day did he come by?”

“I’m not entirely certain. I know it was before Mr. Kane inquired. The day before, I believe.” He shrugged. “So many people come by, it all blurs together.”

For a norm, any one of the visitors to our building would generate nightmares for months. For Clyde, vampires, zombies, werewolves, whatever—it was all in a night’s work.

Upstairs, I paused in front of my apartment door, listening. I half-expected to hear Juliet’s TV blaring. For once, I would’ve welcomed it, knowing she was home and all right. And not involved in an attempt to frame Kane for murder.

I turned the key and went inside. The silent TV greeted me with a blank, sixty-three-inch expanse of gray.

I dropped my duffel bag on the floor and listened. I reached out with all my senses, staying on this side of the demon plane. The apartment was empty. Nothing waited here—living, dead, or demonic.

I went down the hall to Juliet’s bedroom. The door was open, the bedroom still and silent. Juliet’s ebony coffin, lined with red satin and holding two lace-trimmed, heart-shaped pillows, lay open on its trestles. Her closet door was open, too.

Black clothes on hangers were pushed to the left and right, leaving a gap in the middle, like she’d grabbed a handful of clothing without paying attention to what it was. Or like someone had looked in the closet, pushing clothes aside and not caring whether anyone noticed they were out of place.

There was no way to tell what the gap in her closet meant. Probably nothing.

I went back through the living room, picking up my duffel bag on the way. I was worried about Juliet, yes, but I’d have to save that worry for later. She’d taken care of herself for more than six hundred years. Still, I wished I could hear her explanation of why she went to D.C. and what the hell those creatures were that had attacked Kane.

In my bedroom, I hoisted the duffel bag to drop it on the bed, then stopped. A book lay open on the comforter. The book wasn’t mine. I didn’t do much bedtime reading—usually I just collapsed and tried to pull up the comforter as far as my chin before sleep grabbed me. And I didn’t own a book that thick.

I put my bag on the floor and turned the book toward me. Across the top of the left-hand page was the book’s title: The Complete Plays of William Shakespeare. Facing that, across the top of the right-hand page, was Antony and Cleopatra.

My pulse sped up. This was a message from Juliet. She was playing her Shakespeare game, like she always did at Creature Comforts. Somewhere on these two pages was a clue about what was going on.

I’d never read Antony and Cleopatra, not in school and not with Mab. I didn’t much feel like reading it now, but I skimmed the pages that lay open. Nothing made sense; the archaic language and twisted sentences were hard to follow. It was a scene from Act III, well past the middle of the play. Cleopatra was getting some sort of message from Caesar and Marc Antony was having somebody whipped—no clue why. Maybe the guy was just kinky. Even if I could make sense of the language, trying to read the play was like walking into a movie after you’d missed the first hour.

I sighed with frustration. With Pryce on the loose in Boston—and a critical mass of Morfran that might be big enough and strong enough to attack without me—I didn’t have time to play Juliet’s game. I’d have to puzzle it out later. I checked my pockets for a slip of paper, found my boarding pass stub, and lay it on the page to mark the place.

As I was closing the book, a couple of lines jumped out at me:

’Tis better playing with a lion’s whelp
Than with an old one dying.

An old one dying. Something in that phrase rang a bell. A whole bunch of bells—my head was clanging like a hundred trolleys on a collision course. The Old Ones. Juliet said something once about the Old Ones—what was it?

I thought back. An image arose of Juliet, sitting at the bar, stirring a Bloody Mary. It was at Creature Comforts, before that vampire junkie pointed Norden and Sykes her way.

The Old Ones—the really ancient ones, I mean—prefer to keep the old ways.

At the time, I wondered who might be so old that Juliet would consider them ancient. Now I wondered if the creatures Kane and I had seen—cold, skeletal, looking and smelling like old, old death—could be these Old Ones.

Somehow, Juliet was mixed up with them. When I’d heard her chanting in the living room, she’d sounded like a robot. Clyde said that Piotr, the strange vampire who’d come looking for Juliet, acted like a robot, too. The thought made me queasy. What if these Old Ones were somehow controlling her?

If they were, maybe she was involved in their plot to frame Kane.

But if the Old Ones sent someone to ask about Juliet, that meant they didn’t know where she was. Juliet had left me a message—a warning?—about the Old Ones through the Shakespeare book. Maybe she was resisting them; maybe Juliet wasn’t so easy to control.

But I still didn’t know where she was or how to start looking for her.

I CALLED KANE, GOT HIS VOICE MAIL, AND LEFT A MESSAGE I was home. I was about to get undressed for a shower when the phone rang. Expecting Kane, I picked up. The voice spluttering on the other end turned out to be Clyde’s.

“That . . . that Tina person is on her way up,” he said, once he’d calmed down enough to form actual words. “She wouldn’t wait, she just ran across—”

Pounding erupted on the door.

“It’s okay, Clyde. I’ll yell at her for you.”

He spluttered some more and hung up. Meanwhile, the door threatened to jump off its hinges. “C’mon, Vicky, let me in! I know you’re home. Come on. It’s important!”

I yanked the door open and almost got my face knocked on; Tina’s knuckles stopped an inch short. She squeezed past me, a dry cleaner’s bag slung over her shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back? I’ve been waiting forever to show you this.”

“I wasn’t gone forever. I’ve been home all of ten minutes. How did you know I was home, anyway?”

“Jenna saw you in a taxi at the checkpoint. She texted me. I was picking this up”—she draped the bag over the back of the sofa—“and I came right over.”

“You upset Clyde.”

“Why, ’cause I didn’t stop? He knows who I am, and I only ever come here to see you. He’s smart enough to figure it out. Anyway, celebrities get certain privileges.” She flipped her hair behind her shoulders.

“So you’re a celebrity now? That was fast. Even if it’s true, it doesn’t give you a right to be rude to my doorman.” I did not have the energy for this right now. Any of it.

“Okay, I’ll say sorry or whatever on the way out. But I wanted—” She cut herself off and stared at me openmouthed. “What did you do to your hair?”

“Nothing. That’s Glitch spit. There was a Glitch on the plane.”

“That’s a relief. I thought you’d gone punk or something. That look would be, like, so wrong for you.”

“Actually, I was about to take a shower. You know how important it is to wash this stuff out.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. I mean, I’m glad you weren’t in the shower when I came over, because then you wouldn’t have answered the door and I would’ve thought you were mad at me or something.”

I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Patience. “Tina, I woke up in Wales this morning—yesterday morning now. My plane almost crashed, and Juliet is missing. I’m really, really tired. And besides all that, I’m kind of busy right now.” Trying to stop a demi-demon from unleashing the Morfran on Boston.

She shot me a withering look. “It’s always about you, isn’t it?” Her scowl changed to a grin as she pulled a heap of sparkles out of the dry cleaner’s bag. “Look at this! Isn’t this, like, the most amazing thing you ever saw?” She held up two pieces against her: a push-up bra and a pair of boy shorts—emphasis on short—made of sparkly silver material.

“Why are you showing me your underwear?”

“Ha, ha. It’s my costume. You know, for the concert.”

Suddenly, it hit me how vulnerable Tina would be, up there on a stage when the Morfran attacked. “Tina, you can’t go onstage—”

“Wearing this? Oh, please. Stop sounding like my mother. Or, you know, how my mother would sound if she gave a damn about me.”

“No, you don’t understand. You can’t go onstage at all. You’ve got to tell Monster Paul to cancel the concert.” It was so simple, I almost laughed. To stop Pryce, all we had to do was mess up the prophecy. No dancing dead, no chance for the Brenin wannabe to make his move.

Tina stared at me. “Did you get Glitch spit in your brain or something? This concert is my big chance. We’re gonna be on TV and everything. Plus we’ve been rehearsing for, like, a whole week.”

I gripped her arm, trying to convey how important this was. “If the concert goes ahead, there’ll be an attack to make what happened at the Halloween parade look like a Sunday picnic.”

“A demon attack—is that all?” She shook me off and waved her hand dismissively. “You can handle that. I’ll have Paul put you on security. Just bring, you know, some extra weapons. If you need help, I’ll jump in.” Her eyes widened. “Ooh, bring that big sword, the one I borrowed at Halloween. That was awesome.”

She was talking about the Sword of Saint Michael, and stole was a more accurate word than borrowed, but I didn’t argue the point. I needed to figure out how to prevent the concert. That would give me time to find Pryce, kill him, and put the Morfran back into its slate prison. If I could handle the ritual.

“It’s almost sunrise,” I said. Tina wasn’t bundled up in protective clothing. “Shouldn’t you go home before it gets light?”

“Yikes, you’re right. This would be, like, the worst time ever to get a sunburn.” She pulled the plastic over her costume. “Come see me before the concert. I’ll put you on the guest list so you can get backstage. The show starts at seven, but I’ll be in my dressing room by sunset.”

After Tina left, I got busy making phone calls. I tried Kane first—if anyone would know who to call and what to say, it would be Kane. But I got his voice mail again. My message explained the situation and asked him to call whoever he could think of with authority to cancel the concert.

Sunrise was the wrong time of day to call anyone—too late for Deadtown’s zombies and too early for Boston’s norms. I tried Monster Paul’s recording studio. I tried all the talent agents in the Yellow Pages to see if I could reach him that way. But all I got was one voice mail system after another. I left the same message: “Tell Monster Paul he has to cancel tonight’s concert. If he’ll call me back, I’ll explain why,” giving my name and phone number. By the third time I’d said it, I realized how much I sounded like a complete crackpot, even to myself.

What about Mayor Milliken? Maybe I could get the concert’s permit revoked. But City Hall wouldn’t open for hours, and Kane actually knew the guy—he’d have better luck than I could hope for. I tried the police department instead. A man with a tired-sounding voice answered the phone.

“My name is Vicky Vaughn. You’ve got to revoke the permit for tonight’s Monster Paul concert . . .” I began.

“Thank you for your call, ma’am.” He sounded like he was reading from a script. “Many concerned citizens such as yourself have made the same request. But the mayor’s office approved the permit, and there’s nothing the police department can do.”

Apparently I wasn’t the only crackpot in Boston. “You don’t understand. If that concert goes ahead, something terrible will happen.”

Mr. Sleepy Voice woke up. “Ma’am, are you making a threat against tonight’s event?”

For a minute, I even considered it. I could turn this call into a bomb threat. But the cops would check the area—and when they didn’t find a bomb, on with the show. Besides, I’d told him my name. “No, nothing like that. There’s a demi-demon in town; his name’s Pryce Maddox. He’s planning to launch a demon attack on the concert.”

“Ma’am”—the weariness was back in his voice—“the place is going to be full of zombies, werewolves, vampires, and who knows what else. What difference can a few demons make?”

35

WHEN I COULDN’T THINK OF ANYONE ELSE TO CALL ABOUT the concert, I tried Kane again—still no luck. I left a message at the Cross and Crow to let Mab know I was home. Then, I finally took my shower—long, steamy, and damn near scalding. Just what I needed. I lathered my hair four times, scrubbing the shampoo into my scalp, to make some progress with the Glitch spit. It would take a few days to eliminate all traces of the gunk. Shifting would get rid of it, but I didn’t have the energy. Anyway, I couldn’t shift now. I had work to do.

I toweled off, threw on my blue terry cloth bathrobe, and strapped Hellforged in its sheath onto my calf. The athame continued to lie quietly against my leg, with no sign of skittish-ness. Not so much as a flutter since I’d fought the Glitch on the plane. For now anyway, Hellforged seemed willing to work with me. And that was good, because we needed to practice.

I pulled on some sweats and went into the living room. There, I propped the HOME SWEET HOME slate against the sofa and stepped back to give myself room. I imagined myself standing on the lawn at Maenllyd, Mab watching. Just like I’d done there, I went through the ritual: Hellforged in my left hand, big circles, smaller circles to draw the Morfran toward me, then—as fast as I could manage it—a shift to my right hand. I hurled imaginary Morfran at the slate, shouting, “Parhau! Ireos! Mantrigo!”

