Biting The Bullet

Biting The Bullet

Jaz Parks Book 3:

Biting the Bullet

Jennifer Rardin

“Watch out! Watch out!” I yelled. “The dead are rising!”

All around us the reavers we’d defeated the first time around had rediscovered vertical. Multiple thoughts streaked through my mind simultaneously. Not all of them made sense, but a skilled translator might put them in the following light:

Oh Jesus! Oh crap! Zombies! The Wizard’s a necromancer. He could be around here somewhere, pulling their strings. So should I just run off into the night like some rabid raccoon and hope I luck into him? How stupid is that? Plus, it’s not him. It’s probably an apprentice. You know that. It may even be the mole. Is anybody murmuring a spell? How the hell can I tell? We are so outnumbered! Did Ashley just go down? My God, I think the semi is farther away than ever. Is that possible? Oh Jesus, was that Terrence’s leg? Don’t turn your head. I said don’t — never mind. Holy shit, that’s the barrel of a Colt .45 aimed right at your face.

The reaver, a live one, grinned wide enough to show the gap between his front teeth as his finger squeezed the trigger.

“Vayl,” I whispered, my eyes somehow tracking straight to his in my final moment.

BY JENNIFER RARDIN

Once Bitten, Twice Shy

Another One Bites the Dust

Biting the Bullet

Bitten to Death

One More Bite

For Ben . . . one of the world’s greatest wonders. I love you.

Chapter One

Gunfire boomed in my ears, the sergeant crouched next to me yelling with triumph as his target fell.

“You were right, ma’am,” he told me. “They drop like stones if you hit ’em in the forehead.”

I nodded, appreciating the fact that he’d listened. Not all of them had.

My boss, Vayl, and I had just finished unloading our supplies with the help of our three-person crew. As we’d watched our Chinook fade into the night sky the monsters had attacked.

The situation looked dire. We stood a hundred yards from the tiny white farmhouse at which we’d arranged to meet the elite troops who would help us complete our next mission. Most of our gear was still packed, including the new high-tech weapons Bergman had brought for the Special Ops guys — which would’ve come in pretty damn handy.

My gun, Grief, the Walther PPK Bergman had modified for me so it could take down humans or vamps, rode in my shoulder holster. I also carried my usual array of backup weaponry. A syringe of holy water nested in the spring-loaded sheath I kept strapped around my right wrist. I’d tucked three throwing knives up my left sleeve just in case, and a bola inherited from my great-great-granddad rode in a leather pocket that ran down my right thigh. Everything else sat in the worn black case I wore on my back. In other words — inaccessible.

Vayl held the cane he always carried, an artisan’s dream that hid a sword as lethal as its owner. Though he looked a lot more vulnerable than I did at first glance, his opponents were never deceived for long. The tall, broad-shouldered vampire who’d been my boss for eight months and my sverhamin for two carried within him an arsenal so formidable it had allowed him to survive nearly three hundred years, eighty of which he’d spent with the CIA. That made my four-year pin look kinda pathetic. But if you consider what I’ve done in that time, I’d argue that you should count them in dog years.

As consultants, Bergman and Cassandra weren’t armed, so we’d stuck them in the center of our small circle, which we’d completed with our newest recruit. Cole Bemont had joined our ranks when his private investigations business burned as a direct result of his involvement with one of our missions. Vayl and I provided plenty of muscle for this one, and Bergman supplied all the brains we needed, but Cole displayed a gift for languages none of us could match. It had come to him, along with his Sensitivity, after he’d drowned in the icy waters of his family pond as a young boy and been revived long minutes later by rescue personnel. His Gift had made him indispensable on our last job, when neither of us spoke Chinese, and this one, when nobody knew Farsi. It also helped that he could shoot with the accuracy and icy calm of a sniper. His weapon of choice was a 9 mm Beretta Storm, which he’d pulled and held steady in his left hand. His Parker-Hale M85 still rested in its carrying case across his back. “Night vision!” I’d yelled to him as the creatures came roaring at us from the blackness of the desert, their noise and the suddenness of their attack making them seem like an army. As Cole obeyed, I squeezed my own eyes tight for the couple of seconds it took to activate the special lenses Bergman had engineered for us. They corrected any problems we had seeing far away, up close, or in the dark. The extra visual acuity I’d already gained from donating blood to my boss on a couple of occasions paired with Bergman’s green-laced eyeball enhancers to show me a chilling sight.

At least twenty men swarmed us from all sides, their tattered robes and sand-caked hair flying back in the breeze caused by their movements. The sharp black outline surrounding their forms clued me in to their identities as did the third eye blinking wildly in the middle of their foreheads. Part of me stomped, swore, and snapped, “Are you kidding me? Already?”

“Reavers!” I yelled, glad my curls were caught inside the black scarf I wore, unable to impair my vision. “Aim for their foreheads!”

Most of the members of the Special Ops unit had been standing outside the farmhouse waiting for us when we touched down. They’d begun moving toward us as we unloaded, and two of the guys were within ten yards when the attack came. They reacted with admirable speed, riddling the nearest enemy with M4 fire. They seemed to heed my command, but I realized quickly they weren’t aiming high enough. Their shots were landing pretty much between the ears. Made sense on anything but reavers, which only backed up at the onslaught, didn’t even go down. “They’re shielded!” I screamed. “Their only weak point is that third eye!” Then I was too busy to worry about the men. The reavers were everywhere. I suddenly knew what it was like to be a tremendously popular rock star. We were about to be stampeded. Smothered. Except this mob wasn’t after autographs — they wanted blood.

I took a deep breath. No room for fear here, where every shot had to count. I pumped bullet after bullet into the monsters attacking us as Cole’s gun echoed mine and Vayl slashed and parried so quickly his hands were a blur. Behind me Cassandra was on her knees, the abaya she wore puddling around her feet like an oil slick. Was she praying? Well, she’d been an oracle once. If she had any pull left, now would be a great time to call in her favors.

Beside her Bergman clutched big tufts of his lank brown hair with both hands, his sparse beard seeming to tremble as he yelled, “Give me a weapon, goddammit! A rock! A screwdriver! Anything!” Suddenly the Spec Ops guys were beside us, holding off the reavers when they weren’t actually taking them out. “Fall back!” I heard the commander say, his voice so familiar in my ears I had to force myself not to turn and look. A massive black dude knelt in front of me and started firing, so I took advantage of the break to hand Bergman my knife and reload. Slowly, fighting all the way, we backed into the farmhouse. At some point I realized the two men who’d been out in front of the rest were being helped along by their buddies. A couple more had taken damage as well. They’d all been raked across the arms and chests by the reavers’ harpoonlike claws, but the body armor they wore under their light-colored thobes seemed to have averted total disaster. As the medic attended them, the rest of us took our posts at the windows and the open door. The reavers bombarded the house with no regard to the lead we poured into their bodies. But they dropped pretty fast when I repeated my call. “Target the third eye!” I yelled. The sergeant hunkered next to me, chortling as he dropped yet another one. “I love my job!” he said. He couldn’t have been much older than me, a mid-twenties adrenaline junkie whose Asian ancestors had granted him an exotic beauty set off perfectly by his square-jawed American side. “Me too, pal,” I said as I took my turn at the window. There were only a couple left. I decided to leave them for the others. I’d only brought a limited amount of ammo and I was a long way from home. I began refilling my clip as my neighbor introduced himself. “Don Hardin,” he said, holding out his hand, “but you can call me Jet.” I shook it, doubting I’d experience a wimpy grip in his ten-person unit. “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Jaz Parks.” You know how they say silence is golden? Not always. At the moment I’d have colored it orange. The hue of those construction lights you see on the highway, warning you to hit the breaks before you clip the poor schmuck who’s holding the stop sign. The last shot rang out. The final reaver fell just as I said my name and the farmhouse fell quiet. I looked around. The single stone room wasn’t lit. The troops wore their night-vision goggles. Vayl could see in the dark. The rest of us had Bergman’s contact lenses. I suddenly realized how completely we depend on being able to see the expressions on people’s faces in order to interpret everything from feelings to appropriate conversational gambits. “Somebody cover the windows. Give us a light, Cam,” ordered the commander in the gruff voice I was sure I’d recognized before. All of us made the necessary adjustments so we wouldn’t be blinded as a tall, broad-shouldered woman closed the door and hung blankets over the window openings, and one of the guys across the room pulled the hood off a surprisingly bright lantern. I blinked as the commander stepped forward, looming over me like Albert used to right before banishing me to the yard, usually for talking when I should’ve been shutting up. Once there, I was required to run laps until further notice. Generally he had to reseed a three-foot path all the way around our property line every time we moved, since I usually figured whatever I’d pulled was worth the punishment, my brother felt the same, and our sister, Evie, ran with us to keep us company.

Dave had grown since then, and I’d never seen him so fit. But I didn’t think he’d appreciate me oohing and aahing over his amazing abs in front of his unit. My suspicions were confirmed when he asked in a demanding and somewhat annoyed tone, “What’re you doing here?”

That’s the CIA for you. Don’t even tell your partners who’s coming until they get there. I was tempted to strike a dramatic pose, hands on hips, hair floating on a well-timed breeze as I declared, “We have come to vanquish the Wizard!” But there would be no awed intakes of breath if I took that approach. According to our pentagon briefers, these guys had been chasing the bastard for a year. But he’d been killing long before that.

The Wizard had caused more U.S. and allied soldier casualties in the past decade than entire countries during official armed conflicts. He’d murdered thousands of innocents during terrorist attacks — his own people and ours. He made few distinctions. Anyone who denied his god, Angra Mainyu, as the Big Kahuna, made himself a target. And the Wizard, well, he didn’t exactly call Angra Mainyu Daddy, but he’d begun to drop hints. Frankly, it did seem as if he had some divine assistance at times. He’d slipped so many traps locals said he ate shadows and drank starlight. He also made the dead walk. Which meant our training for this mission had included a crash course in necromancy that had left me with a bad case of the gag-a-maggots. Cassandra, of all people, had been our instructor. Pete had set us up in an empty meeting room around a scratched table with a fake wooden top on which she’d gently set the Enkyklios. The size of a makeup case, it held hundreds of years’ worth of histories and lore gathered by Seers from across the world. Though I’d seen it work several times before, I still marveled at the unseen power that moved its parts, which resembled rainbow-colored glass balls. The kind hip women put at the bottom of vases. Don’t ask me why. I’ve never been hip.

Bergman had still been buried in his lab, so only Cole, Vayl, and I had watched as Cassandra whispered,

“Enkyklios occsallio vera proma,” triggering the marbles to change, rearrange, and reveal their zombie-making secrets.

Out of a grouping of orbs shaped like a bell came a hologram so clear I was tempted to reach out and touch the weeping woman wearing a faded flower-print housedress. She strode down a narrow dirt path, her sensible shoes raising small clouds of dust with every step. Her wheat-colored hair had begun to escape from the bun she’d arranged at the nape of her neck. Tendrils of it brushed across her shoulders, pointing down to the dead girl she carried in her arms. She headed toward a thatch-roofed cottage, the garden of which was so wild and dark it looked like it belonged in a painting by van Gogh. When she got to the door she kicked it twice. “Lemme in, Madame Otis!” she cried in a harsh cockney accent. “I need your help! I’ll pay, I will!”

After she’d kicked a couple more times the door flew open. “What —” A narrow-eyed, stringy-haired woman took in the scene before her and crossed her arms. “Go home and bury that girl,” she said flatly.

“She’s my only child,” the mother replied, desperation making her voice crack. “I know you can bring her back.” The woman spat into the tangle of weeds and hollyhocks next to the doorway. “I won’t.” We exchanged interested looks around the table. Not “I can’t,” but “I won’t.” Madame Otis was a necromancer. “I need her!” wailed the mother. “I can’t live without her! You can’t imagine the pain!”

“What’s your name, woman?” demanded Madame Otis.

“Hilda Barnaby and this here is Mira,” she added, nodding to the burden in her arms.

“Don’t imagine you’re the first woman to fall to her knees under the crush of a child’s loss,” snarled Madame Otis. “What you’re asking me will bring you horrors beyond imagination. Wrap up that child, shoulder your grief, and move on. Because, believe me, you cannot be rejoined to her on this earth without conjuring yet more pain and an eternity of regret.”

The women stared each other down. Almost at the same moment Hilda got that aha! look on her face; we realized Madame Otis had experienced a much similar loss and a parallel reaction. With one exception. She’d become a necromancer so she could raise her own dead. The nightmare of that experience still played across her face, though instinct told us it stood many decades in her past.

The picture faded as Hilda’s voice came in unrelenting monotone through the misty gray fog that replaced the images. “I convinced Madame Otis to raise Mira in the end. All it took was everything I had. And it seemed so little to give. Even though Madame Otis explained to me that Mira would not be the same, I couldn’t bring myself to care. My little girl would walk and talk once more. I would be able to hug her. Cook for her. Watch her walk down the aisle.” Bitter laugh. “I couldn’t have been more wrong.”

New picture now, of Mira lying on a bed of rose petals on the floor of Madame Otis’s cramped living room. Hilda’s job seemed to be to keep the wood stove in the corner packed full. Every few minutes she’d pull open the black cast-iron door and throw in a foot-long piece of maple. Hilda spoke again. “Looking back, I think most of this was for show, or just to keep me busy. The important part was something I never could have grasped and should have stopped before it began.”

I could’ve keeled over when Madame Otis went to her knees beside Mira and began speaking the words Raoul had taught me. “I recognize that chant!” I said. “She’s going to separate from her body!”

Within moments she proved me right, though I was the only one who saw her rise, a jagged red crystalline dagger shot with black hovering over her inert and uncaring body. An unearthly scream filled my ears, as if the first violinist in the New York Philharmonic had taken a saw to her strings as a tiny piece ripped from the whole of Madame Otis’s soul. It shot straight into Mira’s body, making it spasm.

Hilda screamed and ran to her daughter, snatching her limp hand off the floor along with a few stray petals. “Mira, baby! Speak to me! Speak to me!”

Madam Otis quickly recalled herself, grimacing deeply as her two halves reconnected. She sat hunched over for a good thirty seconds before straightening. The expression on her face when she finally lifted it made me shudder. I recognized it. Had seen it on a few of my foes when they thought they had me cornered. Pure evil triumph.

“She’s my child now, Hilda. Get out of this house before I decide she needs to strangle you.” She fixed Mira’s mother with a malevolent glare, one that made Hilda shiver and sit back on her heels. But she wasn’t ready to give up. Not when her darling had finally reopened her lovely blue eyes. Even if they were, well, vacant.

“Mira, mine. Come home now. We’ve got so much to do.”

But Mira, the part that mattered, had already gone home. The bit that remained marched to the drum of a new master. That part opened its mouth wide, sank its teeth into Hilda’s wrist. And chewed. Hilda screamed, shoving at Mira’s forehead, trying to get her to release her hold as blood began to spurt from her deepening wound.

Mira growled with irritation as Hilda pushed her away, shoving her half off her tasty treat. She released the wrist but snapped right back to target. Hilda recoiled, but not fast enough. This time Mira had her by the hand. I glanced down at my own hands, marked forever by the talons of a pissed-off reaver. And that’s when I really began rooting for the underdog. After a brief tug-of-war backed by Mira’s growls, Hilda’s screams, and Madame Otis’s delighted cackles, Hilda finally broke free. She ran out of the cottage, trailing blood as she went. Again the picture faded.

“From then on I spent all my time researching necromancy,” Hilda’s robotic voice informed us. “I discovered that the truly dead can be reanimated by the energies of the necromancer, but she must be choosy. Because though the soul has left the body something remains. A shadow that can become difficult to manipulate depending on how the person lived. Children and those who were obsessed or fixated in life are the easiest to control in this way, as long as the necromancer keeps visual contact with her subjects. I have just discovered there may be another, more insidious method of controlling the dead. But it requires much more sacrifice on the part of the necromancer, because the soul is trapped inside the victim’s body. Therefore this method is rarely used.” A new, more energetic voice suddenly replaced Hilda’s. “Before Hilda could complete her research she was killed. See eyewitness account by Letitia Greeley.” But when Cassandra tried to reference that account, the Enkyklios simply offered up a name — Sister Doshomi.

“What’s that mean?” asked Cole as he popped a blue bubble.

“The Letitia Greeley story is in her Enkyklios,” said Cassandra. “I’ll have to contact her and see if she can send me a copy.”

“Seriously?” marveled Cole. “There’s more than one of these out there? I mean, I thought yours was, you know, the database.”

Cassandra shook her head. “Even the Enkyklios is limited in what it can hold. If we were to lose one, we certainly would be devastated if we had no backups. And despite what you may think, it isn’t easy, or even recommended, for one person with one Enkyklios to travel the world recording stories. And so” — she shrugged — “sometimes we find we must still share information the old-fashioned way.”

“By telephone?” Cole ventured.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “No, silly, by e-mail.”

But Sister Doshomi had proven hard to pin down. In fact, she’d been mountain climbing when Cassandra tried to contact her and wasn’t expected back until after we left Ohio. While we’d begun the mission with an incomplete view of raising the dead, at least the Spec Ops guys had given us solid information regarding a meeting our necromancer would be attending. They knew the time, location — they’d even snagged a picture of their nemesis. The first ever and quite a coup for Dave’s group. He’d probably still be basking in the glory if he hadn’t simultaneously discovered his unit had a mole. The only one who suspected, Dave had tried to hand off the meeting coordinates, along with the job of exterminating the Wizard, to another unit. Instead SOCOM, with the direct support of the DOD, had requested that we team with them. They knew the CIA had a consultant on staff with insider knowledge of the Wizard. They’d heard our particular department fronted a team of assassins that had never failed to nail its target. And they felt only outsiders like us could ferret out a mole while leaving the rest of a highly trained, incredibly valuable fighting element intact. Problem was, these guys were tight. I could see them resenting our presence, especially since we’d been called in to finish the job they’d started. If we did this wrong, if Bergman pulled an attitude or Cassandra freaked somebody with one of her visions or Cole made a joke nobody laughed at . . . Hell, so many things could go wrong that if we got through this mission without crossing the path of any “friendly” fire I’d be amazed.

I played it absolutely straight and hoped that was how everybody in the room would take it. Meeting my brother’s green eyes, the only part of him that made me feel I was looking in a mirror, I said gravely, “I know you’re a lot more surprised to see me than I am you. But then, that’s how the Agency works sometimes. Secrecy is the key to success. You know that.”

He paled slightly and I mentally slapped myself. I’d been reunited with him less than ten minutes and already managed to remind him of the most painful tragedy of our lives. Because it had nearly destroyed our relationship, we’d never been able to confront it head-on. That’s something I can manage with limited contact. Not so much up close and personal. I’d have to step lightly if I still wanted a brother when this mission was over.

Dammit, all this tiptoeing is already making my arches sore.

“Anyway, about eight months ago, I teamed up with Vayl.”

“So . . . you’re an assassin?” Dave asked incredulously.

“Why do I feel like you’d have used the same tone if I’d just confessed to being a stripper?” I demanded.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I’m just a little surprised, is all.”

“I’m very good at what I do.”

Dave nodded, then shrugged. “They said they were sending the best.”

“Well, then.” My entire crew had gathered around me as I spoke, Vayl by my right side, Cole at my left, Cassandra and Bergman behind us in the gaps our shoulders made. I didn’t like the formation. It looked too much like a defensive barrier. But that’s how people break themselves down in any new situation. Get with the herd until you know the lions aren’t going to pounce.

Dave’s group, superior to ours in both numbers and weaponry, felt free to stay scattered across the room, though every one of them remained alert to our conversation, even the wounded. The medic, a sturdy, dark-skinned brunette with strong, capable hands, had patched two of her charges and was threading a needle for another while a fourth held a bandage to his bicep to help control the bleeding. That fourth, the same giant who’d saved me during the battle, gave me a considering look, cocked his head to one side, grinned, and winked. I couldn’t help it. I kinda thought we were going to be friends.

