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“Kinda hard to ask a flower questions,” Sylvie said, trying not to let him see how shaken she was. “All that language of flowers crap aside.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he said. “I’ll change her back first, of course.”
“Of course,” she said. No big deal. Transformation. Real transformation of matter. Most transformations were only a matter of rearranging mass. Werewolves were big because men were bigger than wolves. Turning a person into a toad would only result in a toad the size of a man. To turn a woman into a single, delicate orchid—to change her back at will—that required destruction and creation of mass. Destruction was a human skill, possible for a juiced-up sorcerer. Creation—wasn’t.
He took her arm again, and she yanked away. “No. We are not traveling that way again.”
Du
“Enough for you to lecture me on ethics. Enough for you to prove your skills. I think we have enough time to take a car wherever we go next.” She met his eyes, refused to back down. He could force the issue, she supposed. But he was weak, too. He was desperate, and he needed Sylvie.
“Fine,” he said. He gestured in a ma
“Great,” she said, her poise restored with its appearance. The clawed hood reminded her she’d survived a lot more intrinsically malevolent creatures than Du
“To look for him,” Du
Sylvie found a bench and sat on it, noticing campus security showing up more and more in her line of sight, blooming like fungus after a rain. Watching Du
“Everyone’s looking for him. Sit down, Du
“I’ve told the cops that,” Du
“Look, what do you suggest I do?” Sylvie said. “Wave a wand? I’m no witch. I am what you see, what my reputation declares me: an inquisitive bitch with a gun. I suppose I could wander the streets like your mindless cops, calling his name like he was a lost cat. . . .”
The police reports appeared in her lap. He slumped forward, head in his hands. “That’s efficient,” she said.
She flipped through the first report. Not local, these boys. Chicago. She frowned. She hated Chicago—all that concrete, those looming high-rise buildings, and the poor man’s ocean. Couldn’t hold a candle to the tropics. She found the Polaroid again of Brandon moving away from the camera’s eye.
“That’s the most recent one,” Du
Sylvie noted the cream-and-green sweater, the nice watch, the glittering gems in his ears. “Is he wealthy?”
“Yes,” Du
Yes, Sylvie thought. Of course he’d be wealthy. If you’re the play toy of a god, why not be rich. “Any vengeful exes?”
“I checked them out,” he said, raising his head to meet her eyes. “Thoroughly.”
“They still alive?” she asked.
“Of course,” Du
“No, but your pets are,” Sylvie said. “No tricky technicalities here. You didn’t kill them. Did the sisters?”
“No,” he growled, for one moment sounding unca
Sylvie shut up, self-preservation kicking in. She flipped the picture facedown, turned it faceup, trying to restore her first impression of Brandon Wolf.
Delectable.
She closed her eyes and tried not to think about opportunists, killing for money or sex, feeding some dark fetish she’d never even imagined.
Du
“You’d—feel it?” Sylvie asked, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice. “Like something out of a romance novel? Kindred souls and all that rot? You were a cop, Du
“I’d know,” he repeated. “I’m not human. I am a god.”
“Who once worked as a cop,” Sylvie said, forcing gentleness into her tone, turning the acid to humor. “Were things slow on the god front—had to moonlight?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes. “Bran—” he whispered.
Without fanfare, the skies clouded over and began to rain, a sudden Miami downpour that turned the air silver and thick with water. Sylvie grabbed the police report and bolted to her truck.
He appeared in the seat next to her, the passenger door still locked, and she said, “All right. All right.”
He seemed very close to shattering, and, god or not, he had power. She didn’t want to be at ground zero if he blew. She leaned back against her seat, let rainwater trickle down her face, and thought. Two weeks missing, no ransom, no clues. Conventional wisdom argued that Brandon Wolf was dead.
But then, Sylvie thought, stealing another glimpse at Kevin Du
Du
She started her truck, tucking the rain-spattered police reports in the door pocket, and headed for Miami International. Chicago, huh. At least it would take her out of the satanists’ immediate reach.
“Hey, Du
He blinked. “Okay.” Then her entire purse was on the seat beside her; she rummaged through it with one hand, identifying things by feel: too-thin wallet, cell phone, ID, spare bullets. The bullets made her pause, thinking of the latest threat she’d faced.
“The sisters are on their own?” she asked. “We left them there.”
“They’ll be fine,” he said.
“I’m not worried about them,” Sylvie said. “I’m worried about the people around them if you’re not there to snap their leash.”
He shrugged. “They’ll be looking for Bran mostly.”
“Mostly,” she muttered. But there was nothing she could do about it now. “Tell me what happened the night Bran disappeared.”
“We were at a friend’s party. Something came up, and I had to go—”
“Something like the Bat-Signal?” Sylvie interrupted.
“Something like that, yes,” Du
“It took a while,” he continued, after a moment in which the only sound was the sweeping thump of the wipers fighting the rain. “I was a little surprised when I got home and Bran wasn’t back before me—we came home at dawn.”
“We?”
“The sisters and I,” he said. “Mostly they live in our backyard.”
“Charming,” she said. “Wonder what they do for property values in the neighborhood.” He shot her a quelling look. “You weren’t worried about his absence?” she prompted.