It still wasn't finished. My entire body chilled, remembering the ka's ectoplasm shoving its way down my throat and up my nose, in my ears, trying to shred through the material of my jeans while Mirovitch's spectral fingers squirmed like maggots inside my brain, raping my memories. The only thing that saved me was my stubborn refusal to give in, my determination to strike back and end the terror for everyone else.That, and the Fallen demon who held me, who had stopped the ka from killing me. Who had searched until he found me, and burned my childhood nightmares to the ground simply because I asked.

I looked at Japhrimel. The morning sunlight didn't reach the bed, but reflected golden light was kind to his high balanced cheekbones and thin mouth. A terrible, paranoid thought surfaced, and I opened my big mouth. "You're leaving me?" I whispered.

"I . . . I thought-"

His eyes sparked green. "You know I would not leave you."

It was too late. I'd already said it, already thought it. "If the Prince of Hell told you to, you might," I shot back, struggling free of his arms, my feet smacking the floor. He let me go. I scooped up the fallen scabbard and made it to my sword, steel innocent and shining in the rectangle of sunlight from the window. Scooped up my blade and slid it home, seating it with a click. "What is it this time? He wants you back, you just go running like a good little demon, is that it? What does he want?"

My shoulder flared, a tugging against the mark branded into my flesh. I ignored it.

"You misunderstand, my curious." Japhrimel's voice was terribly, ironically flat. "The one the Prince seeks audience with is you."

4.

I turned so quickly my hair fanned out in a loose arc. Sunlight warmed my hip and knee, pouring in through the window. Japhrimel had stood up, and his long dark Chinese-collared coat was back, wings folded tightly as if armoring himself.

As if he was the one who needed the armor.

He watched me, his hands clasped behind his back again. "It seems that once again I am to ask you to face the Prince, Dante.

There is . . . terrible news."

I swallowed dryly. "Terrible? When you say that, I suppose it means something different than when I say it." Then the absurdity hit me-I was standing here naked, my entire body gone cold and tense with foreboding, talking to a demon. How did I get myself into these things? "Am I allowed to get dressed, or does Lucifer want to see me in the buff?"

"If you wish to present yourself as a slave, I can hardly stop you." The edge to his voice glittered and smoked like carbolic tossed across antigrav. "Try to rein your tongue for once. If I have meant anything to you, you must listen to me."

Slaves are naked in Hell? Yet another demon custom I don't know about. The mad urge to giggle rose up inside of me and died away again. My jaw set itself like plasteel. "You have no idea what you mean to me," I informed him, just as flatly as he'd ever spoken to me.

"And vice versa. You are a selfish child sometimes. It could even be your particular brand of charm."

I lifted the sword slightly. "Do you want a sparring match, or do you want to explain to me why you left me while I was unconscious? And defenseless, I might add?"

"I cannot imagine you defenseless." Japhrimel stepped forward once. Twice. He approached me slowly, as if I might bolt at any moment. I stood trembling at the edge of the sunlight and let him come near, my hand with the sword dropping. "I gave up my place in the Greater Flight of Hell for you. I am of the Fallen, and I have chosen to bind my fate to yours. Remember that."

The mark on my shoulder sent a burning tingle all through me. His hand brushed my elbow, slid up my arm to polish the bare skin of my shoulder, then slid under my hair, curling around my nape. He didn't have to pull me forward, I leaned into him like a plant leans toward a window. "I have fended off the polite requests Lucifer has sent for your presence, and I have parried his less-than-polite requests. He has stopped asking and started summoning, hedaira, and he is an enemy we cannot afford to make. Not if we expect to keep living, and I find I have grown fond of life with you. Even this pale world has its beauty when seen through your eyes." He dropped his face, spoke the last sentence into my hair. He inhaled, a slight shudder passing through him. My sword dropped the rest of the way, my arm hanging slack, the scabbard resting in my hand. "At the very least, I ask you to come and listen. Will you?"

The lump in my throat made it difficult to talk. "Fine," I rasped. "But don't expect me to be happy about it. I hate him, I hate him, he killed you and I hate him."

