“And where is he keeping it?” It was a stupid question. Central Park was the only place big enough, although the mama boggle there was notoriously territorial. “Boggle won’t be happy.”

“You might be surprised, little brother. This Oshossi seems to have a way with predators, and she is nothing if not a predator,” Niko disagreed. He didn’t resheath his sword, just as I didn’t put away my gun. Oshossi and the ccoa appeared to have left, but appearances were nothing if not deceiving.

Boggle, murderous and unsanitary as hell, wouldn’t be at all pleased if we tried to question her. As a matter of fact, she and her brood might try to eat us, and they might succeed. There were enough of them and they had every reason not to like us. “We could ask her,” I said, lip curling in doubt and disgust as I remembered the stench of her mud pit.

“Ask her?” Robin echoed with a disbelieving snort. “You and Niko are responsible for her being half skinned alive. She’s practically summer sausage. Talking is iffy, and spooning is completely out of the question.”

Which was true. We’d hired her to help us with our Sawney problem two weeks ago and things hadn’t gone quite the way we’d planned. Boggle was the shit, Central Park’s Queen of the Jungle, but Sawney . . . he’d been nearly indestructible. And almost as insane as an Auphe.

“Robin’s right. Flippant and annoying, but right.” Niko turned the katana until the flat of the blade caught the light, studied the flash. “You do know where the ccoa is going next, don’t you?” He looked up at Promise, his gaze like a winter river—reflecting nothing. Any emotion he might be feeling was caught deep in the undertow.

“Yes, I know,” she answered, a shadow of worry passing over her face. “Will you come?” It was said without desperation, said proudly. Even injured, Promise was more than a fighter in her own right. Together she and Cherish could probably take the ccoa. Maybe.

If there was only one.

This Oshossi who had sent in a whole pack of cadejos . . . I doubted he’d send only one ccoa to do the deed next time. We’d sent this one running for its life—that was my story and I was sticking to it. Oshossi would know better in the future. He was smart. As for helping Cherish . . . Niko had said before he would help, but that was days ago when Promise’s lie was fresh.

Funny thing about lies: They don’t get better with time. They fester and turn and chew a raw hole in you; they make you wonder if it was only one lie or were there others. It didn’t help we’d spent three years living a lie ourselves. Niko wouldn’t have told those lies if it weren’t for me, but he couldn’t help but remember how easy it was. People see what they want to see and believe what they want to believe. Hell, they all but lie to themselves. There was hardly any work involved at all. We practically never needed our fake IDs.

And, really, did anyone ever just tell one lie? Then again, weren’t Niko and I lying now? Or at the very least not giving all the information we had on the Auphe—on me. It wouldn’t make a difference in Promise and Robin’s fate that they didn’t know mine. But it was a damn slippery slope. Niko and Promise had already seen that.

I spoke up before Niko could. Made the choice so he didn’t have to. “Yeah, we said we would. Let’s go kick Garfield’s ass. Maybe catch one and take it home to breed with Robin’s cat.”

Robin, eyes slanting in Niko’s direction, caught my line of thought, tucked that ball under his arm, and ran with it. “Oh yes, another wonderful idea from the man whose refrigerator spawned the cheddapet, the cheddar-based life form with a thick and luxurious coat of mold. Magnifique.” He was walking, gesturing to us with an impatient hand to follow, and already on his cell phone with his lieutenant sales pitbull. “Yes, yes, Jackson. You’re mother is in a coma. I’m aware,” he said crossly. “So she won’t even notice you’re gone then, will she? Now come down here to the lot and get the glass fixed before someone makes off with the inventory, your job, and what little ass you’ll have left after I’m through kicking it.” He snapped the phone shut.

“Pure evil,” I said. “Not that I’m surprised.”

“That’s the fifteenth time in two months that his mother’s been in a coma. That may work with the teary-eyed customers, but not with me.” He gave his patented sales-shark sly grin. “Besides, I was the one who taught him that line. Great salesman, rotten short-term memory.” He opened the door to the limo and looked back at me. “There’s still a position available, you know.”

Talk about Get thee behind me, Satan. I used a little of my Rom half to fork the evil eye at him. “How many souls a week to I have to rack up? Is there a quota? Do I have to sign anything in blood?”

“That Faust, he never could keep a secret.” He gave a slick smile and got in the car.

We beat the giant hairball hacker to Seamus’s loft. I could still smell the faint trace of death when we arrived. Old blood. Scrub as hard as you want, the scent still lingers. As for Cherish’s scent, my nose wasn’t good enough to detect relatives. I had no idea if she smelled like Promise at the genetic level or not. I could only detect a mix of pears and brandy. She smelled exactly like a dessert Robin had ordered once when he’d dragged us . . . well, me . . . to some expensive restaurant. Niko and Promise had enjoyed it, but I’d had to break out my good shoes: the black sneakers. What a pain in the ass. I’d take pizza any day. You can eat that in jeans. Hell, you can eat it buck naked on the couch if you want. As long as no red-hot cheese dripped on the important parts, you’re good to go.

“Madre.” She stood at the door, dressed all in white this time. There was a long white silk skirt that skimmed below her navel to reveal an amethyst on a silver hoop. She also wore a high-necked top that was a backdrop to a web of more silver and amethysts. Unlike the fake vampires that hung around the Goth bars, there wasn’t a whip, leather bra, or thigh-high boot in sight.

She kept us waiting for a second and then shook off the surprise to step back. “I’m sorry. Come in. I’m glad you’re here.”

Once we were inside, I smelled new blood thick over the scent of the old. I also smelled goat. The chupa, Xolo, was sitting on Seamus’s couch, watching a television, which looked new. I hadn’t noticed one in the loft the last time we were there. Seamus probably hadn’t spent a lot of time watching TV, what with all the painting and murdering. That kind of thing’s time consuming.

The chupa’s mild brown eyes were dazed and content as he drank the goat blood from a large glass. Apparently, that beat the tequila that they normally drank hands-down. The things were smart enough to carry around money, dress themselves, go to a bar, and point to a drink—I’d never heard one speak—but that seemed to be the sum total of their brain power.

“You sure he doesn’t need a sippy cup?” I asked. The whole thing was weird. Did Cherish want it as a pet, or the next best thing to a kid? Was her biological clock ticking, but she didn’t want the commitment of the real thing? Did she have a rhinestone collar for it, or a college fund? Did I actually care either way?

Nope.

She ignored me. Closing the door behind us, she fingered one of the teardrop amethysts on her necklace as she faced us. “I wanted to . . .” She trailed off and smiled, mostly at herself. “How awkward to find fault with yourself. I wanted to apologize to you, Madre. I’m a selfish creature, I know. But even I go beyond the pale to put my mother in danger when she’s already there to begin with. I am selfish, but not so selfish I want to see anything happen to you.” She dropped the amethyst and reached for Promise’s hand. “You are my only family. Thirty years may pass between my visits, but you are my corazoín. You gave me life. I don’t want to have a part in taking yours.”