I jammed the point of one of the knives into the balcony rail, then peered over it into the living room below. Barren, except for a few pieces of furniture covered with drop cloths. A shaft of light cut across the room, streaming in from the window overlooking the front porch and revealing a warped wooden floor covered with a perfectly smooth layer of dust marred only by a set of footprints leading from the back of the house toward the stairs I'd just ascended.

Curious and encouraged, I inched back toward the stairs, then shined the light down into the abyss. Sure enough, another set of footprints mirrored my own, continuing forward upon reaching the landing instead of turning as I had. With the beam narrowed, I followed the feet, then frowned as they walked up to a wall. Dead end.

What the . . . ?

I splayed the light on the papered wall, focusing on the seams, then trailed the beam down to the floor. Years of wear had smushed the central strip of the carpet that covered the landing. The edges, however, remained in good condition. Everywhere, that is, except for the spot where the footprints ended. There, the fibers were well-worn, as if a constant flood of visitors had pressed their bodies flat against the wall and stood there. Just stood there doing nothing.

Not damn likely.

I leaned forward, pressing my fingertips to the wallpaper seams, searching for a latch to operate the door. Another room back there, or perhaps another staircase. But whatever it was, it led to my mark. And I knew I couldn't leave without finding the Caller. Finding him, killing him, and destroying the Box.

I can't say that I've ever searched for a hidden room before, but after some delicate probing, I found the telltale indentation. I pressed the soft spot, and damned if the latch didn't click and the entire panel swing inward on greased hinges.

The small room that was revealed lacked the abandoned-junk miasma of the public areas. Both sparsely furnished and spotlessly clean, this section of the house screamed out with utilitarian function. What it didn't have-at least not that I could see-was an occupant.

Having already been through the drill once, I found the next hidden door with significantly less trouble. This one led to a winding staircase that circled up to the attic before opening onto yet another landing. This time-finally-I saw signs of life. A shadow moving within, but without any urgency. Good. With any luck, that meant my demon hadn't heard me coming.

The stairs were metal, and I moved at a snail's pace, fearful of causing a creak that would shatter the silence.

Somehow, I made it up without announcing myself to the world. I slowed as I approached the landing, then eased my eyes over the edge, peering up at the room while holding my breath.

Considering my lack of skill with regard to stealth approaches, I was pleasantly surprised to see that my tack worked, and I was even more pleased to see that I wasn't facing multiple occupants. The single demon stood at an angle to me, facing something in the corner of the room at about my nine o'clock. I could see the side of his face, angular and deceptively human. A familiar knot tightened in my gut, and I reminded myself that the beast was vile. More than that, he was working to end the world.

As I watched, the creature turned his focus to the fireplace behind him and to the left. It was the mantel that attracted him-glowing with inlaid gold and gemstones, and marked with etchings that seemed like some sort of bastardization of Egyptian hieroglyphics. The thing clearly had some intense ceremonial value, but though it might be ancient and powerful, it held no sway with me.

Or, it didn't until he pressed his palm flat against the ornamental center and a door to the left slid open, revealing an ornate golden box.

The Box of Shankara.

Perfect.

I'd arrived in time. Destroy the Box, kill the demon, get home in time for a few prime-time television programs on my glorious night off waitressing.

I sliced my palm with my knife, letting the blood flow. If my blood destroyed the Box, I wanted to be prepared. Then I tightened my grip on my knives and considered my approach. Maybe ten yards between us, with a clear path over a carpeted floor. His back was to me, and if I moved slowly and stealthily, I might be able to continue my clandestine approach. I couldn't bank on it, though. For all I knew, the gems in the mantel reflected the room into his eyes.

I didn't want to be the assassin who blew her first mission because she trusted that her ambush would succeed. Instead, I was going to abandon caution and rush the bastard. I'd have to run like the fires of hell were nipping at my ass, but since they were, I figured I could manage that.

I took a deep breath and barreled forward at a breakneck pace, planning to launch myself over the Box and take care of that little detail first. The launching part went okay, but the rest was a complete nightmare. The kind where you realize after it's too late that the stealthy approach probably would have been better. Always go with your first instincts, after all.

