Isla's throat quivered. "It's not as bad as it looks."

A necromancer. She was a fanging necromancer. It all made sense. In ways both twisted and obviously, plainly, achingly clear. All those cats in the alley. Feral and mangy and under her command. Her second sight. The criminal charges (for a minor, she was a fanging minor when she got busted for conjuring the undead). The way Pearl, and Dmitri's other dames, possessed her so easily. Used her as a vessel. That (beautiful) sickly glow of her bones behind her own skin. The scent of her. Underneath her cigarettes and coffee and mint and orange shampoo was just funeral flowers and grave dirt. That's all. Nothing special.

Nothing you can't figure out for yourself, said Octavius. Obstruse, cryptic bastard.

"Not as bad," I scoffed. Pathetically. Jabbed a finger in Lily's direction (the barista flinched in my peripheral). "You reanimated a dead woman, girl, using illegal black magic, didn't you?"

"Technically, I resurrected her, not reanimated. There's a difference."

"To-may-to, to-mah-to."

"Tell that to the guy who orders a Bloody Mary and gets a Bloody Marie!"

Oh, for fang's sake.

"You used me."

"Seriously?" she rolled her eyes, but her voice was hoarse, "I 'used you' to do exactly what your job is. Don't worry, I'll be sure to leave you a stellar Yelp review. Private eye surprised himself by accomplishing the precise feat I hired him for. Five stars."

"You lied to me."

Isla, watery eyed, shrugged, throwing her hands up into the air in surrender. An ah, you got me there, sort of pose. Casual. Easygoing. Like she hadn't just fanging betrayed me and led me on for the last week.

"You cursed me."

Her nose twitched. "You vamps and your control issues."

"I don't have control—"

I snatched my hands back. They'd run away with themselves. Nearly lunged at her. Hooked her throat under my fingers. Shook her till all the lies fell out in neat little pieces I could at least try and puzzle together in some semblance of an entire picture. But I didn't. Just pulled at my hair instead.

"Did you say illegal?" Lily quietly asked.

Isla groaned and rubbed her temples. "I said I can explain."

"It is," I growled, instinctively stepping out to take the gal by the elbow. Pull her away from Isla. Necromancers were dangerous. But it seemed my broad's curse held fast. My wrist swerved painfully to the left, preventing me from laying a single finger on Lily. "It's an abomination and offense against all that is natural and preternatural. A magic so cursed that it will blight all the practitioner touches—"

"And said practitioner shall be considered an enemy of Society," Isla sniped back. "I've memorized the laws too, Greg, my probation officer makes me recite them monthly."

"Lily, there's a reason those books you've got were hidden away in a dusty corner of the library," I pressed on. "They were supposed to be protected. Magic like that, it defiles all it touches. It'll shred your soul to pieces, till there's nothing close to the person you started as left. The abominations this magic creates—"

"Ugh, just bite your tongue for a minute!"

Teeth came down hard. Like somebody'd pinched my canines between their fingers and yanked. I grunted. About all I could do, while chewing off the tip of my own tongue. Fangs punctured right through tough meat. Throat itched as Isla's smoky blood seeped down the back of it. A clogged pipe rattled around a suffocating lump of unsaid words. How could you do this? Why? Don't. Stop. Please, please, please let me go. Just let me go. Let me go.

The patio beneath my feet was slickening with the werewolf's blood. Little waves of it lapped against my shoes. Briny and acidic and burning in my nostrils. For a moment, my vision darkened at the edges. The chill of the night morphed into a damp, musty dungeon. I pulled my wrists and ankles, testing the restraints, feeling the phantom bite of manacles chafing against scabbed-over bite wounds.

I exhaled, stuffing the memory back down that gunked up pipe. Did my best to will my shaking limbs to steady but, dang, no such luck.

Suddenly, a glob spit torpedoed into my eyeball. "You're a bloody abomination."

Ah. The barista. Way to keep cocking this up, old boy.

"Hey!" Isla hooked an arm through Lily's and tugged her back. Out of spitting distance. I smeared her saliva off my face with the mucus-soaked cuff of my sleeve, and then used it to wipe away the dribble of blood leaking from the corner of my mouth. "He didn't mean that. He's just mad at me. He thinks he's trying to help you."

