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My frown made her own look pathetic. “What the hell kind of question is that? You’re the only mortal I trust to watch my back, aren’t you?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and shot me a
Drop dead
look. Kiara could have taken a few lessons from her, actually. “That’s the trouble right there. I’m always going to be just another mortal to you, aren’t I?”

My feet slammed to the floor, and I felt only a teensy measure of guilt when her body stiffened slightly. “I would
never
call you just another anything, Trinity.” Two could play at the full-name game.

“What the hell bug crawled up your ass, anyway?”

“The kind that’s sick of being left out in the cold when it comes to certain parts of these damned arcane investigations. Especially this one. I feel like I’m a day late and a million dollars short. I’m a fucking lieutenant detective in the Boston PD, a senior member of the Arcane Task Force, and your partner even if the stinking bureaucrats haven’t made that official. Yet you’re constantly hemming and hawing and only telling me what
you
deem necessary, I’m on some need-to-know-only basis. And then, half the time you’re trying to protect me by leaving me out of certain shit like I’m some snot-nosed rookie who can’t protect herself and I’m sick and tire—”

Pressure built up behind my eyeballs the more ranted. And not just because of her rising tone. A niggling voice in the back of my brain whispered that she was right. I
had
been doing just that. A habit started with protecting David and Con (and, to a lesser extent, Nessa) at all costs, but while Trin may not have been arcane, she also wasn’t a civilian. And she damned well deserved better.

“You’re right,” I said softly.

“—d of being treated like a chil…wait. Say what?

My turn to thrust my arms across my chest. Why did people always react like that when I agreed with them’? You’d think I never admitted when I was wrong or soø1~ thing. “I
said,
you’re right. You
are
my partner, no matter what those pencil pushers say. And you deserve to be treated as such.” I ran a hand through my majorly disheveled hair and then focused on her bewildered face. “Hit me with your million-dollar questions.”

Her hands began plucking at the frayed edges of the comforter. “Well, for starters, it’d be nice to get more than the whitewashed, pansy-ass version of events behind the end of the Troubles—’scuse me, the War of Mortal Aggression.”

I didn’t know whether to be impressed that she’d actually referred to the Time of Troubles as an allout war, or annoyed that she’d used the condescending name antimortal arcanes used. Which was ironic, considering which of us was the actual mortal.

“So, what? You want the arcane version of how the War went down?” I rolled my eyes. “I don’t think either one of us could stay awake for that.”

Amusement lightened her expression momentarily. “I said the
end
of the War, not a dissertation on the whole damned thing.”

I pursed my lips, trying to figure out why she’d decided this conversation had to take place
now,
of all times. Surely it wasn’t just to test how much I trusted her. “You have a theory.”

She adjusted the blanket primly and then leveled a no-nonsense look my way. “Spill it, Holloway.”

“I. . . well, shit, Tm. Care to narrow down what you’re looking for slightly? Or we really
could
end up here all night?’

“I want to hear things from your viewpoint, unbiased by any of my thoughts or opinions. Specifically, I want to hear the major events that led up to the signing of the Accord. And not the gung-ho
mortals
rock
bullshit they teach in the police academy.”

My lips curved into an unconscious smile of approval. That was my girl, and one of the reasons she and I got along so well. She was truly a proponent of the “there’s always more than one side’ to a story”

school of philosophy.

“All right. Sheesh, you’re gonna make my brain hurt dredging up all this history crap.” But I couldn’t completely hide the pleasure in my voice. ‘Well, you know how the Sidhe managed to piss off mortal and arcane alike in the last few battles of the War. The Sidhe always believed they should have inherited the earth—literally—by virtue of being the ‘Supreme Race.” We both snorted at that. “Toward the War’s end, they weren’t particularly careful with their kamikaze tactics and ended up taking out
nearly as many arcanes as mortals with a few suicide attacks. Killed more than their fair share of civilians of both persuasions, which lead to arcane and mortal alike turning on them at the Second Battle of Bunker Hill.”

We shared a moment of silence for the thousands of lives lost that day—and the supposed extermination of an arcane species whose overweening pride had brought that doom upon itself.

