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  When I got back to the apartment, I lay across the bed. I didn’t wake until after dark. Well after dark. I showered at midnight and crawled back into bed. I had one nightmare, one I’d never had before.

  I heard the sound of my knife as I killed the first murderer. It hit a rib and scraped along the bone before it punched into his heart. The sense of satisfaction I felt at that moment filled me again—followed by the sick sound of his dying breath.

  I jerked awake. Only silence filled the room. Remembering the dream, I also remembered the intense shame and guilt that had plagued me after that first kill. Shame that I had killed the man, shame that I had enjoyed it—shame that quickly dissolved as I locked into the hunt for the next one. I quickly fell back to sleep. I opened my eyes a little before dawn, cold in spite of the warm room.

  Chapter 9

  June 22

  The same cloud of noxious fumes greeted me as I walked into the pawnshop a little after ten that morning. Hildy stood behind the counter, cigarette in hand, just as she had when I walked in for the first time yesterday morning. She wore the same horribly wrinkled clothes.

  She frowned at me. “Didn’t take you long to get in trouble.”

  I shrugged. “Someone needed my help.”

  “The Sisters of Justice aren’t about helping.”

  “I’m not about the Sisters of Justice.” I couldn’t tell if she was bitter or angry.

  “And, of course, you saved that man.” Sarcasm filled her words.

  “How do you know about that?” I presumed Michael was that man.

  “I know everything in the Barrows. Riggs called me.”

  “An accident, Hildy. I happened to be there when the thing attacked. I’m trained to fight, and I reacted.”

  She grunted. “Okay. You get one warning. That man, that Michael, is demon spawn. Do not get sucked in by his beauty.”

  Annoyance flared in my gut. “Of all the hypocritical . . . If he’s so bad, why did you send me to work in a business he owns?” I shoved my hands in my pockets and glared at her.

  It was too late not to get sucked into anything with Michael. I was already there. Hildy stared out the window, and I could almost feel the turmoil in her mind over my apparently stunning revelation. I felt a little smug. Apparently there was something about the Barrows Hildy didn’t know—that Michael owned the Goblin’s Den.

  “Hildy?” She jerked when I spoke. “Do you happen to have a knife sheath? Mine went missing last night.”

  Hildy grabbed her cigarettes and squeezed them, probably crushing them beyond use. Seemed like she was still absorbed by the news. She spoke softly, with only a little wheeze. “In the back. First door on the right.”

  Through the door, into a dark hallway, I discovered why she called the place the Armory. Like the barrier around the Barrows, the first door on the right was protected by a ward. No doorknob, only a wall of power. I ran my hand down it, feeling its weight. It whispered with welcome and the door opened. I walked into a bright, spotlessly clean, long, high-ceilinged room filled with instruments of bloody death, lovingly collected and cherished. Nothing here would be for sale.

  Racks on the walls held swords and spears, fine edged, pointed, and barbed, and barbaric axes a Viking berserker would love. Some were tied with brightly colored ribbons, crimson and sapphire, marking the owner’s tribe or clan. Even the decorated halls of Justice did not have such a murderous display. Long, glass, table-type display cases around the room offered a glimpse at a multitude of different knives. Some of the weapons seemed new, but others carried the patina of age. Some called to me. Like phantoms, they spoke in my mind. Choose me, they whispered. I’ll kill for you. I hunger; give me blood.

  Only my own breathing broke the silence of that room.

  A single knife lay on top of a glass display case, as if someone had placed it there for me. Who had forged such a beautiful thing? Was it . . . ? It was. Bronze. Harder than iron, softer than steel, the metal that evil not of this world feared.

  Longer than Sister Lillian’s blade, this knife would fit nicely on my hip. I moved closer. An ache filled me, a longing to touch it. Runes etched in the metal seemed to crawl across the surface. The smooth bone hilt appeared small, made for a woman’s hand. I’m yours, it murmured. My edges are honed; my point is sharp. Take me.

