"I accept," Stryker said with dignity befitting the gravity of the ceremony. "As my mother did before me."

"And you do so of your own free will?" the man asked, a slash of lightning outside the warehouse sinking him into silhouette. The storm clouds, I knew, were gathering outside. I could almost hear them erupting in my head the way they'd once erupted around and above Olivia's apartment.

"As my mother did before me," Stryker repeated, inclining his head. Behind him the windows had begun to streak with rain.

"At least you knew what you were choosing," I muttered, turning the page. A shaft of light shot up from the pages. It was like a paranormal pop-up book! The manual trembled between my fingertips, and the words, panels, and dialogue bubbles dissolved in an explosion of thunder. I watched as Stryker was pummeled by the same force that had entered me not long ago, dropping him to his knees and turning him into a helpless supplicant. The other star signs made a tight wedge around him-their bodies shown from above to create the symbol of his star sign-Stryker at the center. The book was more of a screen now, revealing images that flashed and burned away in turn, only his bright star immobile in the middle of the page.

There was a crack so great it shook the pages between my fingers. I almost dropped the whole thing as the sound of the sky rending in two joined the stabbing light, and with it a cry as horrible and intensely feral as I'd ever heard.

"No!" I heard a voice, perhaps Warren's, scream in response.

The symbol was broken, its bright points-the other agents of Light-splintering and turning outward to face an invasive red glow. I couldn't follow, the action was too chaotic and confused; like I too was caught in the turmoil. Blows rained down around my head, the air filled with words I'd never heard before...nd screams I wished I hadn't. Every so often the action would slow, like a tape being caught in a recorder, and a clear image-one more reminiscent of a traditional comic-would pause, burning on my retina, before being swallowed again into chaos.

I saw Warren slaughter a man with nothing more than a rope and his fists.

I saw Micah use his surgeon's hands to slice first the scalp and then the face from an attacker's falling frame.

And I saw, with a sort of disbelieving numbness, the man who'd attacked me as a teen. A name bubbled up through the air in long capitalized letters-JOAQUIN, followed by SHADOW AQUARIAN-then it popped, the lettering cracked into shards and shooting out beyond the confines of the pages, gone.

"Joaquin," I said aloud. I knew him. I knew the look of death on his brow.

And I knew, as I turned the page, that he would kill Stryker.

And there he was. Gorgeous and helpless and immobile in the center of this maelstrom, his head grasped between Joaquin's large hands. The Shadow Aquarian began to pull, and I watched, horrified, as the strong but tenuous cording in Stryker's neck stretched, the tendons beneath straining, a cry catching in his throat. Then, in what seemed like slow motion, his flesh gave. A horrible gurgle was yanked from a newly rent hole in that throat, and his head, popping, was hauled from his body. The light in the center of the page blinked out and was no more. The red glows dissolved and were simply, suddenly, gone. And the cacophony of martial voices died until there was only one.

A woman, dressed in the same robe as Stryker's, rushed forward and sobbing, lifted Stryker's head-just the head-into her lap. It lolled there, and she bent to it, crying and stroking his hair. I could see the familial resemblance through the tears and faint lines webbing her face.

Our lineage is matriarchal.

"G.o.d." Unable to bear the scene any longer, I turned the page.

The woman was still there, but she was standing now, fists clenched, eyes burning, her shift sodden with her son's blood. "There's a traitor among us," she said in a destroyed voice.

Jesus, I thought, slamming the comic book shut. This was a Light comic?

And was that what I was up against? Beings who appeared out of nowhere to rip heads from bodies? Off of superheroes?

"Ex-Excuse me." Jolted, I looked up to find the photo clerk staring at me, eyes wide, face pasty, a scattering of photos at her feet. She swallowed hard, and I didn't have to wonder how long she'd been standing there. "Th-These are the f-first few. I thought you might want them immediately."

I tried out a smile on her. She took a step back, not that I could blame her. I sat forward, gathering the photos. "Go finish," I said.

She ran back inside with a whimper, all the teen defiance gone. I leaned back again, wondering how I'd explain this away, and tried to catch my breath. Good thing too, because one glance at the handful of photos from the ground had the air fleeing my body again in an involuntary cry.