I didn’t have time to check out the other half of Dave’s unit. He’d found yet another unhappy thought. At this rate, even a whole pouchful of Tinker Bell’s magic dust would never get him flying. “There’s something weird about this whole deal. Two people who’ve barely spoken to each other in over a year —”

“Sixteen months,” I told him.

He barreled on. “— don’t just whoops into the same mission. Especially when those people are twins.”

That got his unit’s attention. My eyes raked the room. Yup, amazement in all corners.

Geez, hasn’t he told them anything about me besides my name? I mean, omitting the fact that you’re a twin? How pissed do you have to be . . .

I guessed I knew the answer to that.

The guy who’d uncovered the lantern sauntered over, rolling the toothpick he carried in his mouth from one side to the other. Cole twitched so hard he actually bumped me. A glance in his direction showed him biting his lip. Uh-oh. Our interpreter had something of an oral fixation, which he generally soothed with varying flavors of bubble gum. Unfortunately, he’d run through his entire supply on the trip over. I crossed my arms, jabbing him in the ribs as I did so.

Toothpick-chewer stopped beside Dave and looked up at him, nodding, just nodding, as a smile spread across his broad, pitted face. I liked him immediately as well, which didn’t bode well for any mole-hunting I’d be doing in the future.

Come on, Jaz, you’re supposed to be the neutral party here.

But this dude, you could tell he’d been through all kinds of hell. If the acne had been cruel, the shrapnel had been brutal, leaving a spray of scars across his forehead, cheeks, and neck that the beard and mustache only partially disguised. I also noted a ridge just in front of his ear that made me wonder if somebody had, at some point, been required to sew it back on. And still this immense humor danced in his hazel eyes, just waiting for the right moment to leap.

Like the rest of us, he was dressed in traditional Middle Eastern clothes, looking comfy in a flowing white thobe and shalwar pants to match, a maroon kufi resting on his brown hair. We would only wear these sorts of clothes while we traveled across the eastern edge of Iraq and crossed the northwestern corner of Iran. Once inside Tehran we’d change into the more commonly worn Western wear of the city folk. Button-down shirts and khakis for the guys. Hijab and pantsuits for the girls that involved a knee length, button-down tunic and comfy, elastic-waisted pants, covered by either a chador or a manteau — both of them dark and shapeless coverings — when we went out. Not that we meant for anyone to get a close look. For obvious reasons Vayl and I moved at night. Lucky for us, Dave’s unit preferred the same.

“Cam?” said Dave as his sergeant continued to nod with a general air of amusement.

“Yeah?”

“You got something to say?”

“Well, sir, on behalf of everyone here I’d appreciate knowing if she’s as big a pain in the ass as you are. Because, if so, we’d like to request double hazard pay and an extra week of leave after this one’s wrapped up.” Chorus of chuckles from Dave’s team.

Our dad, the marine, would burst a vessel at such a breach of military etiquette. But it just didn’t track among people so highly skilled they worked only the most top-level, skin-of-your-teeth, crap-down-your-leg missions available. In fact, it got in the way. However, since he’d put Dave in a helluva spot just now, I fielded the man’s question. “That one’s going to be tough to answer, Cam. As siblings, we’re very competitive. Which means we could probably argue this issue all night long and never come to a satisfactory conclusion. Actually, though, if you’d ever met our dad, you’d probably agree that the award for overbearing, tyrannical, asshole of the century would have to go to him.”

Which was when I realized how this little coincidence had been arranged. Albert Parks was a semiretired consultant to the CIA. He might have been able to pull enough strings to pair his kids on the same mission if he felt either one of us would benefit from it. But in order to do so he would’ve had to know about it. Yeah, he could’ve found out. I wasn’t sure how, but with his contacts, I could practically see his hairy paw prints all over this deal.

“Jaz?” Dave asked. “Are you okay?”

Oh, absotively, brother dear. Well, okay, I want to thump our father over the head with a large blunt object. Like his ego. Because what the hell is he trying to prove? Interfering old poop. But other than that, I’m just peachy.

“I’m fine,” I said. I sounded okay, too.

Good

. But to help bring myself back to center, and because I really did want to see his reaction, I said, “Did I tell you Albert bought a motorcycle?”

My brother’s mouth fell far enough open that I had to stifle an urge to wad up the nearest napkin and try my rim shot off his upper lip. “You’re shitting me!”

“Nope. He has a purple helmet to match the gas tank, which glitters in the sunlight like Mom’s old bowling ball — I’m quoting him here. Also he bought a full set of leathers. I think Shelby —that’s his new nurse,” I reminded him, “has to spray him with Pam before he slides into them.”

“How does he start it?”

“Push of the button. No kicking necessary.” His knees weren’t what they used to be.

Dave shook his head in horrified disbelief as he rubbed the back of his neck, maybe imagining our dad breaking his. “What the hell was he thinking?”

I shrugged. “He just became a grandfather. I guess he’s trying to pretend he’s not an old man despite all evidence to the contrary.”

“You guys are making me squirm,” objected Jet. “Colonel Parks is practically a god in my house. If my dad knew you two were talking about him like this he’d beat the shit out of

me

!”

Dave nodded toward my shooting buddy. “I guess Albert saved his dad’s life a couple of times. You know how it is.” I did. Jet’s dad had probably spent more time with mine than

I

had. Even now, all grown up and taking care of myself, I couldn’t help the spear of jealousy that skewered me when I thought of their relationship. They’d never struggle to understand one another. Never question each other’s motives. Their bond was unbreakable. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure Albert and I had one.

I shoved my hands into my pockets. My left forefinger brushed against the memento I always kept there. The engagement ring Matt had given me two weeks before he died had only lately begun to remind me of a relationship that hadn’t made me want to pull my hair out by the roots. And that only because I’d finally accepted that now, sixteen months after his death, maybe Matt wanted me to be happy. Too bad my closest male relatives didn’t always feel the same.

“Jaz? Are you sure you’re okay?” Dave asked again.

“Yes.”

Shut the hell up and leave me alone

.

He reached forward, pulled my hijab down, snagged one of the long curls that framed the right side of my face. Usually they’re a vibrant red. I’d dyed them black for this mission. Except . . . “Did you have an accident recently?” he pressed.

“Why do you ask?”

He pulled the twirls of hair straight and stretched them across my vision. My lips went dry. “What,” he demanded, “has turned your hair white?”

The first thing I did was grab another hunk of hair and yank it forward. Whew! It was still black. Only that bit beside my face had turned. The relief was so intense I laughed. Not so my crew.

During the moments of babbling, confusion, and near panic that followed I had to remind myself that I hadn’t just been in a near-fatal car accident. Nobody had shot or stabbed me. We were just talking about some hair tintage here, folks. But you’d never have known that by the frenzy my crew fell into. And damned if they weren’t getting me wound up all over gain.

“Ohmigod, somebody’s gotten to her!” yelled Bergman, clenching his bony fists like somebody was about to take a swing at him. “She’s probably caught some vile disease!” He hadn’t forgotten the close call we’d had with a virus called the Red Plague that had been designed to wipe out ninety percent of those who were exposed to it. He scuttled to the farthest corner of the room despite the fact that it put him next to the woman who’d covered the windows — a six-foot-one-inch amazon with the face of a beauty queen.

At the same moment Cassandra leaned forward and said urgently, “I can help you fight whatever has possessed you.” A courageous offer, I thought, since as soon as she touched me she’d be putting herself at its mercy, too.

“I’m not sick and I’m not possessed,” I said, but my reply was muted by Cole’s exclamation.

“It’s this location, isn’t it? I told you they’ve got all kinds of lethal crap floating in the air over here. Comes from all that nuclear testing and biological warfare and —”

“Enough!” Vayl bellowed. The sudden silence made my ears ring. I thought,

See what happens when you hardly ever raise your voice? You should take a lesson from this, Jaz,

though I knew I wouldn’t. Vayl looked at me. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea what caused this?” He curled the offending hair around his finger, brushing against my face as he did so. His touch, gentle and yet electrifying, made me hold my breath.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to discuss it?”

I sighed. If I could say it had nothing to do with the mission I’d be off the hook. But it did. In fact, it had a whole helluva lot to do with why four good men were currently sitting on the floor feeling like the poster boys for Johnson & Johnson.

I met Vayl’s eyes. They were the indigo blue that signified deep concern. I twirled Cirilai, the ring he’d given me, around the finger of my right hand. I don’t know if it was that simple action or a stronger power from Cirilai itself that calmed me, but as soon as I thought of it, touched it, I relaxed. “I fell asleep while we were in the helicopter,” I said.

“Yes, I know.” Oh, so that had been his shoulder I’d been leaning on the whole time. Comfy. Anyway.

“Raoul came to me in a dream.” You could almost feel the intensity in the room rise. It started with Vayl, who knew Raoul had twice resurrected me. Yeah, as in,

Lazarus, quit acting like such a stiff already.

He’d also, from time to time, offered me advice, usually in a thunderclap sort of voice that made me wish I’d bought earplugs.

The intensity spread to our crew when they realized, just from looking at our faces, who I must be talking about. Cassandra and Bergman had seen Raoul pull his first miracle on me via holographic replay. They’d filled Cole in later on. It wasn’t something any of them were likely to forget.

Dave knew Raoul as well, and his team, keyed in on him as they were, reacted to his startled response with a little dance I like to call the bump and shuffle. It’s a series of significant looks accompanied by shifts in stance and simple footwork that a very tight-knit group uses to let each other know something big is about to go down and everybody should remember their assignments. I didn’t know what they expected me to do. Suddenly transform into a brain-eating siren? Mow them all down with the AK-47 I kept hidden in my undies? Burst into flame?

Vayl, noting the change in pressure, tried to put a spin on the release valve. “Jasmine is a Sensitive,” he explained to the room at large. “Among her Gifts is the ability to travel outside her body. Raoul exists in that realm, and has had occasion to act as her Guide.”

Dave gave his okay-whatever shrug. I got the feeling he and Raoul weren’t quite on speaking terms. I believed the difference in our relationships with him had something to do with the fact that Vayl had twice taken my blood and left some of his power in its place. Those acts had left me with extra abilities Raoul found valuable. Plus, Dave didn’t appreciate outside interference in his missions, no matter who assigned them. If not for the mole, I doubted Vayl and I would be here at all.

“Go ahead, Jasmine,” Vayl said, “tell us what happened when Raoul arrived.”

I cleared my throat. Looked around the room. “Well, he showed up during my bubble bath dream.”

I love that one. It’s always so warm and cozy and I wake up feeling practically boneless. Raoul had stepped into my little white bathroom, his green and black camo and impossibly broad shoulders making it seem more like a Chinese takeout box than a lavatory as he said in his Spanish-flavored accent, “I’m sorry, Jasmine, but there’s no other way to do this. I’ve got to take you to hell.”

Chapter Two

The trip from my rest room to what Granny May’s minister used to refer to as Satan’s Playground so closely resembled the blackouts I’d experienced after losing Matt and my Helsinger crew that I came to with a strong desire to run straight to my sister’s attic, dive into the trunk she stored for me there, and resurrect Buttons, my old teddy bear. But since spineless wimps don’t survive long in my business, I decided to go with Plan B.

I opened my eyes.

And that’s when I started to swear.

“Hell is massive,” I told my audience, who’d gathered around me like a bunch of kids at their library story hour. “Imagine looking through a telescope. Think of all the black space between the stars. It’s like all that got sucked into an observable area that you somehow know is also an endless, infinite tract. But it’s not empty.

“The ground is covered with rocks. Some sharp, some rounded. Most covered with mold, blood, or vomit. Raoul and I stood on a huge boulder just flat enough on top to hold the two of us. In the distance I could see a chain of mountains. Did I mention the rocks? The point is, you have to watch every step. Citizens of hell don’t look up. Not unless they want to drag around a broken ankle or two. Some do.

“As a visitor, I felt free to explore. So I glanced up.”

“Shit, Raoul, the sky’s on fire!” I ducked, nearly pulling my hand from his as I moved. His grip tightened, pressing Cirilai into the adjoining fingers until they throbbed.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go,” he warned me. “Hungry eyes are on us, waiting for us to break the rules.”

“All you told me was that we couldn’t be late and we had to leave when we were done!” I snapped. “If you’re going to risk my life —”

“Soul,” he amended.

“Oh, that’s better.”

Raoul fixed me with a drop-and-give-me-twenty look. Through clenched teeth he said, “We are allowed only a brief amount of time here. If they can separate us, they will. If we use our time trying to find each other, we have wasted the sacrifice it took to come here. Worse, if we’re separated and can’t find each other in time, one or both of us could be stuck here for eternity.”

“Sacrifice?”

“You did agree.”

“When?”

He grimaced at me, reached into the chest pocket of his jacket, and handed me a note, written in my own hand:

You had a meeting with the uppity-ups during your blackout. Someday you might remember, but there’s no time to explain, and this is too important to screw up. In the end you’ll agree this was worth the sacrifice. So shut up and listen to Raoul.

J

“So your hair,” interrupted Bergman, “is that the sacrifice?”

“I doubt it,” said the wounded guy who’d had to be stitched. He’d shed his turban to reveal a shiny bald pate that somehow made him resemble a rhinoceros, whereas any other white man would’ve looked like a cancer patient. I learned later his name was Otto “Boom” Perle, and before he’d become a munitions expert he’d been a wildass teenager who’d burned his eyebrows and half his hair off in a fireworks accident. After hearing that story, bald seemed brilliant. Otto motioned to his wound. “Seems like hell would want something more like this.”

I agreed. In which case the sacrifice had yet to be made.

“So the whole place was just rocks?” asked another hurt guy whose rosy cheeks and light brown beard made him look a lot younger than he was. He introduced himself as Terrence Casey, father of five, grandfather of one, and biggest Giants fan of all time. I shook my head.

No, there was more. The plants that grew between the rocks were vicious. The vines tripped. The bushes stabbed. Only the trees seemed harmless. Then a sharp wind blew, and I realized the trunks weren’t extra thick like I’d thought. Those were blackened bodies hanging from their limbs that now rocked and jiggled in hell’s breeze. And the awful thing was, they were aware.

So were the walkers. Nobody within range of my sight sat and rested. They all moved among one another, never conversing, but often talking to themselves. It reminded me a little bit of a busy New York sidewalk, except everyone was looking down, watching the rocks.

Then I began focusing on the individuals and the sense of community dropped away. Right in front of us a woman continuously combed her fingers through her long blond hair. When she got to the tips she yanked hard enough to jerk her head sideways. Every few seconds she took the hair she’d pulled out of her skull and stuffed it into her mouth.

“Why’s she doing that?” I whispered to Raoul.

He shrugged.

“Don’t you know?”

“It’s not like their sins are tattooed on their foreheads.”

“Look at her. She’s crazed. They all are.” To our right a thin, black-bearded man bent down, picked up a rock, and began shredding his shirt with it. When the material fell from his shoulders in tatters he began again, this time on his skin. I tried to swallow, but nothing went down.

My eyes moved to another man, the first I’d seen who’d paused in his forward motion. He looked straight ahead. For half a second his eyes cleared.

Everyone within a hundred yards stopped. Crouched. Let out a collective groan that knifed straight into my gut and twisted.

Flames shot from the sky, engulfing the man. As soon as he began screaming, the fire spread to the people surrounding him, as if a large demonic fist had reached down with a red plastic can and sprayed them all with kerosene.

I’ve seen more horror than I care to remember in my twenty-five years. But nothing had ever come close to this. Maybe I could’ve stood just the screaming. Or just the sight of fifty people burning. But not — “Raoul, the smell . . . ”

He reached into a pack at his waist and pulled out two white ovular tabs that resembled smelling salts. “Stick these in your nose.”

I did, and they helped. I wondered what else Raoul had packed in his Let’s Go to Hell kit. Better not to ask.

Around the burning people, everyone else continued with their business.

A woman bit steadily on her middle finger. I noticed she’d already chewed her thumb and forefinger off at the first joint.

A man fell to his knees every few steps, leaving a bloody trail on the rocks behind him.

Two teens, identical twins, took turns lashing each other with branches they’d torn off one of those not-so-innocent trees.

Though I’d just come from a bath, I wanted to go home and shower. And watch

Pollyanna

. And cuddle with my infant niece. Anything to be reminded that good still existed somewhere in my world.

“I knew hell was like this,” I told Raoul bitterly. “Insanity’s last stop. Where there’s no help. No relief. Just unrelenting madness.”

“For you and these people, yes. For others, it’s something entirely different.”

“But everybody’s in physical form here?”

“It’s part of the punishment,” Raoul replied.

As Vayl had mentioned, I’d traveled outside my body a few times. What a rush. But once I’d stayed away a little too long. Nearly all my ties to the physical world had faded. I remembered how hard it was to rejoin my flesh, how constrained I’d felt, almost trapped. I could see how, having once broken all earthly boundaries, being forced back into a body could make it seem like a prison. Even holding tight to my Get Out of Jail Free card, I was ready to leave.

“Can you tell me what we have to do here?”

“Our scouts have reported rumors of a conclave to be held there, beneath that guard tower.” He pointed at the nearest hanging tree. Wait a minute.

“Raoul, what is hell to you? What are you seeing?”

Things I never wanted to witness again, his eyes told me as they met mine. “A POW camp,” he told me hoarsely. “Torture, starvation, and deprivation all the way to the horizon.”

Big reaction from Dave’s people. Not surprise though. Maybe they’d suspected it all along. I searched their faces as I spoke.

“I wondered if that was how he’d died. But I hadn’t known him long enough to ask. I had other, more palatable questions. Like who would be qualified to scout the activities of hell’s minions? And what did any of this have to do with me? But according to my note, we didn’t have time for chitchat.”

“You said he was wearing camo when he came to get you,” said a short, wiry man with a full black beard who introduced himself as Ricardo Vasquez. “Was that all?”

I knew what he was getting at. “No, he had a black beret with a Ranger tab on it.”

Murmurs around the room. My savior solider, who’d taken watch at the window, said, “You want to find the gates of hell? Walk into any POW camp and you’re there.”

“Damn right, Natch,” the amazon agreed with a sharp nod of her head. Rage, that’s what these people were feeling. I realized if I ever decided to storm the place, maybe stage a massive rescue, I could count on these folks to back me up.

I went on. “Raoul assured me the citizens of hell couldn’t see us since we weren’t of the place, only in it. And it sure seemed that way as we picked our way to a ring of footstool-sized rocks that surrounded a three-foot pit of golden-orange bubbling magma. The walkers kept away from the pit and the ring. Could they sense what was coming? No. They just didn’t want to get hit by the streams of lava that came shooting out of the pit at random intervals. But it seemed to have some sort of rudimentary intelligence that allowed it to strike with agonizing accuracy every time.”

“Remind me that these people are bad guys,” I begged Raoul. “They deserve what’s happening to them, right?”

He shrugged. “Most do. But remember the reaver, Desmond Yale.”

“Who’s that?” asked a guy I’d been trying not to stare at, just because he was that pretty. His name, he told me the first second he had a chance, was Ashley St. Perru. He came from Old Money, meaning his mom was a bitch, his dad was an asshole, and his sister couldn’t leave a store without dropping three grand first. He’d left home in search of a family and found one in the middle of nowhere. Go figure.

“Cole’s first official kill,” I said, nodding toward our interpreter. Even without looking at him I could see the shadow that experience had left behind his eyes. It wasn’t an overwhelming force anymore. Just a part of his past that made him older and wiser and, somehow, easier to be with. “But he wasn’t a cinch for us to take down. He was a soul-stealer, like the ones we fought just now, only a savvy old pro. His job had been to nab the innocents and shove them into hell to suffer right alongside the deserving. Ultimately he and his buddies had come to help start a war.”

“You know a lot about reavers, huh?” commented Dave, his eyes narrowing.

Are you putting my people in unnecessary danger?

that look demanded.