  “You may choose one, if you like.” I whirled to find Hildy standing behind me.

  I drew a deep breath. “I learned my lessons at Justice, Hildy, and these blades have to be earned. I can’t just pick one up.”

  All were imbued with magic. If I did choose one, would it then own me? My mother’s lessons were clear on that. Objects that carried supernatural power could also have power over their possessors.

  “Are none of them speaking to you?” Hildy asked.

  “Yes. Some of them call. I can feel magic. I told you that.”

  “This is the Barrows. Sometimes bronze weapons carry as much weight as magic.”

  “That’s . . . interesting.” So many new ideas had bombarded me in the last two days.

  “Don’t you think you’ve earned one of these?” She waved her hand around the room.

  My gaze went back to the rune-carved knife. I held my hand over it and it sang in my mind. Death. I am death. Choose me. The perfect weapon for a killer. An assassin. I lowered my hand. A sense of power filled me. Life, death—all mine to control.

  I stood divided. A part of me mourned my beloved parents but wished to walk away from the pain and loss forever and live my life. The other part of me was a killer, a killer driven by my mother’s dying curse to avenge hers and my father’s deaths.

  “I am not a Sister, Hildy. I want to kill a man who harmed people I love. I do not wish to kill for any other reason.”

  Hildy came to stand beside me. “A blade is just that, Madeline, as easily used for defense as offense. You will need to defend yourself here.” Her voice softened, sounding both sad and resigned.

  I remembered Sister Lillian’s words when she gave me her knife. Use it wisely and honorably. I laid my hand on the hilt, the beautiful thing, and picked it up. It no longer spoke in my mind. It hummed and became a part of me, like an extension of my arm.

  I lifted it to the light. The runes along the blade shimmered. “I was told yesterday that the Earth Mother is playing chess with the lives she considers under her power. That she has some great secret plan, and we’re all just pawns.”

  Hildy laughed loudly and broke into a coughing spasm. “Why do you think I live here, out of her reach?” She nodded toward a cabinet on the wall. “Sheaths are there.”

  Did Hildy really believe she was out of reach of the Earth Mother? Even though she was protected by the ward from the Earth Mother herself, the Sisters of Justice wouldn’t hesitate to come here. They served the Mother with deadly purpose. If Hildy crossed any lines or seriously broke any rules, they would kill her in this place as easily as any other. The idea that a person could live out of the reach of the Earth Mother seemed implausible and impossible.

  Had something happened to Hildy, something she could not bear, something that drove her from the Sisters? How and why did she come to be the mistress of this Armory of very special deadly weapons? I doubted I’d ever find the answers to those questions.

  After we exited the weapons room, Hildy opened a fresh pack and lit up. She sucked the smoke into her lungs with great enthusiasm. My hint to leave. I made my way to the door with a new forearm sheath of thin leather for Sister Lillian’s shorter knife and the new bronze blade in a sheath on my hip. I had an extra sheath that allowed me to carry Sister Lillian’s knife hooked to the back of my jeans at the waist, just in case I needed my arms bare. Hildy had also given me a cleaning kit and cloths.

  Cassandra’s gift jacket was long enough to cover the knife on my forearm, the one at my waist, and the gun, if I chose to carry it. I wore the comfortable shoes she had given me.

  Okay, supernatural evil, Drows, whatever. Bring it on. At least that’s
what I told myself. After a while, I realized my anticipation revolved not around a battle, or even my search for the Portal, but when I would see Michael again. I chastised myself even as I smiled at the thought. The smile faded as I walked out of the Armory and found him waiting for me.

  Chapter 10

  Michael leaned against his Jaguar, which he’d parked directly in front of the store. It was long and sleek, with a small stylized version of an angel painted on the side of the front fender. His dress was casual—khaki slacks and a pure white shirt—but they made my T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers—perfectly acceptable on most occasions—look shabby. His white-gold hair shimmered like a halo in the morning sun. He cocked his head and smiled.