The tension running through him drained away. "He did not kill me. I am here."

I couldn't argue with that, so I let him pull me back to the bed and run his fingers through my hair. I let him kiss my shoulder, my cheek, and finally my mouth. I sighed as he folded me in his arms and spoke to me the way I understood best-the language of the body, an instinctive semaphore used to tell me once again that he was real. His mouth against mine, his body against mine, and the rough hungry fire of my own desire swallowing me whole-but tears slid down my cheeks as I gave myself up to him.

I should have known things wouldn't stay perfect forever.

5.

It took a long time for my heartbeat to return to normal. I lay in his arms, my eyes closed, feeling the weight of his body against mine. The Magi say that demons invented the arts of love, and after years of living with Japhrimel I didn't just believe it-I knew it, all the way through my veins.

It was too bad he couldn't have been human in the first place. Would I have loved him so much if he was?

I propped myself up on my elbow, my hair sliding over my shoulder as he threaded his fingers through and pushed it back, tucking it behind my ear. The silky strands clung to his fingers, unwilling to let go. "All right," I said, my legs tangled with his. "Time for you to come clean. What's going on?"

He shrugged, his touch trailing down my arm and skipping to touch my ribs. As usual, slow fire followed, unstringing my nerves, soothing me. His eyes, half-closed, still held sparks of green circling in their depths. "You have been buried in your books, my curious. While you have done so, there has been unsettling news. The air is full of . . . disturbance. For Lucifer to request a hedaira's presence is a thing unprecedented in the history of Hell. The Three Flights-Greater, Lesser, and Low-now know of Vardimal's rebellion. A demon escaped Hell and lived among humans for fifty mortal years, and even created an Androgyne. Now they think it is possible to leave Hell unremarked-and they think perhaps Lucifer is weakening, or his grip on Hell is slipping.

Mutters of discontent rise everywhere. The fact that Lucifer lost his assassin to a human woman does not help."

"I'm missing the part where that's my problem," I muttered.

He brushed my cheek with his knuckles, a gentle, careful movement. "If Lucifer loses control of Hell, do you think demons will cavil at settling old scores with me? We have notoriously long memories." A swift snarl crossed his face. A long time ago, it would have frightened me. "Not to mention that it is the Prince's will that keeps demon-kind from meddling further with your world. That is something you should be devoutly grateful for." His pause sent a chill down my back. "Our kind play cruel games."

That makes sense. Too much sense to be comforting. I sighed and sank down into the pillow, untangling my legs from his and turning on my back. The rectangle of mellow sunlight moving across the room reminded me I should be in the library. I could only acquire shadowjournals from the estates of solitary Magi, since circles burned shadowjournals when a member passed, or kept them in heavily guarded libraries that were destroyed if the circle died out.

Each solitary Magi had a different code, and each text required months of patient work to break that code and strip-mine whatever information the Magi let slip about demons, hoping for a word about the Fallen. It was slow, frustrating, difficult going, and now I might never finish.

Japhrimel's hand slid down to spread against my belly. It reminded me of claws digging into my guts, the sick leprous light of Mirovitch's ka burning the air, my own helpless screams. My skin had healed without a scar. I had no scars left except the fluid twisted glyph on my shoulder, the mark of my bond with him. "So what does Lucifer want with me? I'm no use to him." "My guesses are unpleasant, and it is better not to guess where the Prince is concerned." Old bitterness shaded his voice. He didn't like to talk about his life as Lucifer's Right Hand; I might have understood more if he'd told me even a little about it.

"So when you told me nothing was wrong, you were lying? Like when you didn't tell me you helped Santino escape from Hell?" I closed my eyes, staring into the mothering dark behind my eyelids. Japhrimel's aura swirled, black diamond flames sliding through the trademark sparkles of a Necromance, showing I was linked to him. Dante, for the sake of every god that ever was, don't do this.

"I did so under the Prince's direction." Was it me, or did his voice sound even more bitter? "I had no choice. Not until I Fell, and you freed me by completing your bargain with him."