There was obviously no loose Morfran floating around my apartment, because the slate didn’t jump and smoke. But I’d made it through the whole ritual without losing Hellforged or forgetting the words. Score one for Vicky.

I could almost hear Mab’s voice: What counts, child, is the final score when you’re dealing with an actual opponent.

I practiced the ritual until my arm ached. When my circles went lopsided and Hellforged felt like a heavy sword instead of a lightweight athame, I put the dagger back in its sheath and snapped it in place. We were getting along, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I stretched my shoulders and my triceps, then I headed into the kitchen and put some water on to boil. I went back to the bedroom to get the bag of no-dreaming tea Mab had given me. As I dug around in my bag, my hand brushed the leather binding of The Book of Utter Darkness. Revulsion shuddered through me, but I pulled out the book and set it on the bed. After a little more digging, I found the herbs. I carried them and the book to the kitchen.

The kettle shrieked and steamed. I turned off the burner, found a teapot, and got down a mug. It was Juliet’s favorite mug, black ceramic emblazoned with FANGS FOR THE MEMORIES in dripping red letters that were supposed to look like they were bleeding. Juliet never met a bad pun she didn’t like—probably a side effect of her Shakespeare obsession. I missed her. Wherever she was right now, I hoped it was far from the Old Ones.

I spooned tea into the pot and poured in the boiling water, then put the mug on the table and sat down. While the tea steeped, I’d try to coax the book into revealing something about how Pryce would attack. I opened it. The pages emitted a whiff of sulfur, and nausea clenched my stomach. I turned away and took three deep breaths, then bent over the book again, slowly turning pages until words formed in my mind.

As the dead dance, the Brenin shall claim what’s his.

There it was—the latest prophecy, just as Mab had said. It seemed like a clear reference to tonight’s concert, although nothing about the damn book was ever clear. I needed more. I needed to know how Pryce would make his move. I stared at the page. Other words started to form, faint and undulating, like writing seen through water. I blanked my mind, and they took shape: From a goddess two lines diverged, but they are reunited in Victory.

Not that again. The words shimmered in my mind. There was something different about them this time, and it took me a minute to figure out what it was. The tense. Not shall be reunited, but are reunited. Why the change?

As soon as I asked the question, the words vanished from my thoughts. Nothing arose to take their place. My head hurt. I should drink the tea and go to bed. A few more minutes, and that’s exactly what I’d do.

I turned the page. My heart jumped like a startled rabbit, and I slapped my hand to my chest as if that would slow it down. No. God, no. There it was—the reason I’d never wanted to touch this book again, ever. On the night my father died, I’d taken down this book from its shelf in Mab’s library. I’d opened it at random. And I’d seen this picture.

The illustration showed Difethwr against a black background. The Destroyer grinned horribly, its evil teeth sticking out in all directions. Warts and pustules crowded its blue skin. Its eyes glowed, their flames held within. The image was hideous, repulsive, and I wondered why I’d ever felt compelled to mouth a few of the words on the page. But I had. And Difethwr had come.

There was no creature I hated more—in Uffern, the Ordinary, or the world in between.

Mab said the Destroyer was shadowing me. Was it here now? If I opened my senses to the demon plane, would it be sitting behind me, reading over my shoulder? Goose bumps prickled my skin; I could almost feel its fetid breath on my neck. As the dead dance, the Brenin shall claim what’s his. That’s what the prophecy meant. Tonight, at the zombie concert, Difethwr would try to yank my soul away and hand me over to Pryce to become his demon-incubator.

How could I stop it? I stared at the picture of my enemy, searching for a clue. The Destroyer’s eyes brightened, then flickered. A blue-and-yellow electric shimmer crackled over the illustration, and Difethwr turned its head toward me. Something puffed from its mouth. A cloud of sulfur choked me. Exhaustion dragged at my mind like quicksand—I struggled to keep my eyes open. But I lost. My lids shut, and the quicksand sucked me under.

FOR A LONG TIME, THERE WAS NOTHING. NO SOUND, NO color, no movement, nothing but endless, limitless blackness. My body, my mind, time—everything—dissolved into dark emptiness.

Avagddu. Utter darkness.

I felt nothing. I thought nothing. I was nothing. There was nothing but the void.

Something changed, and it took a long time for my perception to pinpoint it. A dim light flickered, like a single candle in an adjacent room. A tiny spot of . . . something, a speck of ash maybe, coalesced in the glow. The spot grew larger, a dark kernel within the struggling light, darker even than the blackness that surrounded it. It kept growing. As it got bigger, the spot took shape—horned head, massive limbs. Fire glowed in its eye sockets, and it came forward as the Destroyer.

With the Hellion’s appearance, I knew myself again. But my body remained diffuse, its boundaries blurred and assimilated into the darkness. The flames behind Difethwr’s eyes provided the only light.

“Greetings, daughter of Ceridwen.” Difethwr’s voice sounded thick and bubbly. “It is the last time we will greet thee as such.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t greet me at all, Destroyer.” My own words had the same sludgy feel. I was surprised I could speak. I wasn’t sure where my lips were and couldn’t feel them moving. “I’d prefer you stay in Hell, where you belong.”

“Dost thou not yet understand? This is Hell. Uffern. Call it what thou wilt. Dost thou not feel at home? It is thy realm.”

“Thanks, but I’ll stay topside.” I tried to sound defiant, but it was hard with my words glugging along, all slow and submerged.

Demonic, many-voiced laughter bubbled through the darkness. “It is too late. Thou hast made thy choice—in the slate mine, when thou didst open thyself to Uffern and we seized upon the bond. Then didst thou choose Hell, shapeshifter.”

“I don’t believe you.” Mab had said something about my bond with this Hellion. Something important. But here in the void I couldn’t catch hold of it.

“No matter. Thy destiny cannot be denied. And it is nearly at its fulfillment. Tonight, the Morfran shall feed. We demons shall regain our strength. And what must come to pass, shall come to pass.”

“I’ll stop it.”

“Thou?” Again the Hellion laughed, the chortles and chuckles percolating all around. “What canst thou do, fast asleep? One final time we needed thee as a bridge, so thou hast loosed the Morfran upon the dancing dead. Thou, shapeshifter.” Another laugh, but more distant. “Soon, we’ll not call thee that, either. Soon thou wilt bear the Brenin’s sons and serve him here in Hell.”

Difethwr’s eye-flames flared, then dimmed. As they grew fainter, so did the Hellion. It shrank and receded and finally disappeared, like a pebble dropped into a deep well.

The book had made me fall asleep—without Mab’s tea. I struggled to wake up, but my body wouldn’t respond. Sleep held me in a suffocating cocoon that wrapped around me like warm, wet cotton and wouldn’t let go. Wake up, damn it! I had to wake up. My mind pushed and strained at the darkness that held me captive, searching for a flaw, for any kind of crack or opening. There was nothing. I was sealed in a blank, undifferentiated prison of sleep.

There was no way to fight this. It was worse than any nightmare or teeth-gnashing demon. I knew I was asleep, but I couldn’t wake up. Mab would know what to do. I tried to call her, straining to conjure her in her library wing chair, but her colors refused to rise up. Darkness wouldn’t release them.

The Destroyer’s words replayed in my mind. One final time we needed thee as a bridge, and thou hast loosed the Morfran upon the dancing dead . . .

This was Pryce’s plan, to keep me out of the way. I would be stuck here, sleeping and useless, while Pryce strengthened his demon horde and the Morfran massacred hundreds of zombies at Tina’s concert.

Tina. The thought hit me like a lightning strike. Tina was the last zombie I’d spoken to before the book pulled me into sleep. She’d be the Morfran’s first victim when the sun went down. Maybe it was happening now; maybe it had already happened. Where I was, trapped in the embrace of Utter Darkness, time didn’t exist.

A vision emerged from the black-velvet void: Tina’s terrified face, eyes squeezed shut, mouth gaping in a scream, as the Morfran gouged her body. She’d be eaten. Pryce said the zombies were just food for the Morfran.

I struggled harder to wake up, trying to wrestle sleep into submission. But there was nothing to wrestle, and nothing to wrestle with—I had no sense of my body or my limbs. The vision of Tina faded to echoes of taunting, demonic laughter. Then all subsided to nothingness.

Maybe nothing was the key.

The never-ending nothingness that absorbed me was an illusion. It had to be. I wasn’t some disembodied consciousness drifting in the void. I knew that. And I also knew the way to shatter an illusion is to focus on what’s real.

My mind searched for some shred of reality I could build on. It was hard. I’d think of something I knew was real—the smell of coffee, Mab’s onetwothree pats, Kane’s silver hair—and try to catch hold of it. But before I could, it was subsumed by the void, like a raindrop falling into the ocean.

I kept trying. What was the last thing I remembered before I plunged into darkness? I groped for a memory. Kitchen, I’d been in the kitchen. I must still be there. What did my kitchen look like? From where I floated, it seemed impossibly far away and difficult to remember, but piece by piece I brought it into my mind. The table—there was a table, right? Yes. I strove to remember what it looked like. Black . . . there was black, like the blackness here. A blurry image of a table began to form, with a black top . . . and chrome legs. More black—the counters were black granite. The picture gained a little more focus, and I added the cherry cupboards, the stove, the stainless-steel fridge. I could see myself now, slumped across the table, a pot of cold herbal tea beside me. Juliet’s FANGS FOR THE MEMORIES mug. There—that’s where I really was. In my kitchen, not dissolved into utter darkness.

Black mist blew across the images, smudging their edges and threatening to swallow them. But I kept focusing, hanging on to that picture of my kitchen—the table, the counters, the fridge, the mug—and eventually the mist wafted away. The vision grew sharper, more substantial. I could feel the cool, smooth tabletop now, feel the hardness of the chair I sat on. My head rested on my right arm, which tingled from the weight. Mab’s tea floated scents of herbs through the room. I pushed myself into the vision, making myself experience what was real, letting go of what wasn’t.

I opened my eyes, awake. I lay half-sprawled on the table, slumped over the open book. I’d drooled on the page in my sleep. I wiped my chin and tried to sit up. A wave of dizziness and nausea made me take it easy, but I got upright and surveyed the kitchen. Everything was as I’d pictured it. Solid. Real.

Using a napkin to blot the saliva from the book, I saw the picture had changed. Difethwr, receded to the background, loomed gray and featureless. Like a shadow. It stood behind a woman—one who looked way too much like me, with short, reddish-blonde hair. She wore a long, medieval-style gown, and on her shoulder perched a monstrous, black crow. She was hugely pregnant.

I shoved the book across the table. It crashed into the pepper mill, which tottered, spun, and fell to the floor. To hell with The Book of Utter Darkness. To hell with its prophecies, taunts, and tricks. The book was like that dark void—empty and fake, an illusion. Mab was right; we make our own destiny. And I was taking charge of mine.

I’d been asleep for hours. The kitchen clock read four twenty; the sun would set at five. I needed to hurry. I changed my sweats for jeans and a sweater. From my weapons cabinet, I chose two bronze-bladed throwing knives and then, reverently, lifted down the Sword of Saint Michael. I anointed its blade with sacramental wine, invoking the aid of the archangel Michael, scourge of demons, to guide his sword. The ritual finished, I buckled on the sword belt. As I slid the weapon home in its scabbard, I remembered with satisfaction how Pryce had cringed from this sword over the dream phone. Tonight, he’d get up close and personal with the real thing.

I called Kane. This time, he picked up on the first ring. “I’ve been trying to call you for hours,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“I was going to say the same thing to you.”

“I got routed through Minneapolis. Then I couldn’t get a direct flight to Boston. Anyway, I’m back now.”

“Did you convince the mayor to stop the concert?”

“No such luck. It’s on.”

