It's Friday and every bone in my fucking body hurts as I watch the sky turn pink with dawn. My ribcage aches with each breath, my arms feel like jelly, and my eyes burn from staying up through the night, half-believing I wouldn't make it to this morning. That Valentine would find another way in.

But from the moment Gran shut the door in his face, I didn't see another sign of him. Gran went to bed right after, returning to her room unassisted, something she hasn't been able to do in months. I still can't wrap my head around it. When I tried to help her, she insisted I didn't need to fuss and that she wanted time alone to get ready for the trip. I was too stunned to tell her we don't have any trip planned.

She's still asleep, and from the silence outside, the rest of the world is, too. I feel so alone, I think I could scream my throat raw without being noticed.

My thumb runs along the edges of Desmond Healy's card, wearing the corners to nubs. I wanted to call for hours, from the moment the sprites in my phone recovered from Valentine's spell, but I figure waking up my estranged relatives at an ungodly time in the night isn't the best way to convince them to see me again. And I'm not sure I even need to. The INKtech agent is coming today. But everytime I tell myself it'll all be fine, it feels like that fucker's tongue is on my neck again.

And I want more reassurance than whatever can be offered by a stranger who sees me as a case. Even if it's just from strangers who share genetic material with me. At least they knew my mom. I had the entire night to think things over, and what I keep coming back to, beside the look in Zoe's eyes when she saw me and the sound of Valentine's human skin splitting apart, is why Laci approached me.

Obviously, to help find Melanie, but why me? The shock in her eyes when I told her I was hardly a wolf witch must mean she counted on me knowing and being a lot more than I am. But she knew I had no clue about that life. What did she learn about wolves to make her come calling, anyway?

Warm light streams over me. I spent enough time brooding here on the couch for the sun to fully rise.

Carefully, I pull my phone out of my pocket, wincing as even that little movement sends lightning bolts of pain throughout me. Fuck, do I feel like roadkill. I could barely wash the soap from my hair in the shower; I think the only reason I managed to was because it otherwise meant staying covered in Zoe's ashes. Zoe. My mind flinches at her name; I think her last words will be burned into me forever. I killed her.

Trying to focus, I punch in the number and wait, heart beating a little faster. When I'm only shot over to Desmond's message center, I'm so disappointed my voice shakes. "Hi, um, I'm trying to reach the Red Devil Mountain pack. My name's Phoenix Belmonte."

My cheeks flush over my obvious Amstar accent, and I hurry on. "I was told it's my mom's birth pack—her name was Inez—and since she died when I was little, I don't remember anything about her, and never had a chance to learn about you. I know it's weird to want to reconnect after all this time, but..."

My words falter. How the fuck do I summarize the past week without sounding like a lunatic? Better forget that part for now, and bring it up later if I get that far. "I'd really appreciate hearing back from anyone who's willing to talk. Here's my phone number."

After giving it, I end the call, watching my hand tremble around the phone. I don't know if it's from nerves or tired muscles. Maybe another shower will help. The thought of soothing, hot water is enough to make me grit my teeth and get up from the couch. Better check on Gran first, though, before I spend a chunk of time unable to hear anything over the sound of hissing water.

Pain flares in the joints in my fingers when I twist the door handle to her room, intending to take a quick peek to make sure she's breathing. But the door only opens a crack; something's wedged against it on the other side.

The aching in my muscles disappears under a flash of adrenaline. "Gran? Are you okay?"

When there's no response, I try again, this time putting my shoulder into it. There's a faint groan on the other side.

"Gran, hold on!" I turn and run for the front door, intending to circle around the house and climb in through her window. My bones throb with each step.

She's not dead, I chant to myself while scrambling through the yard. Whatever else happened, she's not dead.

The window is locked from the inside; I locked it myself last evening, damn it. And with the shade shut, I can't see in. A rock from the box hedge border weighs enough to break the glass, and I shove my hand through and fumble at the lock, ignoring the sting of sliced skin. "Gran? Hang on, I'm almost there."

I claw through the shade, and light comes in with me, pouring over Gran's body, slumped face-down on the floor and wedged against the door. Her handbag waits a few feet away, toppled on its side. Sickness rises up my throat. Oh, God. That's why the door refused to open. "Gran!"

