“You do?”
“Absolutely,” Marah said. “After all I’ve done for you, do you really feel you can say no?”
Sylvie sighed. There might be worse things, she thought, than having Marah in charge of the ISI.
Not much, her little dark voice said. An assassin in charge of a secret government organization.
Probably not going to be secret that much longer, not if the Magicus Mundi wasn’t secret. People were going to want to know that there was a plan—Sylvie studied Marah’s smile and felt suspicion. Somehow, this was all working to Marah’s benefit. Every step of it. The attacks that killed the ISI heads, the unmasking of the Society, Marah’s easy capture by Yvette’s people, even Sylvie’s owing her debts. But she hadn’t known about the Society. Until Sylvie told her. Right?
Just a clever mercenary. Seizing the moment.
Seizing it right now.
“So, you never answered me, Demalion? If I made you a division head? Rejoin the ISI? Excitement. Molding the world. Saving people?”
Zoe stiffened at Sylvie’s side, all youthful indignation. Sylvie, older, wiser, thought he might say yes. He could do a lot of good as a division head. He had always believed in the ISI goals.
“No,” Demalion said again. “I’m sticking with Sylvie this time. I think I’ll get enough excitement and saving people working with her. And hey, we unmasked the Mundi. She’s going to need another partner.”
“Can we just go home?” Lupe interrupted. Tears slicked her face, looking painful as they squeezed past her swollen eyes. “I don’t care who goes to DC as long as I get to go home.”
“Seconded,” Zoe said. Her shoulders sagged; her hands shook. Her bravery and adrenaline were wearing off. Sylvie wanted the inevitable crash to be somewhere other than an ISI clinic. She wanted them to think of her as strong, not to be messed with. Not the teenager she actually was. A tear smudged Zoe’s face, trickled crookedly through the burn salve.
Sylvie herself wanted to get someplace familiar. Safe. There was a certain sensation in the air, a feeling that all the bad luck they’d dodged was just out there, waiting. Biding its time.
The world, Sylvie thought, was holding its breath. Waiting to see who flinched first. The human world or the Magicus Mundi.
MARAH PUT THEM IN FIRST-CLASS SEATING, WHICH LEFT SYLVIE feeling irritably grateful since there were fewer people to gape at them in the curtained-off area. She curled up next to Zoe, Demalion reaching across the aisle to brush his hand against hers every time she jerked awake. Lupe traveled in complete silence, not sleeping. Not talking. Sylvie didn’t think it was just because she was caught between Demalion—who she didn’t know at all—and the window. Sylvie thought about changing seats, thought about trying to piece together whatever made Lupe look like she was dying inside, but the painkillers swept her back under, and she didn’t wake until they landed.
She staggered out, leaning heavily on Demalion’s shoulder, bumping into him when he hesitated.
The security at the airport seemed … tense. Sylvie found herself wondering how many of the guards were reeling beneath returned memories that pointed out that there were far more exotic dangers than terrorists. Three out of five, she thought. Again, she found herself grateful to Marah for getting them back home with such speed. She had a feeling flights were about to get complicated.
“Let’s get out of here,” she murmured to Demalion. “We’re not unnoticeable. And they’re jumpy.”
As they moved through the concourse, she heard whispers, watched heads turn toward the news stations playing every few hundred feet. Same two words on every lips. Key Biscayne. The news stations showed the Rickenbacker Causeway blocked off with police vehicles.
Shit.
Erinya was still throwing her weight around. Now there was no memory sink to hide it.
She quickened her pace though it made her hand ache, made Demalion hiss as the change pulled his stitches. Zoe adjusted her stride smoothly, kept her head down, her burned hair and cheek hidden in the shadow of Sylvie’s body.
They lost Lupe; Sylvie turned and found her staring at the raised television screen, watching the flashing police lights, the line of text running beneath: INEXPLICABLE ECOLOGICAL CHANGES ON KEY BISCAYNE.
“Take me there,” Lupe said, when Sylvie touched her shoulder. She twitched away from the touch.
“It’s crawling with cops.”
Lupe shot her a scornful glance. “You expect me to believe you’re afraid of the cops? After what I’ve seen? No.” She shook her head. Determination flared in her voice, brought life and fire to it. “Take me there.”
Sylvie breathed out. “You’re the client.”
DEMALION GOT THEM ONTO THE CAUSEWAY AND PAST THE FIRST OF the police barricades by rolling down the window and fishing out his federal credentials. Sylvie had to smile, though it felt tight on her lips. All of the shit he’d gone through in the past week, and he still had his ID to hand? The man was born to be a Fed.
He turned Marah down, she reminded herself. His choice. She hadn’t asked him to. She just appreciated it. Enormously. The blue water beyond the ocean causeway glittered in the sunlight. Lupe fidgeted in the backseat.
“How’s it look up ahead?” Demalion asked the uniformed officer.
The man shrugged uneasily, cast a glance over his shoulder. “Hell if I know. They tell me that the whole island’s gone weird. Strange plants sprouting overnight. Stranger animals. Waterfalls. We’ve had to chase tons of gawkers away.”
“I see,” Demalion said. He took back his ID, and the man leaned in, rested his arm on the open window.
“So, do you know what’s going on, Agent Wright?”
“Yes,” Demalion said, and, in a move worthy of all federal assholes, rolled up the window, making the man jerk back or lose fingers. He glanced over at Sylvie before he touched the gas pedal again. “We’re sure about this? Erinya owns my soul. I don’t want her to decide to collect on it because she’s in a bad mood.”
“I’m sure,” Lupe said, leaning forward between the seat backs. “Drive.”
The island loomed ahead, and Sylvie shook her head. “Erinya. No sense of discretion.” Even from the far end of the causeway, the changes were blatant and undeniable. Vegetation curled above the island like greenish smoke. A sharp-edged hill rose high and bare out of the massed tree tangle. White-stone walls meandered along the top of it like an open mouth showing teeth. A pair of distinctive gates blocked the narrow, stony path toward the rearranged dwelling. Sylvie wasn’t even sure there were ceilings.
“That’s what’s left of Val’s house?” Zoe said. She slumped back, and said, “You get to tell her. Not me.”
“Maybe she won’t ask,” Sylvie said.
Demalion pulled up at the second roadblock, this one designed to keep anyone on the Key from leaving. Sylvie wondered how many people were stuck with Erinya. Whether Erinya was leaving them alone, or whether they were all her stunned acolytes by now.
The officer who waved them to a halt was less impressionable than the first. He looked at the ID, and said, “What’s your purpose here, Wright?”
“Same as yours, I’d imagine,” Demalion said, nodding at the line of uniformed officers preparing to take the final few steps onto the Key. “Send a man in for recon.”
“Didn’t get enough information from the flyover? The Feds buzzed Key Biscayne all night. Made our choppers stand down.”
Lupe growled, slid out of the car before Demalion could argue further with the policeman. “I’m going in.”
“Wait,” Sylvie said. She dragged Lupe around to the far side of the car, trying to keep their conversation away from prying ears. A vain attempt. The police pivoted to keep them in focus, hands on their weapons. Sylvie said, “Gentlemen. Don’t get trigger-happy. You won’t like the result.”