“I won’t release your name.”

Daniel barked a bitter-sounding laugh. “Not even when Hampson subpoenas you? He will. When this story hits the airwaves, expect a knock on your door within an hour.”

“I’ve been subpoenaed before. I protect my sources.” Hong squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She seemed to mean it, even though she looked kind of like a Chihuahua getting ready to do battle with a Great Dane.

“Daniel, are you sure?” I asked. He was a third-generation Boston cop. His job was his life.

He nodded. “Someone’s got to speak for Sykes.” The same thing I’d been thinking a few minutes ago. All right. Daniel would speak for him. And I’d stop the Destroyer—for good this time—to avenge him.

Hong looked at Daniel admiringly. Or maybe her eyes shone that way because she was on the trail of a big story. She opened her notebook. “So bring me up to speed.”

Together, Daniel and I told her the story. I talked about T.J. and Gary; Daniel talked about Sykes. “And,” he said, “as I was telling Vicky when you arrived, one of the CSI techs saved a sample from Creature Comforts. He analyzed it last night on his own time.” He glanced at me, then at Hong. “I hope you have a strong stomach.”

“Go on,” she said.

“According to the lab guy, that black liquid was a by-product of an anaerobic decomposition process.”

“And did the lab guy happen to translate that into English?” I asked.

“It’s kind of like what’s left behind when digestive fluid does its thing on meat.”

It took a few seconds for that to sink in. “They were eaten,” I said. And I’d gone surfing through the leftovers. Lynne Hong looked a little green, too.

“Did he say what could do that?” she asked.

Daniel shook his head. “No clue. He said the sludge—that’s what he called the black stuff—is similar to the end result of a process that’s used to dispose of diseased animal carcasses. But that happens in a special machine, called a digester, without oxygen, and at temperatures of at least a hundred degrees.”

A gust of wind blew grit into our faces. “So Boston in January isn’t what you’d call the right conditions,” I said.

“Exactly. But the result is the same.”

Hong’s forehead wrinkled as she wrote. “Will the technician talk to me?”

“You can call the lab on a fishing expedition if you want, but I can’t give you his name.”

“I’d love to ask him if this was due to some new virus, or a mutation of the one that created the zombies in the first place.”

“Doubt it,” I said. “Viruses don’t rip their hosts into tiny pieces.”

“You’re a demon expert,” she said to me. “Do you think these deaths have a supernatural cause?”

“They may.” I knew they did, but I didn’t want to say anything to her until I understood more about what was going on. No point in sending Boston into a panic about a Hellion on the loose. And Difethwr wouldn’t be on the loose if I could manage to stay awake until I got to Wales. “But what you said last night was right: The real story is with Hampson. He has to allow an investigation.”

Daniel nodded. “The whole reason I’m talking to you,” he said, “is to keep pressure on the commissioner. He failed to protect one of his officers. If he hadn’t cut short the initial investigation, Sykes might still be alive.”

That could be true. But if Sykes hadn’t talked to me last night, he’d definitely be alive. I couldn’t undo the past. The best I could do was try to set things right.

AFTER HONG LEFT, THERE WAS NO TIME FOR LENGTHY GOOD-BYES. Daniel had to get back to work. I still had a million and one things to do—well, I was mostly packed, so I’d whittled down my to-do list to a million items—before catching a cab to the airport. We crossed the footbridge and walked silently, side by side, along Beacon Street. Where Charles Street went off to the left, we stopped. Daniel turned to me and took both my hands in his. His blue eyes blazed deep into mine.

Butterflies in January? Who ever heard of such a thing?

“I’ll miss you,” he said and kissed me full on the mouth.

I kissed him back.

He let go of my hands and put his arms around me, pulling me close. He was warm, so warm, and he smelled like summer, like sunshine and citrus and fresh-mowed grass. We stood, our bodies pressed against each other, in a soul-deep kiss.

My knees didn’t buckle. No one told us to get a room. Miracles do happen.

After several eternities, I opened my eyes and stepped back. I was surprised to see it was still a cold, cloudy afternoon in Boston. At least there should have been rainbows or something.

“Wow,” I said.

His blue eyes sparkled. “Something to remember me by.” He squeezed my hand, and then he turned and plunged into the crowd, walking down Charles Street and not looking back.

As I watched him go, I put a hand to my lips. It had been a terrific kiss, a world-class kiss, the kind of kiss that, when you step back from it, makes you wonder who tilted the room.