These images didn't flash. They didn't blur or glow or shoot light from the paper they were printed on. My photographer's eye saw a dozen different ways to improve the composition, but there was absolutely no way to improve upon the moment. I lifted the top one close to my face, unable to keep my hands from shaking, and studied the one-dimensional and utterly heartbreaking image captured there.

I knew my man.

I'd known how to angle myself in the encroaching dawn so as to maximize the lighting without using the flash. I knew every angle and smoothly sculpted plane of his st.u.r.dy face. I knew the length and breadth of his fingertips, and the way they felt stroking my own. I knew what color his eyes were in the morning, their intensity deepened by dreams.

And I knew, at the moment this shot had been taken, Ben Traina had been thinking of me.

It had been just before full sunrise, and dawn was breaking beautifully over his face. The smile was secretive, too small to cause his eyes to crinkle up at the corners in the way I loved, but it was the contented smile of a man who was expecting to wake up and face the first day of the rest of his life. He thought I was alive. He didn't yet know of a man named Butch and bodies tossed out plate-gla.s.s windows. I compared the image with the man who'd stopped me earlier today, and knew he'd never be this happy again. And neither would I.

A gust of air, carrying the scent of a nearby Dumpster, brought me back to the present. I looked up, mildly surprised to find myself still in front of the Quik-Mart. I'd been unaware of the pa.s.sing time. I glanced at my watch, heard laughter-probably a man stumbling from the bar down the street-then shut it out, sighing over the sound.

Perhaps Warren could help Ben, I thought, turning my attention back to the photo. If he could change an ident.i.ty, maybe he could erase a person's memory so they no longer mourned a loved one. I bit my lip. Did I want to be forgotten? Did I want him to get over me, and turn those smiling morning eyes on someone else?

I recalled kissing him and I didn't. Then I thought of how I'd seen him look after he thought me dead and I did. I thought of the l.u.s.t that had ignited so effortlessly between us again, and I didn't. Then I recalled the fury I'd seen on his face this afternoon, and I did.

"G.o.d, Ben," I said, pressing the photos to my chest as I closed my eyes. "We're never going to be this innocent again."

Laughter sounded behind me again, closer.

The fear that punched at my heart was a physical blow. I rocked into a standing position instantly, my legs braced wide, head up, and I sniffed. Rot on the air. Decaying hate, bloodthirsty hunger. "f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k."

Ajax. I don't know how he'd found me, but he was coming, and quick.

I shoved the photos and comics into the duffel bag, zipping it as I raced into the store. I ducked down the first aisle and zigzagged to the back of the store, past cosmetics, lotions, shampoos, candy, and condoms, the security globe above capturing my every move. I fled past aisles stocked with visors and cheap T-shirts, there only because the words Las Vegas were splayed upon them in some manner, and quickly discovered that among the mundane and the kitsch and the items that made life oh-so convenient, there was one thing missing. A place to hide.

I should have run, I thought, blood churning. I should have taken off in the opposite direction of the stench and laughter, and run all the way to the Peppermill. To the safety of Warren or someone else who might know what to do.

n.o.body can know who you really are, do you understand?

I looked again at the mirrored globe, and cursed Olivia's reflected image. If Ajax didn't kill me, Warren was surely going to do the job.

The automatic doors at the front of the store slid open. Through the security globe I saw a figure slide inside like a wisp of smoke, then disappear. He was following my scent, the fear now, and whatever emotion or pheromone that had alerted him to me in the first place. Seconds ticked by like bombs, and I felt the frantic despair rats must feel in a maze. There was, very simply, nowhere to hide. Then my eyes fell to the clearance bin in the middle of the aisle. Nowhere to hide, I thought, except in plain sight.

Tossing my duffel aside, I dove for the mishmashed items; remaindered Halloween costumes made of colored felt and cotton meant to wear away in one washing. All I needed was a mask. I tossed aside bear bodies, b.u.mblebees, superheroes-ha!-and b.u.t.terfly wings, and finally unearthed a cheap plastic mask. It would only cover half my face, but it'd fit. Fumbling it over my head, I snagged a baseball cap sporting the famous Welcome to Las Vegas sign on it, and tucked Olivia's golden locks up inside. Then I turned, breathing hard, and waited.