Damn. “Okay, meet me at Tina’s dressing room. Before sunset, if you can make it. She’s in danger, Kane.”

“I’m on my way.”

So was I. My jacket was draped across the living room sofa. I put it on, then tucked the HOME SWEET HOME slate into an inner pocket. Hellforged lay so still against my leg that I had to check to make sure it was there. On an impulse, I took the dagger from its sheath. Except for a slight vibration, it handled like a regular knife, no twitching or jumping. I spun it around a couple of times, like Mab had done on the first day. Smooth and easy. “Come on,” I said, “let’s go stone some crows.”

36

GRANARY BURYING GROUND IS ONE OF THE OLDEST CEMETERIES in Boston. It holds more than two thousand graves, including those of some famous Bostonians: Paul Revere, three signers of the Declaration of Independence, and various Massachusetts politicians. It seemed like a strange place for a concert, until you remembered who the concert was for—the undead, partying hard enough to wake the dead.

The concert wasn’t in the actual cemetery; the site had way too much historical value to risk being stomped to bits by a bunch of zombies getting their groove on. Instead, the city had closed off parts of Tremont and Bromfield streets, forming a T-shape. The stage was erected in front of the iron-spiked cemetery fence, allowing a good view down Bromfield Street, all the way back to the barriers. Roadies set things up, adjusting lights and checking the towering amplifiers that looked powerful enough to knock over a building or two when Monster Paul blasted some guitar chords through them.

Zombies already milled around, staking out their spots. Some crowded the area directly in front of the stage. Others set up chairs along Bromfield Street. Lines formed in front of the vendor carts selling hot dogs, popcorn, falafel, burritos, deep-fried clam cakes—anything zombies could stuff into their faces in huge quantities.

The late afternoon was chilly, the temperature hovering a few degrees above freezing, practically a heat wave for Boston in early February. I pushed through the crowd, looking for the dressing rooms. It was almost five. The sun was low enough that zombies were taking off their sun-protection gear, relying on the long shadows of tall buildings to protect their skin and eyes. I wanted to be right there, watching over Tina, before the actual moment of sunset when the Morfran could come out.

Several news vans clustered near the Tremont Street barrier. One of them belonged to Channel 10 On-the-Scene News. Lynne Hong sat in the front passenger seat, her face in profile. Funny. She usually covered hard news and didn’t bother with fluff pieces like rock concerts.

A pudgy teenage zombie, wearing an oversized Monster Paul T-shirt and ripped jeans, talked to another reporter. As I got closer, I heard Jenna say, “Nope, sorry. Tina can’t give you an exclusive. What can I say? MTV called first.” She popped her gum with finality. She must’ve got the job as Tina’s manager.

When I asked Jenna where the dressing rooms were, she told me to go behind the stage and through the gate into the cemetery. Then she went back to booking Tina’s nonexclusive interview. I walked in the direction she’d pointed and saw a couple of trailers inside the cemetery, right up against the fence. At the main gate, a massive concrete structure that looked vaguely Egyptian, two hulking zombies stood sentry, watching the crowd through narrowed eyes. Muscular and broad-chested, they both reminded me of Sykes. I hoped Tina had given them my name—if she hadn’t, it was going to be tough ducking past these two.

But there was no need to worry. The taller zombie consulted a clipboard and put out his hand for ID. I showed him my driver’s license, and he waved me through. “Next-to-last dressing room,” he said. “Name’s on the door.”

I hadn’t gone more than two steps when a hand grabbed my arm in a bone-crushing grip and yanked me backward to face a scowling zombie. “What the hell is that?” he asked, gesturing at the Sword of Saint Michael.

“A toothpick. What does it look like?”

“You can’t take a sword in there.”

“Why not?”

“Gee, I wonder.” With a flick of his wrist he flung me back to the wrong side of the gate. He moved in front of me and folded his arms, daring me to try to get past him.

The light was almost gone. If the sun hadn’t dropped below the horizon yet, it would within minutes. I needed to get to Tina. It’d cost me one of my knives, but I had to knock this bozo and his buddy out of my way. I hung my head, pretending to give up. One guard wore running shoes; the other had on steel-toed work boots. I could throw one knife to nail a running-shoed foot and stab the other guard in his overdeveloped bicep, then run like crazy—

“It’s okay,” said a voice behind me. “The freak’s with me.”

I looked back to see Norden, my old Goon Squad pal. He wore a dark blue parka and his usual sneer.

The zombie glowered at Norden, then me. “Why didn’t you say so?” He stepped aside.

Never in three million lifetimes would I ever imagine I’d be happy to be “with” Elmer Norden, but as we trotted past the guards, that was exactly how I felt. I started to thank him, but he cut me off.

“You’re late. And you were supposed to report to the command center on Bromfield Street, not waltz back here.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“I’m in charge of security for this event. You’re on my staff list. Some nutcase phoned in a demon threat, and somebody seems to think you’re pretty good at fighting demons.” He shook his head. “In the old days, we got bomb threats,” he muttered, sounding nostalgic.

Oh. I guess that nutcase would be me. So that sleepy-voiced cop had woken up and reported a possible demon attack. That explained why Lynne Hong was here. Someone must have tipped her off about the “threat,” and she’d come in hopes of getting some zombie carnage on video. Not if I could help it.

“I didn’t ask to be hired. I’m here to protect Tina. If you’ve got a problem with that, let’s just say I quit.”

“I don’t care what the hell you do as long as you keep outta my way.” He stopped and gestured toward the dressing rooms. “You said Tina? That’s her dressing room there.”

“Great, thank—”

“You two should get along great. She’s almost as big a pain in the ass as you.” A sneer contorted his face.

I turned away, ignoring him. Then I thought about how this norm had lost his partner only a week ago—it was the first time I’d seen him since Sykes’s death. With one foot on the wooden stairs to Tina’s trailer, I stopped and looked back. Norden gazed across the darkening cemetery. “Hey, Norden,” I said, “I’m sorry about Sykes.”

He eyeballed me like he thought maybe I’d insulted him but wasn’t sure how. Then he shrugged. “At least I’m off the goddamn Goon Squad. Hampson tried to give me shit, so I quit to go private. Just my luck my first job is providing security for a bunch of freaks and monsters.” He grimaced and walked away.

So much for sharing a moment of tenderness with Norden.

I went up the stairs. Tacked to the door was a piece of paper with TINA TERROR printed in bold black letters. Tina’s last name was Zawadzki, so I could see why she’d want a stage name. But “Tina Terror”? That was as bad as Monster Paul. Below the name was a lopsided star, hand-drawn in yellow highlighter. It looked like something a preschooler’s mom would hang on the fridge; suddenly, Tina seemed very young and very vulnerable. I raised my hand to knock.

“Hey,” said Norden behind me. “Do you see someone over there?”

It was hard to see through the gloom. “Where?”

“By the obelisk. Damn useless guards can’t even keep the tourists out. Hey!” he yelled, starting forward. “Cemetery’s closed.”

I squinted in the direction he was going. A silhouetted figure stood beside the obelisk. All around him, perched on the gravestones and monuments, hunched a dozen large birds, black shapes against the shadows. A crow cawed.

Pryce was here. And he’d brought the Morfran with him.

I jumped down the stairs and sprinted toward my “cousin,” drawing my sword as I ran.

Norden, threading his way through the graves, yelled at Pryce again. Pryce extended an arm, and I dropped. Norden ducked behind a tree. But Pryce wasn’t concerned with us. His gesture was a signal. The crows rose into the air, cawing and shrieking.

Pryce disappeared.

I scrambled to my feet and resheathed my sword. I yanked up the leg of my jeans and tugged at the snap that held Hellforged in place. When it popped open, I allowed myself one deep breath to get centered. Then I grasped the athame with my left hand and pulled it out.

Crows shot over my head like fat black arrows and disappeared through the wall of Tina’s trailer.

The dressing room door burst open, and Tina ran out screaming, wearing a pink bathrobe and waving her arms wildly as the cloud of crows dived at her. She tripped on the stairs and tumbled to the ground.

Norden ran toward her, gun drawn.

“Norden, don’t!” I yelled. “They’re a spirit—you can’t shoot them.”

He skidded to a stop. “Then how in hell—?”

“Here.” I was already starting to make big, slow circles with my left hand. I reached into my inner jacket pocket and pulled out the slate. “Lean this against the trunk of that tree.”

Norden gaped like a fish getting ready to swallow a fly, as he watched me make superslow circles with my invisible lasso and took in the flowers and HOME SWEET HOME inscription on the slate.

Tina’s screams shattered the night.

“Take it, Norden! I know what I’m doing!”

I prayed that was true.

He grabbed the slate and ran toward the tree.

I closed my eyes and put everything I had into the ritual, drawing in the Morfran energy. I didn’t just circle, I willed the hunger to come to me. With all my strength, I pulled the Morfran in. So Difethwr was my shadow now? Good. The Hellion could help me call the Morfran. I felt a drag as the Morfran flowed into Hellforged’s orbit. Part of me was aware that Tina had stopped screaming, that Norden knelt beside her. But I kept the double focus I’d practiced with Mab: my calm, powerful center and the athame in my hand.

As the Morfran followed Hellforged’s circles, the crow bodies dissolved into energy. I made smaller circles, feeling the Morfran swirl with me. Smaller and smaller. The energy moved closer to the athame’s point. Smaller. A chill crept into my fingers. Then a jolt of ice.

As fast as I could, I passed Hellforged to my right hand. I pointed the athame at the slate and shouted, “Parhau! Ireos! Mantrigo!” The Morfran streaked into the slate and knocked it over. It jumped once, twice, then lay still on the ground.

Home sweet home.

Hellforged remained calm. I resheathed it and ran to where the slate lay. Wisps of smoke rose from its surface, but it was freezing cold to the touch. Colder than the night air or the ground it rested on. I stuck the slate in my pocket and hurried to check on Tina. She sat on the ground, clutching Norden and pressing her face into his shirt. Her shoulders heaved. If zombies could cry, she’d be sobbing. He patted her back, tentatively, as if afraid she’d break.

I squatted down beside them. “Tina? Are you okay?”

She pulled back from Norden. Smudges of mascara raccoon-ringed her eyes. “What was that?”

“That,” I said, helping her to her feet, “was why I wanted to cancel this concert.”

“Oh.” She brushed herself off and took a shaky step toward her trailer. “Then I’m glad you got rid of it before the show started. It would’ve, like, totally wrecked our dance moves for ‘Grave Robber.’ ”

I wanted to tell her to stop, to get the hell out of here, to run as far away as she could. Pryce wasn’t finished yet. The zombies hadn’t even started dancing, and the few crows I’d slammed into the Home Sweet Home plaque weren’t even a drop in the bucket compared to that sky-choking flock I’d witnessed at the slate mine.

But nothing short of a phase-three Morfran attack would keep Tina off that stage. I knew that. The best I could do was try to protect her and Deadtown’s other zombies—and stop Pryce for good.

Tina climbed the steps to her dressing room, and I followed her. As she went inside, I told her I’d be there in a minute. Then I went to talk to Norden.

“The guy you saw standing by the obelisk, his name’s Pryce Maddox. He’ll probably attack again tonight.” I described him while Norden took notes.

“And you know this guy how?”

“He calls himself my cousin, but—”

“Oh, Jesus. How come I’m not surprised?”

He gave me one of his trademark sneers, but I regarded him levelly. No matter how much I’d love to knock this norm on his ass right now, I needed his cooperation tonight. So he could take his own damn bait and shove it, because I wasn’t touching it. After a minute, he dropped his gaze and pretended to read something on his notepad.

“How’d he disappear like that?” Norden asked, his voice businesslike.

“Pryce is a demi-demon. He can pop in and out of the demon plane at will.”

“Can I shoot him? I mean, will it do anything?”

