"He won't help you now," I said. The thug swung at me with his flashlight, free arm swinging in a crazy cross-motion that only succeeded in clobbering the thug on his own shoulder. At least the guy had a survival instinct. He wasn't totally hopeless.

I grabbed the flashlight out of his sweating hand and rapped it against the elevator door. The bulb shattered and the fractured shadows crept back and blended into one velvet expanse of night.

The thug was whimpering now. "Please don't kill me."

"Dude, if I wanted to kill you, don't you think you'd be in pieces no bigger than a chicken nugget by now?" I demanded. He gave a shuddering sigh.

"Keys are on my belt. P-please ..."

I felt around-carefully, wouldn't want him getting the wrong idea-and found a fat key ring clipped to a utility belt. Nifty.

"Please..." he said again.

"What?" I demanded.

"Knock me out?" asked the thug. "If you just tie me up, they'll know I got overpowered and I'll lose my job. Just one clip right behind the ear. I can say I never saw you."

Un-freaking-believable. "Joshua's got himself some real quality people, doesn't he?" I muttered, hefting the flashlight. It was a good solid police model. I reared back and aimed low on the blue-black blob of the thug's head. His skull and the flashlight gave a clack, and he stilled without a sound.

Hopefully, he'd thank me later.

CHAPTER 28.

I must have tried twenty keys before I found the set that unlocked the dead bolts on Seamus's door. I pushed it open and saw soft lights. My heart momentarily seized as I imagined meeting Seamus face to smirking face, me with no gun and no authorization to be anywhere near him.

But the lights were automatic, bra.s.s-plated sconces recessed into satin-hung walls. Seamus had a taste I would cla.s.sify as Early Caesar's Palace. Doric columns and opulently stuffed sofas overwhelmed the compact s.p.a.ce, which was tall and narrow and could have been a utility room in its past.

And at the end of the room, staring at me with twin dead sockets, was the Skull of Mathias. It was set behind gla.s.s, mounted on yet another fake plaster column.

I walked slowly toward it, scarcely able to believe I was setting eyes on something so ancient. I felt almost humbled, like I was in the presence of an offering to a dead G.o.d.

Closer, I saw that the safe was just behind the Skull, the three-sided gla.s.s case built as an extension of the vault. It spoke to Seamus's ego that he kept the thing in the open, for anyone to gawk at.

I stopped, a few feet from the case. From here I could see the carvings, the tiny runic letters that marched across every facet of the Skull. They appeared to move and whorl before my eyes, not in the sickening fashion of daemon magick but the sensuous movement of an object so imbued with power that it was nearly alive. It radiated from the Skull, from the grinning tattooed teeth and pockmarked cheekbones to the bottomless empty eyes.

A card table had been set up along one side of the case, and yellow pads were scattered across it, along with an old clothbound ledger that was as out of place in the tacky room as I'd be at a podiatrist's convention.

Trying to ignore the palpable magick that radiated from the Skull, I glanced at the papers and saw they held repeated lines of cipher, many translated to English. The ledger was more of the same, in handwriting that changed every few dozen pages. The latest was dated and signed. Victor Blackburn, 1946. Victor Blackburn, 1946.

Seamus's words echoed: You don't realize that a junkie will do anything You don't realize that a junkie will do anything-take dirty pictures, and strike a deal when he's caught.

Vincent had given the meager translations of the Skull's workings to Seamus. In exchange for his life? Drugs? Did it matter?

But Seamus wouldn't just need the ledger, he'd need Vincent to decrypt the key for him. And when Vincent finally drew the line, he died.

I located a small bifold door at floor level marked trash, gathered up the ledger and the notes Valerie had made, and dumped them down the chute. They wouldn't make any sense to me. And no one else needed to unlock the writing on the Skull of Mathias in my lifetime. Not Seamus, and not Victor Blackburn. Sunny would hate me for destroying something of such magickal significance, but she'd get over it.

The Skull stared ahead, seeing into nothingness, while I stared back. Something so small-it really was small, almost child-sized. No one can predict where power will lie, I guess.

The gla.s.s case was solid when I pressed on it experimentally, three-quarter-inch bulletproof Plexiglas, resistant to everything short of a cutting laser. A switch was set into the wall just to my right, and I reached for it.

