Afraid, but good.

They found Etta Bredow in the living room, which flowed outward, s.p.a.cious, with a wall made entirely of windows that reflected back an area full of golden lamps and soft long sofas. Bookcases lined one of the walls. Golden s.h.a.g carpet covered the floor. A gas flame flickered in the fireplace. Etta was a spare woman, so skinny her shoulders seemed more in common with a clothes hanger than flesh and bone. Everything about her was hollow, except for her eyes: cold and piercing, brilliant with intelligence. She held a novel in her lap. The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Lannes wondered if there was a message in her choice of reading material. "So," he said. "You know my brother."

"No," said Etta, closing the book, "I lied."

"Well," replied the other woman sarcastically. "At least you're honest." Lannes focused his energies, opening himself to the rest of the house, searching for other signs of life. No one else was present. He tried to do the same to Etta and ran up against a wall. Like with Orwell. A barricade in her mind. He wondered if this was going to turn into another fight. He wondered, too, at the nature of coincidence: of all the individuals in Chicago, he had been the one drawn into circ.u.mstances that no one else could possibly be suited to handle. Not that he was doing such a great job. Still, it made him uneasy, as though he was being manipulated. Something he could not blame on the woman at his side. If anything, they were both p.a.w.ns.

He stared at Etta. "How do you know my brother's name?"

She set aside her book. "Same way I know yours, Mr. Hannelore. Mutual acquaintance. One who shall remain unnamed, in case you're thinking of asking. Suffice it to say, he asked me to intercede on your behalf."

"Sure," Lannes replied, struggling to control his fear. "That's acceptably vague."

"As if you should talk," she replied, raking him with a glance. "Lannes Hannelore, master of bookbinding. And other things. Nice mask, by the way." She tapped the corner of her eye. "You take too much for granted."

Dread filled him. "Why are we here?"

Etta gave her female guest a hard look. "To pay an old debt."

Lannes' companion pushed back her tangle of hair and limped deeper into the living room, posture stiff, as though she were being drawn forward against her will. Lannes felt a moment of alarm, but there was nothing wrong with the presence in her mind: no duality, no shadow of another.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked Etta.

"You ask that like you think you're somebody," replied the old lady. "But you're not. Just a slip of a thing, being used."

Lannes moved closer. "What do you know about it?"

"Not enough. More than I want." A look of disgust pa.s.sed over her face. "I can't tell you about the man who wants you dead. I won't. All I can do is give you sanctuary. But he'll come for you again. And next time he won't use hired guns. He'll do it himself. He'll follow your example and borrow another mind."

The young woman's hand flew up to her throat. "That's peculiar wording."

"Is it?" asked Etta heavily. "History, my dear, tends to repeat itself."

"What was, what is, and what will be," Lannes murmured. "That's no answer. And I can't believe you lured us here for riddles."

"I did what was asked of me," Etta replied disdainfully. "I'm tired of looking over my shoulder."

Lannes suddenly wished his brothers were here- Arthur, maybe, who was a far stronger telepath, and who could slide through mental shields like a deadly ghost. "You want to play games with your life, fine. But not ours. Talk straight."

"And ruin the game?" Etta smiled bitterly. "No. In seventy years, all I've been able to maintain is an illusion of pride, a semblance of dignity. Smoke and mirrors, my good monster. And I won't throw that away on you. Not even to save my life."

"Then what's the point of luring us here?" asked the young woman, her voice filled with anger, her mind with despair. "If you know something-"

"Simon," interrupted Etta. "I know Simon. The man who is trying to kill you."

"Orwell mentioned that name," Lannes replied, losing patience. "Simon Says."

"Simon says jump, and you jump,'" whispered the old lady, with a weariness that seemed to add another ten years to her face. "Ah, Simon. He started this, and he'll finish it. As long as you keep coming for us. His old, dear, friends."

Blond hair fell over the young woman's face, hiding her eyes. "I can't control that. Something...comes over me."

"Not something," said Etta softly. "Someone."

Lannes' wings flared slightly. "And who would that be?"

Etta did not answer. She stood and walked toward the windows. Lannes saw his own reflection: a big man, dark hair, blurry features. He had managed to avoid most mirrors while wearing his illusion. He disliked seeing a stranger when he looked at himself-which was too close to the truth for comfort. Etta turned, folding her arms over her hollow chest. Feet slightly apart, braced like she was facing a storm. "Orwell Price," she murmured. "He's dead, now. You killed him."

"No," Lannes began, but the woman beside him shook her head. "I killed him," she admitted. "More or less."