“Yes, but use bronze bullets, preferably the kind treated with holy water or sacramental wine. Regular bullets can slow him down, but mostly they’ll annoy him.” From the look on Norden’s face, it was clear he wasn’t packing bronze bullets of any kind. “I’ll handle Pryce,” I said. “Is there a way we can stay in contact tonight?”

He looked like my question gave him indigestion, but he said, “I’ll get you a two-way radio.”

“Good. If you see Pryce, tell me.” I patted the Sword of Saint Michael, and Norden nodded.

He started toward the cemetery gate, then stopped. The sneer was gone, replaced by a haunted look. “Those crows—or whatever the hell they were. That’s what killed Sykes?”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell is it?”

“It’s called the Morfran. It’s an ancient spirit of hunger that feeds on death.”

“Jesus.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, Vaughn, I’ll give you this: You are pretty good at fighting demons.” I half-nodded and went toward Tina’s trailer. Before I’d made it to the door, he added, “For a freak.”

37

KANE ARRIVED AS NORDEN WAS LEAVING. HE’D SEEN THE crows circling and realized what was happening. “Is that it?” he asked. “Did you recapture the Morfran Pryce released?”

“That was barely a preview.” In Wales, Kane had been deep in the mine when the Morfran filled the sky. He hadn’t seen how much Pryce had released. “Pryce is saving the main event for the concert.”

Quickly I brought him up to speed on everything from the time we’d been separated in Reykjavik to Pryce’s disappearance from the cemetery. I didn’t mention the Old Ones—we could sort that part out later. “Pryce was by that obelisk?” Kane asked.

I nodded.

“I’ll see if I can pick up his scent.”

“He exited into the demon plane.” But it was a good idea. Pryce’s human form, with its human senses, couldn’t enjoy being in the demon plane any more than I did. He could be hiding somewhere in the Ordinary, waiting for the concert to start. “If you find him, don’t approach him. Come and get me.” I gave him one of my knives, just in case.

Kane nodded and went toward the obelisk. I hurried up the wooden steps to check on Tina.

Tina’s dressing room was tiny, about the size of a walk-in closet. She sat in front of a light bulb-ringed mirror at a dressing table piled high with cosmetics. A framed photo of a smiling norm family stood half-hidden behind a tissue box.

Tina peered into the mirror and spread a layer of cold cream over her face. She wiped the cream off, removing the smudged mascara and other makeup. She inspected her reflection, turning right, then left. She was lucky; the Morfran hadn’t left a mark on her face. Her fluffy pink bathrobe showed several rips and slashes, but she was in amazingly good shape for a zombie who’d been attacked by the Morfran.

Tina fluffed her hair with her fingers, held it straight out on both sides of her head, and sighed. She gathered her hair in a loose bun and fastened it with an elastic band. “What a mess. I’ll fix my makeup first.” She moved around some bottles and jars on her table. “Can you get my foundation? It’s in my purse on the back of the door.”

I fished out a bottle—the shade was Ghoulish Green—and tossed it to her. She smeared some on her face and blended it with a sponge.

“Can you believe I’ve got to do my own hair and makeup?” She pouted into the mirror. “Paul says we have to keep costs down for this concert ’cause it’s free. But when we do the national tour, I’ll get my own stylist.”

“Tina—”

“No.” She slammed Ghoulish Green down on the table, making the other bottles—and me—jump. “I don’t want to hear it, Vicky. You’re not going to talk me out of going onstage tonight.” She swiveled in her chair to face me. “Whatever attacked me killed those other zombies. I get that, okay? But I don’t want to know what it was. I don’t want to hear it could attack again. So if you’re going to lecture me with shit like that, get out.” She glared at me, her expression an odd mixture of pleading and defiance, like she expected me to walk away and was all set to show how little it mattered to her. Even though it did matter. A lot.

Her costume was flung over the back of a folding chair beside her dressing table. I picked up the dry cleaner’s bag, shook it out, and hung the costume with her purse on the back of the door. I sat on the chair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her cheeks puffed out as she exhaled. She reached for the makeup bottle. “Ghoulish Green is such a stupid name. Like anybody who buys makeup wants to be reminded she’s a zombie.”

I raised an eyebrow. “This from Tina Terror?”

She bounced in her chair. “Cool stage name, huh? It goes, like, perfect with Monster Paul. All three backup singers have them, but the other two, Ashley and Jennifer, couldn’t find another word that worked with their real names, so they’re Hannah Horror and Polly Panic. But Tina Terror is the best.”

“Um, sure.” Hated Ghoulish Green, loved Tina Terror. No one ever accused Tina of being consistent.

Someone knocked. I stood, sliding a bronze knife from its sheath. “I’ll get it.”

“Okay.” Tina blinked, inspecting the thick black lines around her eyes, then started shoveling on sparkly silver eye shadow.

“Who is it?” I asked through the door.

“What, you want a knock-knock joke? Open the goddamn door.”

Norden. I put the knife away and pushed the door open. He was holding out the walkie-talkie I expected. What I didn’t expect was to see Daniel standing beside him.

“Hi,” he said, smiling warmly. “Norden said you were here. Welcome back.”

Half a dozen thoughts clamored for my attention. Loudest were You should’ve called him and You’ve gotta tell him you’re back with Kane.

“Uh,” I said, stepping outside. I closed the door behind me, then took Norden’s walkie-talkie and clipped it to my sword belt, feeling Daniel’s blue-eyed gaze. The weight of it made me fiddle with the walkie-talkie some more. “I, um, didn’t know you liked monster rock.” Once, we’d gone to hear Irish music in a pub in Southie.

He laughed. The sound was warm and easy, and he smiled when I looked at him. “I’m moonlighting for Norden. Word is there might be a demon attack, and I’ve learned enough about demons from you that I thought I could help.” His smile broadened. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

“We’re not dealing with an ordinary demon.” I’d worry about sorting out my personal life later. If I survived tonight. I briefed them on the Morfran, on Pryce, on his shadow demon Cysgod. “Pryce believes letting the Morfran gorge on the zombies will strengthen the demons. He’s trying to erase the boundary between the demon plane and the human world.”

“Oh, is that all?” Norden snorted. “And to think I gave up a perfectly good night of sitting home alone, getting plastered, for this.”

“What do you want us to do?” Daniel asked.

“Keep an eye out for Pryce. If you see him, contact me immediately.” I patted the walkie-talkie on my belt. “If the Morfran attacks, make sure I have room to do the ritual.”

Behind me, the door opened, and Tina called, “Vicky! Come help me with my costume.”

“Be right there.”

Norden and Daniel left to patrol the concert—Norden into the cemetery and Daniel toward the gate—and I went back into the dressing room. Tina had squeezed into the sparkly-silver boy shorts and was holding the matching bra against her front. She sported half a dozen slashes and gouges on her arms and torso from the Morfran attack.

“My aunt gave me some salve,” I said, fastening the hooks. “It might help with those wounds.” I doubted the salve would work on a zombie, but it was worth a try.

Tina inspected herself in the mirror. “I don’t know. They make me look, you know, edgier. More Night of the Living Dead. I guess they’re okay. You know, for shows and all. Hannah Horror has this big, gross, pus-filled sore here.” She pointed to her right cheek. “I thought I was gonna have to do something like that with makeup. But these look better. Like I clawed my way out of the grave or something.” She grinned at her reflection.

Someone rapped twice on the door. I reached for a knife but relaxed when a woman with spiky magenta hair stuck her pierced face inside. “Tina, they need you now,” she barked and was gone before I’d had a chance to count all her eyebrow rings.

Tina clasped her hands. “This is it,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Wish me luck.”

“Break a leg.” I kissed her cheek and wondered if that saying was just for actors. Whatever, suggesting bodily injury probably wasn’t the best way to wish a zombie good luck.

Tina didn’t care. Her grin was half-excited, half-terrified. I followed her outside. Her silver sequins glinted and gleamed under the lights. She turned left and hurried past the trailers, pausing once to stop and wave. Good thing zombies don’t feel the cold, I thought, watching her go. In an outfit like hers, I’d be chilly on a beach in the middle of August.

A couple of minutes later, Kane returned. “Any sign of Pryce?” I asked.

“I picked up his scent around one of the old Suffolk University buildings, but it was faint, and I lost it again. I don’t think he’s there now.”

Probably Pryce was jumping in and out of the demon plane until it was time to sic the Morfran on the zombies. “Let’s check it out.”

We exited the cemetery and pushed through throngs of zombies. Tremont Street was crammed with them, standing shoulder to shoulder, craning to see the stage. We skirted the thickest part of the crowd, crossed Tremont, and headed toward Bromfield Street. Half a block down Bromfield, there was more breathing room. More diversity in the audience, too. I spotted some werewolves and even a few humans. No vampires. It was dinnertime for them, and there wasn’t much in this crowd to whet their appetites.

We were almost at the building where Kane had scented Pryce when a low thrum of guitar chords pulsed from the speakers. A cheer went up. I turned around to see dry-ice fog covering the stage and spotlights sweeping the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” shouted an amplified voice. “Zombies, monsters, and things that go bump in the night!” The cheering swelled.

“Vaughn? You there?” Norden’s voice came from my walkie-talkie. I unclipped it from my belt.

“What’s up?”

“Are you ready to meet your worst nightmare?” yelled the announcer.

Norden said something over the walkie-talkie, but I couldn’t hear him over the music and the roaring crowd.

“Are you ready to dance with the dead?”

“What?” I shouted into the handset. I pressed it against my right ear and plugged my left.

“Are you ready to meet . . .”

Over the walkie-talkie, static. “. . . spotted the target. I’m . . .” More static.

“Where?”

“MONSTER PAUL?”

With a scream of guitars, music blasted out. Pyrotechnics exploded onstage, and Tina and the other two backup singers appeared through the smoke, doing a stiff zombie-walk dance. All around, zombies jumped up and mimicked their movements. The noise was ear-shattering.

I thought Norden said “cemetery,” but thanks to the static, the guitars, and the screaming crowd, I wasn’t sure.

“Repeat that.”

More fireworks onstage, and Monster Paul ran out. The crowd went berserk as he launched into the first verse of “Grave Robber.”

Through the walkie-talkie, Norden screamed.

“Norden!” I took off running down Bromfield Street toward the burial ground.

Kane caught up immediately. “Cemetery!” I shouted, and he surged ahead. At Tremont Street, the crowd was nearly impenetrable, but the zombies moved aside for Kane. I followed; it was better than trying to shove my way through. Zombies don’t move unless they want to.

The security guards had left their post at the gate. A dozen steps inside the cemetery, I stopped, breathing hard. Nothing moved. The music continued to blare, but we were behind the amplifiers, so it wasn’t as brain-thumpingly loud. I tried to raise Norden on the walkie-talkie but got only static.

“Norden said he saw Pryce, but we lost contact,” I told Kane. “Norden may be hurt. Let’s split up and look for him. Be careful.”

We agreed I’d go left and he’d go right; we’d work our way through the graves row by row and meet in the center. I drew the Sword of Saint Michael and started forward, moving quickly but with caution.

The final chords of “Grave Robber” crashed to a halt, and the audience thundered its approval.

I unclipped the walkie-talkie and tried again. “Norden?”

Daniel’s voice came back: “He’s hurt.”

“Where are you?”

“About halfway in, two rows in from the west fence.”

I ran in his direction, leaping over gravestones that got in my way. “Wait, Vicky.” Daniel held out a hand as I got near. “It’s bad.” I pushed past him. Norden lay in a heap on the blood-soaked ground. He was cut to ribbons. Pryce and his goddamn sword work.

“He’s alive,” Daniel said. “I’ve called for an ambulance.”

Good. There were at least two standing by; I’d seen them near the news vans. Norden didn’t look like he could wait long. His skin was ashy pale, his breathing rapid and shallow. Blood speckled his face, and blue tinged his lips. Daniel had already sprinkled activated charcoal on the ground—Norden would’ve carried that from his Goon Squad days—to soak up blood and absorb its odor. Still, it’d be bad for Norden if any zombies got a whiff of all that blood. The sooner we got him out of here, the better.

