Blaze stuck his head round the doorframe, scratching lazily at knotted crimson locks. "She a b.i.t.c.h, or what?"

"Don't even talk to me." I slammed the door on him, weak wood splintering, and wrenched the shower on, urgency dribbling hot in my blood.

13.

Akash inhales in early morning sun, the warm smell of cooking wheat and sugar mixing with sour traffic effluent and last night's spilled beer. His nose twinkles with sensation. Invigorating. Dangerous. Even the air is a temptation in this place. Clever, sneaky demon. At home, they never told Akash about this.

Eyes open. Dazzle. Water. Blink. Smeared pavement, folding kitchen windows open to warm breeze. The street is quiet, only a few cars and one or two cafes opening for breakfast. Beside him, Indra sniffs the crisp white blossom on a potted shrub, her fingers smearing in dusty pollen as she fondles each petal one by one.

Akash breathes and watches her, the dusky fall of her hair, her skirt lifting as she bends, the shimmer of her thigh in sunlight. She's getting dirty, street dust and fingermarks and her stolen body's sweat. Perhaps he should wash her. The idea pleases him. Water, running on her pretty arms, his fingertips gliding on her skin. Yes.

He squints happily, enjoying stinging tears. A new thing, this hot glare, the malice of an unkind sun. No wonder Kane thrives here. The air burns, heat shimmering over rude black tarmac, and the stink is unrelenting. The very light is from h.e.l.l, stark and hot and inexorable, and colors burn brighter than any rainbow.

Akash is starting to like it here, and distantly he wonders if something's wrong with him.

If Shadow knew that, and if that's why Shadow sent him here, on this strange, impossible mission . . .

But to what end?

He glances at the sky, but the sky blinks back and doesn't answer.

A twitch against his palm. He blinks, distracted. He's holding something. A wrist, pale skin inked with a th.o.r.n.y red rose. "What?"

A banshee in a swimsuit and sarong points a painted fingernail across the sunlit street. She scowls, a pa.s.sing tram's breeze ruffling her rose-pink ponytail. "That's the place. Quang's. Above the take-away. Okay? Can I go now?"

Akash moves his lips into his best smile. "That's a lovely song you have."

"Whatever. Get off me, you freak." She pushes back her sungla.s.ses, threat swelling dark and melodic in her throat.

He just squeezes her wrist tighter. She struggles, but he drags her with him, off the street into a greasy alcove, where a big rusted blue trash bin hides behind a dented metal gate. Such a dirty place, greasy with fish stink and grime. Delicious.

The banshee yowls for help. He crushes her jaw shut. "Quiet, pretty."

Silken sarong threads catch on splintered brick as he tosses her against the wall. Her delicate jaw bruises red under his fingers. His inked forearm quivers as blood and adrenaline swell his veins. He's kept his strength, and in this chemical-rich body, it feels even better.

"Mmm phm!" Her thin face whitens, and her wide eyes turn to Indra for help.

But Indra ducks around the gate, sniffing for observers. "Quickly, Akash. Someone will see."

"Quickly," he agrees, and squeezes the banshee's mouth open for a kiss.

Fresh youth, and the b.l.o.o.d.y taste of fear. Her struggles force more strength from his muscles, more chemicals, more pleasure. Inside her mouth, it's smooth and cool, the remnants of some fizzy drink tingling his tongue. He pulls her jaw open to thrust his tongue deeper. She writhes and scratches at his face with curved pink nails, her magical voice strangled in absent air. Too easy to fight her off.

He grabs her tongue with his, searching. She screams down his throat. Vibration sizzles. He swallows. It's agonizing, his throat stretching, the th.o.r.n.y magic ripping his flesh as it goes down.

He retches, warm pleasure flooding his guts, but he keeps it down. The banshee sighs one last sad melody and slumps, her eyes rolling back.

Akash lets her body slide and turns away, catching b.l.o.o.d.y breath. The banshee's stolen song purrs and thrashes inside him.

Indra slides her warm hand into his. He laughs, a fresh musical edge on his voice. "Good."

"Good," agrees Indra, and stretches up to kiss his cheek.

Warmth sparkles from her lips, spiking a shock down his hormone-swelled spine. It's the homage he deserves from an underling, and he's never thought about liking it before. Impulsively, he kisses her in return, his b.l.o.o.d.y lip print staining her face.

