Mab came in and knelt next to me. She stroked my hair, then lifted my arm and inspected it. “The essence of the Destroyer is inside all of us. Some more than others. The Hellion’s gaze has called forth the part of you that destroys. Brought it to the surface, at least in this spot.” She ran her finger along the cut, smearing the blood. “But you can learn to control it.”

7

“AND YOU THINK IT’S THE SAME DEMON?” DETECTIVE Costello asked.

I nodded. “I’m sure of it. Different Hellions kill in different ways, according to their nature. Some flay their victims alive, stripping off an inch of skin at a time. Others are big on strangling victims with their own entrails. What happened to George, that internal burning, that’s the Destroyer’s signature.”

“The Destroyer? That’s its name?” He grinned, like he was trying to lighten things up. “Doesn’t sound big enough or bad enough for a Hellion.”

“Exactly. That’s why it’s the safest name to use,” I said and watched the grin fade. Well, this was serious stuff. “The Destroyer has hundreds of names, Detective. This one”—I snatched Hagopian’s notebook and wrote Difethwr on the page—“is its name among the Cerddorion. Our conflict with the Destroyer goes back thousands of years.”

He looked at the page. “How do you pronounce that?”

“You don’t. Saying that name out loud is like issuing an invitation. Just call it the Destroyer.”

He nodded and passed the notebook back to Hagopian. She glanced at the name, then crossed it out. Superstitious, but smart. The woman had seen enough of personal demons to know not to mess with a big one.

“Are we done here?” Kane asked, checking his watch. “I’ve got to get back to the office. Any more questions, Detective?” He looked at Costello, who glanced at Hagopian, then shook his head. “Thank you for your time, both of you,” Costello said.

Kane gave me a peck on the cheek and asked me to drop by Creature Comforts after midnight. I replied with a firm maybe—I had a lead on a client, which could mean a job tonight. Story of our lives, I thought, watching him hurry out the door. All work and no romps in the hay.

After Kane had gone, I turned to Hagopian. “Has there been an autopsy yet?”

She shook her head. “Next week, maybe.”

“Uh-uh. Make it today. The sooner the better. And have someone there to perform an exorcism.”

“Exorcism? You mean, like, a priest?”

“Sure, a priest will do.” Like the priest Aunt Mab had called to banish Difethwr’s filth from my father’s corpse. She’d told me about it, later. “So would a sorcerer or a witch, even. Somebody who knows how to undo a demonic possession.”

“What’s the point?” Costello asked. “The victim’s dead.”

“His body’s dead. But his soul is burning.” Even dead, poor George was in agony while we sat around talking. “You need to have someone exorcise the Hellion when the medical examiner cuts open the body. I’m not joking about this. If you don’t, George’s soul will keep burning and burning until it’s completely destroyed.”

Hagopian nodded, doing her scared-owl blink again.

“Before sundown today,” I added. “You don’t have long. George doesn’t have long.”

Unexpectedly, Costello caught my hand, pressing it in both of his and regarding me with urgent sincerity. God, those eyes were gorgeous. “We’ll take care of it. I promise.”

“Make sure you do. The utter destruction of a human soul is an unspeakable thing.”

He nodded, his gaze holding mine.

“Also,” he said, “I just want to let you know that I’m sorry—personally sorry—for authorizing the Goons to bring you here. Next time . . .” He paused, and I wondered if he meant the pause to be meaningful. “Next time, I’ll call.”

“I’m in the book,” I said, wondering why my face suddenly felt hot.

IT WAS TWELVE THIRTY BY THE TIME I GOT BACK TO MY apartment. Juliet was awake. A vampire her age needs only a few hours of sleep each day. She reclined on the living room sofa with blackout shades down to block all sunlight, and was filing her nails. Sharpeningwould be a better word. Each finger looked like a lethal weapon.

“You had two phone calls.” She put down the file and held out a slip of paper.

“Thanks,” I said, taking it.

She waved dismissively, her scarlet nails streaking the air. “If I’m going to play secretary, I’m going to start demanding a living wage.” She laughed, tilting her head back and showing her fangs. “That’s funny, isn’t it? A vampire getting a living wage. I should’ve said an undead wage.”

I smacked my forehead. In all my life, I’d never met a vampire who could tell a joke. “If you don’t want to take my calls, let voice mail pick up.”

Juliet went back to filing her nails. “Where were you, anyway?”

I told her about the morning’s events. She was outraged. Not on my behalf, of course—vampires are the most self-centered creatures in the universe—but because the Goon Squad had busted down our door.