His laugh, the one I'd mistaken for drunken mirth, was the first thing to reach me. But if Ajax were drunk, it was with the intoxication of antic.i.p.ated success and unrestrained violence, not hard alcohol.

When he appeared, the first thing I noticed was his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, then the antic.i.p.atory twitch of his long fingers; those effective, effeminate hands. His lanky skeleton pressed beneath his skin as he moved, and I was almost surprised his bones didn't clack together when he walked. Already in place, his feral grin widened when he saw me.

"I have to hand it to Warren. This is his best disguise yet...other than his own, that is," and his laugh was so cruel it was clear he wasn't speaking of Warren's vagrant persona. "I'd have never guessed it was you."

My eyes, beneath the slit of plastic, flickered up to the mirrored ball. A pink pig's snout protruded from beneath the rim of the hat, but my face-Olivia's face, and her hair-were perfectly hidden. Dignified it wasn't, but it did the job.

"I'm guarding my ident.i.ty," I said, unnecessarily.

"I see that." Ajax took a step forward, his long coat swirling around his ankles. I mirrored him, taking one step back. "But, very soon, neither your plastic mask nor your veil of flesh and bone are going to matter. I'm going to rip your head from your body and swim in your blood."

I thought of Stryker and shuddered. Ajax laughed. "G.o.d, but your fear is delicious! It's like an aperitif...a promise of delights to come. Can you see it the way I do? Every emotion emanating from your body in a silvery wave, rolling in sheets of phosph.o.r.escent emotion. See, there goes a particularly strong one. Like the tide rushing from the sea, nice and foamy at the edges as it roars for escape."

I clenched my teeth and brought a mental barrier slamming down in front of me, the way Micah had taught. I held my breath until I was sure I could control it, then exhaled slowly. Ajax frowned. "Quick learner, aren't you, Jo? I didn't expect you to find your glyph so quickly either, but of course you've had help."

I glanced down. The symbol that had been sprayed on my chest earlier that day was suddenly pulsing with light, a white heat throbbing beneath my black turtleneck. d.a.m.n it, I thought. I bet that Yulyia b.i.t.c.h wasn't even from the Ukraine.

The rip of steel through air had my head whipping up. Ajax had his poker gripped in both hands, point down, poised in front of him like a walking cane. One with extremely sharp teeth.

"Tell me, do you also have your conduit?"

"Yes," I lied.

"Let's see it."

I swallowed hard, motioning with my chin. "It's in that duffel bag."

Smiling, he sheathed his weapon and lifted the bag by its soft handles. "Never leave your conduit unattended, Joanna. You, more than anyone, should know the power in turning an enemy's own weapon against him."

He lifted the bag, but hesitated, brows drawing in closely, nostrils working like a rabbit's. He was sensing my lie. I had to distract him, fill the air with an emotion other than anxious hope.

"Powerful," I agreed, "and Butch's scimitar was particularly fun. Do you know I began by chopping his hands off at the wrists? I think the majority of blood loss occurred there, but I also forked his tongue and watched him choke on his own blood. I've never seen so much blood," I said, shaking my head, and that was true. Remembering, I was able to conjure up the taste of molten vengeance in my mouth. I exhaled the memory in Ajax's direction.

He reflexively lifted a hand, shielding his face, and glared at me from over the top of it. "He was like a brother to me."

"Well, Ajax," I said, and leaned forward, "your brother p.i.s.sed himself when I used his own blade against him. Now that's what I call a wave of fear."

I braced myself in case he was going to rush me, but rage had him ripping into my duffel, blindly searching for a weapon that wasn't there. It also had his fingers inadvertently running across the weapons that were.

Carl, the little wookie, had been right. Getting zapped by an enemy's manual wasn't pretty. I had the five agent of Light comics stacked on top of the Shadows, and Ajax, it seemed, got a good handful. He dropped the duffel bag immediately, but the damage was already done. The skin on his right palm charred before my eyes, his eyes rolled so far back in his skull that they were snowy white orbs, and his hair sizzled down to within a half inch of his skull.

