Lyn Benedict - Gods & Monsters

“A snake,” Sylvie said. She didn’t particularly like snakes.

“An ouroboros,” Zoe said.

“I know that,” Sylvie said. “Why that shape?”

“Purification,” Zoe said. “Consumption and production. It cancels each other out. Hence—”

“A magic neutralizer,” Sylvie said. She hefted it, then tucked it into her pocket. It was cold and heavy, had some of the same comfort as her gun. A tool to be used.

“More powerful if you wear it,” Zoe said. “I promise, it’s safe to wear.”

“I trust you,” Sylvie said. It was easy enough to say. Was even mostly true. “Could I get a replacement for the warning bell, also?”

“Greedy much?”

“Hey, long time since I’ve been enough in Val’s good graces to be let in the door. Got to make the most of it. Besides, the warning bell works for more than me. Alex depends on it, too.”

Zoe made her usual face at the thought of Alex but bent obediently to search. “It won’t be as strong as the last one. Won’t be keyed specifically to your place.”

She dug out another tool, a single baoding ball. It chimed the moment Sylvie’s hand closed around it, vibrated in her palm.

Zoe took a step back. “Syl?”

“What?” Sylvie snapped. “Why’s it doing that?”

Zoe licked her lips. “The door alert went off, also. I just thought—”

“Zoe—”

“You’ve crossed paths with that Power recently. Closely. Enough that some of his energy stuck to you.”

Sylvie sighed. Azpiazu had touched her, it was true, but she thought she’d gotten off lucky with just losing the gun.

Zoe took the warning bell, tucked it into a silk bag, silencing it, before passing it back to Sylvie. “Why don’t you come with us? Get out of town?”

“Got a job to do,” Sylvie said.

“I could stay,” Zoe suggested. “Maybe help you.”

“Val’s keeping you wrapped up tight,” Sylvie said. “There’s probably a reason for it.”

“I’m the youngest witch in the city. Apparently that makes me tasty.” Zoe paced. “It’s sort of like being grounded all over again. At least Val gets every cable channel known to man.”

“What about that goth witch, Aron? He didn’t look that much older than you, and he’s roaming around unsupervised.”

Zoe shook her head. “I’ve never heard of him. Val said I’m the youngest by a whole lot of years. I mean, besides Julian, of course.” There was pride in her voice that made Sylvie twitchy. It had to be magic that her sister took a shine to.

“Aron’s working for Patrice,” Sylvie said. “Strong, a little crazy. Don’t know his field, though.”

“Some witches only look young,” Zoe said.

“Yeah, that’s going around,” Sylvie said, thinking of Patrice, of Azpiazu.

Zoe said, “I’ll ask Val about him, call you if I find anything out.”

“Hey, Zo? Any way to find out if Azpiazu left anything nasty on me? I’d hate to be carrying around a magical time bomb, and I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Zoe gnawed at her lip. “I’m not supposed to do magic without Val.”

“Just a quick look-see. C’mon, Zo. A little witch-sight. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“All right, all right,” Zoe said. She closed her eyes, murmured a quiet incantation—for focus, Sylvie knew, not any intrinsic magic of its own—and then opened her eyes again.

Brown eyes flared wide; her pupils shrank to dots. “Christ Almighty, Sylvie.” Zoe backed away, bumped into the bench, slid down the side, and sat. She closed her eyes tight, shook her head.

“Bad news?” Sylvie tasted dust, a sour sting of adrenaline. She jammed her twitching hands into her jacket pockets.

“No,” Zoe said. “You’re just . . . You’re very vivid. Alive in kind of a scary way.” She shook her head again. “Okay. I saw what brushed up against you. It’s dark, but it’s not doing anything, and it’s fading. Like mud getting brushed off as it dries.”

“Anything I can do to wash it off faster?” She was going to ignore the other stuff. She was alive? She knew that. Felt it every time someone tried to kill her.

“I don’t know,” Zoe said. “Wear the ouroboros. Be careful.”

“Back at you,” Sylvie said. “Val means well, but sometimes running’s the worst thing to do. Sometimes running just gets the attention of things that like to chase.”

“And sometimes it’s the only smart thing to do.”

“Come on,” Sylvie said. “Show me out before Val comes and kicks me out. That way, I can call this a successful visit.”

Zoe grimaced. “She can really hold a grudge.”

“We were friends for a reason,” Sylvie said. “Like to like.”

They stood there in the vaulted foyer, a little awkward in each other’s company, that gulf of secrets between them exposed but not dealt with in any real fashion, still reluctant to part. Finally, Zoe frowned, and said, “Is that my jacket?”

“Not yours anymore,” Sylvie said, ducked Zoe’s smack, hugged her baby sister tight, and took off.

She had barely made it back onto the road out of Key Biscayne when Alex called. Sylvie, dealing with tight traffic, let it ring to voice mail. But Alex called right back, and with a groan, Sylvie found the nearest shoulder—a sloping sandy patch of straggly grass way too close to a watery ditch—and pulled over.

“What?”

“I think I’ve found Azpiazu,” Alex said. There was triumph in her voice, and fear.

“Tell me,” Sylvie said.

“I called Lio about the two dead patrol cops. They were found near the dumped van, near the golf course. And in the center of all that—a lot of nice houses.”

“You called Lio?”

“It was easier than trying to piece together decent info from the skimpy news reports. He’s annoyed with you. Not me.”

“Whatever,” Sylvie said, and bit her lip. Dammit, Zoe’s teenage speech pattern was as contagious as chicken pox. “What did he say?”

“The two cops died, officially of poisoning. Unofficially? Lio says that the coroner says they died from having molten lead replace their blood.”

“Jesus.” She shuddered. That would be one hellish death. She fingered the ouroboros amulet in her pocket and reluctantly pulled it over her head. If Azpiazu could do that, she couldn’t afford to be squeamish about using magical protection. “What connects it to Azpiazu?”

“Sigils on their hands,” Alex said. “The alchemical symbol for lead. It’s transmutation. What with the women in the Everglades having sigils on their faces, and what he did to your gun, I thought it must be linked.”

“Sounds like,” Sylvie said. A heavy truck whizzed by, buffeting her in its wake.

“One of the last things the patrolmen did was check up on a missing person. A magazine editor for StyleMiami didn’t show up to work a couple of days ago. When he missed a meeting, his coworkers called the police, and they sent a patrol car out to check his house.”

“And?”

“Patrolmen reported that he was there, just down with the flu. But, Sylvie, they didn’t take a picture or ask for ID. It was just a courtesy check. After that, they died.”

“You think Azpiazu took his place. His house.”

“You’re the one who said he might do something like that.”

“I did,” Sylvie agreed. “I just didn’t expect him to be so—”

“Stupid? Blatant?”

“Arrogant,” Sylvie said.

“Sorcerer.”

Sylvie sighed. “Your point. Got an address for me? Or are the police swarming the scene?”

“They’re still trying to figure out what kind of freak accident replaces a man’s blood with metal. You’ve got a head start. And, Syl? The StyleMiami guy, Serrano, his house backs up pretty damn close to the golf course where the dead doves were.”