Red lights splashed across the tombstones, and a couple of EMTs unloaded a gurney from the back of an ambulance. “Over here!” I called.

Onstage, a guitar chord reverberated, followed by a squeal of feedback. “Helloooo, Deadtown!” growled Monster Paul. “Tonight, we show the world that—hell, yeah!—the dead can dance.”

Drums crashed, and a heavy bass line thumped out. The night suddenly grew several shades darker.

As the dead dance, the Brenin shall claim what’s his.

Overhead, the sky teemed with crows—so many it looked like the darkness itself seethed. They cawed and shrieked, their clamor overwhelming the music. There were more than I’d seen outside the slate mine. More than enough to destroy every zombie here.

Daniel’s eyes followed my gaze, then widened.

I sheathed my sword and took out Home Sweet Home.

“Daniel, listen.” I spoke quickly. “That’s the Morfran. I’ve got to do the ritual to imprison it. Pryce will try to stop me. Whatever it takes, don’t let him.”

Daniel nodded, still watching the Morfran. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“Detective Costello? Daniel?” We both turned at the voice. Behind the EMTs came Lynne Hong, cameraman in tow. “What’s happening?”

“Get out of here!” I shouted at her.

At the same time, Daniel yelled, “Lynne, don’t—”

The bassist faltered, hit a sour note, then stopped. Three more beats and the drummer stopped, too. That’s when the screaming started.

Hong stopped in her tracks. The cameraman spun around, not sure what to film.

I looked at the plaque in my hand, then up again at the overcrowded sky. Even with magical enhancement, could this one small slate hold all that? It didn’t seem possible. It had taken an entire slate mine to contain this much Morfran.

Screams pierced the night like sirens of terror. Now wasn’t the time to wonder.

I leaned the plaque against a tree and backed up ten feet. I took a centering breath and gripped Hellforged in my left hand. I tried to ignore the screams, the massive amount of Morfran overhead. Focus. Be pure. Do what you have to do. With my left hand, I traced large, clockwise circles. Immediately, I felt a shift in the energy around me as tendrils of Morfran were pulled into the movement. The screaming quieted. An eerie silence settled.

Circling felt like stirring a huge vat of nearly set concrete, there was so much Morfran dragging on my arm. Making the circles smaller increased the strain, but I kept going. With a strong tug of will, I pulled the Morfran toward me. A tsunami of ice-cold power charged up my arm. It lifted me from my feet and slammed me down flat on my back. Hellforged rocketed from my hand and spun into the darkness.

Screams again shredded the night, more this time. There was too much Morfran here. I couldn’t control it all at once. Okay, I thought, rolling onto my hands and knees and feeling around for Hellforged, I’ll subdue it in smaller batches. Some zombies would get hurt, but if I worked fast, maybe I could imprison all the Morfran before the attacks made it to phase three.

I found Hellforged. The athame jumped when I put my hand on it, but I caught it and got back to my feet. I took a deep breath—two, three—and tried again. This time, I kept the ritual light, drawing only the nearest Morfran closer instead of putting everything I had into pulling all of it toward me. The screams lessened. Sirens approached. Monster Paul urged the crowd to stay calm. Please let Tina be okay. I offered up that thought like a prayer, then closed my eyes and refocused on my task. I proceeded quickly, feeling for balance. When I’d pulled in as much Morfran as I could handle, I circled smaller and faster. It was almost time to switch hands.

“Put her down, you son of a bitch!” Daniel yelled.

His voice threw me. My eyes flew open, and Hellforged wobbled in its orbit. I kept circling, but I felt some of the Morfran slip away.

Daniel had his gun out, aimed at something to my right. Pryce held a struggling Lynne Hong a foot off the ground, his hands around her throat. She clawed at his fingers with her mittened hands, her eyes bugging out. Pryce looked at Daniel and laughed an ugly laugh. He tossed Hong aside. Daniel fired, but Pryce disappeared before the bullet left the gun.

Daniel sprinted to where Hong had fallen. He scooped her up in his arms and ran toward the ambulance.

My arm was still circling, almost like it was on auto-pilot. I returned my focus to the task at hand, tightened the circles more . . . more. I pulled in the Morfran that was still in my orbit and got ready to make the transfer.

Pryce popped back into the Ordinary, not ten feet in front of me. He picked up the plaque. “Home Sweet Home. How quaint.” He disappeared into the demon plane, taking the slate with him.

38

THE WHOLE DAMN SKY WAS BOILING WITH MORFRAN, AND Pryce had stolen my target.

Hellforged twitched, but I kept hold of it. I slowed the circles and widened them, just enough that the energy wouldn’t charge up my arm. The energy waned a tiny bit. The screams from Monster Paul’s audience didn’t. It sounded like full-scale panic out there now.

I was close to panic myself. My circling arm ached from the Morfran’s drag. I relaxed the circle a little too much and felt more Morfran slide out of Hellforged’s orbit. Again I picked up the pace; daggers of fiery pain stabbed my shoulder with each circuit. I couldn’t keep this up. Soon, I’d stop from sheer exhaustion, and hundreds of zombies would die.

The cawing rose to an insane pitch. The zombies were dying, anyway. I was holding back one small bit of Morfran, while the rest tore viciously into its victims.

“Vicky?” Kane called from the darkness.

“Here.” My voice croaked with fatigue.

He hurried toward me, winding through the tombstones. “There are two PDHs back there, the guys from the gate, and they’re—” He stopped when he saw me.

“Under attack by the Morfran,” I finished for him. “I can’t help them, Kane. Pryce stole the slate target Mab gave me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Slate?” He frowned. “Does it have to be a special kind of slate?”

“No, but—”

“Vicky, look around. Most of the headstones in this cemetery are slate.”

I nearly dropped Hellforged when he said it. He was right. All around me stood hundreds—hundreds—of slate gravestones. And that meant hundreds of Morfran targets.

“Keep Pryce away,” I said.

Kane nodded, and I went to work.

Quickly, I tightened my circles and pulled in the Morfran. I zeroed in on the nearest gravestone. I transferred the athame from left hand to right, pointed Hellforged, and shouted, “Parhau! Ireos! Mantrigo!” The stone split like it had been struck by lightning. The halves fell away from each other, and smoke spewed out. Overhead, the sky grew half a shade brighter.

I let out a whoop of triumph.

I scanned the cemetery. Rows of crooked gravestones stretched into the darkness; the center obelisk glowed an eerie white. No sign of Pryce lurking among the graves. He was here somewhere—I didn’t doubt that for a second. But Kane would keep him back from me, and there was no way he could steal all the slate from the cemetery.

Success brought strength back into my limbs. I began the ritual again. And then again. And again. Over and over, I pulled in a batch of the Morfran—as big as I could handle—and slammed it into a slate gravestone. I made my way across the grounds, scooping up as much Morfran as I could as fast as I could, stoning it, moving on. Some gravestones split, some fell over, a few just shuddered. But nothing broke my focus on my task. I was aware of sirens, footsteps, voices; none of these pushed through my concentration. Gradually, the drag on my circling arm became less. Degree by degree, the inky darkness lightened. Finally, after what felt like days of effort, I chanted the incantation and made the hurling motion . . . and nothing happened.

I’d done it. I’d imprisoned the last of the Morfran.

My knees turned to water. I sank to the ground, limp with exhaustion.

But not for long. Behind me, sounds of fighting broke out—grunts, curses, the smack of flesh hitting flesh. Then Kane’s voice shouted, “Don’t shoot, damn it! I’ve got him. Just get that human the hell out of here!”

I fastened Hellforged in its sheath, got up, and ran over to where Kane clasped a struggling zombie around the waist, holding him in the air as he kicked and thrashed. One EMT pointed a gun at them; the other shoved at the gurney holding Norden, but its wheel was stuck and it wouldn’t budge.

Daniel appeared. He lifted the gurney’s front end and pulled, freeing the stuck wheel. The gurney started rolling again. Daniel pulled, one EMT pushed, the other walked beside, his gun still trained on the zombie.

Kane, backing away, tripped over a low-lying gravestone and went sprawling. He kept his grip on the zombie. I made a flying leap and landed on top of the two of them. It was like riding a bucking zombie bronco, but together we held him down.

Daniel kept going with the EMT guys. “Lynne’s okay,” he called back over his shoulder, though nobody had asked. “She’s in the ambulance. I told her not to unlock the doors till I came back.” His voice faded as he moved down the path, saying something to the ambulance crew.

As the scent of Norden’s blood grew more distant, the zombie’s struggles lessened. “I’m hungry,” he moaned.

“Soon,” I said. We couldn’t let him up until Norden was safely packed into the ambulance and on his way to Mass General.

“Those guys should carry potato chips, not guns.” Kane’s muffled voice emerged from somewhere under the zombie.

“Yeah, but—” Before I could say more, a gong reverberated through the cemetery. For a couple of confused seconds, I thought the concert had started again and the band was launching into another song.

But no music followed.

Shit. The last time I heard that sound, I was in an abandoned Welsh slate mine.

Kane cursed. He recognized it, too.

When the second gong rang out, I knew we were in trouble. The dead weren’t exactly dancing anymore—they were stampeding through Boston in a panic—but Pryce was freeing the Morfran I’d trapped.

I whipped my head around, trying to locate the sound’s direction. Daniel and the EMTs had almost reached the ambulance, but I didn’t see Pryce. When the third gong sounded, I watched. A deeper darkness swirled up out of the night.

“There!” I pointed. Kane twisted his head around to see. “Can you handle this zombie while I do the ritual?”

“Yes, but don’t say zom—”

I was already on my feet, unsnapping Hellforged’s sheath. I kept my eyes on the mist. It solidified into a flock of crows that blasted into Norden and the EMTs. The techs took cover as the gurney flipped over. Daniel drew his gun. The crows soared up into the sky.

They circled once, then, sensing the zombie on the ground, dived at him. He screamed. Kane tried to shield the zombie, but the crows passed right through him to get at their prey, gouging out chunks of undead flesh.

“You can’t protect him,” I yelled. “Get Pryce.”

I moved Hellforged in a big circle, pulling the Morfran toward me. Hellforged drew the Morfran like a magnet, dragging crows off the zombie, sucking them toward me in mid-dive.

The zombie’s screams faded to moans. Kane took off at a run toward where the mist had risen. Daniel followed him.

“Pryce has an oak stick or staff,” I shouted after them. “Get it away from him.”

I made the circles smaller. The zombie staggered to his feet. I glanced toward the ambulance. One of the EMTs slammed the back door, then ran around to the passenger side. A second later, the ambulance peeled away, siren blaring.

The gong sounded again.

“Get out of here—now!” I yelled at the zombie.

He tilted his head. One eyeball dangled from its socket, where a crow had tried to pluck it out. The second gong reverberated.

“Go!” I screamed, and the zombie ran toward the exit. I’d never seen one move so fast.

I tightened Hellforged’s circles. From across the cemetery came shouting, then a shot. Good. I hoped Daniel had nailed Pryce right through his little black heart. Or did Pryce have a gun, too? My heart lurched, and I felt some Morfran slip away. Focus, Vicky. I pulled what Morfran I could back into Hellforged’s orbit.

The gong sounded again. Was that number three? It sounded like it came from a different part of the cemetery; maybe Pryce had been forced to start over. But he was obviously still at work, and he could release the Morfran a hell of a lot faster than I could contain it. Another gong—two? I hurried, hurling the Morfran I’d caught into the nearest gravestone. But I made the transfer too soon, and some of the Morfran got away. Blue sparks skittered across the surface of the stone, then swirled up in tendrils of black mist.

Before I could start the ritual again, the third gong sounded.