I decided it would be best to ignore him for now. I went on. “Just as Raoul mentioned Yale, the first of the attendees crawled out of the pit. As soon as I saw those clawed, skeletal fingers I knew this creature was the same one that had pulled the reaver’s body through the doorway he’d created from the heart of a dead woman. When the creature had fully emerged my stomach lurched, she looked so much like pictures I’d seen of concentration camp survivors. Except her skin was the bright red of a poison ivy rash and a hump of flesh stood in place of her nose, as if her Maker had seriously considered endowing her with a trunk and then changed his mind very last minute. And then there was that third eye. Except when the lid opened, the socket glared red and empty. She moved to one of the rocks. More creatures emerged from the pit after that, one after another, so quickly I lost count until they finally all sat down.”

“A dozen demons,” I whispered to Raoul, “and not far removed from the artist’s drawings I’ve seen looks-wise. How did they know?”

“Are you so sure of what you see?”

“What do you mean?”

“I see a military court. It looks to me as if there’s about to be some sort of formal proceeding.”

“So you’re telling me my mind is supplying me with these pictures? That none of this is real?”

Raoul met my gaze straight on. “One thing I know about this place, this meeting, and your mission . . . nothing is as it seems. Remember that on everything you hold dear, Jasmine.

Nothing

is as it seems.”

“Okay,” I said as we turned our attention back to the conclave, “but if that’s the case, how do I know what to believe?”

“Your instincts are excellent. Some of the best I’ve ever seen. Trust them.”

One more creature had stepped out of the pit. Unlike the others, he didn’t stagger under the weight of immense curved horns or inspire shudders with multiple sores oozing pockets of pus and slime. He had the fierce, lethal beauty of a wildfire. Stunning sweep of white-gold hair. Deep red skin drawn taut against an I-oughtta-be-a-god body. This stud yanked the

Oooh baby

right out of the girl in me. Until I looked deeper.

He came with his own special Fallen Angel vibe. I felt it because, as a Sensitive, I can pick up on certain otherworldly powers. For instance, vamps and reavers stick out in a crowd for me now that I’ve spent some time on the wrong side of life. So I was familiar with creepy, freaky, rot-scented types of beings. Had hunted a few and killed a bunch in my career. This guy gave off a psychic stench that made me want to scuttle into the nearest bomb shelter and play like a hermit crab. Somehow I knew the first time he’d pulled the wings off a fly he’d giggled like a schoolgirl. Serial killers tickled the crap out of him and mass executions left him rolling. The bastard loved to laugh.

Like the other demons he went naked, except for a belt, from which dangled a coiled black whip. He couldn’t keep his hands off it either. Played with it during the entire assembly.

I didn’t understand the talk, so Raoul translated for me. Since he thought he was watching a court proceeding, the words hardly ever matched the actions, but it ended up making an odd sort of sense. Especially when their most animated conversation conjured strong mental images that needed no translation.

Whip dude sauntered over to the last empty rock, which stood taller and flatter than the rest, and took a seat. “Who summons the court and its Magistrate?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest, although he still kept one hand on the whip.

Up jumped Skeletal Woman, the one who’d been the first to emerge from the pit. “I do,” she said.

“State your name and case.”

She wrung those bright red claws and blinked her eyes. The third one was out of sync with the rest, and the lack of an eyeball flipped my stomach sideways. Which surprised me. I’ve seen splatted brains, headless torsos, and spines glistening through the fronts of bodies. I really thought I’d reached my gross-out limit. Now I understood hell was going to slam those boundaries till they shattered. The realization made me want to curl up into a ball and tuck myself into Raoul’s pocket until it was time to go home.

“I am Uldin Beit. My mate was murdered. I wish to Mark his killer.”

“For the record, what was your mate’s name?”

“Desmond Yale.” Her voice cracked as she spoke. I could see his loss had devastated her. I shook my head, amazed that even evil soul-snatching scumbags could find somebody to love.

“And what was the nature of his death?” The Magistrate kept throwing out the professional questions, but he smiled gleefully as she forked over the gory details.

“He was shot through the soul-eye at the direction of a woman named Jasmine.” Her words were accompanied by a visual of Yale with a gaping wound in the middle of his forehead. Several of the demons tittered. Uldin Beit resolutely ignored them. She said, “I witnessed this. The rest is information Sian-Hichan was able to gather when I brought him Desmond’s body.” She gestured to one of the seated beasts, who was covered with yellow, fist-sized warts.

At a nod from the Magistrate, she sat down and Sian-Hichan stood. “As you would expect in cases like this, I followed protocol and immediately probed Yale’s mind to see if I could retrieve any vital information.” That’s sure not what Sian-Hichan’s facial expressions and hand gestures were conveying, and his audience found his description damn entertaining. The reason, I gathered from the mental images he projected, was that he’d also put the corpse through a series of calisthenics in order to win a bet. Something having to do with rigor mortis. Geee-ross. Uldin didn’t seem to appreciate it much either.

I wished I could trade hells with Raoul. His seemed so much more precise and refined. Then I thought better of it. He was still crouched in a bottomless pit of doom and despair. His was just better organized than mine.

Sian-Hichan went on. “Jasmine seems to be a code name for a reaver hunter named Lucille Robinson. Yale lost two apprentices to her and fought her himself twice before being killed by

her

student. Yale’s gravest concern was that Lucille Robinson had gained the Spirit Eye.” His speech brought forth an image of me. Not as myself — an underweight redhead helping a legendary vamp assassin eliminate threats to national security despite my mind-bending past. This me was bigger than life. A windblown supermodel standing on a summit surrounded by a crackling crimson aura, tricked-out gun in one hand, great-great-granddad’s blade in the other.

I’d thought the Spirit Eye would be an orb. Maybe a gigantic version of one of the Enkyklios balls. Maybe an actual eye, floating above my head like a halo. But I realized now it was more integral. An inner flame that burned away preconceptions and prejudices until I could really know, really see through the mask to the evil writhing underneath. The aura, I decided, must be its exhaust.

Even in my version of hell, impressed courtroom murmurs circled the ring. The Magistrate didn’t have a gavel. Didn’t need one. All he had to do was jerk his head and the demons quieted down. “If she has the Spirit Eye she will be more than a match for your Mark,” he told Uldin Beit.

“The Eye is only partway open,” Sian-Hichan told the Magistrate.

“Ahh.”

The Magistrate nodded his agreement with this collective comment, his mane of hair sweeping elegantly across his shoulders as he moved. “Are you prepared to pay, then?” he asked, stroking his whip so fondly I actually had to make sure his hand hadn’t moved elsewhere.

Uldin Beit did a sort of full-body twitch. Then she nodded.

“And who is your sponsor?”

“Edward Samos.” As soon as she spoke his name I received a mental image of him. An impeccably dressed businessman, his Latin heritage provided him with the flashing brown eyes, bronze skin, and shining black hair that had, no doubt, brought Vayl’s ex to her knees. Uldin’s memory of him had included a conversation where his personality had burst into full bubble, like a bottle of fine champagne. He’d sat back, laughing with genuine humor, his mouth wide open so you could see the fangs. But the threat you always felt with bared fangs, even Vayl’s, Samos managed to refute by the simple I’m-your-pal look in his eyes. No wonder he was so hard to resist. I could feel the lure of his charm even through Uldin’s imagination.

I wasn’t surprised Samos had involved himself in her revenge project. He’d sponsored Yale as well. But damned if the news didn’t steam me. I was so sick of fighting his underlings I could literally lean over and puke any time I thought of them. And the victims. Lord, the list read like a Civil War memorial, so extensive you wondered where to begin. Maybe at the end — with his last known kill — a tailor whose shop he’d used as a rendezvous point for important meetings. He’d hung the man up and gutted him like a deer. And now he’d set his sights on me.

“Jasmine, are you all right?” Raoul whispered.

“Sure? Why?” He nodded to his arm. Without thinking I’d dug my nails in so deep I’d made purple marks. I immediately moved my hands up to his biceps. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“You did see Samos just now, yes?” asked Raoul. “That must be worth the sacrifice you made to come here.”

Not knowing the parameters of the forfeit, I was hardly in a position to say. “I guess. I mean, it helps. But knowing me, just being able to ID the guy wouldn’t be enough to make me give up something I cherished. I think there’s something more.”

“Perhaps the reason he has agreed to sponsor the reavers?”

I shook my head. “I imagine it’s straight revenge, just like Uldin Beit.” Samos must think I’d killed his right hand, his

avhar,

an Asian vamp with a thing for pastel suits named Shunyuan Fa. I hadn’t. But I’d had a near-death encounter with Fa, who’d lost his head during a failed coup later that evening. I didn’t know what Fa had said to his

sverhamin

about me before going smoky, if anything. But Samos knew I’d taken out a rookie reaver on the same yacht where he’d placed Fa as his emissary. The evidence tying me to Fa was so rickety you wouldn’t want to cross a steep gorge on it, but it probably worked for him. Shoot, most juries would hang me on less.

“Come forward,” the Magistrate told Uldin Beit as he stood and moved away from his rock.

The seated demons showed noticeable signs of excitement. Tongues hung out, eyes bulged, and, uh, other things as well as she obeyed a little unsteadily. As she knelt before him, he uncoiled his whip.

“Oh shit, Raoul, tell me this isn’t happening.”

“I wish I could.”

I didn’t want to watch but felt I had to. This was the price I was willing to pay her for killing her mate.

The Magistrate reared back, the whip flying behind him and then shooting forward as his arm fell. Uldin Beit’s blood exploded into the air. I flinched. She screamed. And I knew no revenge could be worth this. Again and again the whip lashed, literally cutting the skin from the reaver’s back, until the Magistrate held the strips up in one bloody hand.

“Here!” he roared. “The pound of flesh! Do you bear witness!”

“Aye!” the demons bellowed back.

“I’ve seen enough,” I told Raoul. “Let’s get outta here.”

“That’s when I woke up on the Chinook, ten minutes out from the LZ.” I avoided Dave’s eyes. He could probably tell I was lying. That I’d had a few more harrowing experiences before hell finally released me. But no way was I going to share those details with a room full of strangers, including an employee of the Wizard.

“So

you

brought these reavers down on us?” asked the amazon. Bergman decided he didn’t care for her company and moved to the window next to Natch, the giant.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I said.

“That’s because I didn’t throw it,” she replied.

We stared each other down, neither willing to budge. “That’s Grace Jensen,” said the medic, who seemed to feel we girls should stick together in a predominantly man’s world. Ignoring Grace’s dirty look she added, “And I’m Adela Reyes.”

“Nice to meet you,” I told her. “You do excellent work.”

She gave me a just-doing-my-job shrug. “These guys are tough. It’s going to take a lot more than a few stitches to keep them down.”

I nodded, hiding my smile as chests puffed around the room. “That’s obvious.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” snapped Amazon Grace.

I gave her a leisurely look, knowing it would irritate her, wondering how far I should push her. Could she be the mole? Trying to stir up conflict within the unit in order to undermine the mission? Hard to say. It could just be an honest reaction to us stepping on her turf and putting her buddies in harm’s way.

“I gave you this information as a courtesy,” I told her, “because I believe you’ll function more effectively if you understand what’s happening and why. But here’s the deal, Grace. My boss and I have been assigned to kill a man and that’s what we’re going to do. You can be part of our team, or you can be a tool we use to get our job done. Either way we have success. You just have to decide if you want to be happy or miserable.”

While Grace digested the fact that she’d just been outbitched, I went on, speaking to the rest of Dave’s people. “When the Magistrate asked Uldin Beit the name of her sponsor, she responded by saying ‘Edward Samos.’ That doesn’t mean anything to you, but it’s hugely significant to us. Samos is the CIA’s top target, an American-born vampire with aspirations toward world domination — the sooner we nail him the better. You have to understand that all reavers need an earthly sponsor. Somebody who can provide them with bodies to inhabit and souls to snatch.”

This was all true. Now for the lie.

“We’ve also discovered that Samos has been watching the Wizard’s movements with interest for quite a while. He intends to use his reavers to shanghai the Wizard’s body and, as a result, his entire operation. At which point I guarantee he’ll make the Wizard’s past exploits look like a practical joke. So, feel free to be pissed that reavers have been sent after me. Just remember, as soon as I’m out of the picture, they’re going after the big game.”

The seed had been planted. Now we’d watch and wait. Hopefully the mole would find it necessary to pass this juicy morsel on to the Wizard. As soon as he or she tried to make contact, we’d close in. And then we’d have him. I looked at Grace. Or her.

Chapter Three

So,” said David, after taking a few minutes to mull it all over, “here’s my take. A pound of flesh has to buy more than a single raid. I figure we’ve got at least one more assault to throw back. And logic dictates it’ll happen when we make the move to the truck.”

The truck was a semi, returning empty from its Tehran-to-Baghdad run. Somewhat miraculously we’d found a driver willing to get us into the city in return for six visas to New Jersey for himself and his family.

“I don’t know if I’ll be any help to you during the actual fighting,” Bergman said as he shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. For him, it was a brave moment, surrounded as he was by men much bigger and scarier than he. “But I did bring you a weapon I’ve developed that might make things a little easier on you.” It was one of the main reasons he’d been allowed to come along.

After our last mission he’d flown back to his lab. And despite the fact that Cassandra had insisted he’d be needed on this job, when he’d called me a week later, I’d said, “Stay home, Miles. Work. Rest. You need a break from us. From this craziness. It’s so not your thing.”

“I need to come with you, Jaz.”

“No.” We were both remembering the last time out, when Vayl had taken the bad guy’s blood and part of his power. Even though Bergman couldn’t explain it scientifically, Vayl had been able to call from within himself a bio-armor based partially on Bergman’s own invention. It had blown Bergman’s mind. That and Cassandra’s ability to mask my looks with a magical amulet had hammered at his core beliefs hard enough to rattle him teeth to shins.

We sat silent on the phone while Bergman mustered his arguments. I looked at my watch. I’d promised to meet Cole at the shooting range. I was about to be late.

“I’m tired of being afraid, Jasmine. If I keep running and hiding . . . if I don’t ever come out of my cocoon. Well, I’m never going to have a life.”

“I thought you liked your life. I mean, you said most people irritate you, so you don’t long for companionship. And you love inventing things —”

“Yeah, that part’s fine. It . . . it’s me.” He took a deep breath. I could almost see his shoulders rise as he braced himself for the confession. “I get up in the morning and look at myself in the mirror. And I can’t even meet my own eyes. I know this probably sounds stupid and old-fashioned to you. And, being a girl, maybe you won’t even get it. But for me, it’s not a matter right now of being a

better

man. I’ve just gotta . . . It’s time to

be

a man.”

O-kay. Hadn’t really expected that one. Still. “I don’t see how I can justify your presence. We don’t really need your expertise on this one.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll think of something.” And he had. Still, I kept thinking he’d chosen the wrong venue to prove to himself, what, that he wasn’t a coward? That he could somehow fit his own definition of masculinity? I mean, he was talking about really basic stuff. I wasn’t sure you could even get to where he wanted to go in less than a few years. But I had to love his brass. Once he decided he wanted something, he just kept trucking till he figured out the right formula.

Bergman scanned the cramped little farmhouse for volunteers. “If some of you could just help me bring the boxes in?”

From the way their faces lit up you’d have thought Santa just hit town. At a nod from Dave, two of them went for the guns while my shooting buddy Jet and his friend Ricardo guarded them.

I took Dave by the arm. “These reavers have some unique physical properties you should be aware of. Let me show you what we’re up against.” I took him outside and we knelt over one of the bodies, while yet more troops watched over us from a distance. “You know about the third eye,” I said. “That’s used for containing the soul of the victim until the reaver can deliver it to hell.” I grabbed the reaver’s jaw, opened it, and part of its pink, spiked tongue unrolled onto its chin.

“There’s something in its saliva that contains the soul, keeping it from ascending while at the same time absorbing it into that third eye.”

“You really are an expert on these things, aren’t you?” Dave asked.

I shrugged. “I know a lot more than I’d like to.”

He stood up. I looked over my shoulder. We were alone. “There’s something else I need to tell you,” I murmured.

“What’s that?”

“While I was in hell . . . ”

“Yeah?”

I cleared my throat. There was no easy way to say this. “I saw Mom.”

Dave immediately squatted back down beside me. “Tell me.”

“It was when Raoul and I were getting ready to leave. We turned around and there she stood, right in front of me. She said —”

“Jasmine?”

“Mom?” I took a step back because she was — I shit you not — licking her fingers and trying to get a smudge off my forehead.

“It won’t come out.” She wrinkled her brows with frustration.

“I’ll get it later.” I grabbed her wrist because she couldn’t seem to stop and I was sensing the loss of several layers of skin in my imminent future. “What are you doing here?” I turned to Raoul. “What’s she doing here?”

“Are you certain this is your mother?” he asked.

Oh, right, how could I have forgotten already? Nothing is as it seems.

But it looked an awful lot like her. Same curly, honey-blond hair. Same distant blue eyes. And surely I couldn’t mistake all those smoker’s lines around her lips? “How else would she recognize me?” I reasoned. “You said nobody could see us here because we weren’t of the place. But

she

can, so it must be because she’s my mom.”

We were distracted by the arrival of a couple of demons, who had apparently decided to take a stroll before they followed their brethren out of the pit. They were deep in conversation, one with his horned head bent almost double over the other’s green, slimy one. Though Raoul didn’t bother to translate, I still got the visuals.

A big, fancy office with a desk you could sail on and enough chairs in which to seat a jury. Samos and the Magistrate standing on either side of the desk as Samos’s dapper male secretary laid two copies of a contract between them. Samos pointing to a particular section, shaking his head, an incredulous look on his face. The Magistrate, smiling like a saint, uncoiling his whip and flicking it against the shoulder of Samos’s secretary, ripping his white shirt, his skin, leaving a bloody trail both men found überfascinating. Samos, licking his lips hungrily as the secretary’s face transformed into Uldin Beit’s and then back again.

The Magistrate pushed the contract toward him. Samos pointed toward the same spot, mouthed the word “sacrifice,” and shook his head. When he said “sacrifice” I began to get another image. Something started to emerge from the shadows behind his open door. All I could see were the eyes. Glowing like embers in the darkness. They winked out when the largest of the conversing demons glanced up.

“Look!” he cried. “The Lucille is in our midst!”

Raoul snapped, “Is he your mother too? Or is it that everyone can see you because there’s a Demon Mark on your forehead!” I had time to think,

Oh, so that’s what Mom was trying to rub off!

before he grabbed my hand and yelled, “Come on!”

I still had my mother’s wrist, so I shouted the same to her and we ran like mountain goats, leaping over rocks and dodging malicious plants as the demons raced after us.

“What have you done?” screamed my mom.

“I killed a reaver!” I yelled back. “But only because he ripped a woman’s heart out and stole her soul!”

“But why did they call you ‘the Lucille?’ ”

“It’s my alias. I’m an assassin for the CIA.” Wait, could I tell her this now that she was dead? And in hell? Holy crap did I ever need a Zima!

“How far?” I asked Raoul as we muscled our way through crowds of shocked self-mutilators, all of whom could see us now. He looked over his shoulder at the pursuing demons.

“They’ll be on us before we get there. We’ll have to fight.”

“I’m armed,” I said helpfully.

“Your weapons won’t work here.”

And neither,

said his eyes,

will your hand-to-hand. At least not well enough to save you. Not on their turf. We’re doomed.

Suddenly Mom ripped her arm out of my grasp. “Run, Jazzy,” she cried as she leaped back at the demons. “Get free!” With a frenzied sort of charisma I’d only ever seen in my father, she mustered a unit of maybe twenty psychos who thought battling demons would be a great way to commit hari-kari, and together they attacked our pursuers tooth and nail.

I tried to go after her, but Raoul wrapped his arm around my waist and, lifting me bodily, rushed back to our original boulder. Somebody hit me on the back of the head. Though I blamed it on my Spirit Guide, he later told me it was simply the jolt of transition that had sent me, once again, into the Land of Blackout.

Dave considered me for a while, then turned his eyes to the reaver corpse. “It wasn’t Mom.”

“No?’

“Couldn’t have been.”

“Why not?”

He turned on me so sharply I almost cringed. “Our mother is not in hell!”

“Why!” I demanded. “Because you don’t want her to be? Let’s sit here and list all her redeeming qualities, David, starting with the fact that she only beat our butts on a

semi

regular basis!”