"More or less," agreed Etta, and placed a wrinkled hand over her heart. "I felt it, when he died. Right here." The woman flinched. "I'm sorry." Etta did not seem sorry, nor full of any particular regret. Her voice was strong when she said, "We should have seen it coming."

"We," Lannes said. "Who's we? Simon, Orwell?"

"All of us," said Etta slowly, "who are obliged to die."

"Everyone dies. What makes all of you so special?"

She smiled. "The quality of the sin, Mr. Hannelore."

"Murder," said the blond woman softly. "You and Orwell murdered someone."

Etta's mental shield wavered, enough so that despite her calm face, he knew she was raging underneath, raging with sorrow or anger or guilt, raging with something almost too big for her body to contain. A chill filled him, matched only by the one in the old woman's eyes, which were pitiless and hard as stone. Powerful eyes. Frightening.

Etta turned those eyes on Lannes' companion, who did not blink or look away but met the gaze with a power that seemed to rise, warm and steady, against the old lady. Lannes could feel it in his head, and it made him want to take a step back. He moved forward instead, close against his companion's back.

"I'm going to make this easy on you," Etta said. "It's not the reason I was asked to bring you here, but I know the score. I know what's coming. And I might as well do one good deed before I die. Something to ease the way to the other side."

"You're not going to die," said the woman.

Etta swayed, arms still folded across her chest. "You won't have a choice."

The blond woman paled. Lannes grabbed her arm. Etta smiled at him, though it seemed sickly, like she was nauseated. "You were right about my reading material, Mr. Hannelore. I did choose it for a reason."

Anger clawed into the woman beside him. He felt it, was surprised by the intensity of it, and squeezed her arm, gently. "If you know who's controlling her or where this Simon is-"

"There is nothing I could tell you that would help," she interrupted, rubbing her brow. "Knowledge can make things worse, Mr. Hannelore. Take my word for it."

"No," said the woman beside him, trembling. "I don't accept that."

"You should," Etta whispered, a faint sheen of sweat breaking out on her brow. "You, of all people."

The woman stiffened. So did Lannes, but before he could say a word, Etta's eyes unfocused and her knees buckled. She managed to stay on her feet, barely, but that lasted only a moment. Her left leg collapsed, and she started to go down, hard.

Lannes caught her. He lowered her hollow body to the carpet, nothing but bone and sinew beneath his hands. She reached past him for his companion and caught her wrist.

"I know you can hear me," Etta whispered, blinking hard, struggling to focus. "b.i.t.c.h."

The young woman frowned, clearly confused-and then, quite suddenly, hissed in pain. Her eyes squeezed shut, mouth twisting in an awful grimace.

Lannes felt a tremor along their link, a rupture-and a shadow emerged. A second heart, pressed atop the woman's mind. The intruder.

All it took was a moment. Lannes could do nothing to stop it. He stared into her eyes and found a stranger. The woman he knew, locked behind a wall. Her skin paled to a ghostly white, as did her lips. All the color in her body leached away.

No windows were open in the room, but her blond hair stirred as though she stood in a storm, and her green eyes glowed briefly, as though emerald fireflies hid there. Lannes stared, stricken. Realizing suddenly that the woman might be several more degrees past human than he had imagined. He tried to make contact through the link between their minds, but slammed against a barrier. He imagined a scream from the other side.

"How could you?" whispered the intruder to Etta, her voice several octaves lower and shaking with fury. "You owed me. You were mine."

"Maybe," rasped Etta weakly. "But the girl you're using owes you nothing. You put blood on her hands that doesn't belong there. And that is not your right."

"I have every right," snarled the intruder, grabbing Etta's throat.

Lannes s.n.a.t.c.hed her wrist and closed his eyes, once again throwing himself down the mental link, hurling into the barrier with all his strength. He felt the woman-his woman-on the other side, and he hit the wall again and again, even after he lost his grip on the woman's wrist and felt his physical body flung aside. His ribs. .h.i.t the sharp edge of a table, and the pain almost made him black out.

Etta started laughing. Her voice, the satisfaction in it, sent a tremor through the intruder that Lannes felt in his mind and in the air itself, as though the world around him shivered.

"Go," rasped Etta, smiling coldly. "Finish me off if you like, but you'll always know I beat you."

The intruder went very still, gazing down at Etta with such hate, the room seemed to crawl with shadows. Lights flickered. Windows rattled.

"You do not deserve mercy," whispered the intruder, blond hair blowing around her pale, stolen face. "Not for what you did to her. Not for what you made me watch. G.o.d d.a.m.n you, Etta Bredow."

And without another word, the intruder vanished from the woman's brain. Like the shadow of an eclipse lifted off the sun. The mental barrier disintegrated.