I blew out another long, frustrated breath. "So he wants to see me. Posthaste."

"We have until nightfall. Then I will take you to the meeting place. I was told we will meet a guide there who will take us to a door into Hell. Once we pass into Hell, you will be required to do the speaking for us."

Another arcane custom? "I am not ready for this." A new thought struck me. "Lucifer wants a bargain?"

I could feel his eyes moving over me, the weight of his gaze like amber silk and honey against my skin. "I would assume so."

Does this mean I have a chance of. . . . "Then I can bargain for Eve?"

Japhrimel froze, his hand tensing. He made a slight sound, like a bitter snort of laughter. After a long pause, his fingers gentled against my abdomen. "It would be most unwise, Dante. Most unwise."

"He took her. She was Doreen's. He had no right." Plus he almost strangled me, and he killed you. The Devil owes me, and if he needs something from me I'm going to make him pay with interest. It was hollow bravado at best. I had no illusion of being able to win in any game involving the Devil. Humans just don't win when they tangle with him.

But I had Japh on my side, didn't I? That had to be worth something.

"How would you have raised her, Dante? You do not even truly understand a demon, let alone an Androgyne. He took her for a reason." His tone was soft, reasonable, and did not mollify me in the least.

I don't care why he took her. "He nearly strangled me in the process, Japhrimel. Or did you forget?" If I don't understand demons, whose fault is that? You won't tell me anything!

"You survived, did you not? For him, that passes as a light warning. Must I beg you to be cautious?" His hand tensed again, his thumb moving slightly, a light caress.

"I'm plenty cautious. Especially where demons are concerned. Last time I didn't come off too badly, did I?"

"I was pleasantly surprised." Levity, his own particular brand of dry humor. We both knew how close it had been.

I sighed, opened my eyes, saw the blue velvet canopy flutter. How many times had I awakened to this bed? How many times had Japhrimel soothed me out of a nightmare, stroked my back and shoulders until I could stop trembling? How many times had I sobbed out the names of my failures and listened to his calm voice making everything better?

If Japh needed me to, I'd take on the Prince of Hell and more. What else could I do? "All right. If you want me to, I'll meet the Devil again."

I hadn't realized how tense he was until he relaxed, the silent crackling static of his attention swirling out of the air. I took a deep breath of the scent we made together-amber musk, burning cinnamon, something spicy and overwhelming to a human but the equivalent of a shield for a demon; a defense against the mortal world and its pervading odor of dying. It was also the equivalent of an air bubble, climate control and some indefinable gas making breathing easier. I used to think the smell of a demon wasn't physical. Now that I was part-demon it was all too physical.

"I will protect you, Dante." His tone was low, a promise. "Never doubt that."

Silence rose between us. Before, quiet had been something shared. Now it was dangerous.

"What aren't you telling me?" I swallowed the next question: Do you mean it when you say you're staying with me?

I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd heard it anyway. I did some quick mental calculations. It had to be months that we'd lived here, quite how many I didn't know. Time got away from me nowadays, especially when I was in the library.

However long it had been, I hadn't doubted a single word that crossed his lips until now. "And how long has Lucifer been asking for me?" I added.

"Since I was resurrected, my curious. We have had more time than I ever thought possible. You needed it." He stroked the curve of my hip, rounder now since I'd put on a little weight. Not much, but a little.

"You lied to me." Flatly. I shouldn't have been so upset. Even as I said it, I knew I shouldn't have.

You forgave Jace, didn't you? He lied to you about Santino too. My conscience, of course, piped up loud and clear. But Jace had stayed with me, putting up with my grief and my inability to stop moving, pushing his aging human body to its limits to keep up with me on bounties, watching my back. I had forgiven him. He'd earned it. Danny Valentine, the woman who swore that even one lie was a treasonous offense, had forgiven Jace everything, even if I couldn't be what he wanted or needed.

