Careful, Sylvie’s inner voice whispered. Her hand ached to pull her gun from the desk drawer.

“Is there something you want?” Sylvie said, her tone steadier than her nerves. “Got some java going if you’re needing caffeine.”

The older cop pushed past her again; her hand spasmed on the drawer, but he headed straight for the exit and was gone. A moment later, pudgy followed.

Sylvie put her hands on the desk and leaned forward, staring at the fake-wood grain, following the patterns until her adrenaline faded.

“What was that?” Alex asked.

“An omen rolling up to wish us bye-bye,” Sylvie said. “See you ’round, Alex.”

She locked the door behind Alex and sighed, looking at the mess. Enough. She’d tape the boxes closed and hire someone to come collect them. She wanted to be gone. Just headed toward noon, and the day had already been too damned long for her tastes.

But first—she opened the desk drawer and took out the gun, feeling more secure with the weight of it in her hand. She checked again that it was loaded, scrabbled the loose bullets out of the drawer and into her purse.

It was one thing to turn her back on the Magicus Mundi; it was another entirely to trust it to ignore her. And a well-placed salvo of bullets could take apart a sorcerer or drop a werewolf in its tracks. Bullets even held sway over the sex-drenched glamour of the succubi, provided, of course, you sniped them at a distance. Bullets made everything better. As long as you were fast enough.

Better practice that, the cold dark voice jibed at her. She pressed her palms over her eyes and breathed, sniffing back the tears. Grief was valueless. It couldn’t change facts, and guilt meant nothing but that she had failed.

Not her fault, Alex had told her. There were too many of them, all of them determined to see the ritual completed. What could two women do about a crowd hell-bent on earning power through a blood sacrifice? When Suarez had laid his neck on the chopping block with a smile?

Make it a lose-lose. Suarez died, but the satanists hadn’t gotten their ritual done. Of course, as a result, Sylvie had thirteen very angry people hunting for her. People didn’t like having their rituals disrupted, even if the ritual was as benign as morning coffee and the newspaper. Interrupting a proceeding that promised supernatural power and influence? Sylvie was number one on their shit list. Their problem was that they didn’t have the power yet; they were still human.

Sylvie didn’t have a lot of rules in her life, liked it better that way, but she held tight to two. She didn’t put innocents between herself and trouble. She didn’t kill people that the cops could handle. The satanists were perilously close to making her throw rule number two away. Better for her just to get out of town.

The door handle rattled.

“Closed! ¡Cerrado!” she snapped. “Go away.”

She turned toward the upper-office stairs, intending to see how much damage the cops had done, how much of her deposit wasn’t coming back. On the desk, the bell jangled suddenly, spinning in its marble orbit, ringing louder and louder, like the wail of breath over wet glass.

Behind Sylvie, the locked door opened, bringing in the sounds of distant sirens and the pungent scent of the low-tide shore. Slipping her hand into her purse, she curled her fingers around the reassuring weight of the gun before turning.

Three women looked back at her, closer than she had anticipated. They moved with a silent, animal grace, loose-limbed and long-legged, like escapees from some models’ runway.

A dark-haired girl in punk regalia of layered, fishnet tees, plaid skirt, and hefty Doc Martens sauntered forward and crouched near the base of the stairs. Her near twin, a woman demurely dressed by J. Crew, flanked Sylvie, pacing around her until she and her sisters had Sylvie pinned between them.

The third woman, pale blond in dark leather, returned to the door, watching the street. She tapped her high-heeled boot idly against the floor, waiting, counting off against an internal clock.

Not a lookout, Sylvie thought, not someone to prevent the outside world from interfering while the other two did what they’d come for. These women were bodyguards, an advance troop of some kind, and according to the ringing bell, not human.

She took a step back, feeling her way up the riser, trying to move smoothly, trying to give herself some space to work with. Two sets of eyes tracked her movement instantly.

The preppie girl raised her upper lip, showing teeth, and made a faint, querulous whine. Sylvie stopped dead in her tracks. She’d never heard a sound like that before, but it resonated in the atavistic part of her brain that recognized a predator’s cry.

The blond woman at the door stiffened, coming to alert. The sisters beside Sylvie cocked their heads, listening. The bell went silent as a tall man ducked beneath the doorjamb, filling it momentarily.

Another cop, Sylvie thought, watching his scoping of the room, the way he carried himself. A plainclothes detective who had picked one hell of a bad time to come ask some more questions about Suarez. His dark brown eyes flickered around the room, noting the boxes and the clutter, before homing in on her.

Sylvie found herself torn between demanding his assistance and warning him to flee, but while she was stymied speechless, the blonde rubbed her cheek against his arm. He stroked her hair without looking at her, his expression of weariness and concern never shifting.

“You three been good?” he asked.

“She was leaving,” the punk girl said in the dulcet tones of a schoolgirl. “We stopped her.”

“Thank you,” he said, his eyes never leaving Sylvie’s.

A sudden shudder racked her, a quick acknowledgment that he meant trouble with a capital T. She had met men like him before. Humans with power and a yen for unnatural entourages. He was exactly what the satanists aspired to be.

The two sisters sat on the floor near him, not like people, cross-legged and uncomfortable, but crouched like dogs. The punk girl yawned widely, and Sylvie had a quick flash, like an X-ray rising through flesh, of something Other. Something huge, angry and implacable.

“Ms. Lightner?” the not-cop said, his voice pleasantly deep and rough. “I need your help.”

Sylvie shivered again. Most of her clients addressed her as Shadows, assuming that she’d given her name to the business: Shadows Inquiries. But the ones who checked her out . . . She didn’t like the idea of him looking into her life without her knowing. The Internal Surveillance and Intelligence agency snooped enough for anyone.

She sucked in a breath, and said, “I’ve quit. Besides, it looks like you’ve got more help than you can handle.”

His broad shoulders tightened as if she’d struck at him, and she pressed her case.

“Really, you should be careful. I’ve seen men torn apart by help like that. Their own help.” She didn’t know why she felt compelled to warn him, except maybe—there was pain in his eyes, deep and raw, and she had no intention of helping him ease it. Her warning was the least she could give.

“The sisters?” he asked. He petted the pale one’s hair again. “No danger of that. But they’re not the help I need right now. I need a detective who can deal—”

“With the supernatural,” Sylvie finished. “I told you. I’ve retired. And I’m not the only one of my kind. There are others if you know where to look. There’s the Good Shepherd—”

“That’s the hell of it,” he said, and the veneer of calmness slipped, giving her a glimpse of desperation. “I always know where to look. I can find anyone, track them anywhere. And no one escapes my eyes—”

He fell silent, but the impression lingered in Sylvie’s mind. Raw power, harnessed. Something flickered in his eyes like a whirlwind. This, Sylvie thought, is one hell of a dangerous man.