"He said I'm illegal."

"Yeah, okay, he's not wrong."

Isla cradled Lily's free hand in hers. The sight of it, of her hands enveloping the younger gal's, conjured the memory the way she traced my palm the night we met, feeding me utter nonsense about love lines and palmistry. Someone else will come into your life soon. Where you won't expect it, of course, but the change will be a welcome, exciting one, she had said. I can, uh, read your entrails too. If you're into that sort of thing.

"If the Magistrate—our law enforcement—find out about you, they will hunt you, especially if you keep that book," she continued to Lily. "They won't take you to a hospital. They won't even kill you. They're already on my tail for it. I don't want to go to prison. Do you want to be incased concrete and buried on triply consecrated ground, you know, just to be safe, for the rest of eternity? Didn't think so!"

Lily stole back her hand. "Then fix me!"

Isla fidgeted. Rubbed her ankles together. The silver bangle round her right leg twinkled in the full moon's light.

"I can't."

"Then teach me so I can fix myself! I can't make heads or tails of these bloody books on my own!"

"For death-on-doormat's sake!" screamed Isla. "Can't you just be grateful you're alive!"

And Isla came at me for having no sense of customer service.

"Selfish twat!"

Lily wielded that spell book like a nun. Kind that taught Catholic school. The very thought of it seared another hole in my tongue.

"'hon't 'houch ther," I shouted.

Tried to intervene. A reflex. Mad at her or no I couldn't just stand by and watch a woman get her face beaten in by a literal rotting heap of paper. But the curse, again, redirected my feet. I stumbled. Tripped over my own toes, unable to approach Lily any closer.

Isla parried the barista's blow with her elbow. Book bounced off her. Flung out of Lily's hands and flipped across the patio. But Lily was quick with the second strike. Barista landed a firm shove against Isla's chest. She lost balance. Isla hinged backward, arms flailing, and tripped right over the werewolf's cooling corpse.

"Fucking, shit, nards," Isla yelled from the ground.

She'd gotten tangled up in her coat. Teetered around on her back, like an upended turtle. Sweat and panic colored her face. Her pulse spiked. Immensely. Anger and adrenaline and fear. It had me straining to reach out to her. Take her by the arm. Pull her close and gently help her to her feet and then her home and then under the soft covers of her bed.

Which would make you even bigger fool than you already are, old boy. Hell, that longing made me downright sick. She played me for a chump. I'm supposed to be a professional, not taken in but every pretty, desperate broad who batted her lashes at me. You fanging idiot!

Instead, I ran after Lily. See, the barista had spotted the book, unattended, and darted for it.

Beat her to it. Snatched the thing up. Somehow it felt both dry and greasy under my skin. Thing seemed to lurch under my palm. Like it was offended to be held. I fought back a gag. "Ms. Perez—"

Quick little mouse skirted right past me. For a moment, just before she swerved, her eyes narrowed, lip curled. She flung herself into the house. Only inches from me.

The house I couldn't enter.

Fang this. I was over chasing chickens for Isla.

"Wait. Oh. No," I drawled, tucking the book under my arm and watching Isla finally find her footing. "She's getting away."

Isla hacked up an impressive string of bilingual swears when she noted her hen had flown this coop. She limped toward the house after her, but the obvious slam of the front door rattled the whole dang building.

"Shit! Nards. Fuck. Balls. Shit!" Isla panted. She pressed a hand to her forehead. "Why didn't you stop her!"

Waggled my fingers. "Somebody asked me to keep my hands to myself."

"You could've enthralled her!"

"Ah, now she's jake with the brain melting." I snapped my fingers. "Wait! I've just remembered. You've been peachy keen with bending others to your will this whole time."

Isla ignored that remark. But I saw her eye twitch.

"That was my one chance," she paced. "I'm screwed. I'm so screwed. She's just—I'm going to prison. That's it. The fairy tits am I supposed to do, Greg?"

So keyed up she practically vibrated, Isla lit another cigarette, puffing smoke right under my chin. Even beneath that tar and tobacco, the echo of wine and coffee lingered on her breath. I held mine. Didn't want even those tendrils of her invading me anymore. Weakening my anger.

