that night, had relieved it in dreams more often than she could count. The sight of the Brotherhood’s agent standing under the window of their rented room. The cold rush of panic when she realized their luck had run out. But trained killer or not, the man was still distracted by a smile and a song, by the swirl of her skirt around her knees. Easy enough to join him in the shadowed alley, to lean in close enough to kiss. Close enough to use the wicked little knife in her pocket. But even as she stood over his crumpled body, watching his blood run black into the gutter, she knew she and Rainer wouldn’t make it off the continent. With that fear in her gut and the memory of blood sticky on her hands, it had been easy to find the incantations in Rainer’s stolen books, to speak them to the dark and make the devil’s bargain.
The candle on the table guttered, rippling shadows across the walls. Rainer stirred with a sigh and rustle of sheets, then stilled once more. Antja closed her eyes, burning with sleeplessness and misery, and lowered her head to her knees. “What am I going to do?”
“Yes. What are you going to do?”
Her chair scraped the floor as she started. The dark man stepped out of the shadows behind her, the candle flame washing his black eyes to liquid gold. Rainer slept on.
“What are you doing here?” Her bare feet slipped to the floor and her fingers tightened on the arms of the chair.
“You’re distressed. You needn’t torment yourself this way.” He laid a warm hand on her shoulder and she jerked away, twisting out of the chair.
“Not when you’re here to torment me instead.”
He chuckled. “That wasn’t my intention. Not entirely. I might ease your suffering, if you’d let me.”
“With what? More death? Your gifts are poison.”
He tilted his head, and the light kissed the curves of his cheek and brow. “You bargained for your safety, and his.” One mahogany hand gestured toward Rainer. “And you’re both safe. I can keep you free from harm, but not from pain and doubt and fear. Well, I could,” he amended. “But I think you’re too attached to your humanity for that.”
She shuddered and dragged a hand over her face. “What do you want from me?”
“Only your occasional service, as per the terms of our agreement. Some help me willingly, you know. Have you ever considered that?”
She had, if only in the dark watches of the night when she couldn’t lie to herself, but she would die before she admitted it to him. “Some people are fools.”
His lips pursed. “So very many. All right, Antja Michaela. I can release you, if that’s what you wish, but not for free. What do I gain if I strike your name from my book?”
She turned away, hugging herself. Still Rainer slept.
“Would you give me another name to replace yours?”
That drew her around again. “Another name?”
“A trade. But who?” He flicked dismissive fingers at Rainer. “He’s already spoken for. Another of his flock, perhaps?”
Don’t even think of it. But it was too late. “You would trade a name for a name? No tricks, no lies?”
He shrugged and straightened the flawless line of one sleeve. “If it were a fair trade. Someone talented, someone interesting. Someone who means something to you.” He cocked his head. “Why? Do you have someone in mind?”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I won’t.”
“Ah. Well, if you think of something else, do let me know.” He closed the space between them and cupped her chin gently. “You look so tired, my dear. You should rest.”
Then he was gone, leaving her shivering in the guttering candlelight.
THE STORM RAGED through the night like it meant to end the world, a deluge fit for Deucalion and Utnapishtim. Alex’s mood was fey enough for eschatology, even in the comfortable darkness of the bedroom.
Liz lay soft and warm in his arms—except for her inexplicably icy feet, which were tucked against his shins—too still to be sleeping. He wished he could concentrate on the shape of her hip under his hand, the smell of rain clinging in her hair. He could install her image in the galleries of his memory palace, could remember the shades of her hair, the pattern of her freckles and the agatine flecks of her eyes. But the feel and scent of her, the rasp of her breath— could he hold onto those, or would they wither in time like