So why, as I headed toward Deadtown and those million things I had to do, did my mind conjure an image of Kane, clutching a handful of wilted roses?

14

“CHAMPAGNE?”

A smiling, redheaded flight attendant held out a tray of glasses. I was fiddling with my seatbelt, sitting in a seat roomy enough to hold two of me. When I’d arrived at Logan Airport—running late, thanks to hellish traffic in the tunnel—and claimed my ticket, the agent handed over a business-class boarding pass. Way to go, Aunt Mab. By the time I got through the mile-long security line, it was already eight thirty and the plane was boarding. There’d been no time to check out the executive club. But a free cocktail and complimentary massage probably wouldn’t have been a great idea, anyway. Not when I had to get through the next thirteen or fourteen hours without dozing off.

“No champagne, thanks. Do you have any coffee?”

“Certainly. We’re brewing some now. I’ll bring you a fresh cup as soon as it’s ready.” She smiled again, like bringing me a cup of coffee would be the highlight of her day.

I settled back into my seat, which was actually comfortable. Comfort on an airplane? I could get used to this.

My seatmate arrived at the same time as the coffee. She was tall, her sleek brown hair cut in a chic, chin-length style, and she wore a stylish black suit. A businesswoman in business class. Made sense.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hello.” She gave me a dubious once-over. So maybe my sweater and jeans didn’t fit in the way her elegant suit did. I wondered what she’d think of the ratty duffel bag I’d crammed into the overhead compartment. And of course there were the dark circles under my bloodshot eyes. I looked around at other passengers staring at computer screens, getting in some quality time with their laptops before they had to stow them. Maybe the bloodshot eyes were a must-have accessory for business class.

My seatmate—she accepted the champagne—was happy enough to chat as passengers finished boarding, as everyone ignored the safety video, and as the plane lumbered toward the runway. She told me she was the director of Harvard’s libraries, heading to some international librarians’ conference in London. But as soon as we got into the air, she pulled a thick paperback from her carry-on and stuck her nose into it.

Guess I wasn’t going to stay awake by chatting all the way across the Atlantic.

Tiredness was starting to kick in as a major problem. The comfy seat, the soothing cabin lights, even the hum of the engines as we reached cruising altitude, all conspired to make me very, very sleepy. I almost wished Mab had stuck me in economy class. Back there, I’d be crammed into a narrow seat, fighting with my neighbor for an armrest. A crying baby or two would be a real bonus. No such luck in business class.

It was up to me to keep myself awake. I had more than a hundred in-flight movies to choose from. I chose an action-adventure film, figuring that explosions and car chases would demand attention. But the flickering images just made my eyelids heavier. So I wiggled around in my seat—keep that blood moving—and switched to a video game, because shooting at things does tend to keep me awake. A couple of times, I sensed the librarian watching me play. Was she rooting for me or wanting to shush me? I wasn’t making any noise, even through the headphones; I’d turned the volume all the way down. But still. Something about librarians just gives that impression.

When dinner came, she put down her book and ordered red wine. I asked for more coffee. I was on my sixth or seventh cup since I’d boarded and feeling wired. The edges of my vision were cluttered with cobwebs and my stomach was sour from too much French roast. I probably should eat something, I thought, to soak up some of the acid sloshing around, but a full stomach equals a sleepy body. I pushed the tray to the side and sipped my coffee. At least it was good coffee. Definitely not the dishwater they serve in economy.

“Aren’t you eating?” the librarian asked.

“Oh, um, no. I’m not hungry.” Just so, so tired. But now that she’d spoken to me again, maybe some conversation would help me through the next half hour. “You’re going to a conference for libraries? What’s that like? I’ve never been to one. A library conference, I mean. I’ve been to libraries. I mean—” I heard myself babbling and shut up midsentence.

She smiled kindly, and I felt absurdly grateful to her for not treating me like the idiot I was demonstrating myself to be. “Oh, you know. Panels, mixers, keynotes. A chance to network with other professionals. The usual things you encounter at a conference.”

“We don’t have conferences in my line of work.”

“No? What do you do?”

“I’m, um … I’m an exterminator.” I left out the part about demons. The library director at one of the world’s most prestigious universities probably didn’t believe in them. Just like Professor Milsap at MIT. I wondered if he’d gotten all the Glitch spit out of his hair yet.