"See what happens when you don't have a plan? Your mark gets away," I kicked the pavement. "Fangs, I'm a real chump. You had me going. But you don't really care about her— or me—you just don't want yourself arrested."

"Duh!" she roared. "But what choice did I have? I wasn't going to sit around with my thumb up my snatch and wait to wind up back in custody playing cuck the koozy with the banshees from cell block four."

"...I don't know what half those words mean, sweetheart."

Oh. That just about confirmed my hunch, didn't it? Dame didn't give a bat's wing about me. Damn. That ached more than it should have.

Well. Since we were just standing there like a pair of jabronis... I moseyed on up to Mr. Cabroni's corpse. Rest in pieces, you rotten bastard. Hope your wife has better luck next time. I wrapped my hand around his bicep.

"Help me clean up, then," I said. And then, softer, because I couldn't help myself. "Can't give me a give five-star Yelp review from prison."

Isla ceased pacing a divot into the concrete. "What?"

Crack.

The werewolf's elbow gave with only a firm tug. Popped right out of place. Broke a few bones. Managed to bend the thing till it was folded up and tucked alongside his body, instead of sticking out at the awkward angle it had been. I set about adjusting his other arm. We needed to take care of this before rigor mortis set in. Or another Pack member came looking for the goon.

"They got trash bags?"

"Fuck." Isla exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I'll go look."

The elderly Mrs. Cabroni did, in fact, have trash bags. Big, hefty kind. Probably for landscaping or tearing apart furniture. Whole box of them. Took Isla ages to find.

For a moment, my chest tightened, and I thought she'd up and left, just like Lily.

When she eventually emerged from the house with them, her make-up was streaked.

She helped me double bag a pair. I was careful not to touch her. Avoided every opportunity to gently graze my fingers over hers. Wasn't even tempted to bump into her hip. Feel the warmth radiating off her firsthand. She didn't say anything. Not an apology. Not an explanation. Her breath trembled. Couldn't even look me in the eye and her blood in my veins boiled.

I hoisted Mr. Cabroni's mass—all broken and mangled and compacted into a neat little werewolfy ball—and dropped him into the trash bags. Tongue lolled out his mouth. Stuck to his beard. I palmed his skull and shoved his head into the bag with an audible crunch.

"Think anyone's seen us?" Isla said, pacing a good ten feet away with her cigarette.

"If nobody's called the cops by now, I don't think they give a damn. Let's go."

"Nope," she stubbed the end of her smoke out on the brick wall. "There's more inside."

"I can't go—"

"Greg, come inside."

The force of her curse was heavy. Cold and miserable and so, so heavy, the weight of it pressed against my back. Squeezed my lungs and veins and nerves inside my chest. Pushed my two feet forward beyond my control. I followed Isla's saunter into the house like a lost puppy.

House didn't want me. Felt it prickle and pinch against my skin. Pinpricks pushing against my chest, trying to force me back out. But Isla's curse held strong. I crossed the threshold into the kitchen, and the bricks seemed to sigh in defeat.

I followed the dame deeper into the house. Found the bodies in the dining room. What a sight. Rosemond's bones were splayed out on some kind of altar; her own portrait thrown over her like a blanket. The old lady Cabroni died in a hospice care bed, her skin as stark white as the sheets. Arranged all around the duo was a hellish shrine. Candle lit with black flames. Crystals scattered about. A fanging spirit board.

Smelled like death in there.

"Fang's all this?"

Isla pressed herself against the wall. Keeping a careful distance. Always, always a distance. Always tucking that anklet behind her other heel. Something was up with that. Hex of some kind. Hex that brought Octavius to Dmitri's doorstep, I wonder?

"My stuff," she said, throwing another trash bag at me. "You're going to clean it up."

"Fang off, Isla."

"Pick up my stuff, Greg."

Her curse strangled my limbs. Pressure of it making them instantly ache. Bit my lip as, once again, my body was no longer mine to control. I blew out her candles. Plunked them and the crystals and so many other littler, sillier things into that trash bag. Couldn't identify any of it. Didn't even know there was a tarot deck hidden behind the spirit board, but somehow my hand found it anyway, without my knowing. My limbs obeyed without even fully understanding her command.