“So she was harsh. That shouldn’t make her demon fodder.”

Actually, I agreed. But that’s because I was just as twisted as him, thanks, in large part, to our dear, departed mother. I suddenly realized I’d spent a lot of my life hating the people I loved. I wondered if that could become habit forming.

“Fine, so maybe it wasn’t her,” I said. “And even if it was, it’s not like we could do anything about it anyway. Right?”

“I guess not.” We both stood, refusing to meet each other’s eyes, knowing neither one of us was convinced. But at this point we had no choice but to stick to our current mission.

“Do you think we should move the bodies?” I asked.

“Ideally we’d bury them,” he said, “but I don’t want anyone caught outside when the next wave comes. And we don’t have time to bury so many. We’ll leave them,” he decided.

“On the other issue,” I said, as he turned back toward the farmhouse. He stopped, dropped his head. I knew the very idea of a traitor in his band tore him up. These guys were as close as humans could get. In forty years they’d still be in touch, still want to know how it was going, still need to share the memories. To know one of their number had betrayed them must have wounded him to the core.

“The trap has been set,” I said. “Keep an eye out for an effort to make contact.” He nodded, his eyes still on the ground, and went inside.

Chapter Four

Dave’s crew had begun their love affair with the guns by the time we got back, exclaiming over Bergman’s improvements on their M4s, including a shorter barrel for street fighting, a built-in silencer, and a well-armored computer sensor on the barrel that read return fire and gave you those coordinates, automatically siting you in if you wished. The biggest improvement was in weight, since Bergman had crafted the weapon from a new alloy he’d invented that was not only lighter, but also required less maintenance.

As Bergman handed out ammunition, he explained that the Manx, as he liked to call the small, ferocious weapon, was a multitasker: Sensors built into the butt of the rifle could sniff out a vast array of biological and chemical toxins. In addition, every third round was equipped with something he referred to as an infrared dye. Anything it hit was bathed in that light, allowing the shooter to see farther than his goggles or, in our case, lenses, would normally allow.

Bergman had actually brought a few pairs of his night-vision lenses along as well. “They’ll only work if you have twenty-twenty to start with,” he warned. “I didn’t have time to check your prescriptions and make special ones. But if you like them, I’ll customize some for you when I get back.” The offer, a generous one from any perspective, surprised me. He must’ve had to make a lot of promises to get his skinny butt on our jet.

While Cam, Ashley, and Natch tried out the lenses, I decided to make some formal introductions.

“Dave, I’d like you to meet my crew.” I led him to the corner we’d commandeered.

“Everybody,” I said, “this is my brother, Dave. Dave, this is Cole. He’s our interpreter.” Cole had been leaning against the wall, chewing on the collar of his dark gray thobe. Like me, he’d dyed his hair black for this mission, but it still ran wild, sticking out from under his cap in every direction as if directly reflecting his stress over popping his last bubble nearly twelve hours ago. He spat out the collar and shook Dave’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you. Do they give you guys gum in the army? Chewing tobacco? Anything like that?” He looked at me. “What?”

“Shut up,” I mouthed.

Dave frowned at me. “An interpreter seems redundant. Otto speaks Farsi.”

I raised my eyebrows.

He’s only redundant if Otto’s not the mole.

Dave got the message. Out loud I said, “Cole is also in training. He’ll be going solo after this mission.”

Cole dug out his most charming smile. “Plus, I have somewhat of an insider’s knowledge of Tehran. I dated a girl whose parents were born there. They left to study in America and never went back.” He looked at me. “She really dug tea.”

“Why’d you leave her?” I asked, knowing it hadn’t been the other way around.

“Couldn’t hack all the praying. We have arthritis in the family, you know. I’d have had to get knee replacements before I was fifty.”

I turned to Dave. “He grows on you.”

Vayl stood beside him, his hand wrapped firmly around the head of his cane. Somehow he managed to look as if he belonged, as if he’d been chiseled out of the same stone as the walls of the farmhouse. His short dark curls were nearly hidden beneath his turban, which accentuated his winged brows, fine Roman nose, and full lips. Those lips had brushed mine once and nearly sent my heart tumbling out of my chest. But I could never forget they hid a pair of fine, sharp fangs. Yeah, you had to be careful about Vayl’s unseen qualities. Those were what would kill you.

He turned to face us fully as we approached. Can nerves tighten? Mine felt like fishing line. The kind with an obese accountant on one end and a nine-hundred-pound tiger shark on the other. I cleared my throat. “This is my boss, Vayl.”

Dave didn’t quite stand at attention, but he pulled his shoulders way back and totally blanked his face, the way he does when something’s made him deeply uncomfortable. “You, uh, you’re not human, are you?”

Total silence fell in the room behind us. I couldn’t believe Dave was so out of touch with his Sensitivity. What the hell did he use it for?

“No,” Vayl said. “I am vampire.”

I did a half turn so I could monitor Dave’s people. They hadn’t moved yet, but they sure looked interested in the conversation. I searched their faces for animosity. Nothing. They’d donned the same mask as Dave. Their eyes were schooled to blankness. But in his, the question I dreaded:

Your fiancé was killed by vampires, Jaz. How

could

you?

I could because I knew, just as well as Dave did, that not all vampires were evil. He and I had worked closely with two vamps on our Helsinger crew. I was surprised he didn’t have one in his unit right now. Obviously he’d changed more than I thought since the days of our youth.

“The vulture responsible for Matt and Jessie’s deaths” — I paused when I said Dave’s wife’s name, but he didn’t motion for me to stop, so I went on — “for killing our Helsingers, Vayl destroyed him two months ago. Vayl’s one of the good ones. He doesn’t hunt. He doesn’t turn people. He’s been working for our side since Granny May was a little girl.” Why did I suddenly feel so defensive? It wasn’t like everybody was going to grab a torch and have at my boss like some crazed mob. These were highly disciplined troops. They’d at least wait until Dave gave the order. Still, I had to fight a sudden urge to leap in front of Vayl and yell, “Back off, bozos!”

Dave and Vayl had a long staring match, during which Cole moved from his collar to his fingernails and I tried to decide if I might actually be forced to choose between my brother and my

sverhamin.

Cassandra came forward, emerging from the shadows like a guardian angel. She’d discarded her hijab, and her hair hung in a long black curtain to her waist. Somehow, even in her abaya, she managed to resemble an exiled African princess. Her usual compliment of glittering gold jewelry helped with the illusion, but really it was the way she held herself, tall and confident with just a touch of listen-up-punk in her attitude that made you pay attention when she spoke.

“Jasmine has become very precious to me,” she said, the combination of kindness and command in her voice forcing Dave’s eyes to hers. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet her twin. My name is Cassandra.” She held out her hand, and before I could prevent it, Dave slid his into hers.

I wish I’d known Otto a little better. I’d have said, “Hey, Boom, do me a favor and set off some C4.” I’d have bet a month’s pay neither Dave nor Cassandra would’ve noticed the blast. Some other kind of explosion had gone off in their brains and they both looked slightly dazed from the fallout.

“Do I . . . know you?” Cassandra finally asked breathlessly.

Dave shook his head, his free hand going to the back of his neck, as if checking to make sure he hadn’t just been clubbed. “Would you like to?” he asked; then he slammed his mouth shut. He couldn’t seem to believe those words had escaped it.

Behind him his crew agreed. Amazon Grace and Jet exchanged amazed glances. Cam mouthed the words “Is he flirting — with a girl?” to Natch, who replied with a stupefied nod. The rest of the unit seemed equally stunned, except for Adela, who was new enough not to realize how monklike Dave’s existence had been since his loss. She kept her attention on Vayl, and though she made no outward sign I sensed, of everyone in the room, she was the unhappiest with his presence there.

The sound of a distant engine broke the silence.

Dave dropped his hand. The smile he gave Cassandra was the first I’d seen since before Jessie died. “I’m glad Jaz has someone like you on her team.” While I totally agreed, an aggravated Puerto Rican chica stomped to the front of my brain and screeched, “Someone like

who

, you testosterone-crazed hunk of beef? You ain’t known Cassandra more than ten seconds!”

I was just wondering how much more complicated this whole mess could get when Dave turned to his team. “Okay, let’s pack it up,” he said calmly. “Our ride’s nearly here.”

Within two minutes we were all ready to board the truck, which was just now slowing to a stop in front of the farmhouse.

“Stay inside until Mehdi opens the back doors,” Dave had ordered, so we waited and watched while the driver parked his rig, hopped down, and walked around to the back of the truck. He carried a flashlight, which trembled as he trained it first on the road, then on the back of the truck. He never flashed it at the farmhouse. Maybe he’d been told not to. After some fumbling, he threw open the doors.

“All right,” Dave whispered into the small headset he and his team all wore for communications. “Let’s go.”

It wasn’t far from the farmhouse to the road. Maybe thirty yards. Of dirt. Yeah, I know. It sucked. No trees to hide behind. No little outbuildings. No cover whatsoever. But it worked in our favor too: We’d see anyone coming well before the bullets could hit us.

Dave had set Terrence and Ashley at the windows to guard our move. Terrence operated their SAW, a lovely light machine gun currently set on a tripod for maximum stability. Ashley, not willing to entrust this duty to his new Manx, held his M4 ready.

Dave led us out with Cassandra by his side. I hadn’t been sure about mixing my people with his so soon, but I could trust this pairing. So too, the next one.

Natchez, who’d told Bergman his real name was so embarrassing he’d legally changed it to his birthplace, hadn’t stopped asking him questions about his inventions since he’d broken out the guns. They’d discovered a mutual interest in weapons engineering that I figured would at least carry them through Iraq before Bergman said or did something that made Natch want to rip his face off.

Jet came next, followed by Adela. Moments later Ricardo left the farmhouse. Grace hung back, probably to keep an eye on me. Cam lingered as well. I got the feeling he wanted to make sure she behaved. And Boom decided he too could bring up the rear with Vayl, Cole and me.

With the exception of our doubled teams, everybody walked out on his or her own, advanced a few feet, stopped, crouched. Stared into the darkness. Strained to see beyond the blackness and got ready to shoot. The idea was for the guy behind to move forward, tapping the frontrunner on the shoulder as he passed. In this way we meant to leapfrog to the semi.

The first two groups had reached the truck and Mehdi had helped them inside when the reavers attacked.

They were better organized than the last bunch, coming at us almost in formation from the north side of the road. The distant whinny of horses told us how they’d arrived so quick upon the heels of the last group. They were also better armed than their predecessors. When I heard pistol fire followed by an agonized scream my heart stopped for an anguished moment as I tried to place the voice. “Doc!” somebody yelled from midpack, and then all hell broke loose.

Chapter Five

I’m still not sure how we all didn’t kill each other that night; bullets were flying so fast and furious during that battle. The reavers rolled into us, firing seemingly at random. But there was a method to their madness. Reavers operate by strict rules. I didn’t know what the punishments entailed, but they must’ve been extreme, because even the old gnarly ones wouldn’t break them. The main no-no revolved around killing. Reavers were only allowed to eliminate people who’d been Marked for murder. In other words, me. Everybody else had to survive. So while the reavers had to take me out, they only wanted to take everybody else down.

What they didn’t count on was the supreme skill and professionalism of their foes. Though they outnumbered us at least three to one at the start of the attack, within sixty seconds we’d whittled their numbers to fifteen.

Our guys had taken a couple more hits. One second Otto had been crouched near to me, a half grin on his face, saying, “If I had a wheelbarrow full of dynamite I’d blow these fuckers to Mars.” The next second he lay writhing on the ground, trying not to scream, his hip shattered. As I stood over him, nailing reavers when I had a clear shot, pulling up when I realized I’d just aimed at one of my own, I saw Ricardo drop beneath a mass of monsters. Grace had made little progress toward the truck, and was bleeding heavily from a facial wound. Still, I thought we had them.

Then two more groups appeared, coming from both our flanks. These didn’t have firearms, but we already knew the power of their claws, and several swung swords. Terrence and Ashley fired into them, but they didn’t have the right angle to get more than one or two head shots per burst.

“Form on me!” yelled David.

Our guys from the farmhouse joined us and we tried to keep moving, but they swarmed us. Terrence went down under a reaver’s claws. Vayl, seeing him fall, took the reaver’s eye with his sword and pulled the wounded man to his feet. I holstered Grief and grabbed his machine gun. Switching it to three-round burst mode, I fired into the crowd of reavers coming at me, their tongues lolling in anticipation of tasting my soul.

“Jasmine!” called Vayl. “Do not stop!”

Easier said than done. I inched forward, almost tripped over a body, ducked quickly to avoid a neck-ripping swipe, and nearly screamed as the corpse between my legs lurched to its feet. I managed to mute the scream into a squawk as I jumped back, banging into Cole in my rush to avoid the rising reaver.

“Son of a bitch!” he cried. “I missed!”

“Watch out! Watch out!” I yelled. “The dead are rising!”

All around us the reavers we’d defeated the first time around had rediscovered vertical. Multiple thoughts streaked through my mind simultaneously. Not all of them made sense, but a skilled translator might put them in the following light:

Oh Jesus! Oh crap! Zombies! The Wizard’s a necromancer. He could be around here somewhere, pulling their strings. So should I just run off into the night like some rabid raccoon and hope I luck into him? How stupid is that? Plus, it’s not him. It’s probably an apprentice. You know that. It may even be the mole. Is anybody murmuring a spell? How the hell can I tell? We are so outnumbered! Did Ashley just go down? My God, I think the semi is farther away than ever. Is that possible? Oh Jesus, was that Terrence’s leg? Don’t turn your head. I said don’t — never mind. Holy shit, that’s the barrel of a Colt .45 aimed right at my face!

The reaver, a live one, grinned wide enough to show the gap between his front teeth as his finger squeezed the trigger.

“Vayl,” I whispered, my eyes somehow tracking straight to his in my final moment.

“Jasmine!” He lunged toward me, too late. The gun boomed and I went down almost at the same time. Except the horrifying pain I expected never split into my brain. A zombie had tackled me, its puppetlike efforts to take off my head such a welcome relief to point-blank murder I actually giggled. I know. Inappropriate. That’s pretty much how it happens with me.

The zombie’s weight left me as Vayl picked it up and threw it at least twenty feet. I took the hand Vayl offered and remembered to grab the SAW as he jerked me upright. Ahead of us Cole lifted Terrence onto his shoulder. Two reavers came at him, one living, one dead. Somehow the zombie missed our guys and clawed the living reaver instead, taking out most of his face. When he turned toward us I took out his legs with my machine gun.

“What is it with these zombies?” I asked Vayl. “Not that I’m complaining. But you’d think they’d come from two-thousand-year-old corpses the way they’re behaving.”

“Maybe their master is new to the art.”

“Huh.”

“Aaaah!” I spun at the sound. The zombie behind me clutched at the gaping hole in his chest. A living reaver had circled back to the farmhouse door. Had taken a bead on me. Somehow the zombie had gotten between us.

I took aim at the zombie. Hesitated. Moved my sites to the reaver. It yelled at the zombie. Gestured for it to clear the line of fire. Instead the zombie shambled straight toward the living reaver.

What the hell?

I glanced over my shoulder, hoping for some confirmation from Vayl that he’d witnessed this bizarre event as well. He was with Otto, lifting him off the ground. Grace and Ashley were already limping away ahead of them.

I looked back. The zombie had reached the living reaver. Grabbed the gun. Moved clear. I took the shot. The reaver fell dead. I waited for the zombie to make its next move. It hesitated. Appeared to study the gun as if it wasn’t sure what to do with it and, in the process, managed to blow its own head off.

“Jasmine!”

“Coming!”

I ran to join Vayl and Otto, guarding them the rest of the way to the truck. I had to take out three more zombies. More a matter of immobilizing them with leg shots than actually destroying them, since you can only turn them off by distracting or killing the necromancer whose spirit moved them in the first place.

Multiple hands reached out and helped us into the back of the semi.

“Jet,” Dave said, “you ride with Mehdi for now.”

With a sharp nod, Jet jumped out. “Everybody set?” he asked grimly.

“Yeah, close the doors,” Dave told him.

Moments later we were sealed inside, speeding away from a battle that really had been my responsibility. Maybe I should’ve aborted the mission when I woke inside that Chinook with the taste of hell still fresh on my tongue. But I just couldn’t see the Department of Defense saying, “No, really, Ms. Parks, we don’t mind taking it up the wazoo because you were disturbed by something you saw in a dream.”

Unfortunately not all of my truckmates saw it that way. As soon as Dave lit the lantern, I encountered the blood-stained glare of Amazon Grace. She clearly wanted to slam me against the wall and pound me purple. I gave her a courtroom stare — no emotion whatsoever — and moved my gaze onward.

Most of the group was busy with the wounded. Special Ops folks cross-train like elite athletes, so while each has his or her specialty, they can also back each other up in a pinch. Cam and Natchez took turns laboring over Otto and Ashley, Cam with a couple of syringes that I assumed held painkiller, Natch with antibacterial spray, gauze, and tape.

Dave crouched beside Ricardo, who’d been shot in the arm and — “I know,” he muttered. “I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

“I keep telling you to keep your ass down,” Dave said. The bullet had gone clear through his right butt cheek, leaving his pants soaked with blood.

Dave glanced over at the medic. “Adela,” he said, “how’s Terrence?” The native New Yorker was by far the worst of the wounded. His ankle had nearly been torn off by a close-range shot. She’d tied a tourniquet around it, but nobody was sure he’d be able to keep his foot. He’d also suffered gaping wounds across his chest where, after repeated hits, the reaver’s claws had sheared through his body armor.

Adela shrugged. “They all need to be evacuated,” she told him. “The sooner, the better.” Her eyes darted to Vayl’s and then away so fast you’d have thought she had a crush on him. Until you saw the sign she made with her right hand.

Since I was sitting beside him it was easy to lean against his shoulder, give him the sideways nod.

See that?

The slight raise of his chin signaled he had. It was an ancient gesture made popular recently by a bunch of girls who’d achieved CNN status by declaring that a coven of vampires had tried to bewitch them over to the dark side. They said they’d saved themselves by using the sign to ward off evil. Called mano cornuto, it’s a gesture originated in Italy where the index and pinky fingers of the left hand are raised while the others are curled into the palm. So apparently if you’re a Texas Longhorns fan, making this gesture gets you both loyalty

and

protection from evil.

As soon as these teenyboppers opened their mouths I knew a couple of things for sure. The vampire community, the ones trying to blend, to live in peace with humans and other supernatural beings, were probably laughing their asses off at the girls’ choice of verbiage. Vamps don’t organize into covens. Nor do they do any bewitching. Hypnotizing, yeah, but not bewitching. And they probably agreed with me that the dark side is mainly reserved for people who need to replace their lightbulbs.

I also knew life wasn’t going to improve for Vayl or

others

like him while people like Adela were running around forking their fingers at them. And that was just the mild stuff. Before we’d boarded our Learjet for Germany, FOX News had reported that a group of drunken rednecks had lynched a woman in Alabama. They’d accused her of practicing black magic, hexing one of their buddies so that he couldn’t perform in the bedroom. And who knows, maybe they were right. Problem was, although the hanging had been carried out in broad daylight on the courthouse lawn, nobody would step up and point out the perpetrators.

It’s an old story, I guess. People get away with murder all the time. In the end it does matter who you know, how much money’s in your account, and who gives a crap about you. It shouldn’t. But it does.

On this mission, it would help a ton if our team of backup ass kickers felt friendly toward us. But sentiment seemed to be leaning hard in the other direction as the wounded sat stoically, staring at the ceiling, trying not to cry out as their comrades patched them up.

Bergman joined Cole, Vayl, and I at the far corner of the semi, closest to the doors. Cassandra moved toward us as well, lost her balance, and nearly fell. Dave half rose and caught her, his hands steadying her at the waist as she found her equilibrium. “You okay?” he asked kindly.