I roll her body over gently as possible, muscles shaking with the effort. Despite her obvious fall, she doesn't look bruised or bloody, but her skin feels cool and unresponsive. When my hand settles around hers, she manages a groan, and her eyelids flicker.

"Hang on; I'm calling for help." I scrabble at my phone with my free hand, but my fingers keep slipping off the buttons. I'm bleeding from the glass.

"Fuck. Fuck," I mutter, trying to find the programmed number that will send an alert to the hospice staff center. When I do, a voice message comes back to me within seconds. "We're sorry, the on-site nurses are all on other calls. A healthcare professional is on their way via your local hospital. Please prepare for a thirty-minute wait."

Biting back a scream, I throw the phone across the room. An entire fucking hospice community, and no one's ever available. My eyes burn as I look back at Gran, still motionless except for quick, shallow breaths. I am not going to make her wait here like a sick dog. "Gran, I'm going to move you, okay? Just onto the bed."

It should be easy; I lifted her thousands of times before, out of chairs, and car seats, and shower stalls. But now my muscles flare in agony, arms shaking and abdominals straining from her slight weight. My body's too beat up for me to lift her like normal.

"Goddamn it," I hiss, and try again.

This time, she cries out in a thin, ragged voice that makes my eyes burn and blur over. Letting go, I sink down to the floor beside her. I can't do it. My hand slides back over hers, but there's no way to tell if she feels it. She doesn't respond to my voice, either, and the few times she tries to speak, garbled sounds come out instead of words.

Once, she wets herself. I clean her up as quickly as possible before getting the incontinence underwear she refuses to wear no matter how many packs the hospice worker leaves behind after a visit. When I find a robe to replace her soiled nightgown and ease her into it, I notice her hands and feet are a mottled, bluish color. And despite the heat of a summer morning, they feel like ice. That's when it finally hits me in a way those cold little lines of the hospice checklist couldn't. There aren't any more tomorrows or next weeks to hold onto; her death is here, happening right now.

A noise starts up deep inside my chest, making it hard to breathe. I'm whining like a scared dog. I beat it back along with the tears, locking down to a wavering numbness by the time someone knocks on the front door. "Help's here, Gran. I'm going to bring them right in."

The words fly out of my mouth as I rip open the door. "Please hurry, I can't get her off the ground, and she's—"

My voice chokes off as I see who stands there. Not a nurse. Not anyone from hospice. It's Gideon Glass, wearing his grim agent's expression but dressed casually in jeans and a leather jacket.

I can only blink at him. And when I do find words, they're the most stupid ones possible. "You're not the nurse."

The look on his face changes as he takes in my state. "Phoenix. What's happened?"

I want to ask him the same thing. He's supposed to be gone. Something rises up in me, too muddled to figure out. It leaves my words ragged. "This is hospice. She's dying."

"No, I meant your arm. It's bleeding." He reaches out to me, and then checks himself at the last second. "She. Your grandmother?"

"I..." Then my ears catch a small sound, maybe another groan from Gran. "Look, I can't talk right now; I'm sorry. Just try again later."

I don't even take time to shut the door before running back to Gran's room. She lies in the same position as I left her, but now words slip out between her uneven breaths, and her hands flutter with faint gestures.

"What is it, Gran?" I catch one of her agitated hands between mine.

She tries again, but it's in Spanish.

"Gran, please. I can't understand you." My voice cracks.

Footsteps. Before I have time to jerk up, Gideon kneels on the other side of Gran and speaks Spanish to her, voice clear and careful. She groans again and mutters something.

He looks up at me. "She isn't making sense. Something about needing her keys."

"I don't know what she means; she's been really confused for a few months. But then last night she seemed so much better." I shake my head and look at him. But the question of why he's here never makes it to my tongue. "She needs to be moved to the bed. I can't do it on my own."

My cheeks flush, admitting that, but he only nods and reaches for her shoulders while I get her legs. We're gentle as possible, but Gran still cries out as we lift her. I try to keep my voice steady. "Sorry, Gran. We're almost there."