Seamus was arrogant and vain. He'd want to touch the Skull, show it off, rea.s.sure himself. I flicked the switch and the top of the case receded with a whir, exposing the Skull to the open air.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," I said, but in a triumphant tone. I took out the cloth tote tucked inside my back pocket and slipped it open, wrapping it upside down around the Skull, which felt hard and preserved, like knotty wood.

I held my breath as I lifted the Skull out of the case. This wouldn't end well. It couldn't.

Nothing. No alarm klaxons or spinning red lights or boulders falling on my head. Seamus O'Halloran's ego had done him in. Well, he wasn't the first person to make that mistake around me, although truthfully it stung a little to be so underestimated. At least Alistair Duncan had made a reasonable effort to kill me.

Now there was just the sticky problem of getting back out of the tower. I'd alerted security-sooner or later they'd figure out that their team wasn't responding and send up the cavalry, which would include Joshua. Since I wasn't looking to get beaten senseless twice in one week, I opted to go through the door marked roof.

Wind lashed at me as soon as I stepped out of the bulkhead. This high up there would always be wind, and the air sliced into me through my jacket. No idling helicopters stocked with pilots were waiting on the top of the tower, just an empty gravel expanse dotted with HVAC boxes and exhaust vents.

I'm a creature of earth. I don't generally like to be that far above it. I expected the cast of Die Hard Die Hard to come rushing by at any moment. to come rushing by at any moment.

Far below me, a searchlight swept the sky over Waterfront, and a police helicopter chattered over Cedar Hill. I could hear car horns and shouts from the street as if they were right next to me, bounced off the walls of the urban canyon I was on the precipice of.

The only exit that presented itself to me was a small, terrifying ladder disappearing over the lip of the roof. I peered down the slick side of the tower, the windows darkened except for a patchwork of bright ones. There was a thin bar next to the ladder and a ledge barely wide enough for my foot about ten yards down. Some sort of harness clip system, for workers navigating the outside of the tower.

A prefabricated shed was set up a few hundred feet away, marked employees only, and I rattled the door, finding it padlocked. I kicked the padlock off its hinges and swung open the door, finding three neon-orange harnesses and hardhats hanging inside.

I secured myself as best I could, lashing the bag holding the Skull to myself underneath the nylon straps of the safety rig. I eschewed the hardhat-who were we kidding here, anyway?

Without looking at the ledge, I clipped the safety rig's lead onto the bar and then swung one leg over the roof. I offered a quick prayer to whatever G.o.ds might be watching over foolish were women tonight, and started the long climb down.

I don't know how long I clung to the side of the tower, maneuvering step by step against gusts that seemed determined to peel me off the gla.s.s and send me downward like the stray pieces of trash caught in the wind. When I finally touched concrete in the loading area behind the tower, I collapsed and pulled my knees up to my chest, shivering uncontrollably.

The Skull was with me. I had made it out. The next thing I hadn't thought of was where to hide it-I couldn't take it home, or to the precinct unless I wanted a fast track to early retirement for psychiatric reasons.

She was going to kill me for this, but it was the only place I knew that I could be absolutely safe-at least until Seamus found out what I'd done.

CHAPTER 29.

Soft light beamed from the cottage windows, and I could hear cla.s.sical music burbling inside. It was only eight-thirty, ninety minutes since I'd entered O'Halloran Tower. Ninety minutes can seem like a long d.a.m.n time when you're carting around a priceless artifact, I'll tell you.

I knocked on the door hard, not caring if I roused the neighbors. Nothing like standing alone on the dead-end beach road with nothing except the moon to illuminate the surroundings to make you paranoid. I swore I could feel eyes behind every bush and telephone pole, just waiting to leap and fall on me. Sunny opened the door. She was in sweatpants and a stained Pretenders T-shirt. Come to think of it, I'd lost that same shirt a few months before I ran away. "Sunny, you have got got to stop stealing my clothes." She c.o.c.ked her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. What are you doing here?" I stepped inside and shut the door. "Is Rhoda asleep?" to stop stealing my clothes." She c.o.c.ked her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. What are you doing here?" I stepped inside and shut the door. "Is Rhoda asleep?"

"No, she is not," said my grandmother from the doorway. I rolled my eyes heavenward before turning to face her. Freaking fantastic.

"Nice to see you again, Grandma."