Lannes, still fighting against it, fell through into his companion's mind with such force he momentarily became tangled in her thoughts. He caught flashes-witnessed her hands washing the blood off his body, her care as she looked for his wounds. Her fingers grazing his invisible wings.

He felt her fear. He felt her heart, thundering as though it were his own.

Lannes fled to his own mind and lay on the floor, breathing hard, eyes burning with unshed tears. He rolled on his side, and found his companion crouched on her hands and knees, shuddering. He crawled to her and, without a word and only a brief hesitation, wrapped his arms around her waist and tugged her into the curve of his body, laying them both down on the carpet. Holding her tight as she shook uncontrollably, teeth chattering. His arm beneath her cheek felt wet with tears.

Etta whispered, "It worked. Oh, G.o.d. I didn't think it would."

"You poisoned yourself," murmured the young woman unsteadily, her breath warm on Lannes' arm. "I felt it in her thoughts. She knew it. You've killed yourself."

The old lady remained sprawled on the carpet, sweating profusely. "My hand or hers, through you. I thought I would spare you the death, little girl. And stick it in her craw while I was at it."

The young woman trembled. "Who is she?"

Etta's eyes drifted shut. "A mistake. Too many secrets in that mistake for me to tell the story. But you have to stop her, girl. You have to get rid of her. You 11 never be tree it you don't. How, I cannot imagine. Must be blood. Your face...Oh, d.a.m.n."

Lannes rumbled. "Why did you bring us here if you knew how it would end? And why didn't she kill you as soon as we met?"

"Takes energy. Takes time to be strong enough. She would have dragged you to me if I hadn't found you first. Saved you the trip." Etta smiled weakly, eyes closed. "I'm tired of running from my memories."

The young woman struggled to crawl from Lannes' arms. "You can't die."

"Go to h.e.l.l," muttered Etta. "Better yet, go south. Find the dome. Find the farm. Someone will be waiting for you there. Son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Lannes said, "We can still get you to a hospital."

"Too late," Etta mumbled, eyes briefly drifting open to look at them. "This is what I get for being a punk."

The young woman knelt beside her. Lannes reached out and held Etta's hand. She stopped breathing soon after.

Chapter Eleven.

Though the woman remembered nothing of her life before waking in that Chicago hotel room, she was quite certain- hopeful, if nothing else-that her existence had been mundane and riddle-free, full of lazy evenings and warm apple pie, and nothing more upsetting than the spiteful remark of an irate neighbor or co-worker. That was the fantasy. No murder, no blood, no voices in her mind. No old women committing suicide and dying in her arms.

No men with wings.

"Up," Lannes murmured, dragging her to her feet, away from Etta. "Come on."

"We let her die," she rasped, fighting the urge to puke. "Jesus. What did I do?"

"Nothing," he snapped, holding her chin, forcing her to look at him. Close up, she thought it was a miracle she had ever mistaken him for human-it was in his eyes, shot dark with blue but glowing with electric veins of light that pulsed and flickered like tiny gasps of lightning.

"You did nothing," he said again, softer, though he did not release her. If anything, he pulled her closer, and though she did not mean to, her hands pressed against his chest, sinking through the illusion of a shirt to hot smooth skin and muscle hard as stone. She was too close to miss the sharp intake of his breath, and after a moment of pure stillness he pulled away. She let him, quivering with cold.

"Terrible disguise," she rasped. "You can't let anyone get close."

His gaze was haunted. "Never."

Lannes bent and scooped Etta into his arms. He carried her the short distance to the couch and set her down very gently. The old lady looked like a stick figure against him, nothing left but skin and bone.

She tried not to cry, the woman, not when she looked at Etta's pale hollow face, not when Lannes unfolded a blanket that had been resting on the back of the couch and draped it over Etta's head and body. The woman did not know if they should say a prayer or some words of pa.s.sage. Instead she stayed quiet, holding down terrible emotions, and made her heart cold and numb.

There was another blanket on the couch. Lannes shook it loose and draped it around the woman's shoulders. She felt very small beside him.

Suck it up, she told herself, and Lannes said, "I need to find a phone and call my brother. You rest."

The woman glanced down at Etta and shuddered. "Nice try."

Lannes' jaw tightened. "Come on."

He held her hand. His palm was large and warm, and felt no different from any other hand, though she could not remember anything, or anyone, with whom to compare him. Lannes led her down a long hall off the living room, and they found a bathroom and three bedrooms. There was no one else.

But the house still felt creepy. Lannes squeezed her hand, gently. "Clean up if you can. I'll be close by."

I don't want to be left alone, she almost told him, but that would have been pathetic, so all she did was nod.

Lannes gave her a knowing look. "I won't let anything happen to you."