As I leaped, the Caller turned, a set of broad wings bursting through the thin material of his shirt as they unfolded, then catching me across the middle as he spun around. The effect was a lesson in physics-two objects in motion collide with unequal force. And one guess which object absorbed the blow and went flying.

I landed on the far side of the room, knocked into a bookcase that teetered recklessly but didn't fall and brain me. The beast took a menacing step toward me, fangs suddenly visible on that advertising-exec smile. His fingers no longer looked like a man's-they had somehow elongated into thin, bony structures with sharp talons, each of which was now pointed right at me. "You."

The word was an accusation, and I fought the automatic response to edge backward, to deny. Instead, I burst forward, knives flying, and the words Zane had said when he'd first put my knife in my hand echoing in my mind: Do what you were made for and you cannot fail.

Apparently not words to live by, because one broad thrust of that wing sent the knife in my right hand flying. I clutched the left one tighter as the demon ripped upward, slicing my ninja suit to ribbons and bringing thin lines of blood up on my abdomen before sliding back and peering hard at me. "It is true, then. The prophecy." He blinked, lids closing side to side over marble-black eyes. "And on which side do you stand as you straddle the line?"

I thrust my left hand out, the tip of my blade pointed right at the demon. "Do not even try to play games with me. I'm on the side that will see you dead."

Those alien eyes narrowed only briefly before he was on me, so fast that I had no time to think, much less react. His wings spread wide so that I could see nothing but his face and torso and the thin, gray membrane of wings spread wide on spindly bones, fragile in appearance, but containing deadly strength.

The long, taloned fingers of his hand grasped my neck and squeezed, the grip like a vise. With the wing itself, he pressed my arm back. I struggled-so help me, I did-but I couldn't move the hand with the knife.

I was trapped. And that pretty much sucked. Because despite all my training, all my gifts, all the prophesied bullshit, I was no match for this creature, and as a reddish gray swirled around me, I couldn't help but wonder if this had all been a big cosmic joke. Kill Lily in a big way. Make her pay for trying to protect her sister. Crush her illusions that there was any justice in the world. Make her pay for doing what needed to be done.

The Caller's eyes burned into mine, the wings still holding my arms out to the side, useless. His hands were more deadly. One remained on my neck; with the other he pressed against my forehead, and so firmly I feared my bones would snap.

I wasn't going down like this, though, and I looked him in the eye, staring a defiant screw you deep into those black orbs even as I struggled.

All bravado, I knew. He would snap my neck. Any second, he'd snap, and I'd be dead. Again.

The snap didn't come.

Instead, as I looked into his eyes, my body convulsed, and my head filled with a pain not my own.

Touch and eyes.

Mist-encased images of the beast accosted me-images of him locked in combat with someone I couldn't see, but somehow knew was not me. Who? Even as my air supply dwindled and my body fought pain and terror, I searched my mind for a better angle. For some hint of what I was seeing and why.

I don't know how, but I knew this was not the past. This was a Thing Yet to Be, and though I didn't understand how that could be any more than I understood how I'd come about because of a prophecy, at the same time I knew that it was absolutely real. What I was seeing would happen.

Or, at least, it would if the path didn't alter.

The thoughts whipped through my mind, forming, but not cohesive. Instead, I was inundated with information. Thoughts. Images. Impressions. Conclusions. A nightmarish mishmash that centered around this vision of the beast locked in battle.

In the vision, the beast released his battle partner long enough to reach behind him and pull a broadsword from a scabbard I hadn't seen. Perhaps it hadn't been there, and like a dream, it had materialized only when needed. He brought it up and over, his strength awe-inspiring, and as he moved to the side to follow through with the swing, I saw the face of the person with whom he was doing battle: Clarence.

Like the bursting of a dam, the vision popped and my strength flooded back.

"Fiend!" the Caller cried, momentarily loosening his grip. "You play tricks in my mind!"