I was already turning, ready to run like an Olympic sprinter, when I saw the photos of Ben scattered in the aisle.

s.h.i.t. Ajax would recover. Ajax, I thought, swallowing hard, would see them. Then he'd hunt down the one man I'd ever loved, and torture him the way I'd tortured Butch. He'd do it to spite me, or bait me, or lure me. And I, of course, would come.

The fingers on Ajax's good hand were already beginning to twitch to life, and his eyes were rolling back into place, independent of one another, like twin reels on a slot machine. He'd have himself a jackpot if I were still kneeling at his feet when they hit home.

I lunged for the photos, gathering them quickly. He groaned and staggered forward. He b.u.mped my arm with his left foot and I cursed as he fumbled for his weapon. Springing forward from a crouch, I wrapped my arms around his spindly but strong legs and sent his body crashing forward. His chin landed with an audible crack on the hard linoleum, and he nearly impaled himself on his own poker. Nearly, but unfortunately not quite.

Pivoting, I reached for the poker, but his hand closed around the grip first, so I redirected and kicked the duffel from his reach. I leapt over his body just as three feet of barbed supernatural steel came arching my way. Scooping up the bag, I felt fire graze my right hamstring, but I was already moving away, stumbling, then breaking into a full-fledged sprint.

I was nearly out the door when a fresh scream sliced the air in two. Safety was feet away, but there was no escaping the horrible stuttering sobs behind me. There was nothing heroic about it; just a slight pivoting of the feet as I turned back around, and the still-fresh memory of the way my sister, also an innocent, had died at the hands of another Shadow agent.

The photo girl's eye makeup ran down her cheeks in black streaks. Her blue eyes would have seemed transparent in comparison, but they were weighed in their sockets with tears and congealing fear. I probably couldn't save her. I hadn't been able to save Olivia, and I sure as h.e.l.l didn't know how to save myself, but if I ran from this-and G.o.d knows I wanted to-I wouldn't be able to live with myself anyway. The duffel dropped from my hand with a dull thud, and I stepped back in the store.

Ajax began to laugh.

"You move fast, Archer," Ajax said, his voice merry with observation. The girl whimpered.

"Don't," I said, taking another step forward.

"You should've run when you had the chance. It's one thing I can't quite understand about the Light signs. Putting your lives at risk for mortals when there are just so many of them about." He waved his poker in the air like it was a wand. "When are you going to realize they're expendable? They're nothing. Just flesh, weakness, and stench. That the agents of Light would care for them at all boggles the mind...and makes you so much easier to kill."

I read his deadly intention before he moved, and dove half a second before he flipped the poker in his hand. The weapon, a missile now, sank home exactly where I'd been standing, its steel tip buried in a pyramid of c.o.ke cases, sending sodas exploding in the air as it burst into flame.

I began to sprint toward him before the smoke could clear, darting across aisles with no particular plan except to close the distance between Ajax and me and bring that terrified clerk within arm's reach. I crossed two aisles and raced up a third, to end up behind him. He pulled another poker from beneath his jacket, and this time there wasn't enough distance to duck, dive, or even blink. Ajax laughed.

"Yes, you're very fast," he repeated, turning the hilt of the blade over and over in his hand. "But let's see if you're fast enough."

He didn't throw it. I knew he wouldn't, even before he inverted the tip and plunged it into the teenager's heart. Her screaming cut off into a gasping whine, then a gurgling sigh, and finally an irregular sucking noise, like she was breathing through a bent straw. Ajax twisted the poker, making no move to dislodge it from her chest cavity, just twisting and turning like he was stirring soup. As she died, his eyes never left mine.

"Why?" I asked, my breath, body, and mind going utterly numb. I pulled my remaining energy inward, knowing if I didn't that I'd collapse right there, weighed down by guilt and revulsion, and the knowledge that I'd caused this. Again. "Why do you kill innocent people?"

He dumped the girl's body on the floor and wiped his hands on his jacket. "Pain amuses me. Death amuses me."

"Then you're going to find this hilarious." Ajax found out just how fast I was, and it was fast enough.