She nodded, but her lips began to tremble, and moments later tears rolled down her cheeks. She hid her face, turned to go, but Dave pulled her into his arms. He rubbed her back tenderly. Whispered into her ear. She made some soft reply. I strained to hear, wishing my enhanced Sensitivity involved audio. It didn’t. I’d just have to worm the information out of Cassandra the old-fashioned way.

I looked around the truck, gauging reactions to the chick flick. Most of the guys had decided to pretend it wasn’t happening. Adela flicked another warding gesture at Cassandra. How original. And Amazon Grace looked thunderously pissed. Only Cam and Natchez exchanged grins.

Vayl bent toward me to murmur, “Amazing, is it not?”

“What?”

“How effortlessly some slip into love.”

I snorted. “I’d hardly call it that,” I whispered, trying to keep the sibilance out of my voice. I didn’t want him to know his comment pissed me off. “They’ve known each other for what, five minutes?”

Vayl put his finger under my chin, lifting my face to make sure I met his eyes. It was only the second time he’d touched me in weeks. I’d tried to forget how the simple brush of his skin against mine could zap me like an electric wire. It disturbed me, made me feel like I spent most of my time operating on standby. Like I was only fully functional when I was aware of how much Vayl could rock my world, if I let him.

“Love knows no boundaries,” he said, his eyes that soft amber hue I’d begun to equate with the finer emotions.

“Neither do horses,” I drawled.

He dropped his hand. Sat back. “What do you mean by that?”

“You lead them to a barrel full of oats, they’ll eat till their stomachs burst. You put them in a pasture, they’ll run off if you don’t fence it. They don’t even go to the same spot to crap every time so you can manage their manure.”

So much for amber. Vayl’s eyes hardened to blue, which was how I could tell I’d affected his emotions pretty much the way I’d attempted to. He said, “I assume you have a point to make with this semihysterical outpouring.”

“Just because something doesn’t have boundaries doesn’t mean it’s good. Or right. Or even possible.”

“What is your problem with Cassandra and David?”

“David just lost his wife. He’s not ready for a serious relationship.”

“It has been well over a year, Jasmine —”

“He’s not ready. End of story.”

But Vayl wouldn’t let it go that easy. He gave me his sternest gaze. “Whose feelings are you describing now, really? Your twin’s? Or your own?”

Chapter Six

Sometimes I get songs stuck in my head. I had one playing right now, even as I snoozed. It was that Kenny Loggins hit “I’m Alright.” And I knew why. When we were seventeen Dave and I had snuck off to a Van Halen concert. Ordinarily he’d have gone with a group of his cool friends. But it was summer, we’d just moved to town, and he hadn’t had a chance to make a name for himself as a stellar running back, or point guard, or pole vaulter.

In my dream we were closer to the stage, near enough to piss off Security if we decided to throw something more life threatening than panties. The opener, a band called Ringgs, was covering the song and doing damn well. The lead singer, an anorexic mike swallower who thought he was stud enough to go shirtless, sang, “You wanna listen to the man? Pay attention to the magistrate.”

I glanced at Dave, swigging his beer, flirting with the girl dancing next to him, and wished I could get to know people that easy. When I looked back at the stage everything had changed.

One by one, the band members ripped off their outer skins, revealing the same demonic faces I’d seen on my visit to hell. Uldin Beit pounded the drums, her flayed back oozing as she flew through the song. Her fiendish pathologist, Sian-Hichan, fingered the bass guitar. A huge, broad-shouldered demon with the horns of a ram played lead guitar. And center stage, his voice tearing at my heart, stood the Magistrate himself.

I pinched myself. Nothing. Gave my cheek a slap. Looked around. The scene remained the same. “Dave, wake up!”

“Dude, I’m fully conscious!” he yelled, rolling his eyes at me as he dropped an arm around Neighbour Girl’s shoulders.

The Magistrate finished the song, raised both hands above his head, like he wanted to catch the wave of thunderous applause and throw it over his shoulders as a mantle. When he lowered his arms, he pointed both forefingers at me. “Come.”

I rose into the air, as if some roadies had attached wires to my belt while I was buying my ticket.

Oohs and aahs from the crowd as I gulped down a scream. I’d looked up. And seen fire. This was no dream. Somehow I was back in hell. Without Raoul. My only comfort was that I’d also seen the golden cord that connected my soul to my body. Small comfort however, in that none of the other cords that bound me to my closest friends and relatives were visible. Worse, something green and slimy had encased the cord. I could almost feel it, like an infection on my heart.

The “wires” broke about ten feet above the stage. I landed and rolled the way I’d been taught, sustaining no damage because I wasn’t in a real body anymore. On my feet again, I felt for weapons. But of course I’d come with nothing corporeal. The Magistrate laughed heartily.

“What a little spitfire you are!” he cried as he approached me. I backed to the edge of the stage. Thought about jumping. But he’d just pull me up again.

“How did you bring me here?” I demanded, sounding a lot braver than I felt.

He poked a finger toward my forehead. I jerked back before he could touch me. “You’re Marked, little girl — Uldin Beit’s blood has bought you a spiritual tatoo. And do you know what that means? I can find you anywhere. I can take your soul anytime I please.” He grinned. Gorgeous freaking demon, he could’ve made the cover of

GQ

twelve months running. And yet my only response was a wave of terror so huge I felt it freezing my brain, numbing my senses. And I knew I was quickly becoming the victim he wished me to be.

I curled my fingers into fists. Though Cirilai was just the ghost of a ring, I still felt it warm on my finger, reminding me of who I was. Of who believed in me. The wave subsided just enough to allow me to hear my own voice, desperate, strident, practically hoarse from trying to be heard over the fear.

Come on, Jaz, if he could really take your soul, he’d have done it to start with. You’ve been in bigger trouble. Not often. But you survived. Just stay on your toes and don’t, for God’s sake, do not freak.

“You can’t make me stay here,” I said.

“I am the Magistrate,” he crowed, throwing his hair back as if he knew just how beautifully it set off his profile. “I can do anything I like.” He pointed out to the audience. “See?”

My neck creaked as everything in me wished I didn’t have to turn. To look. But I did. The adoring screams had changed while my eyes moved from him. As I stared outward I wished I had the means to vomit. They’d been crucified. Every one of them, nailed to crosses that spun like windmills. Except my brother. He was gone. What did that mean?

That you have some control

.

I tested my cord. I should be able to travel right back to my body along its length. But the stuff covering it acted as a roadblock. I’d have to figure out a way to blast it off before I could get back to my body. And soon. Already the gold had begun to fade. If I waited too long I’d lose that line and never be able to find my way home.

I stared at the Magistrate.

Which was your plan all along, wasn’t it, asswipe? Just keep me here until I had no other choice.

“I like your hair,” said the Magistrate. I ignored him, concentrated on moving up my line, but force would not remove the glop that encased the cord. “You know what that shock of white tells me?” he inquired. As if we were having a polite conversation, he went on. “It says you have a very close relative in hell who touched you on your last tour.”

I looked at him then, narrowed my eyes, barely bit back a threat. Anything I said could endanger my mother.

He giggled with delight. “You two will have such fun together.”

“I’m not staying,” I said. I closed my eyes.

Raoul, I’m in deep trouble here. Any ideas?

No reply. I didn’t really expect any. Hell was probably way out of Raoul’s calling area.

Another chorus of screams opened my eyes. They came, not from the audience, but from the band. A group of fighters had rushed the stage from the back. Dressed all in white, including masks that covered everything but their eyes, they attacked the demons with weapons that glittered so brightly it was hard to look at them.

I wished Cole was with me so he could verbalize what I was thinking. He’d pop a big old grape bubble and say with childlike wonder, “They are like ninjas from heaven.”

Two of them swung on Uldin Beit with curved swords carved with runes that glowed in turns, as if the sword itself was somehow speaking as its wielder fought.

Uldin responded with surprising speed, leaping from her stool and spinning her sticks like nunchakus. With each spin the sticks grew, until she held a couple of mallets with round heads sprouting sharp points. Medieval weaponry fans would’ve called them morning stars. I thought they looked too evil for such a pretty name.

Two more light-coated warriors swarmed Sian-Hichan. This duet carried swords as well, only they were straighter, bulkier, built for heavy lifting. Sian-Hichan swung the guitar over his head, slammed it against the stage. Instead of scattering Gibson parts as far as the eye could see, he pulled back holding a double-headed battle axe. And damned if he couldn’t swing that thing like Paul Bunyan on a bet.

The third demon had already fallen by the time I glanced at him. His three opponents were still beating him with what looked like miniature silver telephone poles. The Magistrate had uncoiled his whip in readiness to rescue his fallen bandmate when he was attacked himself.

Built like a heavyweight boxer, his single foe didn’t seem to need or want assistance. He rammed into the Magistrate, making his eyes do a dance I called the oh-shit-blink-and-pop, widening the way they will when one has just encountered a force of nature. The two went down, trading punches, wrestling for control over the whip.

The white fighter clocked the Magistrate solidly to the nose. Blood went flying as both it, and the Magistrate’s grip on the whip, broke. The fighter rolled free, armed now, and apparently well versed in the offensive capabilities of a tightly braided length of steel-tipped leather. He cracked the whip against the Magistrate’s side as he rolled to avoid the hit. Got him in the back too before the Magistrate caught the whip on the third strike. A brief tug-of-war followed, during which the whip broke.

The Magistrate screamed in fury, a sound echoed by Uldin Beit as her attackers overwhelmed her, one of them skewering her as the other lopped off the lower half of her arm.

Sian-Hichan still held his own, fighting with the mindless rage of a berserker. His axe blurred as he swung at his attackers, its bloody edge and their wariness both witness to his effectiveness.

The wet slap of fists on flesh brought my attention back to the Magistrate and his opponent. Now they fought hand-to-hand, throwing kicks, blocks, and punches with a speed that astonished me. Honestly, you just don’t see fighting like that in the world. At least not outside of a movie screen. It looked almost — choreographed. The Magistrate jumped and spun, his kick just barely missing the white fighter’s skull. Only a late block by the fighter followed by a flurry of kicks to the ribs kept him in the game.

The Magistrate tried a knife hand to the neck, missed high, and instead ripped the mask off his opponent, who looked at me with such alarm you’d have thought I was about to turn state’s evidence against him.

My knees folded like the paper fans my sister, Evie, and I used to make from Granny May’s church bulletins. I don’t guess I hit the stage gracefully. That would’ve been too much to ask. I did land on my ass, and since I wasn’t corporeal it didn’t hurt. It wasn’t pretty either. But my mind had no room left in it for that kind of thinking. It was full. Brimming over, in fact, with the discovery I’d just made.

My late fiancé was a ninja from heaven.

Chapter Seven

Some things you just know. I’d stood at Granny May’s bedside as she’d drawn her last breath. I’d watched her eyes empty, and I’d known she was gone. Where she went, well, that we could debate all day long. But she’d left our realm, of that I was certain.

So at my core, where I absolutely refused to bullshit myself, I knew this moment was too good to be true. But I wanted it so badly that the rest of me took some convincing.

“Matt?” I whispered.

He didn’t have time to reply. The Magistrate had closed in, whacked him good with a combination of punches that backed him up several paces. But by then his comrades had finished with their demons. They joined him, turning the tide, whaling on the Magistrate with their various weapons until he sprawled on the floor, looking like an autopsy photo.

A sick, weak feeling stole over me. I checked my connection to physical me. Uh-oh. “I have to go,” I murmured.

Within moments I was surrounded. I stood. Looked into Matt’s eyes and wished I could weep. It wasn’t him. Someone had created an excellent facsimile. But one thing I knew, just like I’d known about Granny May. When we did reunite, Matt and I would burn white-hot with the kind of flame that either eats you up or changes you forever. That’s the kind of love we shared. That’s what was missing from this Matt’s eyes.

The white fighters joined hands, raised their heads toward my fading golden cord, and sang. The cord immediately started to vibrate, to try to make its own sound, the song that made it unique to me. The slime that covered it hardened, cracked, began to flake off. The fighters sang louder and my cord responded. This time it was successful. I heard my own tune, weak but clear. I rose, following it toward my body slowly, almost hand over hand as the shell that had stranded me fell away. I picked up my pace, refusing to look over my shoulder, to thank my rescuers because I wasn’t even sure that’s what they were. I speeded back to myself. Trying not to think. Trying to outrun my breaking heart.

I took a swift look around to re-orient myself before I entered my body. It hurts like hell and I needed to know just how much teeth gritting would be required. A lot. The room was full.

We’d arrived in Tehran before dawn and set up in the building our people had rented for us the week before. A new construction, the white, four-story hexagon with dark brown trim housed three fairly luxurious apartments built right on top of a parking garage that could fit five cars and a midsize RV.

Only the downstairs apartment had been furnished, so that’s where we’d crashed. Not all of us. We’d stopped once, just before crossing the border, to transfer our wounded to a helicopter along with Adela, which was a shame, since she was the only team member besides Dave who I knew couldn’t be the mole. She was just too superstitious to work with a necromancer.

She hadn’t expected to go. The helicopter crew had brought a doc along with them and, for obvious reasons, units like Dave’s kept their medics close at hand. But Dave had made it an order.

“I know how you feel about the vamp and the Seer,” he’d told her quietly as the healthy guys helped the wounded aboard the chopper. “That’s not a problem I need on this mission. I’m sending you back to Germany. Once there, you’ll be reassigned.”

“I don’t understand,” she’d said, anger beginning to stir behind her dark brown eyes. “I’ve done excellent work here.” She gestured to the guys.

See? All alive

.

Dave cocked his head to one side. “Six weeks ago my best connection to the Wizard was killed in an ambush. In her efforts to save him, my medic gave him CPR. He was a werejackal. Tell me, Adela, could you have put your mouth on his and blown your breath into his lungs?”

The eeww-gross expression that sped across her face before she could blank it out told the story. As soon as she knew she’d been had, she dropped the facade and let ’er rip. “Those creatures are evil. Every one of them should be put down.” The scorn in her voice infuriated me. As if God himself had given her the necessary moral superiority to decide the fate of anyone different from her. I didn’t realize I’d taken a step toward her. That my fists were clenched and I was prepared to swing until Dave grabbed my arm. But he couldn’t shut me up.

“Those creatures have been living on this earth as long as we have. Some would argue that, even now, we survive only because a few of their most powerful leaders know it’s in their best interests to live alongside us, even with us, rather than without us.”

“They’re monsters,” Adela snapped.

“Keep thinking that,” I told her. “Pretty soon you’ll find yourself scrubbing toilets in some veteran’s hospital. And you know what? When I bring my dad in for his colonoscopy, I’m sure he’ll have to take a piss right before, and I’m not going to remind him to lift the lid.”

“Jaz!” Dave didn’t need to say another word. I knew by his tone I’d gone too far. Again. But, dammit, I was getting so sick of this shit! Most of these bigots had never met a supernatural being in their lives and were operating either from family-held superstitions or media-hyped fears. To be fair, lots of vamps and weres and witches were scary bad. Otherwise I’d be out of business. But then, so were plenty of humans.

With nowhere to go but backward, I joined my crew on the road and let Dave’s team say their goodbyes. It had been an emotional parting for them, tough to watch by its very lack of tears and bear hugs. Vicelike handshakes with the second hand clutching a shoulder or elbow. Tight-jawed promises to “See you as soon as we get back” and demands to “Take care of yourself.” And from Terrence, Ashley, Ricardo, and Otto, of all things, apologies. “Sorry I let you down.” “I hate like hell to miss this.” “I’m so sorry, man.” I finally had to turn away.

“It is not your fault these men are hurt,” Vayl told me as we walked back to the truck. When I didn’t reply, his hand, startlingly warm on my shoulder, stopped me. He turned me to face him. “Jasmine?”

“I could say it’s Uldin Beit’s fault,” I told him miserably. “Or Desmond Yale’s. I could mention the fact that these guys knew the risks when they signed up. And maybe I’d even be right. But

I

feel responsible for their wounds. Their pain. If I’d just —”

Vayl ran his thumb across my lips. Usually I’m not that easy to silence. But suddenly I couldn’t think of a thing to say. “They will be all right,” he whispered.

He’d leaned in to speak the words. If I rose up on my toes, my lips would just brush his. And why in the world would I think that would be okay right here, right now?

Because you want it that bad. Admit it, at least to yourself. If you thought your heart could handle it, you’d lay this vampire down.

I took a deep breath. Focused on the job. Let it pull me back from the edge yet again. “Maybe we should send them all back. Do this thing ourselves, like we should have all along.”

“Their unit would still be compromised.”

“You think the mole is still with us?”

“I would say the chances are excellent.”

“About that. Did you see anybody signal from the farmhouse before the second attack?”

“No.”

“Me neither. But those zombies didn’t just come out of nowhere. And the mole wouldn’t have known they’d be needed until after the first attack.”

“I agree. Therefore, they must have set up quite an imperceptible means of communication.”

“I’ll ask Bergman about it. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.”

That proved difficult, however, since the semi, and then the apartment building, provided hardly any privacy. And when we did split up to sleep, we’d gone boy-girl, so Cassandra and I shared a room with Grace. Her wound had turned out to be superficial. Where was the fair in that?

Exhausted from our battles and a long night on the road with hardly any shut-eye, we’d slept until two, when Dave had mustered his troops and my crew. The exception, of course, was Vayl. He remained in his light-impervious tent, which he’d pitched on top of an ornate, gold-rimmed bed upholstered in blue and white fabric that looked to have been designed for a queen. Or, um, a king. Who happened to be a vampire. Anyway.

For the past hour we’d taken turns showering and eating, each of us finally wandering into the high-ceilinged living room, which had been plastered and painted a cheery buttercup. Recessed lights pinpointed a modern fireplace, forget the mantel, and a chocolate-brown floor with a large triangular inlay that was probably cheaper than it looked. In this room the rugs had been hung on the walls, with thinly cushioned chairs lined up underneath like hotel lobby afterthoughts. The center of the room had been left empty in case, I don’t know, we wanted to play a quick game of shuffleboard?

“Cassandra,” I said to my friend, who was pretending not to notice Dave was pretending not to notice her. Ick. “This room sucks. Let us lay some rearrangement on it, shall we?”

She nodded hard enough to make her braids bounce, making me realize this little mutual crush between her and my brother might actually have its humorous points, and we set to work. With six bored guys only too willing to jump in and help, we turned the place into a passable representation of an American family room in no time. Of course, we had to steal some rugs off the floors of other rooms. And a couch out of the guys’ bedroom. But we felt a lot more comfortable afterward.

Cassandra, Cole, and I landed on the couch with me in the middle, facing the fireplace and David. Bergman took one of the two chairs to our left. Cam and Jet, who absolutely refused to hate me, took the next-largest piece of furniture, which we’d placed across from the chairs. A love-seat-sized brown leather piece that had been stuffed until it looked ready to pop, it held five white furred pillows that turned out to be quite popular with the guys.

Natch, who’d kept up a dialogue with Bergman during the entire semi trip that ran the gamut from night-vision equipment to deep-sea diving, took the chair to Bergman’s left. At the moment he was entertaining Miles with a story that seemed to involve Harleys and topless biker chicks. Grace hung to the back of the room. I didn’t like that I couldn’t keep an eye on her, but I noticed Bergman glancing at her every so often. For once, I thanked my lucky stars for his natural paranoia.

Dave launched into his speech. It was supposed to be a morale booster. We needed it after losing four guys and our medic. So it was a real shame I missed the vast majority of it. About all I caught was “The good news is Ricardo, Terry, Ash, and Boom are going to be fine. As soon as this mission is over we’re headed back to Germany. Yeah, we’ll be training like new recruits during the week, but the weekends will be ours. And we won’t leave that country until our unit is whole again.”

It had come on me without warning. And, really, what would I have done if I’d felt queasy? Or faint? Are you kidding? Surrounded by some of the toughest people on the planet? I’d have probably sat right in that spot if a meteorite had burst through the ceiling and landed on my lap. And that’s what my body did. Sat there, breathing, blinking, looking like it gave a crap about Dave’s message while the Magistrate sucked my soul straight to hell.