Indra jerks back, genuine alarm widening her eyes, and slicks her hand from his grip. "No. Not right. Don't."

Tension pulls Akash's muscles, awkward. He wants her mouth, her tongue, like the banshee but nicer. "Don't be afraid. They can't see."

"They see everything." She rubs the spot, smearing the corner of her mouth red.

"Not here, they don't."

She shakes her head rapidly. "They do."

He tries to touch her face, but she ducks away, and something deep in his chest hurts.

Wounded, he glances at the sky. Nothing.

They cross the street without holding hands, slipping between jerking vehicles in single file. Akash frowns at the empty s.p.a.ce beside him. It doesn't feel right to have her behind him. Maybe later he'll cheer her up. Play a game with her. She used to like his games. But first, an item to collect.

They step over the paper clogging the gutter, and Akash surveys the dirty gla.s.s door with satisfaction. "This is the place."

"Here?" Indra eyes the narrow stairs, her eyebrows contracting. Very good. She's improving her facial expressions.

"Quang's in Brunswick. Kane's mirror is here." Confidently Akash strides forward and wrenches the metal handle off with a wristy snap. The lock clunks free, and the broken handle clatters on the concrete. Indra scrambles to catch up, sliding her timid hand into his as they climb the creaking stairs.

He lets her. She's afraid, and it's his place to comfort her. By rights, he should punish her for disobedience, but the idea of disciplining her with silence in this place sends a warm shiver along his bones. They're isolated here. The sky is silent. Without her, he's alone. Maybe there's some other way to put her in her place.

The stairs curve into warm shadow, the air moist and thick with food's oily stink. Carpet torn to strings, dust and broken gla.s.s, carpet rolls and shelves and boxes of hidden smooth-smelling objects. A cracked gla.s.s bench, dust-smeared. Unseen feet thump closer beyond a broken doorway, and a crumpled red person squeezes out, scratching his crooked nose. He squints at them through sleep-crusted lashes, sweat dribbling on his scrawny red rib cage. "We're closed. Whaddaya want?"

Akash halts before the counter, and Indra scrambles up. "Spriggan," she identifies hopefully.

Akash doesn't look at her. He's still upset with her, and they've already got a red one anyway. "Quang's. In Brunswick."

The spriggan stares, insolent, and scratches wiry orange hair, pulling short glossy pants up with his other hand. "Yeah, I'm Quang. Who the f.u.c.k are you?"

Akash leans his knuckles on the counter and gives the Quang his nicest smile, p.r.i.c.kly banshee persuasion crooning in his throat. Her stolen song tastes like peaches. "I am Akash, from the sky, and you have something I require."

The Quang blinks, gla.s.sy. "Mmkay. I'll trade ya. Whaddaya got?"

Sunlight stabs, and Indigo jerks awake, shielding his eyes with an aching blue forearm. His knees sc.r.a.pe on concrete, broken metal digging sharp and bitter into his bones. Blood sparks accusation in his mouth, and cold dread creeps under his skin.

He straightens, wincing as his muscles protest with a crackle of current. Sensation needles his wings, swollen veins stretching under pressure. He flutters, and distant pain shivers his bones. Silence, only the distant sc.r.a.pe of traffic, the dark alley smell of grease and cigarettes. He stretches cramped thighs, and something heavy rolls off his lap, thudding onto the concrete.

A head.

Attached to a body.

Indigo's pulse splinters. He scrambles backwards, crablike.

A body. A boy, slim, dark T-shirt and jeans. Dusty black-dyed hair tumbles lifeless over a purple-stained eyebrow, drained blue eyes, slack lips over sharp vampire teeth. Limbs fold, helpless and white and unnatural. Spit trickles. Scarlet blood seeps, slow and clotted. Dry. Dead. Empty.

Indigo swallows, nothing in his mouth but dust and copper. Blood crusts his jeans, his shirt, his aching arms. Blood splatters the warming concrete, puddles against the cracked brick wall, splashes the rainbow-sprayed garbage bin like rust. Blood. Copper-laced, delicious, revolting vampire blood.

Bile froths in his throat, and he chokes a metal-stinking mouthful onto the concrete. Pain spears his skull, the harsh iron slither of alien laughter.