  I forced myself to breathe. The connection, that thing that drew me to him that first day, jumped to life. How had this happened? How should I deal with it?

  “Good morning,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for saving my life.” His voice was deep and low, but sweet as golden honey and smooth as fine oil. “Maybe get to know you under better circumstances.”

  I remembered he’d seen me naked and dying. Appalled, my face burned. I wanted to leave. “I have to get ready to go to work.” How pathetic was that?

  Soft laughter rippled through him. “You work for me, Madeline.”

  “Yes.” Suddenly drowning in more unbidden and confusing emotion than I’d felt in years, I didn’t really know how to react. I focused on the street and refused to look into his eyes.

  He held out a hand. “Yes, you work for me? Or yes, I may get to know you?”

  I could smell him. My mind marked his scent, clean and bright with a hint of precious sandalwood.

  I turned away. “I need to go.”

  He caught my arm as I turned. His hand had a loose grip, but it might have been a chain. I couldn’t move. “Please, Madeline, come ride with me. Talk to me. You . . .” His voice trailed off, as if he was uncertain what to say. Why should such a man hesitate?

  Something was happening with me and this undeniably attractive man. That much was obvious. I had no clue what it might be. What did he want? I had faced a Drow for the man. Surely I could face him.

  I held up the bag with the knife-cleaning supplies Hildy had given me. “Okay. Let me go and put this away.”

  “I’ll be right here.” He released my arm.

  I dodged traffic and crossed the street without looking back. When I reached Harry’s doorway, I stopped and drew a deep breath. I turned to see Hildy come out of the pawnshop and speak to Michael. Demon spawn, she’d called him. I bet that conversation was interesting.

  Michael should be moderately grateful to me for saving his life, but there were lots of ways he could be grateful that didn’t involve such personal contact.

  I watched as he spoke with Hildy. She stood firm, feet planted and arms crossed. He remained loose and graceful. She whirled and stalked back into the pawnshop.

  Eunice stalked like that. Eunice stalked everywhere. Amazing, but I thought I missed Eunice a tiny bit.

  I carried my bag upstairs, then went to the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water. Getting through the next few hours would be difficult. I stared in the mirror and studied my appearance, something I’d avoided for years. I laid my hand over the scar. Would he be embarrassed to be seen with someone like me? I jerked my hand away. I’m Madeline, white-haired, scar-faced Madeline. I lived with it. He could too, or he could leave me alone.

  Just as I was about to leave, I realized that I carried two knives. I wondered if I should remove them but decided against it. If danger followed us, I would be ready for it.

  When I went back down and across the street, Michael opened the Jag’s door and I slid into pure luxury. Smooth cushioned leather, silver gray, tucked, padded, and shaped to perfectly conform to the human body. It smelled new and opulent. He climbed in and shut the door, and the hiss and roar of traffic subsided to a murmur. With a touch of his finger, the engine started. That, too, was barely audible.

  Wealth suited the man. An aura of riches clung to him like the aura of poverty clung to a sidewalk beggar. He held the wheel with perfect hands, long fingers, precisely manicured nails. The Jag eased smoothly into a stream of traffic. As if another vehicle would dare strike such a superb machine.

  The closeness of the car created, for me, an uncomfortable intimacy.

  “Hildy told me you were looking for someone,” he said.

  Well, damn. Hildy was a broken sewer pipe spewing shit. She had no business spreading word of my mission around.

  “She asked if I’d help you find him,” he said. “She said he hurt someone you loved.”

  “Hildy talks too much.”

  Michael shrugged. “It does seem odd. She’s not known for long conversations.”

  “I thought you were arguing with her.”

  He gave a good-humored chuckle. “A small running feud she and I have. It amuses us.”

  I didn’t point out that Hildy hadn’t looked amused.

  Michael slowed the car for a light. “Hildy seems to care for you, though, and thinks you’re in danger. That you haven’t been given enough information to help you survive here in the Barrows.”