Dave had nearly finished talking when I returned. His audience looked somewhat cheered. Except for me. I seemed pale. Slightly blue around the lips. Cassandra had begun to look at me with concern. Time to dive in.

I managed not to yell. Just barely. Couldn’t help sucking in my breath though. I buried my fingernails in my thighs. God, it felt like all my organs had jumped a foot. And, folks, those puppies are not meant to riverdance.

Cassandra leaned toward me, reaching out, whispering, “Are you all right?”

“Don’t —” I hissed.

Too late. Her hand landed on mine, just a moment, before it jerked away. Wide, horrified eyes stared into mine. I imagine I looked a little peeved. I wanted to jump up and down, toddler-style, and yell, “Stop touching me!”

Dave was too good a commander to interrupt his speech to confront us just then, though his glance told us we’d been had. “So let’s review the plan,” he continued. “As soon as it’s dark we’ll scout the location. Remember not to speak to anyone. With Otto gone, only Cole knows Farsi well enough to pass for a native. And even disguised, he looks foreign enough that most folks won’t be fooled.”

“Are you kidding me?” Cam interjected, motioning at Cole with mock disgust. “He looks like his high school drama teacher went nuts with the spirit gum and the sheep wool!”

“I’ll have you know this is the real deal!” Cole said, tugging at his beard. Then he grinned. “I do look like I should be selling pot out of the back of my love van, don’t I?”

Even Dave laughed at that one. “If you are cornered,” he went on, “remember you’re Canadian students with relatives living in Tehran. You all have your passports and ID papers to prove it. Don’t lose them. Natch, is your camera ready?”

Natchez patted the pocket of his brown plaid shirt. “Yeah.”

“Good. We’ll want as many pictures as possible. We’ll be recreating the interior of the location on one of the upper floors so we can practice the takeout when we get back.” He didn’t need to tell them they’d only have one chance at this. They couldn’t make any mistakes. However, with a mole in the unit, he also couldn’t tell them they’d be scouting a false location and practicing the wrong moves for a bogus meeting. Only Dave, Vayl, and I knew the real time, date, and spot of the Wizard’s rendezvous with destiny. If we unearthed the mole before that time, Dave’s unit would join our hunt. If not, Vayl and I would be on our own.

Chapter Eight

Once the meeting disbanded, I gave Dave and my crew the come-hither nod and they followed me to the bedroom where Vayl slumbered. Without breathing. Helluva trick, yeah? One of the reasons I find him so fascinating.

Before anyone could talk I held up my right hand, pointed my left at Bergman. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, slid an item the size of a credit card from it, and replaced the wallet. Holding the card flat in one hand, he slid his thumb along its length. A whirring sound preceded the release of small wings that unfolded from each edge of the card, making it resemble a miniature saw blade. He flung the card into the air, Frisbee style. It flew on its own power, circling the room in ever-tightening circles. When it had completed its scan, it zipped to a spot next to the bed, where a white-shaded lamp sat on a round golden table.

I nodded to Cole. Check it. While he looked for the bug, the card moved on to a cherry valet with a built-in seat. It dropped to the floor there, so we must only have two devices to worry about. I found what I was looking for in a hollow inside the leg.

I motioned for Bergman to come and deal with the bug. He pulled a small tool kit from his back pocket. It contained an eye dropper with a plug on the business end. He pulled off the plug and bathed the bug in the liquid it contained. Cole had found his nasty, so he did the same lamp side. “Okay,” Bergman sighed as he replaced the plug, the dropper, and the bug snooper. “We’re good to talk.”

“Won’t the mole find it suspicious that his bugs died just while we were in the room?” David asked.

Bergman shook his head. “I just doped them with” — he glanced at me, his nose and upper lip pinching in his nunya-bizness-Jack look — “let’s just call it a robotic component that makes it seem as if the bug is picking up conversation. The listener will think he’s picking up words and snatches of phrases, but it’s all preprogrammed gibberish. The fault will be blamed on technical difficulties, not us.”

“You’re good.”

Bergman beamed. I hated to cut off his ego-feed, but, “So’s our mole,” I cautioned. “We’ve made it a point to keep an eye on Vayl all day, since he’s an obvious threat to the Wizard. Nobody’s been in here without one of us. But I guess we knew we were dealing with a smooth operator. And right now, that’s not at the top of our priority list.” I described the incident with the Magistrate. “He said he could find me anywhere as long as I had this Mark on me.” I resisted rubbing my forehead. Barely. “I’m sure the same is true of the reavers. And Raoul and my” — I stole a glance at Dave, noticed the way his brows were lowering, and decided to omit the fact that we might have a close relative in hell — “well, Raoul said I needed to get it off. So. Anybody have any idea how you remove a demonic Mark?”

Bergman looked at Cassandra. “Do you want me to get the Enkyklios?” Everybody took a second to stop and stare. I think for all of us that was the moment we realized his desire to break out, be more, was genuine. Was, in fact, going to take him places he’d never dreamed of going before. Three weeks ago he wouldn’t have touched Cassandra’s library with a welder’s glove. But even he was willing to admit that if any information existed that could help me, the Enkyklios probably held it. Cassandra shook her head.

“Thank you, no, I . . . I already know what to do.” Biting her lip, she walked to the window and pulled back the heavy blue drape. A sliver of sunshine framed her hands and face, highlighting the droop of her lips, the crinkling between her exquisitely arched brows.

Cole and I, having witnessed that expression before, understood the drill. He grabbed a pillow from the bench that sat at the base of the bed and handed it to her. I put my arm around her shoulder and patted gently. As she held the pillow to her chest, struggling with memories that might, or might not, bring on a torrent of tears, we stood close enough to speak privately if we all chose to whisper. Everyone did. At least to start with.

“You look pretty spooked,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I have lived a hundred lives. I suppose it’s inevitable there would be a few I’d prefer to forget.”

Bergman entered our circle. “You don’t have to whisper, you know. My bug stunners aren’t prototypes.” Bergman’s new innovations tended to fizz out or blow up unexpectedly.

Cassandra sighed. “That’s not —” She shook her head and smiled at him. “You are an original.” She looked over his shoulder at Dave, standing alone and somewhat forlorn in the middle of the room. “Come,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Join us.”

He nodded, melded with our little group as if he was the last kid to find base in a game of tag.

Cassandra looked deep into his eyes. When her own filled with tears, she dropped her gaze. “During the fifteen hundreds I lived on an island near Haiti. It was small. Privately owned by a merchant farmer named Anastas Ocacio.” Her jaw jutted, as if her teeth must shovel the words over her tongue. “Ocacio fancied himself an aristocrat. Despite the heat he wore stockings with garters and a floor-length gown. He oiled his hair, which was thick with dandruff and stank so badly we used to draw straws to see who would serve him supper. The first time I came to his table he pulled me down and whispered in my ear, ‘I must have you.’ The stench of his rotting teeth nearly made me faint.”

She shrugged, as if to rid herself of his grasping memory, but it hung on. “My circumstances being what they were, I had no choice in the matter.” She fell silent, giving us time to make the leap. It took a while. Even four hundred years ago women could often throw a glass of wine in a sleazy guy’s face and kick his ass out the door. But a black woman? I could only think of one situation where her choices might have been so severely limited.

“Cassandra,” I whispered, “were you a slave?”

Her nod resembled one of Vayl’s. Barely an acknowledgment at all.

Dave immediately took her hands. The anguish on his face seemed to bewilder her. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“You had nothing to do with it,” she said.

“We’re white,” I told her grimly. “We can’t help it that those assholes were the same color as we are. But we’re ashamed of it just the same.”

Cassandra stared at each of us for a moment before she finally nodded. “After that first night, I swore I would die before I let him touch me again.” Even now, centuries later, the memories made her ill. Cole put out a hand to steady her and she gave him a grateful look. “I knew how to summon demons. Back in Seffrenem — my country,” she added for Dave’s benefit, “we had often fought demonic cults. You cannot combat them successfully without knowing their methods.”

“What did you do?” asked Bergman.

“I gathered together a short list of ingredients, common items you can find in most pantries. When it was mixed and ready, it resembled a small bowl of brick-colored concrete. I sat inside a protective circle and painted the Mark around my eyes. Then I pricked my finger and let the blood drip all around me as I spoke the words of summoning.”

“What came?” I asked, half suspecting she’d describe the Magistrate.

“A demoness. I have rarely seen such beauty. And yet she horrified me. Does that make any sense?”

“Oh yeah.”

So Cassandra made a deal with the devil, who took Anastas Ocacio for a long, bumpy ride that left him screaming for mercy. “It took them three days to find all the pieces of him,” Cassandra finished. “And by the fourth I had found my way off the island. I had also found a holy man.”

“So he removed the Mark?” Dave asked.

“No. But he blessed the water that I washed my eyes with. And he gave me a special prayer that protects me against the demon’s return. As long as I do those two things every day as soon as I wake, I’m fine.”

“Wait a second,” said Cole. “Do you mean to say you’ve been washing your face with holy water for the last four centuries?”

“Yes.”

“Without fail?”

“Yes.”

“Or else the demon will come get you?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. I’m trying to remember the last time I did anything for even a month straight.”

“You shave.”

He scratched at his beard. “Usually.”

“You brush your teeth.”

“That’s true.”

“It is that routine for me.”

“You know what? I think I’ll avoid demons anyway.”

Cassandra nodded, the ghost of a smile flitting across her face. “It’s probably for the best.”

Bergman said, “So it sounds like Jaz just needs to wash the spot with holy water. Except” — he looked at me — “do you even know where the spot is?”

I thought of the Magistrate poking a finger at my forehead. And my mom rubbing my noggin raw as she said plaintively, “It won’t come out.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I believe I do.”

Chapter Nine

After a brief intermission during which I anointed my own forehead, learned Cassandra’s prayer, and felt suitably guilty for not summoning a minister to oversee the whole shebang despite the obvious danger it would’ve caused her — I moved on to the next order of business.

“So, now that the Magistrate can’t come after me, why do you think he let me go the way he did? Why make me think Matt rescued me?”

“It depends what he knows about you,” said Dave. “Looking at it from a military perspective at least, you’ve got to wonder what he stands to gain from your release if he thinks you’re just some girl as opposed to —”

“A Sensitive who has died twice and been brought back twice by Raoul. To fight for Raoul.”

“So, assuming the Magistrate somehow has access to your background, how much do we really know about Raoul?” asked Dave. We looked at each other. Not a lot. There was that undercurrent that, when you started to translate it into words, began to erode. And made you look idiotic for trusting it. All we really knew for sure was that he was a force for good in the world. That we worked for him. And now I might be in trouble as a result.

I reached into my jacket for my cards. I wished I could shuffle them, but for now it would have to be enough just to hold them in my hand and pace. “Okay, let’s put ourselves in the demon’s head if we can. What do they always want?”

“Souls,” everybody chorused.

“He could’ve had mine easy. I was good and stuck, but he let me go.”

“Bait for the bigger fish?” suggested Dave.

“As in Raoul?” I asked. “If I thought Matt was working for Raoul in another capacity, would I go running back to him, demanding an explanation? Yeah, maybe. Even if it meant certain death for me. In which case, the Magistrate could easily follow me, because of the Mark. He could grab Raoul while he was sitting there with his defenses down and, no doubt, take me along with him.”

“Should you warn him?”

I frowned at my brother. “Don’t you two ever talk?”

He suddenly found the curtain rod fascinating. “This is the job I was meant to do. I figure if he has a problem with my performance he’ll let me know.”

Okay. So maybe Dave was more of a consultant. Like Bergman. And Raoul was waiting for just the right time to access his skills. Which might take forever if they had to actually talk. Because communication is such a two-edged sword for guys. On the one hand, they almost always mean what they say. Refreshing, I know. On the other hand, getting them to actually say it can be like coaxing a corpse to tap dance. Not that it can’t be done. But it’s so freaking exhausting. Not to mention the cost in heavyweight fishing line and Savion Glover videos.

I sighed. “Yes, I’ll speak to him. By the way, Grace isn’t your mole. Vayl and I have been taking turns watching her almost since we arrived. We found her behavior the most . . . suspect,” I told him, feeling slightly apologetic now I knew she was innocent. An ass, yes, but a loyal one. “She hasn’t been in this room at all.”

“So who do we have left?” Dave murmured sadly. “The mole is either Cam, Jet, or Natchez.” He went to the bench and sank down onto it, clasping his hands between his knees, staring at the ornate carpet. Cassandra followed, sat beside him.

“Can you tell us more about these men?” she asked.

“What about you?” he snapped. “Why can’t you just tap them and tell who’s betrayed me?”

She flinched, almost as if he’d hit her. “I’m sorry,” he said instantly. “I just can’t believe . . . you can’t imagine what we’ve been through together.”

“Our original plan was for me to try to divine their purposes,” Cassandra assured him. “Unfortunately, something happened to me the moment I touched you. I was afraid to speak. And I wasn’t sure until I linked with Jasmine just now. And nothing happened. Then I knew. I’ve gone muddled.”

I guess we were all kind of gaping at her like seals at the zoo, hoping for a jaw full of fish. Tears sprang to her eyes. “It’s not something over which I have any control. One doesn’t plan for these things!”

“What do you mean by muddled?” I asked.

Cassandra tended to play with her hands when nervous. Since she wore multiple rings on her long, slender fingers, it was a wonder little golden circlets weren’t popping off her knuckles like tiddlywinks. She darted one glance at Dave and then refused to look at him anymore as she told me, “Sometimes a Seer who is overwhelmed by a strong emotion becomes so inundated by all the wonderful possibilities that emotion opens up to her that she can See no other visions. That is what has happened to me.”

It took me about a half a second to get it, and then, oh baby, did I! “You mean —”

“Yes,” she interrupted, “exactly.”

“I don’t get it,” said Cole. He moved to sit on the valet chair. His costume looked odd to me, though his beige-and-white-striped shirt and olive-green pants weren’t that different from any of the other guys’. Then I realized I was missing the red high-tops he typically wore. “Are you, like, too scared to See?” he asked her.

“No.”

“Then what is it?” asked Bergman.

Cassandra gave me a pleading look.

I shook my head, too unsure of how I felt about the event to actually describe it aloud. “I think you’re going to have to tell them,” I said.

“Now?”

Dave took Cassandra’s hand in his. Her eyes went wide and a bemused sort of half smile spread across her face as he said, “Look, I’d appreciate anything you can do. Wondering which one of my brothers stabbed me in the back is pretty much killing me.”

“I want to help.” Cassandra ducked her head. “I just can’t right now.” She shrugged, spoke in a voice so low I think only Dave and I heard her. “Maybe love really is blind.”

Dave stared at her for a couple of beats before his whole countenance lifted, as if a plastic surgeon had slid a computer printout in front of his actual face and said, “See, I can make you look ten years younger!”

Before our newest couple could get with the romance, I turned to Bergman. “We need to figure out how our traitor is contacting the Wizard. Nobody left the farmhouse, but either the Wizard or one of his apprentices knew to raise those zombies. What’s that tell you?”

“The mole was probably carrying a bug. Or, more likely, had planted it on somebody else. So the Wizard knew all about the reavers. But he still had to signal the necromancer to raise the zombies, because he wouldn’t have risked coming close enough for you or Cole to sense him.” Bergman looked at Dave, who couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off Cassandra, who suddenly found the bedspread fascinating. “Yo, Romeo.” Bergman waved his hands, like a flight deck crew member clearing his pilot for takeoff.

“Uh, yeah.” Dave smirked in a way I hadn’t seen him do since he was eighteen. Good grief, what had happened to our badass military man? Had he truly been taken down by the blurry-eyed psychic?

“I’m thinking silent signal,” Bergman went on, eyeing the couple doubtfully. I wasn’t sure they were listening either. “There are a couple of different methods they might have used. We can test for them if you want. Of course we’ll have to fly to Mars for the equipment, but I’m sure we’ll be back in time for supper.”

Bergman raised his eyebrows at me as Dave glanced at Cassandra and nodded. “He’s got it bad,” Miles whispered.

“And vice versa,” I replied.

“What’re we going to do?” Cole muttered. “We need Dave in his right mind. After all, he’s kind of in charge.”

Actually, if you wanted to be anal about it, Vayl was in charge. But I wasn’t in the mood for technicalities at the moment. I took a second to observe my twin as he leaned toward Cassandra, whose hand he had not relinquished, and murmured into her ear. For a second I couldn’t place his expression, it had been that long since I’d seen it.

“He’s also happy,” I told them. And I realized, whether Vayl had been right or wrong about my reaction to it, I had to back off and let this relationship run its course. “Let’s give him that, at least for the next few minutes.” I was pretty sure neither one of them noticed when we left the room.

Chapter Ten

Cole, Bergman, and I reconvened in the girls’ bedroom. After a repeat of the flying card trick, we discovered no bugs. Not surprising. Still, we all huddled on the silver-framed bed and spoke in the hushed voices of those who are about to tell some truly gruesome ghost stories.

“Okay,” I said, “we have three suspects who we need to learn a lot about in a short amount of time without them realizing we’re doing research. Any ideas?”

“Get ’em all drunk and hire some strippers,” Cole said immediately. “You’ll find out everything you need to know in twenty minutes.”

“Nice plan,” I drawled, “in Miami. However I feel there might be a shortage of strippers in Tehran. And I believe you informed us the preferred drink here is tea.”

Cole, having run out of fingernails, began gnawing on the button of his shirt. He spat it out immediately. “Plastic sucks,” he said. “Dammit, I need gum!”

“I’m out,” I replied. “Here, chew on this.” I shoved up the sleeve of my light blue tunic, unbuckled the sheath I kept strapped around my right wrist, laid the syringe of holy water on the bedside table, and handed him the rest. “I imagine it tastes like old shoe, but the leather’s probably good for your teeth. Plus, maybe it’ll help zap your brain back to reality.” I shook my head. “Booze and strippers. Geesh!”

Bergman tapped me on the knee. “I’ve been thinking about the ways the mole might be contacting the Wizard.”

“Go on.”

“He’s carrying a transmitter on him, no doubt about that. But it may even be embedded under the skin, so I wouldn’t recommend searching for it as your first means of digging him out. He’s got to have a way to either power it up or key it to send messages. So we need to watch for odd gestures that don’t seem to fit with what he’s saying or doing at the time.”

“That seems easy enough,” said Cole. He began touching himself in random places. “These are my dad’s old baseball signals,” he told us as he pressed his thumb to the side of his nose, tugged his left earlobe, and slid the side of his hand across his chest. “I’m telling you to bunt, run like hell, and then if they throw you out at first, go to the concession stand and get me a Dr Pepper.”

“I hardly think it’ll be that obvious,” said Bergman.

“You never know,” Cole insisted. “When a guy’s scratching his nuts, they don’t always itch.”

“Okay.” I held up my hands. “No more testicular discussions. No more baseball. Though I can see how you got from one to the other pretty quickly, Cole, I am now certain the heat that built up inside that semi trailer during our ride here has boiled your brain. Bergman, anything else we should look out for?”

He began fiddling with his bootlace. “It seems stupid when I think about saying it now.”

I wasn’t sure how a guy with a genius the size of a small country could still worry about looking foolish in front of his buds, but I was beginning to think his troubles would drastically reduce if he could just find himself a good woman. Somebody to give him a daily dose of feel-good whether he needed it or not. I sure didn’t have the patience for it. “Dude, spit it out. If we laugh, you can punch us both.”

“But not in the arm,” said Cole. “I’m still sore from all those shots they gave us before we flew over here. You can punch me in the stomach, but give me time to get ready. Houdini died because some guy didn’t warn him first, you know.”

I regarded Cole with the thinning patience of a kindergarten teacher who has neglected to take her Zoloft. “What the hell is up with you?”

“I am experiencing a deep-seated need to blow a bubble,” he informed me.

I took his right hand, which held my syringe sheath, and shoved the leather in his mouth. It was like giving E.J. her pacifier. Instant relaxation of the facial muscles. Full-body quiver, as if a wave of stress had just exited his epidermis. And yet, at the back of his eyes lurked a tight black ball of tension that promised to explode the second he stopped chewing. Nope, Cole wasn’t just stressed about the lack of bubble gum. Something much bigger had him twisted like a pretzel. I could probe, but I’d never get anywhere with another guy in the room. It was part of their Code. I didn’t understand it. But I respected it. Like demanding silence while using the urinal. Some things men just wouldn’t say in front of other men.

