the roof she’d just left.
“Crap,” Deirdre said.
There was a basement window level with the sidewalk to her left. It proved to be unlocked when she shoved.
Deirdre squeezed through the windowsill, dropping into the relative shelter of the basement underneath.
“You’re late.”
She whirled, heart jackhammering.
Deirdre came face to face with a woman draped in a knitted shawl, bejeweled rings, and several necklaces with wooden charms that clacked together when she moved. She was heavyset—the kind of woman whose thirties hadn’t struck gently—and she limped as she approached a table against the wall. She lowered herself into the chair carefully.
There was nothing threatening about this woman. Even the wooden charms that marked her as a witch looked like they were only defensive.
“Brianna?” Deirdre asked. The name came out in five syllables, she was so winded.
“In the flesh,” Brianna said, arranging her shawls around her. “Want to take a seat?”
Deirdre glanced up at the narrow window. It was too small for anyone bigger than her to wiggle through, but she hadn’t gotten a good look at her attacker. He could have been her size, maybe even smaller. And his stature didn’t matter if he had a gun loaded with silver bullets.
He’d be able to shoot her at the table if she sat there. The angle was perfect.
“I’ll keep standing,” Deirdre said, edging toward the opposite wall.
Brianna didn’t look surprised by the paranoia. Of course, she wouldn’t be if she dealt with preternaturals a lot. Most of them were on edge from one thing or another. Running from enemies, insufficient food or money, too much pressure from local factions.
The witch leaned back in her chair to give Deirdre a long look.
“Huh,” Brianna said.
“That’s not a positive sound,” Deirdre said.
Brianna unpacked her bag on the table, which was covered in a frilly purple tablecloth. “It’s a curious sound. That’s all.” She set items in front of her one by one as she extracted them. A crystal, a bowl, a packet of something that looked like salt.
Deirdre itched with the urge to start running again. “You’re supposed to be able to tell me what I am. At a glance, they said.”
“More like at a sniff,” Brianna said. “It’s not like any sense you have, but if it was any of them, it’d be sense of smell. Everyone has this kind of aroma. Angels always smell like something hot, so the half-blooded children of angels will smell like something that’s burning, too. And werewolves have this funny wet-dog musk, while demons—”
“So what do I smell like?” Deirdre asked. She didn’t need a list of preternatural stinks.
Brianna tapped her chin with a forefinger, which was decorated by a ruby the size of a small car. “Like the desert sky,” she said.
Paranoia was turning rapidly to annoyance.
She’d risked her life for this?
“The sky doesn’t smell,” Deirdre said.
Brianna circled the crystal in salt. “I have some ritualistic ways to augment my senses. I don’t usually need it, because most people are one of a couple common things, but—”
“Then what am I?”
“I’ve been around the block a few times.” Brianna touched the premature crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes with a gentle fingertip. “More than a few times. Some days I think I’ve met everything under the sun. I’ve run into hybrids that were everything all wrapped up into one—an angel-demon-witch, for instance, and even a couple of gods.”
That pricked Deirdre’s interest. “Gods?”
“One or two,” Brianna said.
Deirdre’s legs suddenly felt weak. The gods had died during Genesis. The void that had killed her—and everyone else on the planet—had been the result of a war between gods. Which meant that Brianna must have met them before Genesis.
Rylie had described Brianna as an old associate, hadn’t she?
“You knew Rylie before Genesis,” Deirdre said.
“Barely,” Brianna said.
“But you were
“Crap,” Deirdre said.
There was a basement window level with the sidewalk to her left. It proved to be unlocked when she shoved.
Deirdre squeezed through the windowsill, dropping into the relative shelter of the basement underneath.
“You’re late.”
She whirled, heart jackhammering.
Deirdre came face to face with a woman draped in a knitted shawl, bejeweled rings, and several necklaces with wooden charms that clacked together when she moved. She was heavyset—the kind of woman whose thirties hadn’t struck gently—and she limped as she approached a table against the wall. She lowered herself into the chair carefully.
There was nothing threatening about this woman. Even the wooden charms that marked her as a witch looked like they were only defensive.
“Brianna?” Deirdre asked. The name came out in five syllables, she was so winded.
“In the flesh,” Brianna said, arranging her shawls around her. “Want to take a seat?”
Deirdre glanced up at the narrow window. It was too small for anyone bigger than her to wiggle through, but she hadn’t gotten a good look at her attacker. He could have been her size, maybe even smaller. And his stature didn’t matter if he had a gun loaded with silver bullets.
He’d be able to shoot her at the table if she sat there. The angle was perfect.
“I’ll keep standing,” Deirdre said, edging toward the opposite wall.
Brianna didn’t look surprised by the paranoia. Of course, she wouldn’t be if she dealt with preternaturals a lot. Most of them were on edge from one thing or another. Running from enemies, insufficient food or money, too much pressure from local factions.
The witch leaned back in her chair to give Deirdre a long look.
“Huh,” Brianna said.
“That’s not a positive sound,” Deirdre said.
Brianna unpacked her bag on the table, which was covered in a frilly purple tablecloth. “It’s a curious sound. That’s all.” She set items in front of her one by one as she extracted them. A crystal, a bowl, a packet of something that looked like salt.
Deirdre itched with the urge to start running again. “You’re supposed to be able to tell me what I am. At a glance, they said.”
“More like at a sniff,” Brianna said. “It’s not like any sense you have, but if it was any of them, it’d be sense of smell. Everyone has this kind of aroma. Angels always smell like something hot, so the half-blooded children of angels will smell like something that’s burning, too. And werewolves have this funny wet-dog musk, while demons—”
“So what do I smell like?” Deirdre asked. She didn’t need a list of preternatural stinks.
Brianna tapped her chin with a forefinger, which was decorated by a ruby the size of a small car. “Like the desert sky,” she said.
Paranoia was turning rapidly to annoyance.
She’d risked her life for this?
“The sky doesn’t smell,” Deirdre said.
Brianna circled the crystal in salt. “I have some ritualistic ways to augment my senses. I don’t usually need it, because most people are one of a couple common things, but—”
“Then what am I?”
“I’ve been around the block a few times.” Brianna touched the premature crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes with a gentle fingertip. “More than a few times. Some days I think I’ve met everything under the sun. I’ve run into hybrids that were everything all wrapped up into one—an angel-demon-witch, for instance, and even a couple of gods.”
That pricked Deirdre’s interest. “Gods?”
“One or two,” Brianna said.
Deirdre’s legs suddenly felt weak. The gods had died during Genesis. The void that had killed her—and everyone else on the planet—had been the result of a war between gods. Which meant that Brianna must have met them before Genesis.
Rylie had described Brianna as an old associate, hadn’t she?
“You knew Rylie before Genesis,” Deirdre said.
“Barely,” Brianna said.
“But you were
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