"It's late," she said sharply. "We're busy." Grandma Rhoda looks like those old wrinkled pictures you find in junk shops of someone's pioneer ancestor-a squat body and a stubborn outthrust jaw, topped by humorless Puritan eyes. You got the feeling that she'd be totally at home shooting buffalo or building a sod house, and if anyone complained, she'd take a strap to their rear end. She's about as far from the stereotype of the wise old witch-woman as you can find.

"Well, don't trouble yourself," I said sweetly. "I'm just here to see Sunny."

"Come back later," said Rhoda, taking a step to open the door. "Or better yet, don't come back at all. Sunflower has enough to do without your burdens."

"Grandma!" Sunny stamped her foot. "We just talked about this! I'm not six years old, okay? I make my own decisions."

But I had locked eyes with my grandmother, and we were engaged in another round of our perpetual wrestling match to see who was more ornery and stubborn. "That's fine," I said. "The G.o.ds know, I didn't mean to disturb your oh-so-important workings, Grandma. I just thought you might like to see this." I jerked the canvas bag off the k.n.o.bby shape of the Skull and held it in my palm. With no small measure of satisfaction, I watched color drain out of Rhoda's face. She braced herself on the doorjamb like I'd slapped her.

"Mathias ..." she breathed.

"Holy s.h.i.t!" Sunny exclaimed, then slapped a hand over her mouth.

"So I'll just be going and not coming back, then," I said, starting to put the skull back in the bag.

"Come here," Rhoda commanded in that gla.s.s-cutting tone she'd perfected over the years of raising me. I did as I was told, extending the Skull toward her. She took an imperceptible step backward, like a hiker would if faced with a particularly p.i.s.sed-off rattlesnake.

"It's the real thing," I said, fighting the urge to wipe my hand on my jeans. The oily energy the Skull extruded was making my vision distorted, my head pounding like I'd just woken up from a lost weekend.

"I believe that," said Rhoda crisply, hiding how much I'd freaked her out under contempt. "What I don't believe is that someone handed this ... thing ... thing ... willingly to the likes of you." willingly to the likes of you."

"Believe whatever you want," I said, matching her, b.i.t.c.hy tone for b.i.t.c.hy tone. "I need to stay here for the night and I'd like a pad and pen, please." I looked at Sunny. "I have something I need to do."

What would happen to the Skull, I didn't know, but somewhere on its browned and scarred surface was the spell that would reverse Dmitri's daemon poison.

"Okay. Sure." Sunny nodded, eyes approaching half-dollar size.

"You can't stay here," my grandmother offered halfheartedly. "I won't have that thing under my roof."

"Grandma," I said, "in the last week I've had to deal with dead bodies, poisonings, car bombs, and being beaten almost to death. Tonight, I broke into a building and then climbed down the outside to get this thing. Do you really really want to argue with me right now?" want to argue with me right now?"

Rhoda is a lot of uncomplimentary things, but stupid isn't one of them. Her eyes went gla.s.sy and hard, and she turned on her heel and strode back into the kitchen. Great, yet another entanglement she'd never forgive me for.

"Got you a pad and pen," Sunny said, appearing from the sitting room. "You can, er, do what you need to do in here." She never took her eyes off the Skull, as if it might come to life and latch onto her fingers.

"Thanks," I said, favoring her with my first smile in what felt like decades. Sunny bit her lip.

"I'm not going to ask how you got that away from Seamus O'Halloran," she said. "I never never want to know. But this is going to be bad for you, isn't it?" want to know. But this is going to be bad for you, isn't it?"

I set the Skull on the coffee table in Rhoda's living room and slumped down onto one of her overstuffed blue denim sofas. I didn't realize how close to pa.s.sing out I was until my head sank into the cushions. G.o.ds, I was tired. Tired to the bone.

"Luna?" Sunny pressed softly.

"Yes," I said. "Probably it will be."

"Seamus will kill you." This time it wasn't a question.

"He'll try," I said, forcing myself to pick up the pen and pad, rotating the Skull so I could see the ostensible starting point of the inscriptions, on the crown. "He'll certainly try."

"There was a time I'd have cursed you out for being so foolish," Sunny said with a sigh. "But at the very least, I've learned that you're usually doing what's necessary. Let me know if you need help."

I didn't answer, absorbed in the intricate, tiny carvings, carvings that must have taken years with a steady hand to immortalize on the Skull.