He scrabbles to his feet and crouches against the wall in the dark, scrubbing hard at crusted arms. No one here. No one saw him. He can leave now, run, fly away into blinding sun, and no one will ever know. The world won't miss one more sc.r.a.p of vampire flotsam, any more than it'd miss Indigo were he bled dry on the concrete like a squashed insect. Yes. Fly away, across the sea to poverty and glorious freedom in some muddy tropical paradise. . . .

"Not a chance." Indigo slams his skull back into the wall, and the malicious metal voice shuts up for the moment. But the mirror's vile seduction still burns ruts in his veins, dragging pleasure from his blood, tempting him to rashness and murder.

He's killed, dark and silent like poison in the night, and no one stopped him.

Urgency rips his pulse raw. He claws his hair with sticky fingers, trying to slow his breath, to sc.r.a.pe his memory for the last clear thing he recalls. Ice and her diamond bracelet, the mango scent of her hair, the unexpected warmth of her cheek on his. Poor foolish fairy trembled at his touch like she might actually care for him. Whispered like she might actually want his answer. Not telling if you're gonna be nasty Not telling if you're gonna be nasty, she said, and everything after that's a blank.

Indigo grits his teeth, and stray flesh sticks, greasy with guilt. He spits in disgust, and meaty strands splat the concrete. He can't deny this ghastly truth anymore. When this sorry kid died, Indigo wasn't there. He was someone else. Some seductive shadow self, darker, warmer, more dangerous.

Terror leaches thick into his blood. Since he first peeked into that cursed mirror-the night Natasha fell-he's suffered blackouts. How many times? How long has he been like this without knowing, before this latest brush with the mirror thrust his secret face into the light?

No doubt the vampire kid was an a.s.shole, but it makes no difference. He can't pretend this isn't happening, can't ward off the inevitable with sparkle or caffeine or determination. Eventually his mind will wander, he'll lose concentration or fall asleep, and that rotten metal voice will whisper again and next time it could be Ice's blood running down his arms and her pineapple-sweet skin sticky between his teeth. h.e.l.l, maybe he'll give her that kiss he owes her first. . . .

"I said, not a f.u.c.king chance." He crunches dirty claws into his palms to stay with it, and grimaces at copper's stinging slice. He'll never hurt her, such a simple innocent girl. Delilah must never find out Ice means even a pleasant dream to him. He'll prove the h.e.l.ls.l.u.t's threats empty if his final breath sc.r.a.pes to nothing doing it and he screams away the next thousand years in some rust-spiked h.e.l.lpit.

If he can keep Ice safe-retrieve this cursed mirror and break the spell-it might make up for all this death.

But where to look? She must have told him. She must. He forces his eyes shut against guilt's screaming glare and drives himself to remember.

Cold lights, a wall of mirrors, bright blue blood on golden skin. A kiss, that membrane-thin skin warm and seductive, the strawberry scent of her wrist making him imagine licking her all over, the crease of her elbow, inside her thigh, the sweet folds of her s.e.x. He could smell the curved steel piercing her navel, and wanted to suck it into his mouth.

Dread and desire stir molten in his blood, and silently he begs it not to be true. Tell me I didn't say any of that. Tell me I didn't kiss her wrist like a lover. Tell me I didn't say any of that. Tell me I didn't kiss her wrist like a lover.

-But you did.- The whisper caresses Indigo's thoughts like velvet.- The whisper caresses Indigo's thoughts like velvet.-A flash of diamonds, mango hair tickling your cheek, her breath like sugar on your tongue. Kiss me and I'll tell you, she whispered, and you would've, only you didn't need to. Quang's place, on Brunswick Street. She told you. She told me.- me.- Copper claws steal slyly for Indigo's will, and he snaps his eyes open, fighting to stay in the light. Sunshine dazzles, comforting, and a soft dark laugh slips away like a raindrop on gla.s.s.

Weird. But no time to a.s.similate it now. Damage control. Cover-up time.

Indigo locks out the screeching metal netherworld and focuses, his attention fierce and bright like a pinpoint.

Coldly he surveys the gruesome scene, trying to ignore his pulse's horrid scream, the cold iron sweat soaking his skin, the scaly nausea crawling inside. The body can stay. No one will care. He drags it upright, the cold limbs strangely light now they're drained of blood, and heaves it over the metal lip into the bin. Garbage crunches, bones clanging on iron.

