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The apartment door was open, and Sylvie inched in and came to a dead stop. A
The sphinx breathed in deep gasps, and there were bloody gashes along her sides, from the Furies on their soul hunt, from the glass explosions, Sylvie didn’t know.
“Get out,” A
“I had no choice,” Sylvie said. “But I am sorry—”
Miserably inadequate, she knew. Sorry was for breaking a window, staining a borrowed blouse, losing a library book. Sorry had nothing to do with the sickness in her heart, the queasy pain of a blow she had dealt herself.
A
“Sorry? Do you have any concept of the word? I should have your throat between my teeth.”
“But you don’t,” Sylvie said.
A
“Demalion knew,” Sylvie said. “I had no choice. But he did. He didn’t have to be my weapon. Of course, the world would have ended if he hadn’t acted.”
“It’s for my son that I don’t kill you,” A
“Fine, see you then. I’ll save you a front-row seat,” Sylvie said, all in one breath. Her mouth was dry, and her chest hurt. She couldn’t blame A
“Do you understand what you have done, Shadows?” A
Sylvie hesitated. Games again. She should have known it was too easy, but A
“With Lilith, fool girl. Do you understand what you have done?”
“Obviously, you were watching,” Sylvie said. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“You haven’t killed her,” A
“Beg to differ,” Sylvie snapped. Adrenaline surged in her. God, what if A
“You haven’t killed her,” A
Sylvie bridled, that i
A
Sylvie pulled the door shut behind her, and this time, A
At last, nothing slowed her path out of Chicago, not the bad roads, not the slowly gathering police presence, not even the brief thought that she should tell Tish everything was all right. It wasn’t, really. As far as Tish was concerned, Bran and Du
Sylvie drove on, stopping at the rest area on the Illinois border to clean the worst of the blood from her skin. She turned the stained black shirt inside out and covered up the rest that way. She did it all without ever once looking at the mirror directly. A
An hour later, she had to pull the car onto the shoulder while the events of the night tried to shake themselves from her bones. She laid her head against the steering wheel, shook and screamed and sobbed until she was empty and exhausted.
In Kentucky, hours later, the little dark voice muttered back to life. Stupid Old Cat. If she hadn’t hidden her own identity from Demalion, he might not have been in the line of fire at all. What kind of dutiful son would join an organization dedicated to corralling monsters, after all, when his beloved mother was one? The fault lies with her.
Sylvie felt obscurely comforted and made the rest of the drive without having to pull the car off the road for any more hysterics. A few stealthy tears here and there hardly counted. She stopped instead for a big gulp of caffeine and nuclear-cheese nachos, a king-size Snickers bar, and a bag of beef jerky, scarfed them down somewhere in Georgia, and gave her body enough fuel to make it the rest of the way home.
Her brain was locked on autopilot, locked in cold anger at herself. Hadn’t she vowed to change? She hadn’t. Hadn’t she promised not to put others in danger? She had.
Finally, she sat outside Baptist Hospital in South Miami, trying to gather one last burst of courage. Once more into the fire. One last chance to have her numbed heart pushed back into grief and pain.
Or she could just leave and never know. Leave it all. Alex’s fate, the job, Miami. Start somewhere new.
She got out of the car instead. Nothing on that list was worth ru
Sylvie strode into the hospital, hit the desk, and said, “My friend was checked in—” How long ago? One day? Two? Three? Sylvie shook her mind into order and said. “Wednesday. Alexandra Figueroa-Smith.”
The receptionist typed for a second, then looked up, face still, and Sylvie braced herself. “ICU.”
Alive. Sylvie nearly gasped with the relief. “ICU? Did I say friend? I meant sister. Which room was it?”
“Family only,” the man said. Bored with the routine.
“She hasn’t got family, not decent family anyway,” Sylvie said. “Except for me. Look it up, bet there haven’t been people beating down her door to visit.”
“We can’t give out that kind of—”
“Look, I’ve driven nonstop for twenty-four hours, I’ve been through hell, and seeing Alex is the only thing keeping me on my feet. Trust me, you don’t want to get on my bad side.”
“Or what?” he said. He flipped papers without ever looking up.
She reached across the desk, laid her hand over his. Smaller than his, but smeared with scratches from glass, bruising from hits she couldn’t even recall, nails torn, blood pooled beneath the quicks. His gaze fixated on it. Sylvie said, “I’ve been through hell. And I’ll share it with you.”
So much for kinder and gentler, she thought. But who was she to argue with success?
He gave her the room number, and she smiled, though she was sure it looked more like a rictus than a thank-you.