My skin prickled with phantom gooseflesh. I took a deep breath, dispelling the feeling. The bag was singed and smelled of hard use and gun oil, its strap frayed but still tough. I fished my 'pilot out, flipped it open, and tapped at the screen while it genescanned me and decided I was, after all, Dante Valentine.

I was glad the electronics recognized me. Some days I didn't even recognize myself anymore. Ever since that rainy Monday when my front door resounded with shattering knocks, my life had taken a definite turn into "gigantic mess."

The screen flashed, cleared. Then the message came up, priority-marked urgent, I knew who it was from. There was only one person it could be from, only one person whose messages would go straight to my datband. Gabe. Gabriele Spocarelli.

I blew out between my teeth. The icon flashed, waiting for me to tap it to bring the message up. The waitress came with thick aromatic coffee you can get in Hegemony Afrike or Putchkin Near Asiano; syrupy-sweet and fragrant. She also set down my synthprotein shake and gave me a bright smile, her dark eyes passing over my tat with nary a hitch. I looked up at Lucas, who studied his shotglass with apparent interest before lifting it slowly to his mouth with the air of a man embarking on a sensual experience.

I tapped the icon. I'd spoken to Gabe a couple months ago, one of our semi-regular calls. Like most psions, I wasn't good with a regular schedule unless I had a datpilot and a messenger service to keep my life straight; I would sometimes think only a few days had gone by before my 'pilot would beep and tell me it had been a month or three and Gabe was due for another call. Time had taken on a funny elasticity, maybe because I was hanging out with a creature older than even I had any idea of.

Usually I dialed, she picked up, and we both did our best to sound like the things we couldn't say to each other weren't crowding the telephone line like apparitions pulled from fresh bodies, shimmering and seeming solid. We talked about old cases and bounties, told a few jokes, and generally said nothing of any real importance whatsoever.

She didn't mention Jace Monroe. I didn't mention Japhrimel, who observed a strict silence during the phone calls when he didn't withdraw to another room, granting me privacy. Nor did Gabe and I engage in anything even remotely resembling real conversation. Still, I called regularly, and each time I called she picked up. It was good enough for me.

Better than I deserved.

The screen flashed, and a chill touched my nape. The message was simple. Too simple.

Danny, Mainuthsz. I need you. Now. Gabe.

"Who is it?" Lucas's eyes flicked over my shoulder. I looked, seeing Japhrimel. He skirted the tables, obviously intending to join us. My heart began to pound, and if I hadn't been so hungry I might have bolted from the table. Not to avoid him, but because the need to move suddenly all but throttled me.

I sat very still, searching for control. It came slowly, tied to the deep breathing I began. All the way down into the belly, blow the breath out softly through the lips. Anubis grant me strength. All right, Gabe. I'm on my way. "A friend." I flipped my datpilot shut with a practiced flip of my wrist. "Let's have breakfast. Then I've got a transport to catch."

I waited until after breakfast-the curry was fantastic, searing hot over fluffy rice, washed down with more of the fragrant coffee and plenty of ice water. The shake also took the edge of hunger away, leaving me feeling a bit more solid. I had the standard doses of tazapram in my bag, but my stomach had seemed to get even stronger as a hedaira.

If it was edible, it mostly looked good to me; I wondered if there was anything I couldn't eat. Most Necromances have cast-iron guts anyway, funny for a bunch of twitchy, neurotic prima donnas.

Oddly enough, it reminded me of Emilio, the round Novo Taliano cook at our house in Toscano. He used to beg me to eat, considering it an insult if I didn't consume as many k-cals as he deemed appropriate on a daily basis. When I thought of our house, I thought of Emilio, his pudgy hands waving; he was one of the few normals who didn't seem to fear me at all. He seemed to view me as a pretty and pampered but not-too-bright daughter of a rich family, who had to be bullied and petted into eating properly. It should have irritated me, but damn the man could cook.

The meal was quiet. Japhrimel drank a glass of silty red wine, probably more out of politeness than anything else. Lucas didn't ask any more questions about my little message, and I spent the time thinking of how to break the news to Japhrimel.

I didn't think he'd take it calmly. Besides, there were a couple of things we still had to sort out. Like what the hell the Key was, and what the bloody blue hell was going on now.

After breakfast-which Japhrimel paid for, as usual-Lucas excused himself to go upstairs and catch some sleep. And probably to give me a chance to talk to Japh, since I'd been monosyllabic all through the meal. I stared at my coffeeglass and tried to think of the right words.

Japhrimel waited, his eyes scorching green. Normals didn't seem to notice he wasn't human. Other psions could see the black-diamond flames twisting through his aura, and could call him what he was. Demon.

Only not quite demon. A'nankhimel, Fallen.

His fingers played with the wineglass, the long dark Chinese-collared coat as wetly black as the lacquer urn I'd once kept his ashes in. I drew in a deep breath, gathered my courage, and opened my mouth.

"Japh, I have to go to Saint City. I just got a message from Gabe. She needs me."

Japhrimel absorbed this, staring into his wineglass. Said nothing.

I took another gulp of coffee. I really wasn't doing service to it, swilling it like cheap freeze-dried. But I was nervous. "Japhrimel?"

"'The Necromance." Faintly dismissive, as if reminding himself. "With the dirtwitch mate."

I swallowed roughly. "She's my friend. And she says she needs me, it's an emergency. Everything else is going to have to wait." Including Lucifer. Especially Lucifer.

His eyes half-lidded. The look was deceptively languid, but the mark on my shoulder turned hot and aching under his attention. His hair fell over his forehead, softly, my fingers itched to brush the inky strands. Trace down his cheek like I'd done before, maybe run my fingertip across the border of his lips while he submitted to my touch, his eyes darkening for just a moment.

Stop it. You've still got a few questions to answer, Japh. Like what the hell's going on. Explanations, remember? But still… One day, Lucifer had said as I crouched, my throat on fire and my belly running with pain, I will kill her.

Not while I watch over her, Japhrimel had replied.

The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a declaration of war. I wasn't sure how I felt about that, except gratefulness that I was still alive.

"I'm catching the first transport I can," I told him. "I'm going back to Saint City. You can come with me if you want, but not before you explain everything to me. In detail. Leaving nothing out. Clear?"

He took another sip of wine. His eyes burned. A soft weight of Power folded around me, eased against my skin as if he had wrapped me in Putchkin synthfur. "You swore allegiance to the Prince as his Right Hand. You have four demons to hunt, hedaira."

I winced. Well, it's now or never, I suppose. "I won't hunt Eve, Japhrimel."

A single shrug. I was beginning to hate the way demons shrug all the goddamn time. I suppose most of what humans do deserves no more than a shrug-but still.