"Datura," I whispered. "What the hell did Eddie find?" The door whooshed closed behind us, and I turned to face the Shaman and the sedayeen. The mark on my shoulder sent a tingle down my arm, a welcome relief from numb coldness. I restrained the urge to reach under my shirt and rub the ropes of scarring that made Japhrimel's name branded into my skin.

"Cam? You want to tell her?"

The Shaman shook her head, but she answered. She stank of a raw edge of fear under her spiked scent of magick, something I understood. I'd be afraid too if I was her. "I was working with Eddie. So was Mercy. We were looking for an alkaloid-based painblocker for Pico-PhizePharm." She took a deep breath, then met my gaze squarely. She had deep dark circles under her amber eyes. "What we found was a goddamn fail-safe cure for Chill."

My jaw didn't drop, but it was close. "There is no cure for Chill." I sounded like the air had been punched out of me, again. I was getting to sound like that a lot lately.

Clormen-13 was instantly addictive, it was the nastiest drug on the market. The Hegemony police were constantly fighting a losing war, not only against Chill but against the violence that flowed in its wake. Chillfreaks will do literally anything for another hit, and the way the drug lowers inhibitions and stirs psychoses is bad news. Chillfreaks are like dusters; they don't feel pain or exhaustion. All they feel in the last stages of Chill addiction is the need.

Unlike hash, Chill is addictive for psions; it supposedly gives a high greater than jacking in and riding a Greater Work of magick. The only problem is, it eats away at a psion's shields and control of Power, consuming from the inside. A psion gone Chillfreak is lethal if you aren't careful, not only for the absolute lack of any inhibition but also because they can explode on a psionic level, the magickal equivalent of walking thermonuclear bombs.

The large broad leaves of the plants stirred innocently. They looked healthy for having been dug up recently.

Eddie was-had been-one hell of a Skinlin. "No cure;" I repeated slowly. "That's why it's so profit-oh. Oh." That's why it was so fucking profitable, once you got someone hooked you could take them for everything they had and all they could steal. There was no cure for Chill, the detox process killed almost as surely as addiction did. A cure for Chill would be worth a lot of money-and would cut into the Mob's profit margin worldwide.

My heart gave a gigantic slamming leap. "Who knew? Who?" My voice stirred the plant leaves, rattled the beakers and equipment, made the tiles groan sharply.

"Nobody from Pico-Phize knew yet. Or at least, we didn't think they did. Massadie-our contact might have stolen a sample. Eddie had five." Mercy crossed her arms over her shallow breasts. Now that we were under fullspectrum lights, I saw the shadows of sleeplessness teasing under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. I didn't blame her a bit. Sedayeen aren't frightened of much-they have a sort of genetic disposition to an almost-maniacal calm, bolstered by their training. But even a healer would lose a little sleep over this kind of thing.

And let's not forget she was faced with a patently murderous part-demon. It was probably a wonder she wasn't running screaming in the street.

"He left four at the house," I said numbly. Sekhmet sa'es. Holy fuck. A cure for fucking Chill. Mercy made a restless movement maybe my voice disturbed her. I licked my dry lips. "Sekhmet sa'es, do you have any idea… a cure. A cure for Chill."

"Eddie found out that when he treated the datura alkaloids with a new technique, he got something that looked a little bit like Chill. So he ran some tests, refined it; couldn't believe what he had and brought it to me. We… there was no shortage of volunteers. We chose three. They walked out of here free of addiction. We subjected them to every marker and psiwave test. They were clean." Mercy took a deep breath. "Eddie… he did what he had to do. He moved out of his house and into a shitty apartment on Fiske. He came in and mainlined a packet of Clormen-13. Then we locked him in an observation room until he started to suffer withdrawal. We gave him a hypo of the datura cure."

"You did what?" Plasglass beakers rang softly as the words hit a shrill high. I didn't sound very much like a whispering Necromance. The daturas rustled.

"He wouldn't let us say it was a cure until he'd done it himself and knew for sure. He took a hypo of the datura solution. Sixteen hours later, he was clean. All bloodlevels normal, no aura damage-clean."

"No aura damage?" The thought of a cure for Chill made me feel distinctly woozy. I've faced down Lucifer himself, why do my knees feel weak?

Gods above, this… it could topple the Mob, it could clear the streets and free millions of addicts, stop 70 percent of inner-city crime…. Gods. Gods above and below, Eddie, you came up with a cure for Chill? You beautiful, dirty, shaggy bastard. Gods above and below have mercy on you, Eddie. You deserve a frocking state-sponsored sainthood and federal buildings named after you.

"None." Mercy said it slowly, and very distinctly. She had started to look a little more relaxed. "It's a cure, Valentine. A cure that works on psions and normals, a fail-safe cure for Chill. Eddie didn't want to tell anyone yet, but I'm almost positive Massadie found out."

No wonder the Mob was out for blood. A fail-safe detox of Chill would cut their profits by half if not more, PicoPhize would be able to get Hegemony and Putchkin contracts galore as well as corner the market on other alkaloid painkillers, and other pharm companies would line up espionage agents around the block to get a sneaking peek at the technique. But if Massadie had stolen a sample, why would he be looking for me?

My brain began to work again. There was a certain ironic delight in carrying around a vial of one of the most valuable substances on earth at this point.

Then I remembered I'd given Japhrimel the other three. Well, there was no safer place around for them. And that still left one vial unaccounted-for. Not to mention Gabe and Eddie's kid, in a safe place-for now.

I hoped like hell the hole Gabe had found was deep enough to hide her daughter. One problem at a time, Danny. One goddamn problem at a time. "Massadie. He's been leaving messages for me. Any idea why?"

The healer shrugged. "He's probably a little upset. His most profitable researcher's dead and it's appropriations time. We found a few alkaloids, but without our Skinlin and his notations it's hopeless. We'll lose funding and Jovan Massadie will slip another few steps down on the corporate ladder, losing the discovery that can pay for his retirement." Mercy's eyes lit with sudden hope. "Gabe said she was going to call you. Is she okay? And little Liana?"

Notations. The paper's notations, maybe a formula. I looked at the daturas, glowing with health. "Gabe's dead." I said harshly. "I don't know where the kid is, Gabe told me she was in a safe place. Right now I'm just concerned with icing the motherfuckers that did her parents." Not to mention keeping the Devil off my ass and eluding my Fallen. It was partly a lie, I did know where Gabe's daughter was, but until this was over nobody would hear it from me. Liana. So that's her name.

"Gabriele's dead?" The Shaman exchanged a long meaningful look with Mercy and made a sharp, controlled movement. It looked like pure frustration. Or was she reaching for a blade she wasn't carrying? "Son of a bitch."

It jarred me then, a warning note. I stared at the healer, but she dropped her eyes. There was something going on here, something else.