“Now, here’s the bitch of it. Though the arcane species who had suffered losses at the hands of the Sidhe had damned well wanted revenge, they sure as hell hadn’t intended to assist the mortals in completely eradicating another arcane race. And that, more than anything, finally woke them up to the harsh reality that the mortals were a major power in their own right. Gone were the days that arcanes could perform a little hocus-pocus and be worshipped as gods. And, if they truly wanted to immigrate here from the dying Otherrealms without risking further extinction, they were going to have to actually negotiate with mortals as equals. Not as triumphant conquerors.”

Her expression was thoughtful as she listened, but I shifted uncomfortably, feeling like a smug professor lording it over a classroom full of bored students. Then again, she
had
asked for it. “Of course, the academy really pushes the belief that the mortals kicked major Sidhe ass all on their own and terrified the arcanes into submission. At any rate, that battle was what really helped allow the Furies to finally accomplish what they’d been fighting so hard for during the five years of the War that—according to the mortals—wasn’t actually a war. Get both sides to the negotiating table.”

She nodded as if I’d confirmed something. I arched a brow. “Care to clue me in now?”

“Well. . . this whole thing just strikes me as too pat.”

“Meaning?”

“Remember when you suggested that it might not have been an arcane who altered the Sidhe’s corpse into looking like Vanessa’s?”

Yeah. .. so?”

“Well, that does appear to be the case. But what if, just like at Bunker Hill, it’s not mortals alone who are involved. What if we’re just supposed to think that’s the case? Some arcanes consider mortals beneath them. Inferior. What if someone wants the chance to reclaim their shot at glory? To be hailed as the conquering heroes?”

Queasiness settled in the pit of my stomach as her suggestion set wheels skittering through my brain.

Especially when the logo of a certain slick website forced itself to the forefront. The website of a corporate front that had successfully funneled money from the Sisterhood of Furies—an organization ostensibly dedicated to policing the arcane society—and to fostering harmony between that society they became part of upon manifesting their magical abilities and the mortal world they started out in by virtue of having no such powers until later adolescence.

Okay, okay, hold on a damned minute. Maybe arcanes
are
involved in this sick plot. But nothing says a
Fury’s
involved. Anyone could have hacked into that account. And would a Fury—an Elder, since only
Elders have access to that account—really be stupid enough to use something so obvious as Erinye as a
name for a fictitious company?

That partially mollified the Rage lingering beneath outward exhaustion. A yawn escaped before I could hold it back. Trinity’s turn to tell me I looked like hell warmed over and to chivy me to bed. I let her, more for her sake than mine. And also because I wanted to sort through her theory before discussing it any further. Though she felt frisky enough to shoot me a knowing smirk when I disappeared down the hallway to join Scott in the apartment’s only bedroom. Too damned bad I wasn’t going to get as lucky as she thought I was—Scott had already told me grudgingly that we were sharing the bed only because Trin needed the sofa.

Course, I was too damned tired to really mind. Exhaustion tugged at me with every step I took. Scott had left the bathroom light on and the bedroom door cracked, but I still stumbled over the threshold.

Rather than vanishing them magically, I shucked off my red leather boots and kicked them onto the bathroom floor. They’d still be there in the morning. After washing my face with scalding-hot water and brushing my teeth with ice-cold, I slipped into bed next to Scott. Still pretty pissed-off about the scene on the streets of the Belly, I scooted as far away from him as I could, determined to stick to my guns...

OF COURSE, I MIGHT AS WELL NOT HAVE BOTHered.
A warm, solid length pressed against my back and rear as wakefulness stirred. I sighed, burrowing closer to it. Consciousness beckoned, and I finally let it rush over me. My body tensed when I realized Scott and I were spooned together, but I forced it to relax. Last night’s disagreement seemed so petty in the light of day. What had even started it?

Scott mumbled something and pulled me against him

more tightly. His morning arousal pressed against my rear, sending waves of desire pulsing through my body. But the paper-thin walls provided a painfully flimsy barrier between us and our new housemate, and one thing I’d never been was a sexual exhibitionist. Guess I wasn’t getting any action anytime soon.