"Good boy," Isla murmured.

The putrid air of that old dungeon snaked into my nostrils again, making me sick. Becoming undead wasn't my choice. I was used. As food for the vampires in the dungeon. Used by Dmitri, a century and then some later, spending too much time and effort to twist both my arms and my pity into doing him favors. And even—the worst of it – my own maker—master—mother.

Your mother needs you, Gregorio, don't you love me? Wouldn't you do anything to save me, like how I saved you from certain death?

Shook her voice out of my head.

Mrs. Cabroni's eyes were still half open. I closed them gingerly. Sorry, old dame. Bit of spittle and drool and blueish bruising had formed a ring around her mouth. There was a pillow out of place on the stack under her head. It too looked like it had some crusty, dried-up globs of spit.

Something tucked inside the fragile cage of Rosemond's ribs caught my eye. I reached in, carefully slipping the wooden disk out between the bones. Was a needlepoint. Its white background had been yellowed from age, but at its center sat a diagram of a moth done in blacks and grays and greens. The threads of one wing were newer than the rest. Brighter, shinier, adorned with black beading around the edges. Done in a different shade of green than the other wing, but otherwise the shape and pattern matched with perfect exactness.

I placed the needlepoint and Rosemond's bones in a different bag. Dmitri was missing them.

On the table beside the dead old woman were the remaining two library books. Stickers on their spines gave them away. That, and the general aura of doom and foreboding that seemed to emanate from them. "Swell, found the books."

"Grab those," said Isla from the hall. She then returned to the same murmuring I'd been hearing for the last several minutes. Soft whispers. Soothing. "Please, tell me what—how long was she here—oh that's it, you're just gone now? Yeah, okay, go in peace or whatever. Hag."

"Another spirit tired of you bossing them around?"

Isla crossed her arms over her chest. "You know, you're throwing a lot of shade at me for somebody who's also undead."

"I never asked for this curse," I hissed, inadvertently spitting around my fangs. "If I'd had the choice, I'd have preferred to stay dead."

"What? And miss out on all the fun of meeting me?"

"Yes."

Isla pressed her lips together in a thin line. Stood there for a moment. Pulse ratcheting up and turning pink. After a while, she exhaled slowly. "In other good news, Momma Cabroni wasn't a fan of her son and his cheating ways. But that's all she gave me before, poof, the other side took her. Pretty half in the bag unfinished business if you asked me. Here, toss me my stuff."

The trash bag full of her trinkets socked her in gut. She doubled over. Gasped for breath. Yeah, guess I may have regretted flinging it at her so hard.

"I didn't mean—"

"I'm going outside," she snapped. "Finish cleaning this up, make it look, like, normal. You know, for humans. No trace we or Lily or Dmitri's dead wife were here. Meet me out front after. Be quick."

The sensation of her curse skittered over my skin like the fluttering wings of a moth.

I didn't protest. Didn't bother. My body had no choice but to obey. It manifested as an itching need. A hot, heavy pressure on my spine. A mantra echoing in an endless loop. Finish cleaning. No trace. Make it normal. Meet her outside. No trace. Be quick.

Wiped candle wax off a shelf. Dusted ashy flakes of Rosemond from the table. Hosed blood off the patio and into the mud of the alley behind the house. Stuffed the rolled-up portrait of the lady in the same bag as her needlepoint and remains. Plucked a single strand of platinum blonde hair clinging to a lamp.

Unsure how much time passed before I was done. Wasn't thinking about that. Or anything else. Not till I stepped outside again, gulping fresh, non-death tainted air and shaking the house's tension out my shoulders.

Isla was sitting on the porch steps, chin resting in her hands, elbows propped up on her knees.

Walk to the river wasn't terrible. And also was terrible. Cold as a Valkyrie's breath, in both atmosphere and mood, but close. Cabroni was heavy. Yet nothing I couldn't handle. Though, admittedly, juggling the books in a second bag, and the jangling bones of Dmitri's ex-wife in another draped over my back didn't make it any easier to follow Isla through a hole in the fence she had me break open at the back of the energy plant. It was a shortcut to the river.

Isla kept her distance from me. I couldn't feel her warmth and hate how much I found myself longing for it. For any touch from her.