We hit the floor with a loud smack, rolling together behind the photo counter. Smells became colors behind my eyes; yellow-tinged chemicals, dusky blood, tar-thick smoke, and Ajax's breath, putrid as pus, audible in my ear. The taste of him was sour as my teeth found flesh and bit down hard. He howled, anger laced with pain, and pulled away, his blood joining the noxious feast. I smiled as he cried out again, only vaguely aware in some still sane part of my mind that I was still wearing the pig's mask, and with another human's blood running down my chin, I must have looked like an animal indeed.

We leapt at each other again.

He should have been too fast for me, at least the "me" I'd been nine weeks earlier, but I was countering his moves; meeting blow with blow, and each parry with feint. My training, coupled with the strength I'd been gifted with during metamorphosis, was the most delicious melding of power I could ever imagine. Aggression fused with streaming adrenaline, unadulterated hate, and manifested in a speed I never knew I possessed.

I reveled in it. My strikes were preemptive. I landed punches first and hard. I gained stronger footing. I swung out with my legs. I was confident...and that, of course, was my mistake.

I landed a blow to the thigh designed to take out his left leg and Ajax seemed to stumble. When I moved in for the follow-up, he wrong-footed me, and plowed a right hook into the exposed part of my lower face. He was on me before I recovered, and we hit the ground again, this time my body taking the full impact of our combined weight.

My breath was driven from my chest, and a hollow snap accompanied by an acute shot of pain told me at least one rib had cracked. Ajax flipped me easily, mounting me at the waist and settling his weight on my tender midsection. I struggled for breath, but it wasn't coming. Ajax laughed...as he had upon scenting me, and upon killing the young, innocent clerk. I was getting sick of that dry, bone-rattling sound.

I swiped the back of my one free hand over my mouth, and came away with blood. When I repeated the motion, it came away dry. I was healing faster than ever. Unfortunately, Ajax noticed this too.

"What? No more tricks, little Archer?" He placed his palm on my chest in what could have been mistaken for an intimate gesture...until he leaned forward. I groaned as pain bloomed behind my lids and the freshly healed rib popped again.

He chuckled under his breath, and I could see where this was heading. Sitting back, his weight still pinning me down, he tilted his head and considered me more closely.

"Did you know, I almost felt sorry for you when we first met? I remember thinking, 'This poor little girl has no idea why she exists, never mind what she can do or who she might become.' It was pitiful, really. All that ripe, raw power beginning to glow beneath your skin. All that pent-up ability straining to burst free, trapped instead by that stupid, ignorant mind. Not to mention this fragile wall of flesh." He popped the rib again, and my head swam with pain. I closed my eyes, afraid I was going to pa.s.s out. Ironically enough, his voice kept me anch.o.r.ed in the present.

"I am not, as you might expect, totally void in my feeling for others." I opened one eye to see if he was serious, but had difficulty seeing through the slits in my tilted mask. His voice sounded serious. "Butch, for example. I cared for him."

Great. He'd once cared deeply for another psychopath. I wanted to tell him it didn't necessarily qualify him for sainthood, but I could actually feel my rib st.i.tching together again in my chest and didn't dare.

"I went on that first date," he continued conversationally, "intending to kill you quickly. Mercifully."

"So what changed?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even. Trying to breathe through the pain so I could think of something else to do.

Ajax wasn't fooled by my question. Leaning forward again, he popped that fragile rib easily. "You opened your mouth."

He caved in another of my ribs just for pleasure. I cried out at the fresh break, unable to stop myself this time.

"Look at me, Joanna. Look at me," he repeated patiently, like speaking to a child. He sunk his fingernails into my jaw, forcing my gaze straight. His face was somewhat obscured through the mask, but I caught his eyes probing mine. "I want you to know who I am, deep down, when I kill you."

"I know who you are," I managed as his fingers sunk deeper into my cheeks. "I've seen you without your mask before."

"In the restaurant, yes, but seeing is not knowing. Observation is no match for experience."

Oh G.o.d. This didn't sound good.

"They lied to you, Joanna." He almost looked pained as he said this. "There is no precious balance between good and evil. No yin and yang. No good or bad. Light or Shadow."