But Japhrimel . . . was different. The thought of Jace lying to me had filled me with untinctured rage and contempt at the time; the thought of Japhrimel hiding something from me, no matter the reason . . . hurt. As if my heart had been replaced with a live coremelt. Tears rose behind my eyes, I pushed them down. Blinked furiously. Why does it hurt like this? What's wrong with me?

He sighed, tracing the arch of my rib without tickling. I almost wished he would tickle me-that would end up in a wrestling match, and that would mean I wouldn't have to think for a while. "What would you have done, had you known? You were a shadow.

Whatever ghost I rescued you from crippled you. I feared you might die of despair, and if you locked yourself in the library at least you were not grieving." His fingers were so gentle, he stroked my skin delicately, soothing. I had never been touched so carefully by a human lover; even Doreen's comfort had lacked the deep softness of Japhrimel's. Who would have thought a demon could be so gentle? "To know that Lucifer was asking for you was a burden you were not ready for."

It wasn't so much the chain of his logic as the infuriating tone of reasonableness and I-know-best he used that made me spitting mad. The fresh anger and irritation was like a tonic against the clawed pain in my chest, fear sparking fury as a defense.

All in all, I was taking the news rather well.

"I'll decide what I'm ready for," I snapped, rolling up and pushing his hand away. "You should have told me." I gained my feet, scooping up my sword, and strode for the bathroom. If I was going to meet the Prince of Hell again, there were things I had to do first.

The mark on my shoulder warmed, a prickling of heat.

"What of your secrets?" His voice rose from the tangled bed behind me, a silky challenge. "What of the dead you bear such guilt for? You grieved for me while living with your human paramour, and I have never asked you to explain that."

I actually stumbled. I hadn't believed he would throw Jace at me, especially since it was salted with the pinch of truth. I took in a deep breath, my head down, tendrils of my hair slipping like living things over my shoulders. Then I lifted my head, regaining my balance. "At least Jace didn't lie to me," I flung back over my shoulder, and slammed into the bathroom before he could reply.

It wasn't quite true. Jace never told me he was Mob, and part of the Corvin Family to boot. But I'd flung it at Japhrimel. Now who was the liar?

6.

If I was going to visit the Devil, I wanted to be fully armed. So I opened up the huge dresser in the corner of the bedroom.

Japhrimel was nowhere to be seen. I knelt on naked knees, my hair drying in a thick braided rope against my back. Pulled out the lowest drawer and saw with faint surprise everything was still there.

Well, why wouldn't it be there? You put it there. You're being ridiculous, Danny. Get moving.

Trade Bargains microfiber shirt, sheds dirt easily and doesn't smell no matter how long you wear it, thanks to antibacterium impregnation. Butter-soft, broken-in jeans, cut to go over boots and treated to be water and stain resistant, patches tailored in to accommodate holsters and with the crotch inset so side-kicks are possible. The old explorer's coat, too big for me because it was Jace's-supple tough Kevlar panels inset in canvas, one pocket scorched where a silver spade necklace had turned red-hot and burned its way free. The rig, still oiled and spelled, not cracking like regular leather. Knives, main-gauches and stilettos, and the two projectile guns, cartridges neatly stacked off to the side. And in its deep velvet case, the necklace Jace had given me in the first days of our affair. I'd worn it all through the last job-tracking down Kellerman Lourdes. Even after I'd finished, that job had almost killed me I could admit as much now, if only to myself.

The necklace was beautiful. Silver-dipped raccoon baculums on a fine silver chain twined with black velvet ribbons and blood- marked bloodstones as well as every defense a Shaman knew how to weave, all twisted together in a fluid piece of art. He hadn't given any other woman something like this-at least, not that I knew of. He had spent months making it, a powerful mark of his affection for me.

If I went into Death again, if I used the necklace he'd worked so hard on or the sword twisted with his death to call his apparition up, what would he have to say to me?

Maybe something like "I loved you, Danny, and I was human. Why couldn't you love me?" Maybe something like that. Or maybe "Why did you let me die?" Or "What took you so long to come find me?"

Any or all of those questions were equally likely, and equally viciously hurtful. Which one would I pick to answer, if I could?

