Lyn Benedict - Gods & Monsters

“The ISI might tap—”

Alex wrinkled her nose. “I’d like to see them try.”

Sylvie found a smile. She’d nearly forgotten. Alex’s hacking skills came directly from her family. She was just the only one who did legit work with them.

“And you know Zoe would nuke anyone who tried to listen in on her calls,” Alex continued. “Of course, if you start thinking about it that way . . . Syl, we’d be crazy to leave Miami. Our support’s here. Zoe, Val, Tierney.” A quick flick of her lashes in his direction, a curving smile.

Wales said, “You’re assuming they’re coming at you legally.”

Alex scoffed. “You are way too negative.”

“I don’t like running,” Sylvie said abruptly. “I really don’t like running when I haven’t planned an effective retreat. We’re staying. There’s no point in running, anyway. The ISI has branches everywhere, a lot of money, and a long arm. I’m staying and trusting that Erinya scared them off. They don’t like gods? I’ve got one in my pocket. At least for now.”

Alex said, “You what?”

“Long story,” Sylvie said. “The important thing is, the good guys won, the women are home safely, and Azpiazu’s dust.”

“Almost dust,” Wales said. “We’re going to lay his spirit.”

“I’m coming with you guys when you do. Ooh, hey! You and me,” Alex said, gesturing at Wales. “Time for a celebratory breakfast burrito run. You in?” Her smile widened; Wales seemed dazzled.

“Yeah, all right,” he said. Breathless.

Sylvie watched them go, watched Wales catch Alex’s arm, stilling her. He stooped, awkward but determined, kissed her quickly, shyly. Alex linked her arm through his and dragged him off. Sylvie smiled.

BANGING SOUNDS FROM THE ALLEY GOT HER ATTENTION, AND SHE went out to find Etienne dragging hurricane-proof plywood toward her store. She grabbed the other side of the board, and said, “Thanks, Etienne.”

They got the first few planks up, screwed in tight, and were working on the last, Sylvie concentrating on the sheer physicality of it. Nice to have something mindless to do. Something that let her shut off her brain.

If Erinya had scared off the ISI, that gave her time to think.

She didn’t want it.

The last board up, Etienne thanked with a smile and a hundred dollars in his pocket, Sylvie found herself sitting on a bench in the sunlight, flipping her phone from one hand to the other.

The ISI had had it in their clutches. They’d have the numbers she dialed; they’d probably set spies on it so they could listen in. She put it back in her pocket, and went to harass Etienne again.

The phone rang on the other end, and a woman answered, throwing Sylvie off a bit. In the age of cell phones, it was so rare to get the wrong member of the household, but that was what she had. Wright’s wife on the line.

“Who is this?” she asked.

Sylvie spun a quick line about being a collection agency, got an exasperated huff, and a shout for “Adam” to take the call.

“It’s me,” Sylvie said the moment she heard his breath.

Demalion huffed quietly, something approximating wry amusement. “Fun. All the guilt of cheating, and she’s not even my wife. But you’re okay? You sound postcase.”

“Bad guys vanquished,” Sylvie said. Her throat was tight.

“Casualties?”

She closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

“Not your pet necromancer,” Demalion said. “Alex has a crush.”

“No, thankfully. They’re off courting over bacon. But the intrepid mini-me didn’t make it.”

“You liked her.”

“Yeah. She was smart and brave when it counted. Anyway, that’s not why I called. You’re safe from the Furies. Or at least, reasonably safe.”

Another betraying breath. A mingled intake of relief and shock. When had she learned his language so well that she could read his mood over the phone? “How’d you swing that?”

“Erinya called off her hunt, and the other two think you’re still dead.”

“That must have cost you.” He was hedging his gladness, refusing to give in to it just yet.

“Nothing I wanted to keep,” Sylvie said. “Hey. You still planning on rejoining the ISI?”

“If I can get an entry point, yeah. Why?” His relief was short-lived, giving way to wariness. She pressed the phone closer to her cheek and smiled. Probably wrong, but she liked Demalion suspicious. Kept her on her toes.

“I need eyes on the inside,” she said. “They’ve stepped up their interest in me.”

Demalion said, “Stepped up how? More surveillance? Phone tapping—” He faltered. “Do you think they’re listening now?”

“I’m on Etienne’s phone,” Sylvie said. “And more like tear gas and sudden detention.”

He swore, something angry, quiet, and hissed. “You all right?”

“Not going to mark tear gas as one of my top experiences, but I think I came out of there in better shape than they did.” She hunched over the phone, tried to sound tough. Her hands shook. She hadn’t been afraid then, too caught up in worry about Azpiazu and Tepeyollotl. Now she had the time.

“You want me to fly down?”

“If you’re going to rejoin the ISI, better have as little contact with me as possible. It’s going to be iffy enough when they research Wright and realize he . . . you were a client. Luckily, I never cashed his check. He . . . you can be dissatisfied with my services.”

“Ah,” Demalion said on a sigh. “The good old days. Careful backstories. Disposable cell phones. Coded calls. Secret rendezvous in strange cities. Sounds like fun.”

“Spy junkie,” Sylvie said, and knew he could hear her smile across the distance. She heard Alex and Wales returning, Alex chattering lightly and Wales’s slower drawl interrupting. Near-death experiences, or perhaps Eros’s recent presence in Alex’s life, seemed to whisk away his shyness.

They walked toward her, shoulders bumping companionably, and Sylvie sighed. Chicago was a long way away.

“I have to go,” she said. “Hey, D? Be careful. I don’t trust the ISI.”

“I’m the careful one, remember?”

“Seriously,” she said. “Watch yourself.”

“Always,” he said.

She folded the phone closed as Alex approached, bag in hand. Alex said, “We’re going elsewhere to eat. The office is a health hazard. My apartment?”

Sylvie felt her smile falter. “Actually, I have something I need to do.”

“Something risky?” Alex said.

“No,” Sylvie said. It was even the truth, though it didn’t feel that way. Alex studied her, turned, and handed the bag of food to Wales.

“I’m going with her. I’ll catch you later, all right?”

“I’ll wait,” he said.

Sylvie said, “You don’t need to come, Alex.”

“Yeah, but I’m going to.”

“Fine,” Sylvie said. Arguing with Alex was a fool’s game; she preferred to save the fights for when she really cared about the results.

Her truck, when she opened it, was scaldingly hot, a lion’s breath of sun-baked metal, and her entire body flushed. Alex swore as she clambered into the passenger seat. Sylvie cranked the windows down, blasted the air, and headed off. Her hair snarled and tangled in the breeze, and Alex’s attempts at conversation—at prying—were lost to the roar of the engine and the buffet of wind.

Alex subsided, made herself comfortable in the seat, and rubbed briefly at the god mark on her cheek. Sylvie wondered suddenly if that touch of Eros had anything to do with Alex’s ability to make people listen to her. To make people like her. Alex had always been amiable and clever, but . . . when had Sylvie started confiding in her to such an extent?

Sylvie shook her head, shook the suspicion off, well aware that she was dwelling on other things than the source of her discomfort.