See ya, pretty. Have a good sleep. Sorry I f.u.c.ked you up, you parasite.

Swiftly he strips his shirt off in a squelch of clotted blood and wipes the stains from his skin before tossing the sticky fabric after the corpse. Now he's at least presentable. No point trying to clean the place up. From the state of the dead kid's hair and clothes, shadow Indigo's fluids are all over the f.u.c.king place.

Indigo's c.o.c.k twitches in shady memory. His b.a.l.l.s ache like an echo, and his mouth fills with sly, l.u.s.tful spit.

He slashes a sharp claw across his knuckles, the pain bright and distracting. The evidence doesn't matter. Banshees turn up in landfills, spriggans wash up rotting on the beach, gangsters and fairies murder each other with abandon in Kane's black city, and no one tweaks an eyebrow. No one will come looking for him. Not another random fae killer.

Anyway, Indigo's shadow self is a ghost. Crafty. Brilliant.

-They won't catch me. They didn't last night, or the night before.- "You're wasting your time." As if there's someone Indigo can reason with about this.

He laughs, helplessness bubbling bright. Too late for reason. Only action. Find this mirror. Leave. Keep Ice safe from this ghastly ghost inside him. And then . . . Well, maybe the mirror can cure what it sickened.

-You won't destroy me.- The whisper threatens, silky, and sharp metal clangs deafening in Indigo's head.- The whisper threatens, silky, and sharp metal clangs deafening in Indigo's head.-We'll find this mirror. For her. To keep her safe from your ugly demon woman. And then we'll do what we must to scratch our itch. Don't think you can silence me now.- Indigo's brain swells, a sharp pain ripping at his skull. His muscles jerk, and he yanks his hair, desperate to get his claws inside his skull and sc.r.a.pe this monster away. "Christ, you make me spew, acting so n.o.ble. You're just another f.u.c.king thrill killer."

Smirk.-Well, so are you, Indigo. You killed Natasha. Dropped her slender body in a spiky pit. Watched her bleed to death and liked it. Where d'ya think I got the idea?- Dizzy sickness clamps his guts. His blood lurches, pain shooting through his limbs. The clamor brightens, tearing his ears like thunder, and Indigo bites off a scream and blacks out.

Too easy.

Ebony sc.r.a.pes a last smear of vampire blood from his hands and flitters away into rising sunlight.

14.

Quang? You there?" My voice echoed, empty.

I halted at the top of the stairs, wiping damp palms on my skirt. Nearly noon. Normally even Quang was up by now. But I'd found the door handle ripped off, the lock broken, and now I couldn't see anyone.

The spriggan's workshop lay deserted. A single bulb burned over the gla.s.s counter, dust motes circling. Blaze's half-mended cracks glittered under sticky tape in a stray ray of sun. A fly buzzed, solitary. Cruel moisture laced the air, p.r.i.c.kling my wing membranes with a strange sad smell of loss.

I edged inside, nervousness trickling in my bowels. Shelves loomed, lined with boxes and layered with dust, broken jars and metal fragments, and tangles of wire. The usual. But wrongness p.r.i.c.kled my spine like nagging teeth. Something out of place. Something odd.

My flip-flops crunched on broken gla.s.s, sharp edges pressing the soles of my feet. "Quang, it's me. Ice. I wanna talk to you about that round thing you got from us."

No answer. Maybe at the markets today. His cousin Tran had a stall there, selling dodgy phones and thief tech. But that didn't explain the broken door.

I delved farther into the gloom, shoving boxes aside with my foot. Dust smeared the counter's edge, like someone swiped it clear with a shirtsleeve. More flies buzzed, and I caught my first whiff of blood.

Nausea twinged, and I teetered forward on furtive wings to peer over the counter.

A bent red toe, poking out on the floor.

I swallowed. Toe, attached to crusted foot, attached to scrawny spriggan leg, and on the carpet an oily green splash of blood.

Gla.s.s tinkled behind me. I whirled, my pulse scuttling for cover. No one. Just a mouse, and the drone of flies.

Cold water slicked my palms, and my wings jerked nervously. I wanted to dive out of here, but if I didn't find that mirror, I was screwed.