“Where do you want to put her?” Kisten said cheerfully.

A shrug lifted her shoulders. “The bathtub?”

Clearly enjoying himself, he lifted the box and headed into the paneled hallway. “Holy Christ!” he shouted, faint from the wall between them. “Have you seen his bathroom?”

Tired, Ivy rose from the hearth, trying not to look at Art sprawled on the floor. “No.”

“I’m going to put her in the hot tub.”

“He’s got a hot tub?” That would explain the scent of chlorine, and Ivy went to see, her eyebrows rising at the small tub flush with the floor. Kisten had turned it on, and though it wasn’t warm yet, tiny bubbles swirled in the artificial current. Putting Sleeping Beauty in that was going to make a mess, but it would help remove any traces of Piscary and blur that she had been stuck in the refrigerator for a day. Not to mention a dripping wet corpse was harder to get rid of than a dry one. Art wasn’t smart enough to manage it before the I.S. knocked on his door.

Kisten had gone respectfully silent, and keeping the woman in the box, they worked at getting her out of the plastic and duct tape. Jaw clenched, Ivy worked her out of her clothes, handing them to Kisten one by one to be sprayed with the de-enzyme solution from the bar to remove Piscary’s scent. The bottle was heavy as it hit Ivy’s palm, and with Kisten’s help, they sprayed her down as well, taking extra care with the open wounds.

Disturbed, she met Kisten’s eyes in the silence, and together they slipped Sleeping Beauty into the water, wedging the corpse between an edge and the railing. While Kisten tidied, Ivy went back for the wine and a glass.

Carefully keeping her prints off it, Ivy pressed Sleeping Beauty’s hand around the glass several times before adding a few lip prints. She dribbled some wine into the woman’s mouth, then the glass, which she set at arm’s length. There wouldn’t be any in her stomach, and there wouldn’t be any of her blood in Art’s system either, but it was a game of perception, not absolutes. Besides, all she needed to do was eliminate any evidence of Piscary.

Kisten had the vial of Art’s spit, and crouching by the tub, she took a sterile swab and ran it through the woman’s open wounds. Finished, she stood, and together they looked down at her.

“She had a nice smile,” Kisten finally said, gaze flicking to Ivy. “You okay with this?”

“No, I’m not okay with this,” Ivy said, feeling empty. “But she’s dead, isn’t she. We can’t hurt her anymore.”

Kisten hesitated, then grabbed the box and maneuvered his way out. Ivy picked up the heavy-duty shears he had left and tucked them behind her waistband. Looking at the woman, she crouched to brush the long hair from the corpse’s closed eyes. An impulsive “thank you,” slipped from Ivy’s lips, and, flustered, she stood.

Sickened, she backed out of the room. This was ugly. She was ugly. The things she did were ugly, and she didn’t want to do them anymore. Her stomach was cramping when she found Kisten standing above Art, and she forced herself to look tall and unbothered. The broken-down box and plastic wrap were already in the trash bag, along with everything else. “You sure you don’t want me to move him upstairs?” he asked. “They might call it a suicide.”

Ivy shook her head, checking the bottom of the woman’s shoes and setting them by the stairway. “Everyone’s going to know what I did, but as long as there is no easy evidence, they’ll let it go as me thinking outside the box. No one likes him anyway. But if I kill him, they’ll have to do a more thorough investigation.”

It was perfect in so many ways. Art would be cited for Piscary’s homicide and end up in jail. She would get to write her own six-month review. No one would mess with her for a while, not wanting a dead body showing up in their bathroom. She was a force not to be taken lightly. The thought didn’t make her as happy as she thought it would.

Kisten seemed to notice, since he touched her arm to bring her eyes to his. She blinked at the color of his hair and the fact that he was shorter than she, even if it was an illusion. It was a damn good illusion. “You did all right,” he said. “Piscary will be impressed.”

She hid her face by leaning to scoop up the duct tape. That Piscary would be proud of her lacked the expected thrill, too. For a moment, only the sound of the tape being unwound and wrapped about Art’s wrists and ankles rose over the hiss of the propane fireplace. The tape wouldn’t stop him, but all they needed was to get to the stairs.

“Ready?” Ivy asked when she tossed the tape into her duffel bag and took out her boots.

Kisten turned from his last-minute wipe down of fingerprints. “All set.”

As she sat on the hearth and laced her boots, Ivy looked over the room. The scent of chlorine was growing stronger as the water warmed, hiding the odor of dead girl. She wanted a moment with Art. Why the hell not? She’d earned a little gloating. Let him know she caught him covering up a murder. “Wait for me in the van,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

Kisten grinned, clearly not surprised. “Two minutes,” he said. “Any longer than that, and you’re playing with him.”

She snorted, giving him a swat on the ass as he started up the stairs with her duffel bag and the trash. His blond hair caught the light, and she watched until he vanished in a flash of morning sun. Still she waited until the faint sound of the van starting up met her before she turned Art’s hand palm up and cut the strip with the shears. Tucking them behind her waistband, she stepped back and teased the amulet off his hand and into its little bag.

For a panicked moment she thought she had killed him, but her fear must have scented the air since Art jerked, his eyes black when they focused on her. He tried to move, his attention going to the duct tape about his wrists and ankles. Chuckling, he wedged himself into an upright position against the couch, and Ivy’s face burned.

“Piscary thinks so much of you,” he said condescendingly. “He needs to wipe the sand from his eyes and see you as the little girl you are, playing with boys too big for her.”

He tensed his arms, and Ivy forced herself to stay relaxed. But the tape held and she bent at the waist to look him in the eyes. “You okay?”

“This isn’t winning you any friends, but yes, I’m okay.”

Satisfied she hadn’t hurt him, she rose and plucked up the wine bottle and gave it another pull, the heat of the fire warming her legs. “You’ve been a bad boy, Art,” she said, hip cocked.

He ran his eyes over her, going still when he realized she was wearing her usual leather and spandex. His face abruptly lost its emotion. “Why is my hot tub going? What day is this? Who was here?”

Again he pulled against the tape, starting a rip. Ivy set the bottle down and moved closer, sending her wine breath over him to shift his silky black curls. It didn’t matter if her presence was placed here. The entire I.S. tower knew where she was this morning. “I’m not happy,” she said. “I came over here to make good on our arrangement, and I find another girl down here?”

Art shifted his shoulders, arms bulging. “What the hell did you do, Ivy?”

Smiling, she leaned over him. “It’s not what I did, Artie. It’s what I found. You need to be more careful with your cookies. You’re leaving crumbs all over your house.”

“This isn’t funny,” he snarled, and Ivy moved to the stairway.

“No, it isn’t,” she said, knowing that the tape would last as long as his ignorance. “You have a dead girl in your hot tub, Artie, and I’m out of here. The deal is off. I don’t need your approval to move into the Arcane Division. You’re going to jail.” Adrenaline struck through her when she turned her back and her foot touched the lowest stair. The door was open and ambient sunlight was leaking in. He couldn’t put one foot on them without risking death. She almost hoped he would.