weapon. I had used it to protect others and myself, but I had no idea if that was all that I could do with it.
I laid out all of Molly’s trinkets, witchy amulets given to me over the years. There was a tiny hedge of thorns captured in a small amulet. There were witchy locks that usually went on my bastardized Harley. There were other, less powerful things I had used over the years. And there was the bone earring carved like a coyote, the earring that had appeared in my stash after a night of really bad dreams. Molly hadn’t made it. It just . . . appeared. Presto. Like magic. Good magic. Safe magic. I smiled at the thought. Bruiser, still quiet, had been sitting in the small chair in the corner, watching me lay out my toys, his eyes hooded with grief. He lost Leo. He expected to lose me because I was still dying, albeit more slowly. And his grief and malaise were like a cheese grater on my nerves. I wanted to kick him, but that seemed really unkind and unproductive.
I set the armor and amulets on the bed and said, “Dude. I think all that advice about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and just getting over pain or guilt or abandonment is hogwash. But wallowing in the filth of your own past isn’t helpful either. The things you went through don’t own you. You own them. What you do with them, how you survive, whether you survive what was done, is up to you. I love you, but you have to make a decision. Give up or fight.”
“Leo’s fight?”
“Leo’s gone. It’s our fight now. Who cares who started the battle as long as we finish it?”
Bruiser’s eyes went narrow in thought. I left the gear strewn across the big bed and returned to the TV room. On the way down in the elevator, I received a text from Jodi Richoux, the cop in NOLA who had the heart of the elder Son of Darkness. Attached was a photo of the heart. There was some sort of mass on the side and things were sticking out of the heart itself, like arteries and veins. It wasn’t showing any signs of rot—not at all. It was still gross. Below the photo were the words Is safe in a Null Room. Shape and color suggests lung and blood vessels are growing. No sign of decomposition. Lachish Dutillet is in null room next door. She says to burn it. Witch council is considering.
I studied the heart. If it could regrow the entire body, which had been posited, it would have all the power but none of the memories, none of the learning or training. It would be a mindless vessel for the FOM to use as he wanted, until the body and brain developed new memories and personal will to go with the new physical life.
I detoured to the back of the house, following my Beast-nose, and found Brute, who was now curled up on a bed with EJ and Angie Baby, the infant between them, and a neon green Grindylow resting over the wolf’s back. At some point in the last few minutes, the kids had been put down for naps—with a three-hundred-pound werewolf nanny. And Big Evan had to be okay with it. They were on his bed.
The paranormal creatures were alert, watching me in the doorway, so I waggled my fingers at Brute, asking him to come with me. He slowly untangled himself from the small bodies and left them asleep as he gingerly stepped to the floor. Pea, the grindy, held on to his white fur. In the hallway I showed the resident werewolf the photo of the heart. Brute licked his lips and chuffed at me, recognizing the heart.
“Yeah,” I said. “Leftovers. It’s regrowing. What happens when there’s a full-grown body and brain to go with the heart?”
Brute tilted his head to the side in question.
“Could the Flayer of Mithrans use his brother’s body and magic to make his own stronger?”
Brute’s ruff stood on end and he growled softly. His crystal blue eyes narrowed and he held my gaze in a very nonwolf, nondominant stare.
“That’s what I thought.” I should never have given the heart away. Brute should have eaten it all and then we wouldn’t have this danger. Brute turned and crawled up onto the bed. He curled around Angie, put a paw against the baby’s side, and lay his heavy