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one of your making.” She laughed as Maeve stilled in surprise. “Didn’t you think I’d figure it out? ‘All things are connected’, aren’t they?”
    Now Maeve fairly snarled. “All Crossroads are the All-Mother’s. As all demons are her children.”
    “Not this Crossroads,” Callie said, pointing. “This is Legba’s door, and the Loa’s realm. I have permission to enter, and I can close it any time I want.” Of course, there was no rule stipulating Maeve was compelled to give them a straight answer, but Callie would sort that out later.
    Maeve’s eyes shifted to Liam, who lingered just beyond her reach, the circle in which she found herself trapped. She pulled the shawl over her bare shoulder. “As you say, all things are connected. The All-Mother releases her children into the world as she sees fit. She has a particular interest in love, especially when it is unrequited—it is this interest that drew her to Lucifer, after all. What you don’t know is this particular demon has been summoned as bait.” This time Maeve’s smile was absolutely genuine. “For you.”
    Callie’s pacing came to an abrupt halt. “Me?”
    Maeve stood in the center of the binding circle, letting shadow and light alike fade. “And now you are trapped, more so than I. The best part is, cousin , it was you who sprung it.” And with a bright, tinkling laugh of wicked delight, she was gone.
    An instant later, the rum bottle shattered against the nearest moss-hung tomb.
     
     
    The iron railing clasped tight in Callie’s right hand was cool and dry, the wild green scent of the courtyard below reaching her past the city’s unique blend of eau de Carré .
    Smell notwithstanding, she liked the feel of New Orleans—the buzz of it in her blood, its humidity on her skin. It made her feel alive, vital. Like Liam’s eyes on her face, his hands on her skin. She reveled in the pulse of the city beating around her in the form of laughter and life and music.
    She wondered at her gut-jump reaction when Maeve reached for Liam—a reaction that couldn’t entirely be explained by her anger. She touched the fingers to her lips, where his unexpected kiss lingered like the stain of hard liquor not easily removed, or put aside as one of those things, part of an often-strange job.
    From some of the things he’d said, Callie gathered he was probably as old as she, if not older. He was the Loa’s chosen protector of the city. He was Marked.
    He was like her. But was he the exception of her self-imposed rule, borne of necessity? The idea made her a little breathless.
    The door behind her slid open with a muffled scrape. Callie looked over her shoulder as Liam came through with his hands full and nudged the door closed again with an elbow. He’d divested his expensive shirt and shoes, leaving him barefoot in dark slacks and one of those white shirts that used to be considered underwear pre-Marlon Brando. His Marks vined up his left arm in seemingly random patterns and crept beneath his shirt.
    He set his burdens on his balcony table. “Let’s see that hand.”
    Callie had nearly forgotten the dull throb in her palm, wrapped tight in Liam’s snowy white handkerchief. A Rorschach blot of blood marred it. “It’s not necessary, really,” she said, turning away. “I heal fast. But thank you.”
    “Humor me.” Liam gestured her over with feigned joviality.
    “I’m sorry,” she answered, voice soft with the distance of her wandering thoughts. “I haven’t lost my temper so spectacularly in quite some time. I’ll send Donny out for a fresh bottle to replace the one I broke.”
    “I keep a case.” He shrugged. “You and Maeve—that was quite a show. It wasn’t a game of cat and mouse so much as it was a game of cat and cat. I still can’t decide who won.”
    Callie exhaled, returning from her mental wanderings. “Neither can I, to be honest.”
    Liam proffered a hand with a smile, and she relented with good grace. He picked apart