  I said nothing. I tried to stare straight ahead, but my eyes kept cutting toward him. When they did, I caught him looking back. Whatever possessed me affected him, too, though I doubted it tore at him as savagely as it did me.

  He drove down River Street, straight for the Goblin Den, but turned onto the cul-de-sac where the road ended and a large wooden sign proclaimed the marsh beyond to be Sullen Bog.

  He turned off the engine. “I want to show you something. Explain something.”

  I climbed out where the road dropped off and the mucky brown stuff began. A glint of open water lay out there, single ponds near the small islands that dotted the horizon. I’d bet that Sullen Bog was a treacherous place for people. A flimsy wooden rail fence barred the end of the road. The center of the fence looked new, as if more than one car had missed the turn at the cul-de-sac and plowed into the muck.

  A smaller sign attached to the fence proclaimed the wet expanse to be Sullen Bog Wildlife Sanctuary. Fast-moving water wouldn’t freeze in the winter, but the shallows would. Any wildlife there was safe, even without the dubious protection of the sign.

  Michael came close to me. Too close. The gesture bordered on intimate. He turned back to face Duivel, straight up the gentle hill of River Street to the distant buildings of the city. “I was born here in the Barrows, about six blocks from where you live. It’s part of the ruins now. You do see the ruins, don’t you?”

  “I see them. No one’s told me what happened.”

  Michael nodded. “The truth is only partially known. Sometime between 1930 and 1950 there was an earthquake . . . or something like it. Maybe a series of earthquakes. Most of the infrastructure collapsed. The Barrows was so named because so many men died building it in the late 1800s. After the earthquake, people moved out. Then, people seemed to forget it existed. I’ve heard a number of versions, but this is what oral history tells us. If it was once written, I think it’s been removed from any official records. The important thing is, it’s been forgotten for a reason. It’s not a good place to be, especially the Zombie Zone.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  He laughed softly. “Hildy tell you about it? Sounds like you don’t need me to guide you.”

  A pause. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you.”

  A smile curved his mouth. “Shall I tell you a story about myself, then?”

  “A story? That implies fiction. I’m only interested in facts.”

  “Once upon a time . . . ,” he teased, dangling the words. “No, it’s not time to talk about me yet. It’ll be easier for me to show you than tell you. Until then, will you tell me something about yourself?”

  My nature, my years with the brutally honest Sisters, had marked me with a lack of subtlety. “What do you want from me, Michael?”

 
He looked directly into my eyes. “Whatever you’ll give me.”

  I drew a breath to speak, then couldn’t think of anything to say. So, the connection I felt the first time I’d seen him had affected him, too. I suspected that he had no clue what it meant either.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael said. “That came out wrong. I want to know more about you. You’re incredibly . . . interesting. I’d like to be your . . . friend.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Guarding something, holding it close. Interesting wasn’t what he started to say. Neither was friend.

  Since I had no time for games, I decided to see how he would deal with me. “All right, friend, here’s a show of faith. My name is Madeline Corso. I’m twenty-six years old. I’ve spent the last six years in a combination prison/paramilitary training college, where they taught me how to do a lot of things, most of them not very nice. My mother was an earth witch like Abigail, my father a retired soldier turned restaurateur. One night when I was seventeen, three men came into our home and murdered them. I’m here looking for one of those men.”

  Michael raised an eyebrow. “And when you find him?”

  I shrugged.

  He focused on me for a moment, his eyes blue and clear as the sky above. Then he looked back out over the Bog for a long time before he spoke. When someone takes that long to figure out what to say, odds are good he’s holding back his opinion—like what he really thought of my need for revenge.

  “I need a bouncer,” he said. “At the Den.”

  I laughed. “I’m a bartender.”

  A smile turned up the corner of his mouth. I could almost read that thought: A bartender who spent the last six years in a prison/paramilitary training college where they taught you to do many things, most of them not very nice.