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with Fox and Cal. Fox had changed out of his lawyer suit into jeans and a short-sleeved sweatshirt. He looked, as Fox habitually did, comfortable in his own skin.
    How many times had they done just this? Gage wondered. Sat, sharing a beer? Countless times. And often when he was in another part of the world, he might sit, sip a beer, and think of them in the Hollow.
    And there were times he came back, between the Seven, because he missed them as he’d miss his own legs. Then they could sit like this, in the long evening sunlight without the weight of the world—or at least this corner of it—on their shoulders.
    But the weight was there now with less than two months left before what they all accepted was do or die.
    “We could go back to the cemetery, the three of us,” Fox suggested. “See if it wants another round.”
    “I don’t think so. It had its fun.”
    “Next time you go wandering around, don’t go unarmed. I don’t mean that damn gun,” Cal added. “You can pick up a decent and legal folding knife down at Mullendore’s. No point letting it try to take a chunk out of your hand.”
    Idly, Gage flexed the hand in question. “Felt good to punch the bastard, but you’re right. I didn’t even have a damn penknife on me. I won’t make that mistake again.”
    “Can it just come back as the dead—sorry,” Fox added, laying a hand on Gage’s shoulder.
    “It’s okay. Quinn brought that up earlier. If it can take the form of the living, it’s a big skill. The dead’s hard enough. Cybil thinks not. She had some convoluted, intellectual theory, which I stopped listening to after she and Quinn started the debate. But I’m leaning toward Cybil’s end of it. It had substance. But the image, the form—that was like a shell, and the shell was . . . borrowed, was the gist of Cybil’s long, involved lecture on corporeal changes and shape-shifting. It can’t borrow from the living because they’re still wearing the shell, so to speak.”
    “Whatever,” Fox said after a moment. “We know Twisse has a new twist. If he wants to play that game again, we’ll be ready.”
    Maybe, Gage thought, but the odds were long. And getting longer every day.

Three
    IN LOOSE COTTON PANTS AND A TANK SHE considered suitable only for sleeping, Cybil followed the life-affirming scent of coffee toward the kitchen. It was lovely to know someone in the household woke before she did and had a pot going. The chore, all too often, fell to her as she was up and about before any of the others.
    Of course, none of the others slept alone, she thought, so they got coffee and sex. Didn’t seem quite fair, she decided, but that’s the way the cookie crumbled. Still, the cookie meant she wasn’t required to make precaffeine conversation, and had a quiet interlude with the morning paper until the frisky puppies rolled out of bed for the day.
    Halfway between the stairs and the kitchen, she stopped, sniffed the air. That, she realized, was more than coffee. Bacon scented the air, which made it a red-letter day. Someone besides Cybil was cooking.
    At the doorway, she saw Layla busy at the stove, humming away as she fried and flipped, her dark hair pulled back in a little stub at the nape of her neck. She looked so happy, Cybil thought and wondered why she felt this big-sister affection for Layla.
    They were of an age, after all, and while Layla might not be as well-traveled as she was, her housemate had lived in New York for several years, and even in cropped pants and a T-shirt wore urban polish. With Quinn, there’d been an instant connection for Cybil—a click the moment they’d met in college. And now, there was Layla.
    She’d never had that same affinity, that click with her own sister, Cybil thought. But then she and Rissa never fully understood each other, and her younger sister tended to get in touch primarily when she needed something or was embroiled in yet another mess.
    Cybil decided she should count herself lucky. There