I didn't bother to retort. I simply lashed out, fueled by fury, and that coupled with the fear of losing Clarence. Yes, he got on my nerves, but I'd grown fond of the little amphibian. More important, he was the one link between my old and new lives. And no one-no one-was messing with him while I was around.

I twisted violently to the side, managing to loosen his grip on my neck. As I did, I shot upward, forcing our skulls together and setting off a July Fourth-style fireworks display in my head. I ignored the fact that it felt like my cranium had shattered and my brains were spilling out on the Oriental carpet. Instead, I did the only thing I knew how to do-I whaled on the guy. Arms weaving, knife flashing, I caught him across the arms, sliced the wings, and took off an ear with one fateful blow.

The kill shot, however, eluded me, and we dodged and parried, me bouncing and weaving and pretending I knew what the hell I was doing; him lunging with talons and claws and a strength borne straight from hell. "You are flawed," he taunted. "Incomplete. Failure is your destiny," he added with a black-eyed smirk. "For even if you win this battle, the war will not go your way."

"I'll take the battle," I said, then thrust my knife, managing to slide it into the narrow space left open between his flailing arms and wings. The shot went home, and as I watched, the demon sagged on my knife.

It wasn't a kill shot, though, and he stumbled across the room to the Box, with me right there with him.

He lashed out with his wing, knocking me back, and his talons fumbled at the Box even as I scrambled forward, trying desperately to touch the Box with my bloody hand, hoping that alone would be enough.

I didn't make it.

I was only inches away when he held the Box high. I heard the demon's whisper of "Disparea!" and in the blink of an eye, the Box disappeared.

"Noooooo!" I screamed, then rushed forward and thrust my blade through the beast's heart.

And with its last, dying breath, the demon smiled at me.

The Caller was dead.

But the Box was gone. And I'd failed to even take the battle.

TWENTY- NINE.

I raced out of the demon's house, my head filled with failure and my emotions crowing a victory.

I needed to get away, to stuff these feelings inside. Compartmentalize. But I couldn't. The essence was too fresh, the emotions too raw. A swell of pride. Of victory. Of intense martyrdom for having the cunning to stop the beast.

I'd done things. Horrible things. Violent, awful, perverted things.

And they would be forgiven. Erased. Because in the end, I'd won. I'd served the master well, and I would be rewarded.

No.

I fell to the sidewalk, my hands pressed to the concrete as I forced myself to slowly and methodically think the truth.

That isn't me. I haven't won. I've lost.

I've lost, and the Box is still out there. Ready to be Called. Ready to open the gate.

The emotions racing through me weren't mine. I was experiencing the last visceral reaction of the lousy bastard demon who'd managed to defeat me.

The gates of hell were going to come flying open, and it was all my fault, and I did not want the smug son of a bitch doing a victory dance inside my head.

But he was, and as far as I could tell, I couldn't do a damn thing to stop him. Not yet, anyway.

Damn, damn, damn, damn!

So instead of trying, I pressed my forehead to the concrete, willing it to pass. Willing myself to absorb the essence. To metabolize it. Take it in. Fucking process it so that I could get on with the business of my life-and not the business of living the life of every Hell Beast I killed.

Gravel crunched in the distance, and my head snapped up, the adrenaline rush compartmentalizing my emotions in a way that blunt mental force could never have managed. The sun had dropped below the rooftops, and now shadows consumed the alley. A figure stood in the dim light, his identity enshrouded by the gloom.

I squinted, fighting the urge to run as I tried to get a look at his face. I couldn't make out anything. At least not until he took a step forward. Then I saw the glint of his knife, cold and malicious as it shimmered in the light from nearby streetlights.

I screamed, then yanked my sleeve up and slapped my hand over the symbol on my arm, desperate to rebuild the bridge and escape. I felt the tug, I saw the blackness, and then-blam-the handle of a flying knife knocked my hand away from my arm. Instantly, the portal fizzled and popped, and then disappeared.

It was gone. The bridge was gone. And though I pressed my hand again over the mark, the symbol had faded. It no longer worked.

It was done, and I was under attack.

The arm drew back then, and the blade went flying. I yelped, thrown completely off guard, then twisted my body down and to the side.

