"I'm so sorry to bother you with this." It was the third time Alice had said it. "But I thought you ought to know."
"It's okay, Alice. It's not your fault. They're not animals, they're people. It's stupid to pretend they don't have human brains. I should have figured that out a long time before now."
"It's not your fault, Majesty. The fault lies with me. It's-"
"They should be recaptured and staked," Sinclair said, sounding bored.
"We've been over this," I snapped back.
"I suppose we have."
I didn't agree with his kill-all-Fiends mind-set, but his boredom with the subject wasn't much fun, either.
"It's not 'they,' " Alice supplied helpfully. "It's just one."
"Let me guess: George?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Swell." The perfect end to a perfect night. The devil's daughter turned out to be sweet as cream, Sinclair gave off the distinct impression that he'd like to sample some of that cream, I was in hell, and George had gone on the lam again. "Just great."
"We'll find him again, ma'am."
"Okay, well, call me if he turns up."
"At once, Majesty."
"We'll keep our eyes peeled, not literally. Meanwhile, let's think of a better system to keep him. The others don't seem to want to get out, but George does, so let's figure out why and fix it so he can have what he wants here on the property. It's not the best plan in the world, but it's what we'll start with."
"Yes, Majesty."
"Swell," Sinclair said, and gave me a thin smile.
"What the hell are you doing following me around?" I griped. We'd driven back to the mansion in our cars, and I was bitching Eric out on the front lawn. "Like dealing with the spawn of Satan isn't touchy enough without you popping up like a jack-in-the-box with fangs."
"I wasn't following you," he pointed out coolly. "I was following her."
Nuts. I'd been afraid of that. "Why?"
"She is a fascinating creature. I had no sense of deceit from her, did you?"
"N-"
"All that potential power, that world-building power, wrapped up in a lovely package. A genuinely nice girl with no clue of the unholy power she could wield." He was practically rubbing his hands together. "To harness that power... if I could just-"
"We," I said. "If we could just."
"Yes, yes. Really, an engaging dilemma."
"That's just super," I said, managing to keep the acid bitterness out of my tone. Pretty much. "Look, one thing at a time. We've got to make nice with Jessica and find George."
"As you have made clear in the past," he reminded me, "those are your problems, not mine."
For a second I couldn't say anything; it felt like cold dread just-just grabbed my heart. Six months of pushing him away, and when I succeeded, I was sick about it. Which was sick.
And as upset as I was, I was also mad. Okay, I'd screwed up. He was an eighty-year-old dead guy. Like he'd never made a mistake in all that time?
When I finally found my voice, I went on the attack. Anything was better than feeling like the biggest loser in the world.
"Listen, jackass. Do you think you can stop sulking for five fucking minutes and help me? Is that too fucking much to ask? If you won't admit you're mad, then you'd better be on board with the dark evil stuff like usual. You can't have it both ways."
He looked down at me, totally unmoved. "You... would... be... amazed at what I can have." Then he turned away.
I grabbed his sleeve and tried to pull him back. "Don't walk away from me, you-"
"Did you hear something?" he asked, shaking free of me with no trouble at all. "There's-" Then he was gone, knocked a good six feet sideways by something.
"Eric!" I called, like every useless movie heroine in the history of cinema. I charged over to grab whatever had tackled him. "Let go!" And thanks!
I leaned forward to seize whatever by the back of the neck-assuming it had a back of a neck-when suddenly it got off Sinclair and stood.
And stood. And stood. It was tall, even slumped over.
Long dirty clots of hair hung in its face, and its clothing-filthy jeans and a T-shirt of no definable color-was in rags. Bare feet. Filthy toes.
"George!" I gasped.
"How completely fabulous," Sinclair said, getting up off the ground and brushing himself off. There were leaves in his hair, but I wasn't going to tell him. "I assume he followed us. Or tracked you."
"Tracked me?"
"They are uncommonly attached to you, in case you've forgotten their devotion when they killed Nostro," he snorted, as if I could forget.
"Aw, shaddup. George, you were very very bad to run away from Alice." I shook my finger under his nose. It was a little disconcerting the way he followed my finger with his muddy gaze. "Very bad! But you were very good to stomp Sinclair when he was being a dick, so I think we'll call this a wash."
"What?" Sinclair scowled. "How can you say-"
"Pipe down, ass hat. You know what, George? Let's call Alice and have her come get you. Good, good Fiend!"
"No, no, no," Sinclair began. At least he was evincing some interest again-interest that didn't threaten the hell out of me.
"And while we're waiting, you can have a shower."
"Elizabeth, I must protest."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Hate the idea, do you?"
"Completely."
"Good enough." I took George's cold, grimy hand, and he followed me.
