CALLER #5: Oh my God,sowell. I decided to focus on performance in modern death ritual—
PALLAS: Ah ah ah. No identifying details on the air.
CALLER #5: Right. Fuck. Sorry.
PALLAS: Don’t worry too much, caller number five. Even if our friend with the cold hands is listening—for better or worse, it sounds like someone else has already caught his eye.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Lucy said. “And what are youholding?”
Mila inclined her head, but otherwise didn’t dignify that with a response. And it was then that Lucy understood the cool tension of her posture. It wasn’t the stance of an athlete. It was the stance of a hunter.
Lucy’s brain tripped uselessly over at least three or four half-formed questions. Her mind was a tangle—the same kind of tangle it had been just the other day in the Quincey lobby, when Mila had sat with her and helped her consider her options. The same Mila who was now giving her a long, evaluating stare.
“Pallas will be here soon,” she said evenly. “Let’s keep things civil.”
“I’m not the one holding a weapon,” Lucy said.
Mila delicately arched her eyebrows. “I have a weapon. And you couldbea weapon. Feels pretty fair from how I see it.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Lucy said.
“Glad you feel that way. But you’re just going to have to let me see that for myself.”
In some ways, Mila wasn’t talking to her any differently now: She still had that easy cadence, that same assessing gaze that had sized her up back at Quincey. But there had been a weight to that gaze that had soothed the deep, clawing feeling in Lucy. It made her feel like she was in safe hands.
That same weight was still there. But it wasn’t so soothing now. Lucy felt pinned. Studied.
She held up both hands. “Fine,” she said.
Mila adjusted her grip on her bow. Lucy’s sight was growing sharper as the sky darkened: She could see the lines of tension in Mila’s knuckles. “I get that this is hard,” she said. “I’m not looking to make it harder. Let’s just cooperate with each other for a few more minutes, okay?”
It wasn’t much of a question. More than anything, Mila’s tone suggested that it wouldhaveto be okay. But if nothing else, it was a stalemate.
That stalemate didn’t last long, though. In her shock, Lucy had already forgotten: She hadn’t come here alone.
“Hey!” Both Mila and Lucy whipped around just in time to see Natalie barreling across the grass. “Get away from her!”
Lucy caught her breath just in time to see Mila raise her bow. “That’s a friend,” she said quickly, “ahumanfriend!”
Mila’s eyes didn’t soften much at the clarification. “You were supposed to come alone.”
“I was asked not to be followed! Not to come alone!” Natalie’s logic didn’t sound nearly as confident coming out of Lucy’s mouth. It didn’t help that she was half convinced she was about to see Natalie get an arrow to the chest.
She moved between Natalie and Mila as Natalie closed the distance. She didn’t think Mila would hurt a person—at least, a person who wasn’t under the influence of a vampire. But she wasn’t about to assume anything in that moment.
Natalie didn’t seem interested in being protected. She sidestepped Lucy and got directly in Mila’s face. “You’ve got some nerve telling her what she issupposedto do, by the way. Seeing as no one told her that you or your deadly weapon were going to be here.”
“I don’t know what you two think this is,” Mila said. “But if you want our help—”
“Mila,” called a now-very-familiar voice. “It’s okay.”
There was a clear shift in Mila’s demeanor at the sound of Pallas’s voice. Her back straightened. And when she stepped aside, clearing the path between Lucy and the direction of the voice, she stood taut, as if at attention.
From behind the middle chapel, Lucy heard someone gently but deliberately brush a branch out of the way. And then a figure stepped onto the pavement.
Pallas dressed like someone trying to blend in. She wore light-wash jeans, a plain black hoodie, and a pair of clean white sneakers. But she was so strikingly beautiful that she would stand out anywhere. She was tall and willowy, with delicate braids that cascaded down to her waist. Her skin was a deep brown, and her dark eyes were as watchful as Mila’s, but softer. She moved across the pavement with long, soundless strides.
“I know you’re upset,” she said. “And that’s my fault for running late. But if you don’t keep your voice down, it won’t just be our friend with the cold hands who hears us.”