I turned to Bergman. “Go on.”

“You guys are Sensitive’s, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, it seems to me the mole might be another. He could be communicating with the Wizard through telepathic or other non-traditional means. In which case one of you should be able to sense him.”

“But we haven’t,” I said.

Bergman nodded. “All that could mean is that he’s somehow shielded himself. In which case, you might be able to sense the shield.”

Cole and I looked at each other doubtfully. In the short time we’d known each other we’d learned our Sensitivities differed quite a bit. We could both detect vampires. But only I could tell when reavers were around. Cole was better at picking out witches and weres. And the powers our Sensitivities gave us differed greatly as well. The fact that so far neither of us had noticed anything amiss among David’s crew didn’t do much for Bergman’s second theory. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to give it a spin,” I told Cole.

“So what do we do?” he asked. “Walk right up to them and give them a sniff?”

Sure, I thought, turning my card deck in my hands, three highly trained Spec Ops troops aren’t going to suspect a thing when we start nosing around their business. Especially after they start comparing notes. I had just opened the flap so I could get the cards out when an idea hit me. The ideal way to study our suspects without them ever wondering why we were giving them the once-over. “Cole,” I said, “why don’t you go see if everybody’s up for some poker?”

Chapter Eleven

Iranians dine on the floor, so, since we didn’t have a table handy for poker, we sat on the living room rug in front of the fireplace. It reminded me strangely of Girl Scout camp, when we’d play Snap and Crazy Eights inside our tents after the marshmallow toasting and song singing had run its course. We formed a circle, most of us cross-legged. Only Dave and Cassandra were missing. They’d chosen to spend the afternoon in the kitchen, drinking tea and gabbing like a couple of beauticians. In any other situation I’d have needled Dave so hard he’d have resembled a coke addict. But in front of his crazy loyal crew I bit my tongue and filed it all away for future use. He’d be home for Christmas one of these days and then,

whap!

Watch that boy squirm!

“Okay, what do you say to this?” I asked as I removed my deck from its somewhat limp and discoloured holder. “Dealer calls the game and the wild cards. Ante is seven thousand, nine hundred rials.” We’d all been issued plenty of Iranian currency before we left. I’d just told the guys it would cost them about a buck apiece to get into the game. They’d been around this part of the world long enough to know exactly what I meant.

Everybody seemed agreeable, so I split the deck and bent the halves, thumbing the edges toward each other as I’d done tens of thousands of times. The cards flipped out of my hands like they’d grown springs.

“Very funny,” said Cam, the twinkle in his eye making light of the sarcasm in his tone. “Tell us, Jaz, just how do you win a game of fifty-two-card pickup?”

Everybody laughed. But me. Okay, don’t panic. Your fingers probably just spasmed. Maybe you’re not getting enough potassium.

I gathered the deck together and straightened it.

Okay, concentrate. Pretend you’re just learning. Like Granny May is sitting beside you, patiently mapping every detail of each move. I watched my fingers begin the familiar motions that had become a balm to me, a rare and precious soothant to my savaged soul. They stopped working right around step three. As if they’d taken some major muscle damage while I wasn’t looking.

At least my poker buddies didn’t laugh this time. Maybe they noticed the look on my face. I tried to school in blankness, but my inner bitch wouldn’t allow me to deny the awful, dawning truth. She sat on her customary bar stool, nursing a whiskey sour, checking her reflection every minute or so, swinging a black-stocking leg just enough to make the guys around her hope her red leather miniskirt kept riding up.

“You dumb bimbo,” she spat, adjusting a stray hair as she spoke, her silver earrings sparkling like daggers. “I can’t believe this is the sacrifice you made to get into hell. And for what? Fair warning on the reavers? Big whoop. That helped you diddly squat. Insight into Mommy’s whereabouts? As if you hadn’t already guessed. A good look at the Raptor’s face? Like one decent reporter won’t scoop that story when Samos feels the time is right. You been screwed, little girl. And not in the kick your legs up and squeal kinda way, either.”

I looked at the cards, strewn across the vibrant red tulip that anchored the rug on which we sat, and felt like I should draw a chalk line around them. Call their next of kin. Wait, that’s me. Oh God, this sucks. I watched my hands gather up the deck, knowing I would never find comfort in the whoosh of a perfect bridge ever again. Fighting the urge to weep.

No boo-hooing, I commanded myself. No panicking either. Think.

No way would I relinquish the sweet relief shuffling cards had given me for any of the reasons my inner bitch had listed. There had to be something more, something I’d missed when Raoul and I had traipsed through Satan’s playground. Something key. But now was not the time to replay that visit. Work called. Time to ferret out the mole, it said, its whisper even more seductive than the brush of aces against deuces. I’d survived losses much worse than this. I’d get through. As long as I had the job.

I handed the cards to Cole, who sat to my left. “Shuffle for me, would you?” I sat back, letting my hands rest in my lap. Amazon Grace, sensing vulnerability, leaned her back against the fireplace wall and smiled lazily. “Your reflexes are catlike,” she drawled. “I can see why they picked you for this hit.”

Too bad you’re not the traitor. I’d love to rip you in half and feed you to the town rats.

I took my time replying, trying to measure how her comrades would react to anything I said. I decided they’d appreciate me rising above. “Well, my instructors figured out pretty quick they’d better teach me how to kill with my feet as well as my hands. It’s a good thing they were so thorough, don’t you think?”

That got a laugh, which pissed off Grace just enough that I felt better.

Cole handed me the cards. I called a game of five-card draw, one-eyed jacks wild, and everybody anted up.

The great thing about poker is people expect to be given the eagle eye on a regular basis. So for the next hour, Cole, Bergman, and I got away with shameless snooping right under our quarries’ noses. Jet loved to talk, so we found out quickly that his mom and dad had met in Vietnam and now lived in California. His big sister taught violin at the local college and his little brother played drums in a rock band. He hadn’t met the right woman yet, but when he did he planned to leave the service and start a pizza place because “Pizza is the best food in the universe. Am I right?” High fives all around as we were forced to agree. Jet played aggressively, winning and losing big, bluffing when he should fold. But, damn, he was fun company.

Natchez and Bergman, already mutual admirers, found even more reasons to respect each other. Bergman folded about sixty percent of the time, so he was usually all ears when Natch launched into another wahoo tale. Apparently, when he wasn’t working along a tightrope, he lived on the edge. Every story, whether it ended with him being chased into a lake by a grizzly, BASE jumping off the Perrine Bridge, or freeskiing down Crystal Mountain on a virgin slope, made Bergman gape with awe.

“So there we were,” Natch said as he tossed the equivalent of three bucks in the pot and threw an arm onto the cushion of the obese love seat behind him, “snorkeling in water not three feet deep when this ten-foot bull shark comes racing right at us. We found out later people had been feeding sharks in the area, so, who knows, maybe she was jonesing for a handout.”

“Tell them what she got,” said Cam as he threw down his hand in mock disgust.

“A face full of knuckles,” Natch said, miming a slow-motion roundhouse. “Luckily she wasn’t in a fighting mood, so she took off even faster than she came.”

Bergman, who sat between Natch and me, just shook his head. “Natch went mountain climbing in Turkey on his last leave. Can you believe that?” he asked me. “You want to know where I went?”

“A software convention in Delaware?”

“Exactly!”

“Dude, you can’t be comparing your life to mine,” Natch said, clapping Bergman on the back hard enough to make him cough. “You’re a damn genius. Do you think if I could make a gun like that little beauty you brought us I’d be dragging my sorry ass up some rock on my free time? Hell no! I’d be locked in my lab with my Bunsen burners on full blast, spreading beakers and whatnot across my tables and rubbing my hands like a maniac at the thought of what kinda wild shit I was going to come up with today!”

The image Natch’s little monologue brought to mind fit Bergman so well that, despite the loss of my shuffling privileges, I had to laugh.

Another hour passed. Nobody tried any weird gestures, at least none that couldn’t be explained. Natch scratched his chest a couple of times. But, hey, if mine was covered with hair, I’d expect some itching too.

The most interesting thing that happened was a three-way showdown between Cole, Cam, and Natch. As the dealer, Grace had decided on Texas Hold ’Em. Only the three guys had continued to bet after looking at their first two cards. Cole let me peek at his. With a suited king, ten, I figured he was right to stay in.

Grace dealt the flop, one of which was a king. Cole bet. After chewing on his toothpick for a few seconds, Cam did too. Then he sat back against the chair behind him and said, “Natch, I think you should fold, buddy.”

Natch raised his eyebrows with amusement. “Why’s that?”

Cam pointed a blunt-nailed finger at his own face. “See these scars?”

Natch rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

“These scars are for you, man. I took a grenade in the face just for you. You owe me.”

“I bought you dinner.”

“You think a steak is going to make us even?” Despite the heavy growth of beard I caught the hint of dimples as Cam didn’t quite succeed in hiding a grin.

“I think that time I carried your lard ass on my back for ten miles after you broke your ankle does.”

“That was

before

the grenade!”

“You ate a whole box of donuts the night before!”

“I want to win this pot!”

“Not if I can help it!”

And it was on.

They razzed each other until they’d each managed to bet every bit of money they’d brought. And then Cole won.

Collective groan, as if one of them had come back from the shooting range without ever having hit the target. Then they all started talking at once.

Grace and Jet: “Somebody should tell those two how much they suck at poker.” “Are you kidding? Think how much we can win from them next time we sit down!”

Jet and Natchez: “You know he’s going to hold that grenade thing over your head forever.” “I know. I should’ve jumped on the damn thing when I had the chance.”

Cam and Cole: “You look like such a nice guy. I should’ve known you were a con artist.” “I’ll give you ten bucks if you keep me supplied with toothpicks for the rest of this mission.” “You’re on!”

Bergman and me in a low, low whisper: “God, but Natch knows how to live. That’s how I want to be, Jaz! He’s not afraid of anything!” “He’s got some admirable traits, yeah. But don’t forget, he’s found a lot to admire in you too.”

The deep, booming sound of the door knocker shut us all up. Dave and Cassandra rushed into the room.

“Were you expecting company?” he asked me.

I couldn’t resist. “No, David. All my Iranian pals are busy this week.”

“Smart-ass. Cole.” He jerked his head for our Farsi speaker to take the lead. “Everybody remember, we’re students,” he hissed, “so quit looking like badasses in costume.” Almost everyone took a seat on the piece of furniture he or she had been leaning against during the card game. Dave motioned for Cassandra to join Bergman on the couch. I followed him and our interpreter to the door.

My hands itched to pull Grief from its holster. But having a gun in your hand, though it’s hidden behind your back, can prevent you from playing a scene cool. I settled for resting my palms against my thighs, where the fingers of my right hand could feel the reassuring outline of my bola. Dave stayed behind with me in the entrance to the living room as Cole went down three wide wooden steps into the foyer.

With a bench to one side and a gleaming vase full of red silk flowers to the other, the room had barely been built to house one full-grown man, much less the additional couple he let into the house. Even as the gentleman caller introduced himself, the three of them trooped up the stairs to join us.

“Hello, hello, I am so very glad to meet you. I am Soheil Anvari, the caretaker of this apartment building and this is my wife, Zarsa. We saw you arrived right on schedule. The owner asked that we should stop by to make sure you were finding yourselves comfortably placed. Is everything all right, then?” Soheil beamed. A lean, mustached man of maybe forty-five, he exuded goodwill like worms crap compost. And I’d have bought it, by golly.

Except for the wife.

She went heavily veiled. Inside, where it wasn’t required. It wasn’t quite as bad as the old pictures of women wearing blue tents with eye slits. But she’d come damn close. And that yellowish purple hue around her right eye couldn’t be the latest craze in makeup. It looked to me like Soheil had been making free with the domestic violence.

My temper’s got a fuse, and Soheil had definitely started a slow burn. Slow because I knew I couldn’t afford an explosion anytime in the near future. But when the moment was right . . .

I met Zarsa’s eyes. The depth of misery I saw in those dark brown orbs put me in mind of burned beds and poisoned coffee. Desperate measures taken by terrified, trapped women. I wondered if Zarsa had already reached her limit. If Soheil would “accidentally” slip in the shower and break his neck in the fall before I had a chance to exact some vengeance on his wife-beating ass.

“Everything is excellent, thank you so much,” said Cole.

“You are students, yes?” asked Soheil.

“Yes,” Cole agreed, “here to perfect our Farsi. May I try my hand on a native speaker?”

Soheil held out his arms as if to welcome Cole to the Farsi family, and they launched into a five-minute conversation interspersed with bursts of hearty laughter. Finally Soheil said, “You will do very well, I expect. I am so happy you have chosen to study here. And in your free hours, you must visit my shop! It is just down the street.” He motioned south, no doubt toward the market about six blocks away.

We’d passed it on the way in, while the stores were still shut tight, their glass and cement facades reminding me so much of home that their brightly colored banners bearing odd, squiggly writing almost startled me. It had been close enough to dawn that the street sellers were already setting up in the alleyways, heaping homegrown goodies on large round trays that sat on the boxes they’d carted them to town in. We’d seen men wearing ball caps and jeans pushing ancient wheelbarrows full of turnips to the edge of the sidewalk while women cloaked in black crouched next to crates of apples, dates, and peaches, their backs resting against stone walls painted with glyphs of blessing from the goddess Enya.

Soheil went on. “Ours is the glass-fronted store with the large yellow signs all across the top. You cannot miss it. We sell only the best in clothing and shoes. And my wife does readings in the back. She is quite popular with the students.”

Here we go. Definitely time to act all interested and girly

. “What kind of readings?” I asked. I went for breathless and wide-eyed and figured I succeeded when Cole smirked at me behind our vistors’ backs.

“She will tell you of your future. All you need do is let her touch the palm of your hand. She can also help you recover what has been lost. Or, if you prefer, guide you toward true love.”

Huh

. I wondered if Zarsa belonged to Cassandra’s Sisters of the Second Sight guild. I was thinking . . . not. “That sounds wonderful!”

Soheil said something to Zarsa in Farsi. Obediently, she pulled a small brown square of heavy paper embossed with gold writing out of her pocket. “In case you get lost,” he explained with his charming grin. “Just show this to anyone on the street and they will direct you to our shop.”

“Thank you!” I said, taking the card from Zarsa’s outstretched hand. I avoided touching her. All I needed was for her to divine the real reason I’d come to Iran. Even in her present state, she’d probably still feel obliged to turn me in to the authorities. Eventually Albert might put up a tombstone for me, but my epitaph would probably read “And She Was Never Seen Again.”

They left shortly after that. After a communal sigh of relief, Natch announced it had to be time for chow.

“Hey, we’re pretending to be regular people, ya mook,” said Cam, “and regulars don’t say ‘chow.’ ”

“They do if they’re Italian,” Natch replied, for which he got a punch on the shoulder, which erupted into a three-man wrestling match once Jet joined in, with Amazon Grace officiating. She didn’t have many rules. As far as I could tell the only things she wouldn’t allow were eye gouging and spitting. In the end she declared herself the winner and made the men carry her to the kitchen.

Dave shook his head at his crew, but the look he gave me as he followed them out of the living room spoke volumes.

How can one of them be the enemy when it’s so obvious they love each other like family? Why can’t I be wrong about this whole, horrible situation?

But he wasn’t. Someone on his team had telegraphed their position to the Wizard six weeks ago, which was why his informant, the werejackal, was dead today. Dave definitely had a mole. But neither Cole nor I had picked up any signals during the game that made us suspect one man over another. All we’d done was find out how much we liked and respected all three.

Chapter Twelve

The party continued through supper, just rations we’d brought with us, and moved into the kitchen as we transported our mess back to where it had originated. The room surrounded us with a cozy, college days feel despite the white-tiled walls that tried to make it resemble an OR. The sink and appliances, all stainless steel, surrounded a tile-topped island that had been furnished with four stools. These were covered with bright yellow material that matched the cabinet doors and transformed the room from nauseating to cheerful.

Cole was hunting soap for the dishwasher, Cassandra was scraping plates, and Cam had just begun to tell the story of how Dave had led the raid that netted two of the Wizard’s top men, when my ring sent a shaft of heat up my arm.

He’s awake! Alive! Whatever! Okay, calm down. How old are you anyway? Geesh!

I looked down at my right hand, trying to distract myself from the rush of excitement that made it hard to deny how much I’d missed my boss for the past twelve hours.

I nearly whispered the ring’s name. Not because I knew it meant “Guardian.” But because I loved the way the word sounded coming off my tongue.

Cirilai.

Like a long, soft kiss. And I valued both the craftsmanship and power Vayl’s family had put into the gold and ruby masterpiece that protected his soul. And my life.

I used my thumb to turn the ring, watched the gems snatch the light and throw it out again, a thousand times clearer and more beautiful than it had been to begin with. I wished I could do that with my life. So much confused me lately. I rarely went through a day knowing anything for sure. Maybe I could at least discover something concrete about Cirilai. Even if Vayl couldn’t — wouldn’t — fully explain the relationship it symbolized.

Oh, I knew the basics. In the Vampere world we’d be considered a couple of some sort. His

sverhamin

to my

avhar

. Certain rules applied, only a few of which I knew. He had to reveal anything I wanted to know about his past. In return — well — pretty much, I had to make sure he didn’t turn into a towering asshole, take over some small country, and eat his neighbors.

But deeper complexities existed within our bond that Vayl had promised to reveal over time. He said if he gave it to me in one lump my circuits would melt. I suspected if I knew the whole story I’d run to the nearest airport, crash the pilot’s lounge, and promise the first uniform I met my life’s savings if he’d get me out of town, like, yesterday.

And yet even if I was coward enough to run, I knew I’d return. Because something more lasting and powerful than gold and rubies connected us. Blood. Once in Florida and again in Texas Vayl had set those soft, full lips against my skin and sank his fangs into my throat. The first time I’d been offering him a chance to survive. The second he’d been giving me the ability to save countless lives. But, more than that, we’d found in those moments a bond so basic and pure that, while we silently acknowledged it, we never spoke of it. As if to do so might curse it.

Cam’s story distracted me from my thoughts. “So here I am thinking this is the easiest takedown of all time, when Dave steps up to the Wizard’s right-hand man to ask him a question. And this guy, JahAn, goes ballistic. Starts screaming at Dave, who’s kind of smiling, playing it nice and cool. After all, what can the guy do, right? He’s tied up nice and tight. But somehow his buddy, Edris, has wiggled free, and he’s the one we should be worrying about. But he’s staying nice and quiet in his chair. At least that’s what we think.”

Cam looked around the room, stretching the tension just enough to make even the guys who’d been there lean forward with anticipation. “JahAn is practically foaming at the mouth he’s so pissed. Dave is asking him how long he’s worked for the Wizard when Edris jumps him. Goes straight for the throat, and though we pull him off quick, there’s a ton of blood under Dave’s hands, which he’s crossed over his larynx. Plus he’s been knocked out.”

Cam shook his head, his eyes dimming as he remembered their fears. “Lucky for us, he came to right away and most of the blood turned out to belong to Edris. He’d scraped his wrists raw getting free. Turned out he’d just nicked Dave with a fingernail. I’ve seen worse paper cuts. The actual impact caused more damage. He had a hard time talking for a couple of days after that. Most peaceful forty-eight hours I ever spent in the service,” Cam said, chuckling.

The appreciative laughter trickled off quickly when Vayl entered the kitchen. I kept my seat, but I was practically the only one. As soon as he opened the fridge and pulled out a plastic bag full of blood the room cleared like an elementary school during a fire drill. Clatter of tableware. Mumbled excuses.

“Don’t worry,” I called after Dave’s people as they ran for cover, “we’ll do the dishes.” Apparently Spec Ops types don’t mind seeing blood coming out. Or being the cause of it. But going in? Different story altogether.