This wasn’t working. I’d have to stop Pryce first, then mop up whatever Morfran he’d released. I stuck Hellforged in my belt and ran toward the mist that rose black against the night.

Ahead, I saw Pryce, drawing back a wooden club to strike a gravestone. Daniel appeared from behind a tree and fired. Pryce dropped the club in mid-swing, grabbing his upper arm. He spun around, growing as he did, changing into his demon form. Daniel’s second shot bounced off Cysgod’s hide. With a snarl and four flaps of its wings, the demon launched itself into the air. Daniel kept firing; sparks marked where each bullet glanced off. The demon landed in front of Daniel. In a move almost too quick to see, it drew back its arm, extended its talons, and struck an overhand blow. Daniel sprang away. The talons plunged deep into the ground.

I drew my sword, calling upon Saint Michael’s aid. When the blade cleared the scabbard, it burst into flame. I ran forward as Cysgod yanked its claws from the earth and advanced. Daniel, backing up, fell. Cysgod bore down on him, each step shaking the ground. The demon was too fast; I wasn’t going to get there in time.

I switched the Sword of Saint Michael to my left hand, pulled out a throwing knife, and hurled it. The blade found its target, lodging deep in the demon’s side. But Cysgod barely paused. It plucked the knife from its flesh and tossed it aside. It kept moving toward Daniel.

A shape flashed out of the darkness, slamming into Cysgod so hard that the demon overstepped Daniel and staggered past him. Kane clung to Cysgod’s back, stabbing at its neck with his bronze blade. Cysgod twisted and shook and flapped its wings; Kane struggled to hang on. The demon reached over its shoulder, plucked Kane off, and tossed him aside. Kane rolled as he hit the ground and was back on his feet at once.

I’d closed the distance, coming up behind Cysgod, and I lunged, aiming to drive my sword into the demon’s back and up into its heart. But it heard me coming. At the last second, Cysgod twisted to the left, and my blade merely slashed its flank.

But the touch of bronze blazing with celestial fire had its effect. Energy flashed out, and Cysgod became Pryce again. Pryce bled in several places: red where Daniel’s bullet had hit his human form, and black where Kane and I had wounded the demon.

Pryce snarled at me, fury snapping in his eyes.

Then, something altered. A feeling in the air, a tremor in the ground—I couldn’t pinpoint what, exactly. But the world had changed.

Pryce smiled, and the expression was far more unnerving than his hate-filled glare.

Daniel fired again. In front of Pryce, a spark flared in midair. Pryce stood still, not even flinching. Daniel gasped, and the gun flew from his hand. Kane started forward, but something lifted him into the air and hurled him across the cemetery. He sailed over the gravestones and disappeared. A pain-filled howl, more animal than human, stopped my heart.

Before I could move, the same thing happened to Daniel. Pryce hadn’t budged; he just stared at me with that mocking smile. His black eyes were darker than the deepest pits of Hell.

Cysgod’s power had surged—that was the shift I’d felt. The Morfran had fed, strengthening all demons. I’d interrupted the feeding, so Cysgod wasn’t strong enough to materialize fully alongside Pryce in the Ordinary—Pryce still had to take one form or the other here. But his shadow demon was no longer a mere shadow. It had gained the strength to reach beyond the boundary of the demon plane and act in the human world.

How could I fight this new, more powerful demon? Because Cysgod wasn’t fully materialized, I couldn’t kill it in its current form, half in and half out of Uffern. After Difethwr’s threats and my experiences at the slate mine, nothing would tempt me into the demon plane. But if I could injure Pryce again, he’d be forced back into his demon shape. If I could kill him during the change, I’d kill them both.

I raised the Sword of Saint Michael and charged.

Something grabbed me around the waist and plucked me off the ground, as I’d seen happen to Kane and Daniel. Cysgod was going to throw me, too, keeping me away while Pryce released more Morfran—bringing Cysgod fully into the Ordinary. I struggled, trying to twist free. I slashed with my sword, but the blade sliced through nothing but air. Cysgod could reach into the Ordinary, but I couldn’t fight it here.

The demon didn’t throw me. Instead, hanging a dozen feet above the ground, I felt a freezing-fiery pressure against my body. The sensation flowed through my skin and seeped into my pores. I shivered and burned, like I was being boiled in ice. The pressure increased, squeezing me. I couldn’t breathe. A fist of ice and rock reached into my chest, grabbed my heart, and, with a violent wrench, turned me inside out.

Cysgod dropped me.

My knees and hips went soft when I hit the ground, and I somersaulted forward. My movements felt slow, like I was deep underwater. Like I was back in the black, endless void. As I struggled to my feet, everything looked smudged and dirty. Terrible sounds invaded my ears—shrieks and screams, insane laughter, the caws and shrieks of ravenous Morfran—and the air was rife with smells of blood, offal, and sulfur.

I was in Uffern. Not just open to it, but there. Cysgod had pulled me, body and soul, into the demon plane.

39

PRYCE STOOD IN FRONT OF ME. I COULD SEE BOTH HIS FORMS now: human and demon. The human Pryce waggled his fingers at me and walked to the place where he’d dropped the oak club, taking his time as if he were on an evening stroll. Moving with him, yet staying between us, loomed Cysgod, holding its own flaming sword, which burned with black, shadowy fire.

They’d forced me into Uffern, but here, I could kill them both. First Cysgod, then Pryce.

Pryce retrieved his club as I lunged for his demon half. But the underwater feeling persisted. The foul, oppressive night burdened my shoulders. My sword felt heavy, too heavy to lift, and Cysgod moved out of range before I was halfway to striking.

A rumbling laugh sounded behind me, and flames licked at my back. Difethwr. My demon mark flared, and my right arm dropped, weak and useless, to my side. Okay, I’d fight with my left. But the sword was so heavy, my movements so slow and clumsy, that I nearly dropped it as I changed hands.

“Greetings, former daughter of Ceridwen. At last our bond is fulfilled.”

I tried to turn around, but I could barely twist my head, so heavily did the Hellion weigh me down.

“Release me . . . Hellion . . . I . . . command it.” Even speaking required immense effort.

“No.” That single syllable of refusal rang with triumph. “We are part of thee, bound to thee by thine own words. And now we claim that bond.”

Something broke inside me, and I knew there was no escape. I’d been a fool, chasing after purity. Purity was lost to me, and it had been ever since I’d bound this Hellion to myself. No, earlier. Ever since the night it marked me. I could never be pure. I was tainted, corrupted, contaminated. Just like Pryce, I was part demon. I belonged in Hell.

From a goddess two lines diverged, but they are reunited in Victory.

So this was my destiny—bound forever to the Destroyer, subject to the demon I hated more than anything in any world.

I watched, helpless, as Pryce drew back his club and struck a slate gravestone. Black mist wafted upward, solidified, and flew cawing into the night.

Instinctively, I reached for Hellforged, but Difethwr’s arm came forward and plucked the dagger from my belt. “At last,” it said, “the blade we crafted returns to us. We have better uses for it than the crude one thou hast employed.”

Pryce came over and stood before me, the oak club dangling from his hand. Cysgod towered beside him. Pryce looked me over appraisingly, his gaze roaming over my face and body; my heaviness was so great I couldn’t look away. Lips pursed, he leaned forward, and I struggled to turn my head and avoid his kiss.

He spat in my face.

“Teach this bitch a lesson, Cysgod,” he said. “Hurt her as much as you like. But don’t kill her, and don’t injure her womb. She and I have a date later tonight.”

Cysgod’s sword flashed. I couldn’t raise my own in time to deflect the blow. The blade hacked into my arm, a slash of pain and fire that cut to the bone. Black flame burned me, eating at the edges of the wound.

As Pryce watched, Cysgod surged forward in a flurry of slashing cuts. Its sword bit my arms, my chest, my legs, my back, my face. Life-eating flame engulfed me, scorching, burning, consuming my flesh, my spirit. Difethwr’s crushing weight held me in place. Covered with blood, I collapsed to my knees, then fell onto my face. My left hand still grasped the Sword of Saint Michael, but the blade’s flames had died to a weak glow.

“Enough,” Pryce said. Immediately, Cysgod stopped. Pryce’s shiny black shoes appeared and stood beside Cysgod’s scaly, taloned foot. Together, they kicked dirt onto the blade of my sword. Its glow went out. Dirt got into my eyes and mouth. It tasted like death.

“Cysgod,” Pryce said. “I have an idea. Let’s see if there’s anything left of my cousin’s suitors. If they’re still alive, we’ll bring them back here for you and Difethwr to occupy yourselves with while I finish releasing the Morfran.” His voice took on a tone of playful warning. “No squabbling, though, over who gets the werewolf and who gets the human.”

No! I struggled to push myself up, but I couldn’t. I was merely a heap of burned and beaten flesh.

Pryce laughed, and the shoes moved away. Cysgod’s feet moved with them. As the shadow demon lifted its foot to step over the Sword of Saint Michael, I dug deep and summoned the strength to turn and position my blade. Cysgod’s foot came down on its edge. Black, stinking blood fountained up as the blade went in deep.

At the touch of demon flesh, the sword burst into full flame. Cysgod roared and tried to shake itself loose, but its foot was stuck, the flesh liquefying around the blade. Somehow, I got my knees under me. Clutching the sword grip with my left hand, I sliced upward. Yellow, sulfurous smoke billowed from the wound. Cysgod shrieked and kicked out, hard. The powerful kick, combined with the momentum of my stroke, cut the foot in two and sent the weapon arcing backward. I almost lost the sword but managed to hang on. The blade struck something behind me and sank in, then stopped from the resistance. Keeping my eye on Cysgod—the demon, half-obscured by the yellow smoke, howled and roared and hopped around on one foot—I jerked the sword forward.

It came out with such force that I fell, catching myself on my forearms.

The strength I thought I’d lost surged into me, and I jumped to my feet. I charged Cysgod, driving my sword into its gut and knocking the one-footed demon off balance. It crashed to the ground. I was right on top of it, slicing, stabbing, hacking. It swiped at me with its claws, but each time I landed a blow with the sacred sword, Cysgod weakened. The foul yellow smoke spread, stinging my eyes and clogging my lungs. It filled the cemetery. I squinted through the smoke, coughing, and kept striking. I drove the sword into the creature, over and over, until it felt like the blade was striking bare ground.

I stepped back, breathing hard. I waved at the smoke to clear it. The ground where Cysgod had fallen was empty, except for a fetid pool of thick, black blood.

One demon down.

I whirled around, my sword blazing, to face the Destroyer. Difethwr slumped on the ground, its head split in two. Gobs of black stuff and steaming liquid oozed from its skull. How . . . ? Cysgod’s kick—the Hellion must have been bending over me, and the force of the backward blow sliced open its skull. No wonder my strength had returned. Now, Difethwr’s blue skin looked dull and wan. Its eyes, no longer fiery, were black, empty sockets.

I couldn’t believe it was dead.

I poked its leg with my toe. No response. I drew back my foot and kicked it as hard as I could. It was like kicking a stone wall. I stretched and flexed my right hand—it felt whole and strong, no longer useless in the Destroyer’s presence. With my left hand, I tossed the Sword of Saint Michael into the air and caught it in my right. Its flames burned brighter, flaring to a conflagration as I struck the blow that severed the Hellion’s ruined head from its body.

Now to deal with Pryce.

He wasn’t far off. I spotted him immediately, slouched by a tombstone, the oak club dangling from his hand. I dashed toward him, sword raised, intent on preventing him from releasing any more of the Morfran. But he didn’t lift his arm to strike the slate. He didn’t move at all. There was something odd in the way he stood there, shoulders slumped, body slack.

Kane roared in out of nowhere and tackled Pryce. They tumbled across the grass. Kane sat up, pulling Pryce up with him by his lapels. “WHERE IS SHE?” he shouted. Pryce’s head lolled. Kane backhanded him; blood splattered a tombstone. “If you’ve hurt her,” he growled. “If you’ve touched one hair on her head, I’ll rip you apart.”