Sunny was so sure that I was doing the right thing. All I heard were the whispers-overconfident. Thrill seeker. Suicidal.

They were both right, my inner doubts and Sunny, but I really hoped that when it came to me dying horribly, they were both wrong. I stared back at the Skull. "Just you and me now," I told the blank face. Mathias didn't reply.

The symbols were definitely an alphabet, squiggly and menacing, a psychedelic cross between runic and Sanskrit. My hand cramped before the first line on the pad ended.

Then it started to shake. Then the rest of my body did, entirely against my will. The pen scratched crazily across the pad, leaving a long line like a river on a map.

Flashbulbs exploded in my eyes and I felt the world abruptly shift under my feet. My entire universe was pain, the strongest I had ever known. Worse than being shot. Worse than the phase. Every nerve ending and subatomic particle in my body screamed in concordance. Through it all I felt my forehead impact on the low table as I collapsed on the floor and my tongue swelled to a thousand times its normal size, blocking my throat.

I was way beyond screaming for help. All I could do was curl up and let my consciousness be seared away by the pain. This was dying, I knew more certainly than I'd realized anything before. The end, roll credits, houselights come up, and the audience goes home.

Someone was shaking me, hard, by the shoulders. Their touch was like a branding iron and I wanted them to stop more than anything. I couldn't speak or raise a hand, so I just prayed to die quickly.

And as abruptly as the fit had come over me, the pain stopped.

"Luna!" Sunny screamed, shaking me hard enough to rattle teeth loose. Her round pale face was verging on hysteria. I saw it, translucent and glowing, filling my entire field of vision. I blinked. When had Sunny's eyes been a thousand shades of blue, like tiny ice chips floating in an arctic sea? And veins the same blue appeared just under the porcelain skin we'd both inherited.

I breathed in, trying to tell her everything was fine, and choked instead. Scents of pine cleaner and dust and also garlic, tomatoes, and ground tofu a.s.saulted me.

"Who's making Aunt Delia's lasagna?" I croaked.

Sunny sputtered. "I... we had it for dinner last night. What happened! happened! I heard a horrible racket and ran in here and you were convulsing!" I heard a horrible racket and ran in here and you were convulsing!"

I didn't think think Sunny was yelling but my ears were ringing. I could hear the rustle of something chewing on the insulation under the floor. I could hear as well as see the blood beating in Sunny's veins. I smelled everything, from the musty old plaster of the cottage's walls to a faint hint of incense from a working, food and soap and sea air borne from the outside. I felt that if I closed my eyes I could navigate through the cottage just as easily-perhaps more so. The last stray pain from my beating eased and disappeared as my were DNA kicked into overdrive. Sunny was yelling but my ears were ringing. I could hear the rustle of something chewing on the insulation under the floor. I could hear as well as see the blood beating in Sunny's veins. I smelled everything, from the musty old plaster of the cottage's walls to a faint hint of incense from a working, food and soap and sea air borne from the outside. I felt that if I closed my eyes I could navigate through the cottage just as easily-perhaps more so. The last stray pain from my beating eased and disappeared as my were DNA kicked into overdrive.

"I don't say this a lot, but you're really freaking me out," said Sunny. "I'm getting Grandma."

I wanted to object, but it was kind of hard to talk, and I was thinking-G.o.ds help me-that maybe getting Rhoda wasn't such a bad idea.

The scent most overwhelming me as Sunny rushed out became smoke. Burned-paper smoke to be exact. The legal pad I'd been copying on lay next to my head, edges curled and blackened, the ink from the rune transcription seared right off the page.

c.r.a.p. That couldn't be normal.

"I don't see what the fuss is all-" Rhoda stopped when she saw me and the pile of ashes that used to be the pad. "Oh."

"What's going on?" Sunny demanded. "What's wrong with Luna?"

"More than I can enumerate on," Rhoda said. The old bat. I practically die and she still keeps up with the barbs. She'd probably crack jokes at my funeral.

"Here," said Sunny, crouching next to me. "Let's get you onto the couch." She's strong, my pet.i.te little witch cousin, stronger than she looks in a lot of ways, and she hefted me onto the sofa handily. I couldn't do much more except slump there with a blank look on my face, but it beat writhing in agony on Rhoda's throw rug. I sneezed. She really needed to vacuum that d.a.m.n thing.