She nodded pleasantly. This conversation was surreal. I could see the three men in my peripheral vision. The first one's face was crisscrossed with bloody slashes where his face had hit the glass. I tried to stay focused and not to jump at every growl. Indecision or fear would kill any deal, and I knew it. I stared at her, unmoving, as she weighed the merits of my offer.

"How much?" She sounded interested.

"Fifty." I had at least that many credits in my account. Of course, I had no idea how I would get hold of my debit card. It was back in Eion's church with the rest of my things. I'd figure out the logistics if she accepted.

One of the Gorgon men escaped out from under the other two and bolted into an alleyway. With a joyful yelp, they leapt after him.

"Christendom?" The female asked.

I shook my head, hoping this wasn't a deal-breaker. "Um ... no, US."

We watched each other. A strangled cry in the distance made me jump.

"Okay." The female Gorgon shrugged. "I'll take your fifty."

She gestured with her head to follow her. I nodded in agreement, but my feet were rooted to the spot. I'd thought I'd been cool through the whole fight, but I noticed I held the Bible to my chest like a talisman. I took in a ragged breath.

"Come on," she insisted. Looking me up and down, she added, "You don't want to be here when they come back, do you?"

I shook my head. Gingerly, I stepped across the chasm – of blood and broken glass to join her.

"Are you a girl?" The Gorgon asked as I fell into step beside her. Her hand reached out to investigate my arm, but quickly retracted when I turned sharply to look at her. "Like Rebeckah?"

I consciously reminded myself to breathe in and out. My frantic heart rate dropped slowly.

"Um ... you can't tell?" I asked, but then realized the uniform hid what few curves I had.

The Gorgon shook her head. "I thought you might be, but wasn't sure."

I pulled my helmet off. It seemed disrespectful to keep it on while talking to her, despite the radiation threat, like wearing sunglasses indoors. After putting the Bible inside, I tucked the helmet under my arm.

She watched me curiously, her head tilted to the side like a dog. I felt foolish, but I held out my hand to her and introduced myself. "I'm Deidre."

She took my hand and gave it a shake – a weak attempt, barely brushing my fingertips. I had the sense she had never engaged in the custom of handshaking. She said, "They call me Dancer."

I doubted the reference was intentional, but there was something about the Gorgon that reminded me of Degas. Though unadorned, her features were delicate, like the deceptively simple-seeming brushstrokes. The long lines of her body held majestic grace. "I can see why," I said, relaxing.

"You can?" Dancer smiled. Self-consciously, she ran her fingers through her short-cropped silver hair. On me such an action would have done further damage to a haircut already resembling a rat's nest, but Dancer's hair mussed pixielike and adorable. "Really?"

"Yes, really." Her charm was infectious. The strangeness of the Gorgons' fight seemed like years ago. Though the woman before me was clearly capable of survival, I found myself wanting to take care of her. "Dancer, where do you sleep? Are you getting enough to eat?"

Dancer smiled. "Oh, sure. The service tunnels are a great place to eat. Restaurants throw away all sorts of good stuff. You'd like it," she said.

I made a face. "They're supposed to compost."

"Yeah, but Kick says that compost chutes cost money, and people don't like to spend money, which I don't understand because I love to spend money." She shot me a hopeful look, under a veil of silver eyelashes. "Fifty credits is a lot of money."

"I guess so." Though part of me knew I was being conned by a master, I resolved to find a way to make sure she got more than fifty once we got back to headquarters. "What are you going to spend it on?"

"Oh. Lots of stuff. Candy bars and Christmas lights – blue ones, I like the blue ones best. Yeah, I'd buy a whole string of dark blue lights. Or maybe something plastic, or ..." – her eyes sparkled at the idea – " ... a shirt that no one else has ever worn. But, you know what I'd really like to do?"

I couldn't help but encourage her. "What?"

"Walk in the front door of one of those tunnel restaurants."

I held on to my smile, even as I felt the edges twitch. One look at that silver hair of hers and the manager of the place would call the police; she'd never get served. She'd end up spending my fifty credits for bail, or they'd confiscate the card as stolen property.

"Don't look so sad, De ..." Fumbling with my name, Dancer accidentally made it more personal. "Anyway, it's okay. I know I can't go in the other tunnels, the outside tunnels. It's just a dream."

"I'm sorry," I said. "That's a good dream."

Dancer nodded vigorously, but her face was scrunched up. I left her to her own thoughts. As we walked along, my armored boots made a soft squishing sound. Dancer, I noticed, wore heavy-traction mountain-climbing boots. She must have picked them out of the trash or stolen them.

"Do you spend a lot of time in the service tunnels?" I asked.

"They say it's better for us than the glass, but I don't know." Dancer was still brooding. As we walked, she stared at the ground. "The tunnels are all cramped and dirty. At least here there's sky."

"Is that what the Christmas lights are? Like stars in the sky?"

Dancer brightened instantly. "Oh!" She beamed up into my face and took my hand. I tensed, but I made a conscious effort to relax. Her invasion of my space was innocent. I let my hand be held. She continued to smile at me. "Yes! That's what they are – stars!"

"And those black boxes?"

"Are stars," she said again, as though testing the sound of the words together. "Are stars."

Dancer was too excited by my metaphor to concentrate on where I wanted the conversation to go next. I let it go for the moment. She continued to mutter about twinkling stars and Christmas lights. She led me down a narrow alleyway. Someone had made a fire in a glass-sheathed garbage can. The flickering flames threw long shadows, around the narrow space. The contrasts of deep darkness and glittering glass were arresting; it was almost beautiful.

"We can't take down the boxes," Dancer said suddenly. "Even though they get in the way of the pretty light. The boxes are Mouse's. He gets really mad if you mess with them. So, we just go around them."

"Mouse's?"

"Uh-huh." Dancer nodded, letting go of my hand to wipe her nose. "Kick says he remembers when Mouse paid a bunch of us to put them up. I say he's lying; Kick's not that old."

"How old would you have to be to remember that?"

"Way older than Kick," Dancer asserted with a little pout. "Way. You'd almost have to be one of the first ones."

"You mean one of the first Gorgons?"

Dancer stiffened. She stopped walking and looked into my face, searching. I could see tears starting to form in her eyes. "I'm not a Gorgon. I'm not so ugly that I turn people to stone, am I?"

"No," I said. "You're beautiful."

She blinked back her tears. "Oh."

"If not ... that ... then what should I call you?"

She looked confused and vaguely frustrated by my request. Finally, she said, "Dancer."

Shaking my head, I smiled. "Okay, Dancer. I'm sorry I said that."

"Okay," she said, and we started walking again. We left the maze of alleyways to turn onto a main street. Dancer trudged along, lost in her own thoughts. Then, she peeked up at me, curiously. "You're funny, you know? Sometimes you say the prettiest things. It's kind of like a riddle, but it makes more sense. I wish I could talk like that."

"Where did you hear the story of Medusa and the Gorgons, Dancer?"