Probably for the best, with things still so unresolved between us. Sex just made things messy—in more ways than one.

I wriggled away from my sleepy-eyed Hound, padded to

the bathroom, and took a very hot shower. A cold one might have done my frustrated desire more good, but considering what we were about to go into. . . If this ended up being my last shower, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be a cold one. Tired of wearing only castaway clothing, I paired my sexy-as-hell Fury boots with my red leather pants and a simple but flattering black cotton shirt of Kiara’s. Remember that vanity streak I mentioned earlier?

I slipped into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee, then ducked onto the tiny balcony just off the kitchen to get my fix without waking Scott or Trinity. I leaned against the railing and breathed in the fresh tang of Folgers and smog. Ahhhh, nothing beat the scent of coffee—and Boston—in the morning.

Once again, no warning preceded the attack. One moment I leaned against the rickety balustrade sipping coffee, the next razor-sharp talons pierced my shoulders and hauled me through the air, hurtling me toward the broken concrete of the nearby alley at a dizzying speed. Instinct had me hurling hot coffee up toward my captors, but I got more of it on myself than them. Through the fading scent of coffee I managed to pick up the faint whiff of sulfur. Oh shit. Not again.

I looked up and, sure enough, two Harpies flapped wings furiously to slow our descent before depositing me on the ground amid more than a dozen of the wild-eyed creatures.

I’d used up my quota of Raging Justice on the Phoenix. No way I could cast it now—and survive.

That didn’t mean I’d go down without fighting. I shifted, leaving off my wings so the Harpies couldn’t use them to incapacitate me, and leapt for the nearest Harpy. Fear flickered across her face, and she did something unexpected. Jumped away from me.

I landed on cracked concrete, talons extended, teeth bared, and Amphisbaena spitting. “What, are you girls too chickenshit to face me one on one? Had to bring your whole flock?”

Several of them snarled, but they stayed back, arranged around me in a loose circle. I kept moving in circles of my own, unwilling to allow any of them to remain at my back for long. What the hell were they up to?

And then I turned to find an almost normal-looking Harpy, and I knew. They weren’t here to kill me.

They wanted to talk.

Her bone-white hair wasn’t as tangled as that of her sister Harpies, and her strange, yellow-green eyes carried as much sanity as
insanity.
She was garbed in the finest clothing of all of them and on first glance might pass as a mortal. All of which pointed to a fact I wasn’t sure meant something good or something really, really bad. I’d come face-to-face with Calaeno, the Harpy Queen.

“Calm yourself, Fury. We’re not here to kill you.” She gestured, and the Harpy nearest her extended a jagged stick bearing familiar green leaves. An olive branch, the arcane version of a white flag.

That only appeased me somewhat. Olive branch or no, these were Harpies, and there was a damned good reason my kind loathed them. Berserker anger and strength came in damned handy when confronting multiple arcane enemies. But it could—and would—eat Furies up if given half the chance.

Nemesis and Nike writhed along my arms,, obviously unhappy I’d laid off the offensive. I did my best to soothe them without turning my attention from the Harpy Queen. “Why are you here, then? Forgive me if I don’t curtsy.”

The other Harpies hissed at the insult, but Calaeno merely smiled. A cruel, twisted smile, but better than the alternative. “We are here to discuss a matter that concerns us both. The contract that was taken out on your life.”

Hearing her say that so matter-of-factly sent a shiver down my spine. Maybe the olive branch had been a ruse after all . .

She must have seen my body tense, because she raised

a hand quickly. “We are not here to fulfill the contract. We are here to possibly rescind it.”

My eyes narrowed. “Possibly?”

“Yes. Whether we do depends entirely on you.” ‘What

the hell does that mean?”

“On whether you killed one of our sisters, or two.”

I frowned, glancing from her to the olive branch am back again. Was this some sort of trick question? I started to speak, and then Con’s words flitted through my mind. “Listen, Aunt Riss, I came across something even more interesting on a different website. I think it had to do with the Harpies. Something about a misplaced package and needing to track it down ASAP. . .“