“Bastard. Kick his ass for me,” Alex said.

Sylvie grimaced against the phone. Alex had taken Demalion’s betrayal as hard as Sylvie had, if not harder. Demalion had used Alex to introduce him to Sylvie; in retrospect, Sylvie knew that it was the only way it would have worked. She trusted Alex. And Alex trusted people. Though not so much as she used to, courtesy of Demalion. One more black mark against the man.

“You want me to look into their files, see what I can find?” Alex said.

Sylvie hesitated, and what did it say about this case that she thought Alex would be safer taking on the Internal Surveillance and Intelligence agency than a single man who might be a god.

“I’m gonna go nuts otherwise,” Alex said.

“Yeah, all right,” Sylvie said. “But it’ll take some time. I’m still going to meet them head-on. Makes it harder for them to lie.”

“Ah, you just like the look on their faces,” Alex said. “All red and puffy.”

“Guilty,” Sylvie said.

“Give ’em hell,” Alex said. “And Syl, just so you know—you rehired me at a higher pay scale.”

“Alex—”

“I wrote the contract up already. Done deal. You can sign it when you get back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sylvie said. “Got Val’s number, you little mercenary?”

Alex read it off, and Sylvie punched it back into her memory list, cursing in her mind with each digit. “Hey, Alex,” Sylvie said. “Don’t—don’t hang around the office, okay? I don’t know where those sisters are now, but last time I saw them, they were prowling around the beach.”

“It’s okay,” Alex said. “I don’t want to run into them. I’d pee my pants for sure, but I’d be okay. They hunt specific sinners, and I’m clean. My parents are alive and well, all the multiple steps included, and there’s no blood on my hands.”

Sylvie sucked in a breath. You kill people, Dunne told her again. “Gotta go. You stay out of this,” she said, and disconnected without further words.

“I kill monsters,” she whispered, clinging to that. Monsters. Her stomach churned, roiled, declared her a liar. Her definition of monster had grown looser over the years.

Before Alex could call back, Sylvie dialed Val, punching in the number while it was fresh in her mind. Wrong number.

She cursed her inability to retain numbers, and hit the newly reprogrammed Memory 1—the first, and hopefully, only Magicus Mundi contact back in her books. The phone rang, but it wasn’t Val on the other end. A second wrong number. Sylvie frowned. Had Val changed it?

She tried again and got a disconnect notice. Always something with witches, Sylvie thought, getting it all at once. They couldn’t just screen their calls like normal people. No, Val had to bespell her phone with a dial-me-not when she didn’t want to be disturbed. Tough.

Sylvie took the phone, glared at it, and gritted her teeth. “I’m calling you, Val, so give it up.” She dialed the number, one careful, steady key at a time, focusing on Val, on her streaky blond hair, her pale linen dresses, her penchant for white-gold bangle bracelets and hoop earrings. It just shouldn’t be so damn hard to call someone.

The phone rang and a youthful voice picked up, didn’t speak directly to her, but shouted, “Mom! Sylvie’s on the phone!”

Sylvie winced. Julian’s lungs were growing along with the rest of him. Nice to see there were no lasting nasties after his go-round with the sorcerers.

“You shouldn’t be able to do that, you know,” Val said, into her ear. “Just break through my dial-me-not like that.”

“There are a lot of things that people shouldn’t be able to do,” Sylvie said. “They still get done. You up for a trip to Chicago?”

“Tell me you want to go shopping and need my fashion advice,” Val said.

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Sylvie said. “I’ve got a spell I want you to deconstruct for me.”

“I’m busy,” Val said. “There’s some strange stuff happening in the occult world, power shifts or something. Big stuff.”

“I wasn’t too busy to save your life,” Sylvie said. Favor number one. Val owed her three in total. “Look, I’ll fax you a sketch I made, and yes”—she overrode the automatic warning—“I was careful when I drew it. You can get a start on it that way, but I want you here. It might still be active.”

That would get her. Val had the good witch’s hatred of open spells. “ ’Sides,” Sylvie said, “there’s a good chance that this is related to your big stuff.”

“Why am I not surprised. You stir up the worst shit, Sylvie.”

“Hey,” Sylvie snapped. “You brought me into this world, so watch the attitude. Just get here. Call me when you land.”

“Fine,” Val said. “It’ll be late, though. And I’ll only owe you two after this.” The phone went dead in Sylvie’s ear, not with the normal flat tone but a shrieking laugh. She winced away. Witches.

Well, at least her argument with Val had done one thing; it had put her in the mood to go rattle the ISI.

SYLVIE SHOVED THE PHONE INTO HER POCKET AND HEADED DOWN the street at a quick clip. She’d seen a CopyKwik Shop on her way into the neighborhood, and she could fax the spell to Val there.

Plus, as a twofer sort of thing, she could hit one of her favorite research tools: the all-purpose phone book. ISI wasn’t going to be listed under SNOOPS—BLOODY-MINDED, she knew, but they would be listed. It had taken Alex a while to translate their cover stories, but now Sylvie and she could find them pretty much anywhere. Usually they only did it to keep out of their way.

The ISI had a presence in every major US city; two hours later, Sylvie had learned that in Chicago it was in a onetime bank, hidden behind a lobby of gilt and marble.

Sylvie strode in through the metal detectors and glanced at the man behind the lobby desk. Tall, hefty, didn’t look too bright. She flipped her hand at him and kept moving, heading for the hallway and the elevators.

“Ma’am, this isn’t a public building.”

“Oh, I know,” Sylvie said, turning, continuing to walk backward. “I’m just here to search your lost and found; it’s amazing what your men pick up on the streets, sometimes. Like some old lady, snatching up cats who were only out for a walk.”

“Stop!” he said. His hand slid behind the desk; she wondered which he was going for: silent alarm or gun.

Maybe both, she thought, considering how long it was taking to get his hands back where she could see them. Or maybe he was just slow to decide.

The elevators were twenty steps closer when he rushed forward, hands empty. He loomed just before her, trying to intimidate her by sheer bulk. “You have to stop.”

“Do I?” Sylvie said. Sweat beaded along his hairline. There wasn’t anyone coming to his aid. Maybe Chicago’s ISI was skeleton-staffed. Maybe the budget cuts had finally reached the ISI—and didn’t they deserve it—or maybe he cried wolf all the livelong day. Whichever it was, he was on his own, and he knew it.

Still, he was a lot larger than she was; it couldn’t hurt to try friendly again. “I could stop—all I want to know is if the ISI snatched—”

His eyes flared wide, and she broke off. “What, you thought I was in the wrong place?”

His jaw settled. “Look, bitch, if you know that much, you know how much trouble you’re in. I could have you locked up, and no one would ever know what happened to you. I could even have you killed.”

“What, with the guards who came to your first call?”

Behind them, the elevator dinged, and an all-too-familiar voice rang out. “Back off, Agent.”

“But, sir—”

That her heart jumped a tiny bit when she recognized his voice was something she’d deny to her last breath.

“Christ Almighty, Stockton, take a look at the big picture here before you commit yourself to a world of trouble.”