Lyn Benedict - Gods & Monsters

If they did, they were either too polite or restrained to show reaction to it.

“Up!” Riordan said, and gestured them forward. They hesitated.

“Uh-uh,” Sylvie said. “Bad form to make your men put down their guns to come wrestle with a prisoner. How new are you to this job, anyway?” She stood, stretched. “So where are we headed? Cells? Or interrogation?”

“Just walk,” Riordan said.

“So bossy,” Sylvie said. She moved anyway. She wasn’t up for a fight. Or at least, not a pointless one. Azpiazu was still out there, still glomming up power.

The hallway was clean, crisp, tile-floored, white-walled. Not the hotel this time. Some other facility. Still in the city, but where? Would anyone know to look for her?

Sylvie felt the first trickles of real worry creep into her blood. She mocked the ISI often enough, and they did earn her scorn, but . . . they were still the government, with government resources and the laws on their side.

All she had was Alex. And maybe not even her. Memory flashed; Erinya yanking Alex away.

The two silent men sandwiched her, a wall of armed muscle on either side. She might not respect Riordan, but he respected her enough to hem her in.

They moved her along at a quick pace, trying to deny her the chance to cause trouble, trying to keep her off balance. The tear gas might have been cleared from her system, but she still felt shocky and sore.

An elevator took her upward, and, stepping out, she got a view through a narrow window. The downtown skyline, up close. They were probably in one of the newer condominiums, barely finished and foreclosed on. Snapped up cheap by the government.

Sylvie had expected, given the scrubs, the bare feet, the escort, to be shoved into a room turned cell. Instead, she was marched through a reception area and into one of the single most ridiculously opulent offices she had ever seen, all white marble and dark, glossy furniture. The man behind the mahogany desk didn’t raise his head, just jabbed his stylus at one of the steel-and-leather chairs. “Sit.”

Riordan leaped to attention and Sylvie evaded him, taking a seat herself and propping her dusty bare feet on the edge of the desk. “I’m seated. Now what?”

The man raised his head briefly, flipped his attention back to the tablet before him. He matched his office. Steel grey hair, black eyes, all hard edges and gloss. The nameplate on the edge of the desk read DOMINICK RIORDAN, and Sylvie looked back over her shoulder. “Aw, you joined the family firm.”

The younger Riordan shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, and Dominick Riordan set down his tablet with a click. “Ms. Lightner, you’re here for serious reasons, not to harass my son.” His voice . . . was unfair. Mellow, rich, exactly the kind of voice to elicit trust and contentment in his listeners. Sylvie, looking at that cold gaze, thought it was a warmth as deceptive as a succubus.

“What would those reasons be?” she asked.

“You’ve been consorting with monsters.”

“Is that a crime?” Sylvie said. “No, really, I’m curious. Is that going to be a crime in your new rule book?”

Riordan hmmed quietly, and said, “I’d forgotten. Demalion was your man. He shared information with you.”

“Shared more than that,” a woman said, eeling under Riordan Jr.’s arm, and dropping into the seat beside Sylvie. “They were quite a power pair from everything I hear.” She gave Sylvie a bright, insincere smile.

She was familiar. The agent who’d given Adelio Suarez his ride home. The agent who’d mentioned Demalion with easy familiarity. The agent with the strangely marked hand.

“Ms. Stone,” Riordan said. “You’re late.”

“Things to do,” she said. “You know how it goes. I was checking up on Chico in the infirmary.”

“He make it?”

“No,” Stone said. “Sylvie’s friend ripped his head off. Kind of impossible to reattach.”

Sylvie let her feet drop from the desk. Dammit.

“Still feeling smart-mouthed?” Riordan asked.

“Didn’t ask you to break into my office. You’re the one who—”

“Be realistic,” Riordan said. “What did you think would happen? You made enough ruckus that the police were called. Of course we sent someone in. You’re a troublemaker, Shadows. A barometer of things going wrong.”

Sylvie leaned forward, clenched her hands on the edge of her chair. “Such a waste of your time. There’s going to be a massive smack-down happening somewhere in the city that makes the ruckus at my place seem like a fenderbender. What are you going to do about that? You’ve seen the signs. I saw your people in the Everglades.”

“Is it you we have to thank for our men missing time?”

“Focus!” Sylvie said. “A god coming to Miami. Sooner, rather than later—Kind of on a time line, here. If you lock me up, what can you do in my place?”

“Do you expect a meteorologist to stop a hurricane?”

Her breath caught in her throat, a thousand words trying to escape at once, gagging her. Beside her, Stone cocked her head as if she could sense even a fraction of Sylvie’s outrage.

“That’s your plan? To run around telling people to get out of the pool. That a thunderstorm is coming?”

“What can we do against gods? Nothing. Statistically, it’s irrelevant. Deaths caused by gods are massive, but the real casualties are the deaths caused by witches and sorcerers, by monsters. By people like you.” It all sounded so reasonable in his newscaster voice.

“You think I’m a part of the Magicus Mundi ?”

“You’re telling me you’re not? That being the new Lilith means nothing? That it’s a human thing?”

“It’s the quintessential human thing,” Sylvie said. “The ability to say fuck you .” Whatever else it meant, whatever expectations the title came with—Sylvie knew that much was true. She was still human, still had free will. Everything else was just details.

He leaned across the desk, and said, “What was the creature in your office?”

“No one you want to tangle with.” Sylvie sneered at him. “She’s one of your hurricanes. Too much for you to handle. Maybe you should just . . . report on her. Tell people to run for their lives.”

“Caridad Valdes-Pedraza said it was a Fury,” Stone said beside her. “One of the creatures who turned Chicago inside out.”

“And you wonder why we name you an enemy,” Riordan said. “One city through turmoil’s not enough for you? You want to go for two?”

“I want to save my city,” Sylvie said. “You’re the ones who’re jeopardizing it.” She turned on Stone. “When you talked to Cachita? Did she tell you that she’s got a god waiting on her words? That he’s not a patient god? That he’s not even a particularly bright god? He’s been manipulated by a sorcerer he meant to punish. He’s not happy.”

“And you can make him happy?”

“Nothing can,” Sylvie said. “At best, we can keep him . . . elsewhere.”

Riordan tapped his stylus thoughtfully on his desk. “Convenient that it requires you to be set free.”

“And Cachita,” Sylvie said. “Just to be clear.”

Riordan said, “And Ms. Valdes-Pedraza.”

“She was carrying an obsidian knife,” Stone said. “A nice weapon. Sharp. For ritual use, I’d imagine.” She gestured obscurely; her red-mottled hand held an imaginary blade with a deadly competence.

“The kind that might carve symbols in dead women’s skin?”

Sylvie let out another careful breath. “If you’re trying to suggest that Cachita is the Everglades killer, you’re dangerously off target. If you’re planning on using her as a scapegoat, it won’t last. Azpiazu’s appetite is too big.”