The knife missed my chest, but caught me in the shoulder, slicing neatly through my svelte black bodysuit. At first I felt nothing, and then the pain registered-a deep burning sensation as my body processed the nature of this assault.

I bent to retrieve my attacker's knife, my shoulder aching with the movement even as I moved my other hand to the hilt of my own still-sheathed knife. Considering how fast my body now healed, I expected to be back at full capacity in no time.

Bring it on, baby.

At the end of the alley, he stepped out of shadows-a tall, thin figure dressed all in black, even his face covered. Just like me. Two anonymous warriors, ready to do battle. And since I had the whole immortality thing going, I was feeling decidedly superior. At least until I tried to grab my knife and discovered that I couldn't do it. The sensation in my arm was gone, replaced by a million red-hot pins jabbing into my nerve endings.

A burst of fear scurried up behind the hubris I'd just been spouting.

Holy shit, what is wrong with me?

The sensation spread. My chest tight with cold. My belly trembling as icy fingers moved through my body.

Poison.

He lifted a crossbow . . . Aimed . . .

And as he let the arrow fly, I forced my legs into action, my muscles screaming as I fought the subglacial temperatures that had settled into my bones.

I ran, and I kept on running, the world spinning around me, turning all sorts of interesting colors. I could no longer feel my arm or my chest. I was breathing, which I thought was a very good thing, but I had no visceral connection with that process. My lungs might be expanding, my heart might be beating, but from my perspective I was as stiff and unmoving as a mannequin.

I wasted a few precious seconds to turn and look behind me. He was there, that man in black, walking slowly toward me, his weapon at his side, ready to fire when he was in range. He wasn't hurrying, though, and I knew why. He'd infected me with a paralytic. And once my arms and legs quit pumping-once I lay helpless on the pavement-he'd pull off my mask and slide a blade into my heart.

I'd come back. That much I knew. But suddenly I was faced with a new fear-like, what would happen to me if he cut off my head? If he buried me in a pine box? If he trapped me in wet cement?

I couldn't die, but I could suffer, and right then I think I was more scared of living trapped or headless throughout eternity than I'd ever been of dying.

Move, Lily. Move your goddamned feet!

I stumbled into the street, dodging the few cars that zipped by. Horns blared, but I heard nothing, too obsessed with the picture that ran through my head over and over: the blade, dark boxes, my head. Mentally, I shuddered, though my upper body was no longer capable of such a reaction.

I thrust myself blindly in front of an oncoming car, holding my hands out in a desperate plea for it to stop.

I saw the female driver's eyes go wide, and she swerved, missing me even as she slammed on the brakes. The tips of my fingers in my right hand still moved, and I used that motion to pull open the car door, brandishing my knife.

The woman screamed, and though I couldn't speak, she figured out exactly what I wanted, stepping on the gas and thrusting us forward, her hands tight on the wheel as she shot terrified sideways glances in my direction.

As for me, I kept my eyes on the shadows, finally finding my tormentor standing in a pool of light from a single porch lamp. He turned, defeated, as the car went by.

I'd won this round, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. My body was giving out, I was in a car with a woman I'd kidnapped, and soon, I knew, I'd be meeting my foe again.

"What . . . what should I do?" the woman asked after we'd traveled a few miles down the road.

I stayed silent, my lips nonresponsive to my commands. I craved a cell phone, but what good would it do me? I had no number for Clarence or Zane, and there was no one else I could count on.

Besides, I wouldn't be able to dial the damn thing.

The driver glanced at me, glanced at the knife, and made a hard right into a vacant lot. She opened the door with the turn and jumped out before the car had even stopped. It rolled forward, smashing into another vehicle, and slamming me forward so that I hit my head on the dash.

Immediately, a car alarm started blaring.

I tried to use my fingers to open my door, but they'd stopped functioning. There was still some life left in my legs, though, and I pushed and scooted and shoved until I fell like a lump of dead meat out of the car and onto the rough gravel and broken glass that covered the lot and now dug into my cheek and hairline.