“They broke in while I was asleep!” she fumed. To be fair, it was a serious issue. When vampires sleep, they’re dead to the world, or, as Juliet puts it, they “resume the shroud.” So a sleeping vampire is helpless. “That’s intolerable! Absolutely intolerable. I’m taking this to Hadrian.”

Hadrian represented the vampire contingent on the Council of Three, which governed Deadtown. Besides Hadrian, the Council consisted of one werewolf and one zombie, but everyone knew that Hadrian pulled all the strings. When it comes to being manipulative, you can’t beat vampires—even if they’d never make it in stand-up comedy.

I had my doubts, though, that even Hadrian could do much. The Goons worked for Boston PD. And the Council of Three had zero power beyond the narrow boundaries of Deadtown. The only reason the humans gave the Council any authority at all was in the hope that somebody else would keep the monsters under control. If the Goon Squad wanted to break down a vampire’s door in broad daylight, the Goon Squad would do it. The Council could protest all night and all day, but no norm would care. Besides, Hadrian was smart enough to choose his battles.

While Juliet stormed off to call Hadrian, I looked at my messages. Both calls were from potential clients. Good. Business had been a little slow lately, and the Jag needed a checkup. She’d been making this whiny noise I didn’t like.

The first message had dollar signs written all over it. It was a reminder about my appointment with Frank Lucado that afternoon. Lucado was well known in Boston; he was a real estate developer with a shady reputation who’d been indicted a couple of times but never convicted of anything. Guys like that—lots of money, lots of enemies—were frequent targets of Harpy attacks. Some tough-guy wannabe trying to horn in on their action would pay a sorcerer big bucks to conjure up a few Harpies for nightly visits. I checked my watch. I had forty-five minutes before the one thirty appointment. Just enough time to return the other call.

The other caller’s name—Sheila Gravett—also sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I had a feeling I’d seen the name Gravett in the paper recently, but for what I didn’t know.

Down the hall, Juliet swore and slammed a door, so I figured the phone was free. I dialed Gravett’s number.

She answered on the third ring. “Dr. Gravett.” Doctor, huh? Good—she could afford me. I never did pro bono work. A girl had to make a living, after all.

“Hello, Doctor. This is Victory Vaughn returning your call.”

A gasp came over the line. “Oh, hello. Oh, I’m so glad you called.” Her voice rose in pitch, breathless, like she was the winning caller on a radio show.

“Why don’t you start off by telling me a little about your problem? Once I know what kind of infestation you’re dealing with, we can work out a strategy for getting rid of them.”

“Getting rid of what?”

“Your demons.” Silence. “You called about demon extermination, right?”

“Demon—? Oh, no.” She laughed, a trill that started high and tripped down the scale. “No, Ms. Vaughn, that’s not why I called. Although I do want to hire you.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain. I’m a research scientist.” She stopped there, as though that actually explained something.

“That’s great, but I still don’t see—”

“I’m the principal researcher at Gravett Biotech. We specialize in paranormal biology. And we’re very interested in mapping the shapeshifter genome. In fact, you may have heard of our work with werewolf DNA.”

“I’m not a werewolf, Dr. Gravett. I’m Cerddorion. It’s not the same at all.” I sighed. I got so tired of giving this lecture. “Werewolves become wolves—they can’t change into any other animal—and when the moon is full, they have no choice. They have to change. Cerddorion can shift up to three times per lunar cycle, whatever the moon phase, and we can shift into any kind of sentient being. We can choose to shift, or sometimes very strong emotion can force a shift. So, if you’re studying werewolves, you don’t want me.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that.” Her voice sharpened, its tone suggesting that Dr. Gravett was notone to suffer fools gladly. “Werewolf biology is becoming better understood each year. But shapeshifter biology—that field’s wide open. You’re the only active shapeshifter in the state. If Gravett Biotech can unlock the secrets of your DNA . . .” Her voice trailed off, as though the possibility were too wonderful to describe.

I finished her sentence for her. “You’d get damn rich. Off me.”

Now I remembered where I’d heard of Gravett Biotech. They’d tried to clone a werewolf. The story had been reported very differently, depending on whether you followed the human press or the PA press. Norms tended to view the research as key to understanding—read controlling—the monsters. PAs saw the experiments (which had been conducted in New Hampshire, a state where PAs had no legal rights) as abuse, plain and simple. Whichever way you spun the story, though, it was clear that Gravett Biotech had created an abomination—a weak, incompletely shifted, hairless thing that was about the size of a Chihuahua and stayed stuck between canine and human forms. The poor creature had survived less than a week. No way I’d let that lab get hold of one speck of my genetic material.