Lyn Benedict - Sins & Shadows

“That’s fine, but we’re not driving anywhere in this,” Burke said. “I can’t even see the road.”

“It’s the straight line in front of you,” Sylvie said. “Just go slow.”

“I can’t see, Shadows!”

“I can,” Demalion said. His pupils widened and shone. “Old Cat, right?” His expression was grim, beginning to piece it together. “Burke, move over.”

“No way, Demalion. No way in hell.” Burke put his hand on his gun butt. “I’m not letting you kill us all.”

A particularly vivid line of lightning etched itself across the sky, a long, jagged whip that started out phosphorescent white and lasted long enough to turn blue and red as it burned the clouds. Sylvie’s hair crackled and popped with all the power in the air. Something plummeted toward them, heard first, a whistle of tortured air, then a dark shape slammed into the roadway before them with an impact that shattered concrete and cracked all the windows in the van.

Burke put the van into reverse, fighting Demalion’s hand on his, but before anything else could happen, a fistful of talons slammed through the remaining shreds of window glass and into Burke’s chest. He shrieked, but only very briefly.

Alekta withdrew her hand, opened the door, and pushed Burke’s body into the center aisle. “ I’ll drive.” Her claws closed around the steering wheel, shifted back to human shape, though red to the wrist. Her human shape was considerably the worse for wear. Her leathers were scuffed, torn, and singed; her hair was matted dark with water or blood.

Sylvie’s breath was gone. Bran was curled tight into Demalion’s side, whimpering.

“He worked for her,” Alekta said. “Waiting his chance to turn on you.” She stretched out a hand; Demalion flinched back, but all she did was reach out to tug on Bran’s hair. “Hey, baby. You okay?”

“He’d be better if he weren’t underneath a corpse!” Sylvie snapped.

Alekta turned her eyes from the unseen road, grabbed Burke’s body, and hurled it out the door. It bounced once, jolting the van as it rolled under its rear tires. The van slithered and slewed, but Alekta steered with complete confidence and worrying speed.

Demalion’s jaw was clenched so tight, Sylvie thought he might splinter teeth. With a muttered, “Monster,” he crawled into the back as far away from Alekta as he could get. Sylvie wanted to shake him. Monster or not, Alekta was a welcome ally; a better bodyguard than Sylvie could ever be. It wasn’t for simple strength and power; Sylvie had seen Erinya beaten back twice by humans—Lilith and herself—and pounded by Hera, and there was no hint that Alekta was more powerful than her sister.

No, where Alekta beat Sylvie in the bodyguard stakes was her motive. Sylvie wanted Bran alive, because a living Bran meant Sylvie got her job done, and more, Alex—healed or resurrected, she didn’t care which. Let Val mutter about dark magic all she wanted; Sylvie knew how and when to look the other way when it came to getting results.

Alekta guarded Bran for more reason than duty. The little crooning encouragements she made as she stroked his hair argued genuine concern.

Sylvie, on the other hand, kept listening to the little dark voice murmuring, He’s not worth all this trouble. Sylvie agreed silently. Bran had accused her of blaming him for his kidnapping. She’d denied it then, but there was truth to it. This was his fault. A runaway who brought trouble wherever he went.

Children ran away all the time, and Sylvie had always felt a sneaking sympathy for them, even when she was the one paid to find them and haul them back. They all ran for the same reason at the core—they felt powerless where they were. But a runaway god? Maybe there was a level of contempt in her view of Bran. If he’d been stronger, more able to use the power he held—Catch her ever being that weak-minded, and she didn’t even have any power of her own.

Bran caught Sylvie watching him and reflexively smiled, then traded it for a warier gaze. Alekta growled and slammed the van to a halt.

“Sylvie,” Demalion warned. “We’re here.”

The ISI building loomed ten stories above them, its marble facing traced in witchlight that gleamed like candle flame through the bloody, murky sky.

“You sure this is safe?” Sylvie asked.

Demalion dropped out of the van. “Do we have a choice?”

IT WASN’T RAINING AT ALL ANYMORE. BLOOD, WATER, OTHERWISE. The sky above was a mass of swollen clouds with a heart coiled inward like a sky-pinned hurricane, roaring and howling at being kept from the earth. Centered, of course, directly above the ISI nest.

Lightning crackled around the ISI headquarters, weaving a net in the sky, illuminating the edges of the storm clouds, and tangling them in a fine, fiery mesh. Sylvie muttered curses. That net looked far too familiar. Dunne had blown it off once before, but could he do it again?

Bran emerged from the van, Alekta on his heels, and yelled something in Greek, throat taut with the effort, hands fisted by his sides. Words of encouragement to Dunne, or abuse heaped on Zeus. Sylvie hoped for the encouragement. If anything could aid Dunne, that would be—

The world flashed. Reversed itself in a quick strobe like a photographic negative. White/black, dark/light, and so bright that Sylvie’s eyes burned even as the sight etched itself into her vision. Sylvie cried out, heard Bran and Alekta echo it. She knuckled tears from her face, green spots dancing, red lines flaring in her line of vision. But she could still see—she let out a gasp of relief.

“Sylvie,” Demalion said, helping her to her feet. Knocked down by a vision, Sylvie thought. Gods played rough, but to what—

“Inside now,” Demalion said. He made sure she was steady on her feet, and helped Alekta get Bran to his. No sign of strain on his face—but then again, now sighted like a sphinx, he might not have been affected by Dunne’s flashbulb imitation. Or he might have seen it coming and closed his eyes.

Rodrigo stumbled out of the van and fell to his knees, gazing blindly upward at the skies. Demalion reached for him, and Sylvie said, “Let him be. He’s no use to us like that.”

Demalion nodded, though obviously reluctant, and took the lead again. Sylvie followed him through the deserted lobby, the marble floor sheeted with pink-tinged rainwater; her sneakers slid and turned her hasty advance into a near skid. ISI had its own troubles, obvious by the dimness. The lobby was lit only by emergency lighting, small amber pools in the murk. Where were the guards?

“That lightning net got sucked inside the clouds.” Demalion asked Bran, “That’s good, right?”

“Not sucked inside,” Bran said. “In is out, out is in. He reversed himself. Like I did in the oubliette. Zeus bonded the net to Kevin’s storm skin, trapping him. But when Kevin turned himself inside out—”

“He trapped Zeus instead,” Sylvie intruded. “He learn that little trick from you? ’Cause I think he did it better. He didn’t bleed. Demalion, where the hell’s the staff?”

“Dead. I can smell it,” Alekta said, sweeping by them both. Her feet made strange clicking noises on the floor, and when Sylvie looked down, she saw talons peeking out through boots that looked less worn than grown.

“Hurry, Bran.” Alekta held open the doorway into a dark stairwell. More emergency lights, more concrete. Demalion hesitated in the lobby, sweeping it with a golden gaze, seeing more than just the present.

“Something got here ahead of us,” he said.

“Lilith?” Sylvie snarled. It made sense. She’d understand what the storm clouds meant, even if the general run of the ISI didn’t. All her ISI contact would have needed to do was let her in. Her little dark voice whispered, Tick tick , gleeful about the coming confrontation. Sylvie fed on the anger, let it narrow her focus.