Kane was a nightmare vision, his features twisted with rage. Blood matted his hair and streaked his face. His torn shirt was drenched with even more blood. He backhanded Pryce again but got no response. Kane bellowed with fury and pounded Pryce into the ground.

“Kane!” I screamed, but he didn’t hear.

Someone else was yelling, too. Daniel. He ran to Kane, tried to pull him off Pryce. Kane swatted him away, but Daniel grabbed his arm and held on. “Stop!” he shouted. “Kane, listen, you’ve got to stop. The Goon Squad is here.”

Oh, God. The werewolf murder suspect beating the crap out of a human. Pryce wasn’t human, but the Goon Squad didn’t know that. They’d shoot him on sight.

“Stop! Please stop!” I pleaded.

Kane didn’t look at me, but he paused. A shudder went through him, and he shook off whatever he was feeling. Slowly, he climbed to his feet. Pryce flopped backward onto the ground. Daniel leaned over to check his pulse.

“Vicky,” Kane said, his voice thick. “Have you seen her?”

“No. We’ll find her. But for now you’d better move over there, away from this guy.”

Kane nodded.

“Are you okay?” Daniel asked. “I thought that thing killed you.”

“I don’t die that easily. And no, I’m not okay.” Kane stalked away from Pryce’s inert form. He paced by the fence.

I ran to him. Just before I caught up with him, he stopped and pressed his face into his hands. Then he looked up into the sky. “Vicky!” he howled.

“I’m here, Kane,” I said. “What happened to you?”

He gave no sign he’d heard me. Instead, he resumed pacing.

I ran ahead and planted myself in front of him. He walked right through me as though I were a ghost.

I might as well have been.

Kane didn’t know I was there. Because I wasn’t—not in his world. I was in Uffern. All around me, black fires burned, giving off the stench of sulfur and charred meat. Cries of pain and torment and cruel, mocking laughter clogged the air. None of this reached Kane in the Ordinary. He couldn’t see or hear me.

My heart thumped. What if I couldn’t get out? What if my bond to Difethwr kept me here, a prisoner in Hell? The Hellion was dead, but its essence was still inside me.

Never had I felt so filthy, so contaminated. Purity was a joke.

But if I wasn’t pure, then I wasn’t purely demon, either. This wasn’t my place. I’d found my way out of that weird, demon-induced sleep world by focusing on what was real. Maybe I could do the same thing now. I concentrated, willing myself into the Ordinary, bringing back the colors and sounds and scents I knew existed there. The frost-covered grass. The pearl-white, waning moon. Warm, yellow lights shining from buildings. Kane’s moonlight-and-pine scent. The heat of his skin, the suppleness of his muscles. Slowly, my senses shuttered themselves to the horrors of Uffern. Demonic shrieks and smells faded; light brightened.

Kane’s eyes brightened, too, when they saw me.

“Vicky.” Never has a single word held so much meaning.

We came together like waves crashing into the shore. I tasted his blood, his sweat, his skin. His closeness swept away any lingering horror. I couldn’t touch him enough. I ran my hands over his chest, through his hair, across his back. The back of his shirt was as torn and stiff with blood as the front. Hard lumps of scar tissue arose at regular intervals, to the right of his spine, four or five inches apart.

I pulled away and studied him. The rips in the front of his shirt were spaced the same way. I ran a hand down his chest. He had scars there, too. “What happened to you?”

“It’s nothing. When that . . . that demon threw me, I landed badly. On top of the fence.” Oh, God. He’d been impaled on the iron spikes. In four places, those wrought-iron spears had gone straight through him. “I’m fine, really.” He caught my hand, guided it to one of the wounds. Already the scar tissue was smoothing out. “It took some effort to free myself, but I managed.” His lips brushed my ear as he whispered, “I had to get to you.”

I laced my fingers behind his neck and pulled him to me. He moved his lips along my jaw and down my neck—nuzzling, kissing, tasting. Warmth spread through me. He drew back and held my head in his hands, his gray eyes roving over my face. “You’re all right,” he said. “You’re really all right.”

And I was. Instead of looking like a blood-soaked horror-movie heroine, I was mostly scuffed and dirty, with some cuts here and there. I’d left the wounds from Cysgod’s attack in Uffern.

Kane folded me into his arms, pulling me against his chest. I felt his heart beat beneath my cheek. But I wasn’t done here. As much as I hated to do it, I broke our embrace. “I have to see what’s happening with Pryce.”

He nodded and put his arm around me, firmly, like he was never going to let go again. Together we walked to where Pryce lay on the ground. Daniel was there, speaking to two uniformed cops. After a minute they nodded, and Daniel clapped one of them on the shoulder. He turned and saw us approaching.

“You found her!” He hurried to us as the cops stood guard over Pryce.

As Daniel got near, Kane growled softly and pulled me closer. Daniel stopped, an eyebrow raised. Then he grinned. Even at night, his blue eyes sparkled.

“You okay?” he asked me.

I nodded. “What’s the situation with Pryce?”

“Alive. His eyes are open, but he’s unresponsive. We’ll know more after we get him to the hospital.” An ambulance pulled up to the cemetery gate. He glanced at it over his shoulder. “I’ll ride with the ambulance. I need to get to Mass General to check on someone, anyway.”

“Let us know how Norden’s doing,” I said. The guy had been in bad shape before the Morfran slammed into him and knocked over his gurney. I hoped he’d make it. Norden would never be one of my favorite people, but I was rooting for him to pull through.

“Nord—Oh, yeah. Yes, of course I will.” Daniel twisted around to see the ambulance. “You two don’t need to hang around,” he said. “I vouched for you, said you’d stop by the station tomorrow to make your statements.” Daniel nodded at Kane, businesslike. He shifted his gaze to me. His blue eyes held mine. Something gleamed there, then it was gone. He nodded at me, too. Then he turned and went to the ambulance.

Kane squeezed my shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

“In a minute.” I slipped out of his grasp and went, alone, to the place where Difethwr had fallen. On the human plane, there was no visible trace of the dead Hellion, only a faint, unpleasant smell, like the wind blowing the wrong way over a garbage dump.

Hellforged lay on the ground, glowing faintly silver. I touched its blade. Its vibration thrummed, feeling almost like a welcome. I picked up the dagger and stuck it in my belt. After a moment’s hesitation, I cracked open my senses the tiniest bit to the demon plane. The stench of rotting Hellion made me stagger back, and I slammed my senses shut. The smell receded. Okay, good, I could dip my big toe into Uffern without getting stuck there. Holding my breath, I opened again, fully this time, and Difethwr appeared, lying motionless on the ground. The Hellion was decomposing. Its blue skin, pitted with ragged holes, had turned purple mottled with filthy green, and the body collapsed on itself, like a balloon with a slow leak.

The Destroyer, destroyed. My mind flashed to my father, writhing on the floor, tormented and killed by this demon’s flames. It’s dead, Dad. After all these years, the Destroyer is dead.

I closed to the demon plane, and the Hellion disappeared. I drew Hellforged with my left hand and focused on a nearby slate gravestone. I couldn’t make out the name, but the date was 1704. Above the inscription was a carving, a simple line drawing of a winged skull. Flying death. Not exactly HOME SWEET HOME, but an appropriate residence for the Morfran.

As I traced wide circles above my head, there was very little drag on Hellforged. I circled and circled, mentally calling the Morfran to me, but the amount I sent into the gravestone was less than Pryce had released. I tried again, but this time nothing came. Some of the Morfran had escaped.

Well, there wasn’t anything I could do about it now. Mab said there was always some loose Morfran about, causing death and destruction. I’d never be able to catch all of it. Still, it bothered me that I’d let some get away. There was a little more violent, destructive hunger out there in the world now.

I sheathed Hellforged. Kane came over and stood beside me.

“Finally,” I said. “Let’s go.”

He held up his hand and sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”

I could smell lots of things. Blood—my own and others’—ashes, the lingering stench of demons, the rot of Difethwr’s decay. “Smell what?”

“Like a grave. An old one.”

“We’re in a three-hundred-year-old cemetery, Kane.”

“Yes, but—” He broke into a run, toward the spot where the two cops guarded Pryce. I was right behind him. When we got there, I didn’t see anyone.

Then I looked at the ground.

The two uniformed cops were bloodless husks—empty, discarded sacks of skin. And Pryce was gone.

40

I’D BARELY FALLEN ASLEEP WHEN A BLUE-AND-SILVER MIST churned the darkness. I let the lavender-scented cloud surround me. When it dispersed, there sat Mab in her wing chair by the fireplace. She leaned forward, worry lines etched into her forehead. “Thank heaven you’re all right,” she said. “I’ve been calling every half hour. Tell me what happened.”

I described everything since I’d left Maenllyd—the Glitch on the plane, falling asleep over the book, the Morfran attack on Tina, the carnage at the concert. “I wasn’t fast enough, Mab. Nine zombies died, probably more. Some are still missing.” Tina was okay. As soon as crows overspread the sky, she dived under the stage and hid there until the screaming stopped. Smart kid.

“Any death is regrettable, child. But nine as compared to what—nine hundred? More? Followed by untold suffering as Pryce led his Morfran-strengthened demons into the human realm. You did well.”

I mentally sawed a new notch in the kitchen table at Maenllyd.

“I don’t think we need to worry about Pryce for the time being. When you cut off Cysgod’s foot, you severed its connection to Pryce. Without his shadow demon, Pryce lacks animation and volition, like a human with no soul. That’s why he became catatonic.” Her voice grew thoughtful. “What does worry me is why the Old Ones spirited him away.”

The Old Ones again. I asked Mab what she knew about them.

“I’ve had . . . dealings with them before. A long time ago.”

“What are they? Some kind of vampire?” Although all the vampires I’d ever known would rather stake themselves than be that ugly.

“You could say that the Old Ones are to vampires as vampires are to humans. They use humans for food, but they’re so ancient they require little bodily sustenance. A single human every month or two—drained dry, like those poor policemen—takes care of an Old One’s physical needs. But they gorge on power, and that’s what they drain from vampires.”

I remembered Clyde’s description of Juliet’s robotic visitor. Wherever Juliet was, I hoped she was far away from any Old Ones.

“The Old Ones are a small, clannish group,” Mab continued. “They’ve remained hidden for centuries. They see integration of paranormals into human society as a threat to their own power structure. From what you tell me, they’ve quite successfully stopped your young man’s civil rights case.”

Your young man. When she said it, I became acutely aware, even in sleep, of Kane lying beside me. His strong arm curled around my waist, his warm breath puffed against my naked shoulder. I blushed, hoping Mab wouldn’t notice the blood rise in my face. I’d never had company before when I spoke with her on the dream phone.

My aunt averted her eyes—was that a smile?—and changed the subject. She told me about Jenkins’s plans for spring planting and how an unexpected busload of tourists had arrived at the Cross and Crow and overrun the village. It felt good to make small talk about normal things, the kinds of topics that come up in a just-saying-hi call.

Before we disconnected, I asked Mab about something that bothered me. “Pryce was wrong about the prophecy. It wasn’t about reuniting the two lines through the birth of a child; it was about uniting Hellions and the Cerddorion through my bond with the Destroyer.”

“Yes, child. I did advise you against glomming onto any one meaning.”

“But Pryce believed it. That means the book tricked him, too. Why would it do that? They’re on the same side.”

“Perhaps it didn’t. Pryce has always been arrogant. He may have grown too attached to the meaning he preferred, building up a scaffolding of interpretation to support it. He blinded himself to other possibilities.”

That made sense. But Mab wasn’t finished. “It may be, however, that the book did trick him. And if that’s the case, we must be alert for something far more sinister than what Pryce planned.”

