The night was old and turning gray by the time I got to Fortieth and Napier. The streets were curiously hushed, even the Tank District; thin predawn drizzle dewed my hair with heaviness and made me acutely conscious of heat from my metabolism sending up tracers of steam from my skin.

My left shoulder was heavy and numb, my entire left arm cold. I almost slid my hand under my shirt to touch Japhrimel's mark. That fleeting contact would be enough for him to possibly track me, and I… missed him.

If there's one thing a demon hates, it's helplessness. Well, that made us about even, I hate being helpless too. But it was a huge stretch to think of Japhrimel at anyone's mercy, including mine. After all, he had no compunction about using superior strength to force me into being a good little obedient hedaira. Helpless? Him? Not bloody likely. But still.

The only time I feel any peace is when you are safe, and I am near you.

Maybe the helplessness wasn't a physical thing.

He had actually grabbed Lucifer's hand and pushed the Devil back.

The Gauntlet rang softly, like a block of ice touched by a sonic cutter. I didn't want to think too much about that. It made my hands want to shake and my knees go a little softer than usual. Lucifer had intended to kill me, quite probably painfully. I was still looking at a very short lifespan without Japhrimel around to keep my skin whole, even with a demon artifact clapped on my wrist.

I took advantage of the shadows across the street from the Danae Clinic. Their windows were boarded up, a smell of scorched plasteel and plurifreeze drifting across the street. I inhaled deeply, my nose sorting out the different tangs, and extended a tendril of awareness toward the clinic.

I retreated as soon as my receptive consciousness touched the shields. Careful, heavy sedayeen and Shaman-laid shields, layers of energy pulsing and spiking. They had probably deflected most of the explosion, I caught no flavor of Power in the lingering echoes of the bomb. Just explosives, probably C 19 or vaston. Which meant Mob work, most likely.

The tang of sedayeen-violetsand white mallow-slid a galvanic thrill through my bones. I hadn't sought the company of a healer since Doreen's murder.

That thought made me shiver again, hearing my own harsh breath and feeling the claws tear through my human flesh again. Memory rose, swallowed me whole.

"Get down, Doreen! Get down!"

Crash of thunder. Moving, desperately, scrabbling… fingers scraping against the concrete, rolling to my feet, dodging the whine of bullets and plasbolts. Skidding to a stop just as he rose out of the dark, the razor glinting in one hand, his claws glittering on the other.

"Game over," he giggled, and the awful tearing in my side turned to a burning numbness as he slashed, I threw myself backward, not fast enough, not fast enough-

I exhaled. My fingers were under the collar of my shirt, but instead of the mark they were playing with Jace's necklace. It thrummed reassuringly under my touch, throbbing like a bad tooth implant.

I rubbed the knobbed end of a baculum as I watched the clinic. Small movements in the shadows warned me I wasn't the only one watching the place. I settled against the brick wall, feeling the bite of hunger under my ribs. The temptation to dig in my bag and fish out the book was almost overwhelming, but strictly controlled. I had no time for research now, I was on a hunt that would only get faster.

They're not going to open for a while. Go get some breakfast, Dante.

Not while there was someone else watching. Whoever-it-was was well hidden, blending into the landscape. The brick was rough and cold against my hair as I leaned even deeper into the wall, buttoned down tightly, almost invisible.

Selene was right. There were demons in Saint City, and things were getting unpredictable. The familiar mood of the cold pulsing heart of the city's Power well had changed a bit, spiced and spiked with the musksmell of demons. I've noticed it before-when a demon or two moves in, the whole city starts to smell.

Demons are, after all, credited with teaching humanity how to build cities. Yet another thing we can thank them for.

Go over it again, Dante.

Eddie had been working on something, and a biotech company was involved. He was murdered-and Gabe either wouldn't quit digging or knew something dangerous about what he was working on. So she was executed. The little bottles of granular stuff and the papers with Skinlin notations were either a decoy-or they were what he'd been killed for. And someone who had no trouble getting inside her shields had been willing to spend the time and effort to tear apart Gabe's house and go to the trouble of cleaning up psychic traces.

That made whatever I was carrying a hot property. Not to mention the file-had Gabe lifted it from the Saint City PD before it could be copied? Or were there more copies in a police station somewhere?

I had a few contacts on the police force from the days when I would take a turn doing apparitions to assist homicide investigations. Digging in the police department seemed the next logical choice after I found out whatever was at this clinic.

A quiet place to go through Eddie's file and the book Selene had given me would help. Two mysteries: what had killed my last two friends, and where the hell was Japhrimel? He'd seemed pretty insistent on not letting me out of his sight, and if I could be used to force him into joining Eve's rebellion-and now that Lucifer had made it clear I was living on borrowed time-it made no sense for him to leave me alone with McKinley.

Not to mention the added mystery of this treasure and the Key, whatever they were.

Footsteps. Someone approaching.

I faded even deeper into shadow. Listened, taking deep smooth breaths. Smelled a pleasant mix-the violets and white mallow of a sedayeen and the spiced honey of a Shaman.

My right hand closed around my swordhilt. I tensed. They came into view, two women, neither carrying edged metal. Which usually means helpless. It always irks me to see a Shaman or Necromance without combat training-what good is being legally allowed and encouraged to carry weapons if you don't take advantage of it?

The irritation quickly turned to full-flowered anger as I noticed the skittering in the shadows of the alleys opposite me. I caught a glint of metal and heard the soft, definite snick of a projectile assault rifle's safety being eased off.

I was already moving.

Reverse grip on swordhilt, tear the blade up, wet gray stink of intestines slithering loose. I kicked the fifth one, a snapping side kick that smashed his ribs on one side and sent him hurtling back. The momentum of the kick brought me around in a neat half-turn, sword singing up and making a chiming noise as I blocked the downsweep of the mercenary with the machete.

They had good, corporate-laid shields. Some Magi had been paid to lay a concealment on them so their blaring normal minds wouldn't broadcast their presence to psionic victims. That alone told me they were up to no good-if they'd just been surveillance teams, they wouldn't have had both concealments and enough projectile-weaponry to start a new riot in the Tank District.

The fight was short, sharp, and vicious, ending with me flicking smoking human blood off my sword, Power flaring to clean the steel before it flickered back into its sheath.

I grabbed the last one left alive-the merc whose ribs I'd shattered-and hauled him up, bone grinding in the mess of his chest.

He was maybe thirty, sweating under his streaky gray camopaint, in standard merc assassin gear-a rig like mine, black microfiber jumpsuit, various clinking weaponry. His body shuddered, eyes glazing, my rings popped a shower of golden sparks as I shook him.