"I'm not brave enough to find out," I whispered, and picked up the necklace with delicate fingers. I fastened it, and spent a moment arranging it so the baculums hung down, each a curve of silver against my golden skin, knobbed ends pointing out. "Or am I?"

I felt as if a shell had been ripped away, as if my skin was hitting the air for the first time. I'd spent so long living on the edge of a sword, taking one bounty after another, jobs other Necromances wouldn't touch, honing myself into a weapon to still the voices whispering in my head. Not good enough, not strong enough, not brave enough, not tough enough. Now, instead of feeling properly terrified, I felt a type of giddy glee. Soon I'd be facing down some new kind of danger, feeling as if my heart was going to explode from adrenaline. I had said that all I wanted was a quiet life, to be left alone.

I'd actually believed it when I'd said it, too.

Under the necklace were my rings, chiming as they tangled together. I lifted them one by one-amber rectangle, amber cabochon.

Moonstone. Plain silver band. Bloodstone oval, obsidian oval. Suni-figured thumb ring on my left hand. They began to glow, sullenly at first, then brighter as my Power stroked at them. I sighed, feeling the defenses and spells caught in each stone rise to the surface, tremble, and settle back into humming readiness.

I dressed quickly, my fingers flying as they hadn't for a long while. Buttoning up my shirt, my jeans, finding a pair of microfiber socks. My boots were a little cracked, but everything still fit. Living soft hadn't made me fat yet, though I'd lost the look of being starved. A demon metabolism, every girl's best friend. I picked up the rig with trembling hands. Shrugged myself into it, buckled it down. Tested the action of the knives. They were still sharp. The plasgun went into its holster under my left arm. The projectile guns rode easy in their holsters. I slid clips in them both, chambered a round in each, and found the little clicks comforting to hear.

The only thing left was my tattered canvas messenger bag-the bag that had gone into Hell with me, back to the nightmare of my childhood with me, the bag I'd carried on every job since Doreen had bought it and sewn in the extra pockets and loops of elastic to hold everything down.

I scooped up the bag and the six extra clips, paced over to the bed, and dumped everything out. Scraps of paper, containers- blessed water, salt, cornmeal mix, my lockpick set, extra handkerchiefs and ammo clips and my athame, still glimmering with Power inside its plain black leather sheath. The chunk of consecrated chalk-my fingers trembled, touching its dry surface. I'd been searching for it desperately in the abandoned cafeteria of Rigger Hall with Lourdes chasing me, carrying the poisonous remnant of Mirovitch inside his brain like a cancerous flower. A silver Zijaan lighter with a cursive-script CM etched into it. A battered paperback copy of the Nine Canons-the runes that Magi and other psions and sorcerers had been using since before the Great Awakening-that I'd had since the Academy. My tarot cards in a hank of blue silk. Rough bits of quartz crystal, a few more bloodstones, some chunks of amber. More odds and ends.

My hands knew what to do. I laid Jace's coat down, my fingers moving, checking, stowing everything in its proper place. I picked up the bag, gave it an experimental shake, and let it settle. I ducked through the strap and settled the bag on my hip, under the holster carrying my right-hand gun. I rolled my shoulders back as everything settled in, then shrugged into Jace's coat. Picked up my katana.

"Ready for anything," I muttered.

The house was oddly quiet. I listened and heard nothing, not even servants moving. I realized how used to the sound of human hearts beating I'd become. The maids didn't talk to me-I didn't speak Taliano, and they didn't speak much Merican, so I let Japhrimel translate and was grateful none of them looked askance or forked the sign of the Evil Eye at me. None of them set foot in the library unless it was to dust while I was sleeping or to leave a box of new books inside the door. Only Emilio seemed completely unafraid, both of me and of the demon who shared my bed.

I stood for a few moments, the room resounding with small sounds as my attention swept in a slow circuit, brushing the curtains of the bed, sliding along the walls, caressing the framed Berscardi print above the low table where Japhrimel kept a single lily in a fluted black glass vase. The lily was gone, the vase dry and empty. The curtains fluttered. I sighed.