More sinister than Uffern overrunning the human world—I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what that might be. Mab said not to worry about it now. “Most likely it was Pryce’s own hubris that misled him. Let it go, child. Don’t try to solve any riddles tonight. We’ll talk again soon.” Her colors rose up, thick and glowing like fog in moonlight. The fog thinned and subsided, and Mab was gone.

The hint that something worse than Pryce could be at work, perhaps something involving the shadowy Old Ones, should have kept me tossing and turning for the rest of the night. But when the last wisps of Mab’s colors had blown away, I snuggled against Kane and sank deeply into sleep—blessedly dreamless sleep.

FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS, I TOOK THINGS EASY. KANE GOT called back to Washington for some strategy meetings. I was glad to see him jump back into the fray. Kane’s never happy unless he’s doing something to save the world. Me? Saving the world’s okay, but afterward I need a break.

I stayed home and ordered pizza (sometimes the zombie deliveryman even left me more than one slice). I watched Juliet’s movie screen-sized TV. I called my sister, Gwen, who was surprised and pleased to hear from me. She even put the kids on the phone. Gwen invited me out to Needham for one of her famous homemade lasagna dinners. I hope she won’t mind my bringing a werewolf as my date.

I slept, too—a lot. With Difethwr dead and Pryce out of commission, I was off Mab’s no-dreaming tea. It was wonderful to be back in my own dreamscape. I slept deeply and without images, resting in a soft, tranquil twilight. Not utter darkness. My dreamscape looked a lot better with a night-light on.

Initial news reports about the concert were confused, inaccurate, and fear-mongering. Stories varied wildly on how many zombies were killed (the actual number was fifteen, including Monster Paul’s bass player and the two cemetery guards), but the dead zombies got less attention than the single norm who died. During the Morfran-induced stampede, a human had been trampled to death. A news camera had captured footage of several zombies who, intoxicated by the smell of human blood, couldn’t resist stopping to chomp on a limb or two.

What the cameras didn’t capture was the Morfran. Despite hundreds of eyewitness reports of a flock of murderous birds that would’ve made Hitchcock proud, there was no hard evidence. As a spirit, the Morfran couldn’t be filmed without special equipment. So on video, it looked like the zombies had come down with a sudden, vicious case of mass hysteria as they screamed and ran and waved their arms. Self-proclaimed medical experts speculated their behavior was an aftereffect of the plague virus. Anti-PA groups, talk-radio pundits, and some politicians called for immediate expulsion of all zombies from the state.

I hate publicity—I’d prefer a root canal to a TV interview—but I couldn’t let all that misinformation swirl around unchecked. I resolved to call Lynne Hong and go on the record to set things straight. But I didn’t have to. She’d already scored an interview with Daniel.

He looked great on-screen. Photogenic, charming, his face serious and his blue eyes calm, he explained that the concert had been the target of a terror attack by a rogue sorcerer. Police had a suspect, Pryce Maddox, and an intensive manhunt was under way to find him. There was even one of those police sketches. That helped; it gave the norms a face to watch out for, a face to blame. Throughout the interview, Daniel painted the zombies as victims of an attack, not monsters run amok. His account was way oversimplified—Pryce wasn’t really a sorcerer, and Daniel didn’t go into demi-demons and ancient prophecies—but he presented the events in terms the norms could understand.

Daniel was all business as he looked into the camera, but at the end of the interview he turned directly to Lynne Hong, and the look on his face made me suspect that an interview wasn’t the only thing she’d scored from Detective Costello.

I picked up the phone and called him. “So,” I said, “are you looking for a job now?”

He laughed. “No, I’m still employed. As soon as the story broke—it hit the Internet yesterday—I got hauled into Hampson’s office. I knew he was going to fire me. I’d made my peace with that. But before he could start chewing me out, the governor’s office called. By the end of the conversation, Hampson looked like he’d sat on a porcupine. Governor Sugden asked him to thank me for getting the facts out.” He laughed. “Thank me—can you imagine?”

Sugden’s adult daughter was a zombie, so he was sympathetic to PAs. He also knew Hampson very well. The governor publicly praised Daniel for identifying a suspect so fast, making sure Hampson got some of the credit. There was talk of giving both Daniel and Norden public service awards as soon as Norden was released from the hospital. Hampson couldn’t fire Daniel now, not without making himself look bad.

He could, however, assign Daniel a new partner. “The guy’s a Hampson stooge and a PA hater,” Daniel told me. “In fact, he’s the one Sykes nailed in Creature Comforts. Now, any time I sneeze Hampson will get a report about it. I’ve got to be careful.”

That made what I had to say next a little easier. Knowing me had caused Daniel nothing but trouble at work. “Um, Daniel, I should tell you that Kane and I—”

“Are back together. I know, Vicky. That was pretty obvious the other night.”

He stopped there, and I didn’t know what else to say. Just as the silence was stretching past uncomfortable into intolerable, Daniel broke it. “Speaking of Kane, I wanted to let you know I’ve been assigned a new case. Homicide in D.C. has asked for our assistance in their investigation of Justice Frederickson’s murder. They think the evidence points here. Not to Kane,” he added quickly.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re giving a press conference this afternoon. Juliet’s been named a ‘vampire of interest.’ ”

“She didn’t do it.”

“I don’t know if you’re in contact with her,” he said, his voice careful, “and I’m not asking. But she should turn herself in. If she’s innocent, it’s the only way to clear things up. She can ask for me; I’ll make sure she’s treated well.”

Juliet wasn’t going to waltz into the police station and ask for Daniel, because Juliet wasn’t anywhere near Boston. I knew because I’d received a postcard from her. The picture showed an ancient-looking, half-timbered house with gables along the roof and red flowers blossoming in front. No writing on the back besides my name and address. But only Juliet would send me a postcard of Shakespeare’s birthplace in Stratford-upon-Avon. The postmark was Brazilian. She was telling me she was okay—or had been when she mailed the card—but was on the move.

I didn’t tell Daniel. If Juliet was running from the Old Ones, I wasn’t going to complicate things by putting the police on her trail.

I went online to the Channel 10 website and watched Daniel’s interview again, paying less attention to what he said than to how he looked at Lynne Hong. Definitely something there. I knew, because he’d looked at me the exact same way. An unexpected pang hit me, but I let it go. Maybe Daniel would find something with Lynne that he couldn’t with me. Maybe it’s easier to fall for somebody you can rescue than for someone who’s always rescuing you.

BY FRIDAY, I WAS TIRED OF ZOMBIE-GNAWED PIZZA AND READY to rejoin the world. As I entered Creature Comforts, inhaling that familiar scent of spilled beer, smoke, and a whiff of blood, I waved to Axel. He nodded and set a bottle of beer on the bar. Then he went back to terrorizing a wide-eyed female norm.

“I told you, we don’t do chocolate martinis. We got beer, we got shots. You want dessert, find a bakery.”

“Try this,” I suggested, showing her the label of my lite beer as I slid onto a stool. “It doesn’t taste like anything. Honest.”

She scurried back to her table, where her three norm friends waited. They gathered up their purses and, with a few petrified glances back at Axel, they fled.

“You sure that’s good for business, scaring away the customers?” It was early, but the bar was dead—and I didn’t mean that as a pun. Other than a lone werewolf reading News of the Dead at the far end of the bar, I was the only customer.

“If I never have to mix another froufrou cocktail, it’s worth it.” Axel went to fiddle with a beer line.

Business had slumped throughout the New Combat Zone. Zombies needed a permit again to set foot outside the boundaries of Deadtown—even into the Zone—and permits were tougher to get than they’d been in years. All but the most adventurous norms were staying far away from the monsters’ turf. And without norms, you didn’t get vampires. Creature Comforts was back to being a one-man operation. Or a one-whatever-Axel-was operation.

Down the bar, the werewolf turned a page, rattling his paper, and I glimpsed the headline: “Monster Paul Tour Canceled.” I’d seen the story on PNN. The band had lost its bass player, for one thing. And though Daniel’s interview had done a lot to quell the first wave of norm panic, crazy theories persisted. One of the craziest called Monster Paul’s music satanic, causing listeners to become mindless killing machines. Monster rock might sound like a truckload of cranky babies trying to out-yowl a crate full of angry cats while chimpanzees beat washtubs in the background, but a satanic zombie mind-control plot? Come on.

One venue after another canceled, and Monster Paul and the Zombie Freak Show were grounded before their tour began. I felt bad for Tina, but she’d be okay. She had a safety career. Demon fighting? Nah, that was last week’s safety career. Now she was writing her memoirs. Working title: Tina Terror: The Zombie Who Saved Boston, Broke Some Hearts, and Almost Went on the Road.

“ ‘ Broke some hearts’?” I’d asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“You don’t know everything about me,” she’d snapped, then grinned. “Anyway, by the time I write that part it’ll probably be true.”

If the title was any indication of her writing skills, I had a feeling she’d be begging me to take her back as my apprentice soon.

The door opened, and Kane entered, brushing snowflakes from the shoulders of his coat. He came over, swept me into a hug, and nuzzled my neck in a way that made me glad I was already sitting down.

“How was your trip?”

“Smooth. Not a single Glitch.” His smile reminded me how much I’d missed him. “I packed some of that hairspray in my carry-on, just in case.”

“I’ll never travel without it again.”

Kane took off his scarf and coat and draped them over a bar stool. He ordered scotch. Axel brought it, then wandered to the other end of the bar to snag a section of the newspaper.

Kane rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out a square box, wrapped in shiny blue paper with a silver bow. He presented it to me with a flourish.

“For you.”

“A present?” Uh-oh, had I forgotten some anniversary? At Kane’s urging, I untied the silver ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a watch, the exact same model as the one Difethwr had destroyed.

I threw my arms around him. “It’s perfect! I can’t wait to try it out at work.” I’d scheduled a couple of Drude exterminations for next week. I tried to put the watch on, but the strap slid off my wrist. “Um, what’s the occasion?” I asked, still nervous I’d forgotten some important date.

“There has to be an occasion?” He caught the strap and fastened the buckle, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin over my pulse. I shivered with the deliciousness of it. “It’s not your birthday.” His gray eyes looked deep into mine as his fingertips stroked my wrist. “It’s not an anniversary.” He leaned in close, his lips grazing my ear. “Let’s call it a beginning.”

THE NEXT DAY, ANOTHER POSTCARD FROM JULIET ARRIVED. This one showed an ancient-looking brick house with a stone balcony jutting from a second-story window. “Juliet’s balcony, Verona, Italia,” the postcard claimed. I smiled, remembering the real Juliet’s indignation when she told me she hadn’t even lived on the street where her supposed house was now a popular tourist site. The postcard had been mailed from Melbourne, Australia.

At first, I didn’t see the message. But tiny characters at the bottom of the card spelled out WT II ii 65-66. Right away, I knew what to do.

I took down The Complete Works of William Shakespeare and scanned its table of contents. There it was: The Winter’s Tale. WT. I paged through the book until I found Act II, Scene 2, lines 65 and 66:

Do not you fear: upon mine honour,
I will stand betwixt you and danger.

“Oh, Juliet,” I said to the empty apartment. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nancy Holzner grew up in western Massachusetts with her nose stuck in a book. This meant that she tended to walk into things, wore glasses before she was out of elementary school, and forced her parents to institute a “no reading at the dinner table” rule. It was probably inevitable that she majored in English in college and then, because there were still a lot of books she wanted to read, continued her studies long enough to earn a master’s degree and a PhD.

She began her career as a medievalist, then jumped off the tenure track to try some other things. Besides teaching English and philosophy, she’s worked as a technical writer, freelance editor, instructional designer, college admissions counselor, and corporate trainer.

Nancy lives in upstate New York with her husband, Steve, where they both work from home without getting on each other’s nerves. She enjoys visiting local wineries and listening obsessively to opera. There are still a lot of books she wants to read.

Visit Nancy’s Web site at www.nancyholzner.com.

Ace Books by Nancy Holzner

DEADTOWN
HELLFORGED