Within five minutes of Vayl’s entrance, my crew and I had the place to ourselves. Even Dave had left. Feeling guilty for sitting out the card game? Maybe.

Or

, my conscience, a country-club regular with flawless makeup and 2.5 child-star wannabes goaded me,

does he just hate to be reminded of who, and how, Jessie might have been if you hadn’t staked her

?

And suddenly I was back there, in the townhouse I’d shared with Matt. Barely moving. Barely breathing, three days after his death, dragging my butt to the kitchen because some ass would not stop knocking. I checked to make sure my gun’s safety was engaged before flipping on the light. I threw open the door. Took a big step back.

Jessie stood on the threshold. “Let me in,” she begged, looking over her shoulder as if she’d met the bogeyman and he was actually scarier than her.

“No.”

“Jasmine, please. They’re going to experiment on me! They’re going to do tests and shoot me full of chemicals like I’m some kind of lab monkey!”

I believed every word. She’d been turned by Aidyn Strait’s nest, and he loved his weird science. I said, “Jessie, go away. Don’t make me keep my promise.”

Her eyes flickered. Maybe the change had made her forget the vow we’d made. We had both believed that to become vampire meant one agreed to relinquish her soul. And the only way to get it back . . .

“Let me in,” she commanded, holding my gaze. It might have worked before the battle. But already I had changed. The Sensitivity had kicked in and vampires could no longer hypnotize me. I aimed the modified Walther PPK Bergman had made for me at Jessie’s heart. I’d already disabled the safety. Pushed the magic button. The bolt I sent into her chest flew true. I held her eyes until the very last moment, but I’ll never know if I saw relief in them. Or if I was just wishing.

I looked at the gun in my hand as the smoke from my best friend, my late sister-in-law, wafted away in the cold November breeze and told it, “You give me nothing but grief.”

The clack of Vayl’s porcelain mug against the tile of the countertop brought me back to the present. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

I searched his face. “I’m wondering if it’s always right to keep your promises.”

“Yes.” He said it so instantly I felt stunned, as if he’d unexpectedly thrown something and hit me with it before I could catch it.

“Aw, come on,” said Cole, “not always.”

“Always,” Vayl insisted. “This is one of the reasons I have made you my

avhar,

Jasmine. A promise is a sacred bond, never to be breached.”

“You sound like a third grader,” Bergman said, adjusting his glasses as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Vayl made one of those irritated noises unique only to him. Like a huff, but more masculine. “Perhaps because children know how important trust is. Only when they are repeatedly betrayed by adults do they finally give up believing they can ever find it in even a single person.”

These were the times I liked Vayl best. I could’ve set my chin on my hands and just watched him talk for hours. Usually I didn’t see squat behind that statuelike facade. The only peek I often got into the turmoil of emotion that I suspected he barely kept in check was the changing hues of his remarkable eyes. But every once in a while the mask would crack and I’d see how important he thought it was, not just to be human, but to be good. Hokey, I know, but the dude’s nearly three hundred. He’s allowed.

“What?” he asked me.

“I don’t know. I . . . I guess I’m glad you feel that way. It makes me feel better about a promise I kept.”

“Good. Now, tell me what I missed today.”

Between the three of us, we filled him in. I finished with, “Something funny’s going on. Think about it. Those zombie reavers didn’t hurt a single one of us. All they did was get in the way of the new reavers. Is there any reason the Wizard would want to be helping us?”

“Oh, yeah,” scoffed Bergman, “he’s all about aiding and abetting his own assassination.”

“But —”

“I believe Bergman is right, Jasmine,” Vayl put in. “The Wizard wants us eliminated. End of story.”

Yeah, but . . .

I itched to take the picture of the Wizard Pete had given us out of the pocket of my tunic and study it for the hundredth time. Something about

it

bothered me too, but I’d never say that out loud. Dave and his team would probably get medals for discovering that priceless bit of intel along with the cell phone number whose intercept had ultimately led to this mission. As they should. So who was I to say that the man with the graying beard and wide, brown eyes who stood before a tall green door with his arms around his wife and smiling daughter reminded me more of my sweetheart of a neighbor, Mr. Rinaldi, than any of the mass murderers I’d ever encountered? I’d be the first to tell any group of innocents never to base your trust on looks.

Okay, so no dice on the Wizard

.

“Then what about the Magistrate?” I asked. “Why all that hocus-pocus with fake Matt?”

“You don’t like the trapping Raoul theory?” Cassandra asked.

Not when you pair it with the weird zombie reaver theory

, I thought, but since that had already been shot down I just shrugged.

“I do not see how it matters since you have found a way to protect yourself from detection,” said Vayl.

Yeah, but I’m not going to be happy washing my forehead with holy water every morning while praying. I mean, God and I . . . I guess we’re on decent terms. But we don’t talk a lot. I’m sure every time he hears me pray he does a double take. So the morning baptisms just seem . . . hypocritical. And irritating. I’m going to need to figure this one out.

Apparently now would not be the time, though, because Vayl had other things on his mind.

“Tell me more about this Seer,” he requested. So we went back over the visit from Soheil and Zarsa. This time I added my impressions while Vayl listened intently, sipping from his mug as we spoke.

“I must visit this Zarsa,” he decided. “Does she speak English?”

Cole thought about it while Cassandra gave me an intent look that said I’d better be having a private chat with her soon. “She didn’t while she was here,” Cole finally said.

Vayl’s brows lowered. You could see his desire to talk to a Seer war with his need for privacy. Desire won. “You must come with me, Cole.”

My teeth tried to clench, and while I was making my jaw relax my hands curled into fists. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?” I demanded.

He shrugged. “Clean Grief? After I return, you and I will attend to our other business.” Meaning we’d scope out the café where the Wizard would, according to the late werejackal, be celebrating his birthday with several close male family members tomorrow.

Though I wanted to argue, the wild wiggling of Cassandra’s eyebrows forced me to press my lips together. “Fine,” I said. I couldn’t help adding, “As long as you’re handing out assignments, what about Cassandra and Bergman? Any interesting jobs for them to do while you’re gone?”

Vayl, within minutes of exploring the depths of a new psychic’s powers for news of his lost sons, remained blissfully immune to my sarcasm. “Actually, yes. I thought the idea of a shielded

other

within our midst was rather brilliant. Perhaps the two of you could work on a way to reveal that shield, or lower it, so we could at last pinpoint our partners’ betrayers.”

Bergman, the buttons of his bland brown shirt practically bursting from Vayl’s compliment, jumped off his chair. “We’ll get right on it.” He was halfway out the door when he turned back to Cassandra. “Well? Are you coming?”

“Of course.” She nodded at the men, gave me a get-your-ass-in-here stare, and said pointedly, “We’ll be in the girls’ room.”

Vayl clapped Cole on the shoulder as if they were headed out for a beer. His sudden camaraderie, coming on the heels of so much suspicion and even downright jealousy, made me want to demand a DNA test. Or at least stand up and yell, “Stop acting so damn weird!”

“Ready?” Vayl asked.

“Uh, are we going to have to pay her?” Cole wondered. “Because I lost most of my money playing poker.” A lie. He had, if anything, come out a couple of bucks ahead.

“Ah, yes, compensation,” Vayl said. “I will be right back.” He practically skipped out of the kitchen.

As soon as Cole was certain he couldn’t hear us he whispered, “Vayl and cheerful do not mix. It’s just creepy.”

Yeah. And depressing. Because it’s for the wrong reasons

. I realized

I

wanted to put that dimple in his cheek. His eyes should always be hazel. I liked it when he twirled his cane like he was leading a really great band. And all that would disappear the moment Zarsa told him she couldn’t See Hanzi and Badu any better than Cassandra could.

“Pay close attention to what happens in there,” I told him. “There’s a reason this feels wrong.”

“Speaking of which, I really need to talk to you.”

“Okay.” I’d been expecting this. Should’ve sought him out sooner. Because now that the two of us were alone, he’d let his guard down. And the pain stood clear on his face. “What’s up?” I asked softly.

He stepped closer. Looked deep into my eyes. Hesitated a millisecond, and then dove in. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Oh. No

.

“Cole —”

“I know how you feel. About me. About him. I just wanted you to know — we could be good together. We could have a life. Kids. Vacations. On Sunday mornings I could serve you breakfast in bed.” He gave me his I-know-you-find-me-irresistible grin. “And then I could make you something to eat.”

“I —”

“No. Just tell me you won’t commit to him until you’ve considered me.”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Because deep down I kind of thought I already had. Plus, I understood this was so the wrong moment to yell, “I

like

you, idiot! I have, maybe, three friends in the world and you may have just messed that up for me! You’re only the catch of the century. You could do us all a favor and fall for one of the hundreds of women who’ve lined up for you. But, no. You’ve got to declare for me. And now things are going to be all awkward and strained between us. You ass.”

Or, even more appealing, I could just punch him in the gut and run off, cackling, into the night. However, considering his eight-year-old mentality, he’d probably take that as a sign of affection and the next thing you know we’d be engaged. I opened my mouth, hoping something intelligent would pop out, and then clicked it shut again when Vayl breezed back into the kitchen. His manner blew my worries about Cole to the back of my brain. Something about the way he glanced at and then dismissed me worked on me like a time machine, took me right back to my childhood.

I was fourteen. And I’d just been dumped by Ellis Brenner. I’d had to tear off all the covers of my notebooks so I’d no longer have to look at the elaborate drawings I’d made that variously said Jasmine Elaine Brenner, Mrs. Jasmine Brenner, and Jasmine and Ellis Brenner. I managed to keep it together until I got home from school. And then I lost it. I saw myself now as if I was my mother, standing at my bedroom door, watching teenaged me draped across the lavender bedspread in the room I shared with Evie, sobbing hysterically as I clutched Buttons the Bear to my chest.

“What’s up with you?” Mom had asked, still manning her post, as if entering my room might be noted by the door generals, who could have her shot for dereliction of duty.

It took me a while to get the words out. Saying it aloud made it so real. Which made it hurt more. Which made me cry all the harder. “E-huh E-huh Ellis d-huh-dumped me!” I finally wailed. I curled into a ball with Buttons at the center, as if he’d become the wounded little girl I needed to soothe and protect. I longed for my mother’s arms. Though, by now, I knew better than to expect that comfort. We didn’t hug. Not even when we were delighted with each other. Which hadn’t been for a very long time.

“Who’s Ellis?” she asked.

That stopped me. The way sometimes an explosion will put out an oil fire. I sat up in bed. Wiped my eyes and nose on the hem of my shirt. “How could you not know? I’ve only been talking about him every minute of the day for the last month! He was my

boyfriend

, dammit!”

“You watch your mouth, young lady!”

“Get out of my room!” I screamed.

Rolling her eyes, she backed into the living room. “You should be onstage with those antics,” she said just before I slammed the door in her face. I cried most of the rest of that night. Evie helped me through it. But I never told her the worst part of my grief was the realization that Mom really didn’t give a crap about us.

Indifference. That’s what she’d shown me when she’d said, “Who’s Ellis?” That’s what I saw on Vayl’s face when it should have been clear to him that I was tied up in knots after my conversation with Cole. That I was upset about his choice to talk with Zarsa. I knew that if I stepped up to him right now and said, “Vayl, I need you. Please stay,” he wouldn’t. He’d let me down. Just like my mother had all my life.

Well, I’d had no choice with her. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to let Vayl get away with it.

Chapter Thirteen

I really didn’t think I could sink any lower than I had the day I’d motored through Corpus Christi on a 1993 moped. Apparently I’d been mistaken. “This is it,” I muttered to myself as I crouched on the roof of Soheil Anvari’s business, the second floor of which was his home. “I am officially a stalker.”

I’d been trying to justify following Vayl to Anvari’s for the past half hour.

He’s treated me like crap

, I told myself.

So the second he’s done with Zarsa I’m grabbing him by the short hairs and shaking till he whimpers for mercy.

But it’s tough to lie to yourself when nothing is happening to distract you from your own insanity. I’d set out behind Cole and Vayl with the idea that, once they were done with the reading, I would intercept them. Initiate a confrontation. Force Jaz-interest back into Vayl’s eyes.

Now I had to admit I might just be nutty-bar jealous. Because my strongest current impulse was to drop through the ceiling and kick Zarsa in the teeth for putting that spark of hope in Vayl’s heart and then leading him into her den so she could crush his hopes and dreams. What made it worse was that I could see her torturing him even now. Because these people had a skylight. It pissed me off, actually. What, did they just trundle off to the Home Depot when they discovered Zarsa didn’t have enough light to break her clients’ hearts by? In Tehran? Gimme a break!

He was taking it well. But he would. Vayl would hardly flinch if you filled him full of lead and accused him of kidnapping the Pope. On the other hand, Cole clearly needed a quick getaway followed by an all-nighter with a bowl full of Bubble Yum. He’d already chewed three toothpicks to shreds and was halfway through his fourth. Zarsa would run her finger along Vayl’s palm, say something, and Cole would practically jump out of his chair before translating.

“Okay, I’ve had enough,” I said for the eighth time. “I’m going in.” But with what excuse? I couldn’t think of one thing that wouldn’t bring the full fury of a psychic-deprived vampire down on my head. I should’ve asked Cassandra for some ideas before I left. She certainly had good insight into his current frame of mind.

As soon Cole and Vayl had departed I’d run up to the girls’ room. Cassandra had practically thrown me in a chair she was so anxious for my attention.

“Listen to me,” she said. “Vayl is in danger.”

I jumped up. “Is it the reavers? Did you have a vision just now?”

“No.” She shoved me back down, which was when I realized how serious the situation had become. She really did know better than to push me around. “Vayl is a sober, reasonable creature except when it comes to his sons. And then he cannot be made to hear anything he doesn’t want to hear. Do you understand?”

“He’s obsessed?”

Cassandra knelt by my knee while Bergman sat on the bed, unpacked his tools, and pretended not to listen. Actually, I hoped he was all ears. He could be just as obtuse as Vayl at times. “Please promise me you will never repeat what I am about to say.”

I thought of what Vayl had said about promises. Looked at Bergman and raised my eyebrows. He nodded. “I promise,” I said.

Cassandra looked over her shoulder.

“Me too,” he said.

She’d been clutching my tunic, almost begging for my word. Now that she had it, she dropped her hands to her lap and began. “Many of my Sisters have sought Vayl’s sons for him over the centuries.”

“So he wasn’t exaggerating?” I asked. “They really have been reincarnated?”

“Yes. Some of us have seen the possibility of the three men meeting, but always our visions end in disaster. Vayl is not ready to reunite with his sons. He has let their deaths immobilize him in some vital way. Until that changes, any encounter between them will lead to all of their deaths.”

“Holy crap.” I knew one thing. Even if everything turned out great, if Vayl transformed his whole world and pulled off a happily-ever-after, this was one particular promise I’d be taking to my grave.

Now I watched Zarsa murmur something that made Cole squirm in his chair as Vayl nodded eagerly. “What if she tells him?” I asked myself for the fifteenth time. “Naw.” Cassandra had already made it clear how particular Seers were when it came to moral issues. Cross the line and you can forget ever working in the field again. Nope, Zarsa would be breaking Vayl’s heart any . . . minute . . . now.

He got up. Gave her some money and that half smile that drives me wild when I let it. Walked out the door. Whistling.

Oh. Shit.

My first instinct was to rush back to the house. Dive right into damage control. Then I remembered Vayl telling me another Seer had predicted he’d meet his sons in America. That’s why he’d emigrated from Romania, or wherever he’d been living at the time. I wasn’t actually sure. Anyway, he certainly wasn’t going to be joining them until we’d finished this mission, so I had some time. And I really needed to use it to calm down.

Because I kinda wanted to kill him.

Never mind the fact that he should be . . . we should be . . . well, it’s about time for fireworks between us and he’s taken off with the lighter. Not to mention we’re planning a major hit in enemy territory and his first choice is to go trotting off to visit a psychic!

I fumed.

How stupid is that?

Not stupid. Desperate. After all this time, he’s still a grief-stricken father. Really, what would you do if you thought you could be with Matt again?

But that’s just it. I can’t. I accept that now. We had our time. And it was glorious.

But if he came back today?

My mind wouldn’t go there. But Vayl’s had, almost right away. So I had to wonder, for his sake, what do you do when it’s over before you’re ready for it to be over? Do you chase that relationship, that role you assumed, for the rest of your existence? Was Vayl looking for his sons because he couldn’t give up fatherhood? Because it made him the person he wanted most to be?

I had asked him about Hanzi and Badu once. “So you want to meet them? Make friends? Be . . . a father to them?”

“I

am

their father!” he’d snapped. “That is the one, incontrovertible truth of my existence.”

If so, what did that mean for us? Somehow I knew other women before me had stood in the dust of his wake as wagon, horse, stagecoach, and train bore him away on yet another wild chase for his boys.

“No,” I murmured. “Not me. I’m not losing another one.” I barely heard myself as I descended from the roof. On such a badly lit street, it was easy to keep to the shadows, avoid detection, as I shadowed him.

Which was why I sensed the reaver long before he could get a bead on me.

Something at the entrance to my sinuses went, “Holy crap, that’s just disgusting!” Though it wasn’t as much an odor as an awareness that something monstrous had entered the neighborhood. I peered over my shoulder. There, unmistakable, that black outline. He loped down the narrow street behind me, one hand flopping at his waist as if he’d been running for miles. The other held a cell phone to his ear. Every few seconds the flop hand reached up and swatted at something that seemed to buzz around his head. I eased into the gap between a hand-lettered sign that had been tied to a storefront and the smooth, weathered stone of the building itself. I figured to let him go. He couldn’t nail me now that I was protected. And I couldn’t risk the mission by outing myself, even if it was to rid the world of a soul-stealing monster. Maybe after we were done I could come back. Do some cleanup.

I’d just begun working out the logistics in my mind when the reaver passed me. “I’m telling you, Samos,” he growled into the phone, “we followed her to this area and then she just disappeared.” Up went the flop hand. Swat, swat, though no bugs had bothered me the whole time I’d been outside. “We thought we could catch her using this one body, but it’s going to take some time to find her now. We need more.” He jerked his eyes left, right, left again. “Shut up,” he growled, as if to invisible listeners. “I’m telling him, aren’t I?” Either the guy had multiple personality disorder, or . . .

I slipped out of my hiding place, following him as stealthily as I could. Though he was so distracted by his phone call and the need to flail every few seconds I don’t think he’d have seen me if I’d walked past him naked.

“I don’t care what you have to do!” the reaver snapped. “You’re the Sponsor and we need bodies. This form was not made to hold six reavers at once. Its brain is shorting out. You wouldn’t believe what it’s starting to see!” He listened for a few more seconds. “You’re the one who’s lost an

avhar

,” he finally hissed. “If you want your revenge on the Lucille, you’re going to have to do better than that!”

My hands itched to grab that phone. God, if only I was free to follow this lead! I might be able to pin down Samos’s location from the signal.

“Channel Fourteen?” said the reaver, “Yes, this body is familiar with it.” He listened intently, and from the way his shoulders relaxed, liked what he heard. “You’re sure they’ll be receptive?” Short pause, shorter nod. “Excellent. I’ll contact you when it’s done.” He ended the call, pocketed the phone, batted at his unseen pests, and changed course.

I stood in the shadows, debating. Maybe it would be better to take him out after all. Right now he seemed to be in a weakened condition. If I waited until later, he’d have infested five more bodies, and it was hard enough to kill one of them.

Okay, not so tough when you have Dave’s kick-ass colleagues in tow. But I doubt we’ll be able to sail through Tehran with our Manxes on display when we finally have time for a reaver hunt. Plus, there’s the phone to consider. No. I’ve got to do this now.

I reached underneath the shapeless black manteau I’d thrown over my inside clothes. Began to slide my bolo from the pocket of my sky-blue pants as I stepped into the street. I stopped immediately, my forward progress suddenly blocked by a broad-shouldered, white-bearded man dressed in a black pullover with elaborate embroidery around its V-neck, matching black pants, and sandals. It was the words he said as much as his imposing physical presence that shut me down.