After she's settled onto the bed, Gideon helps me spread a light blanket over her. I glance at his face once or twice, ready to shove him away at the first hint of disgust or contempt. Maybe he senses my scrutiny, because suddenly he looks over. Nothing in his grim expression changes, but I get the feeling he wants to tell me something.

The sound of an engine rumbling into the driveway breaks the moment between us. Through the shattered window, I see a car with the red hospice insignia painted on its door.

The hospice worker's name is Denise. After checking over Gran, she authorizes morphine to take away any pain, showing me how to give Gran a dose, drop by drop, without making her choke. She also authorizes and administers a sedative, and within minutes, Gran's agitated muttering settles into silence. The two bottles of medication are placed on the dresser, next to my phone. With a dull surprise, I realize Gideon must have found it and put it there before leaving the room to give us privacy. Before I can dwell on that, Denise asks about my arm and the broken window.

It doesn't take long to explain what happened. She nods, unsurprised, and patches me up. Her words telling me not to feel guilty sound kind enough, but they don't reach through the fog in my head. But her question about whether any other relatives might want to see Gran clears my thoughts, all right. Oh, shit. Maria doesn't know.

"My sister. I'm sure she can take time off from school to drive here." I rub my forehead with my newly-wrapped wrist.

Denise clicks her tongue while putting away her supplies. "I hope it's a quick trip."

"How much time?" My words come out as a whisper, not because I'm afraid of Gran hearing, but because that's all the voice left in me.

"She may last a few more days. She may last only hours. It's impossible to know for sure." Her tone sounds sympathetic but firm, as if she's used to relatives begging for a pinpointed date. "In the meantime, there are certain measures you can take so she passes on as comfortably as possible."

Those certain measures cover everything from oxygen tanks to portable voice monitors sensitive enough to register breathing. There's a list of items for her to explain, and after a while the words only swim through my head. My hands tremble the entire time she speaks, but I manage to focus when she writes instructions for the medication and then repeats them verbally.

Her parting act is to give me a card with her number on it, and the number for the hospice hotline if she's on another call. The second number is the same as the one on every packet of information Mercywing sends to its patients, but hearing her say that no worry is too small helps with the panic in my head.

She's still driving away when I grab my phone to call Maria, feeling dizzy. While waiting for her to pick up, I support myself by leaning against the frame of the broken window. The broken window which Gideon currently patches up with his ink. Pieces of glass glitter as they whirl around like leaves in a wind, finding their way back into one solid pane. I find myself staring at the sight, and once the glass is restored, I stare at him. Why is he here?

Before our eyes can meet, the beep of being shot over to Maria's message center yanks my focus back. I keep things short, telling her Gran won't last much longer and that if she wants to come over to say goodbye, she'd better hurry. I shouldn't want her here, not with the danger of Valentine. Especially since Maria's a total skeptic; she'll believe less of my story than Detective Dickhead. But as I end the call, hope bubbles up, anyway. A wish that she will come back, and in time. I don't want to go through this alone.

The bed is too small to curl up with Gran like I used to as a kid, so I settle for dragging the bench from the foot of the bed over to one side and sitting on it. Since Denise told me to change her position every two hours to avoid bed sores, I busy myself with setting an alarm on my phone. By the time I finish, quiet footsteps enter the room.

Then Gideon sits beside me, murmuring, "How are you holding up?"

"I'm okay." I watch my fingers twist together, and then glance at him. "You don't have to stay, you know."

"I know." He makes no effort to move.

For a while, neither of us says anything. Gran's breathing changes from quick, shallow gasps to uneven, pausing patterns, and then back again. At first, each time her breathing stops—sometimes for as long as thirty seconds—I panic, wondering if that's it, if she's gone as quickly as that. But another breath always happens, and my nerves simmer down to dreary tension. Eventually, my attention drifts, looking for distraction from how Gran's breath rattles with what Denise told me is inevitable fluid build-up.

When I sneak a glance at Gideon, I find him rubbing the back of his neck, gaze distant as he stares at an embroidery of a flying egret tacked onto the wall. He looks different in casual clothes. Younger. With the sleeve of his jacket pulled up, his ink glows unrestrained, lines of light rippling along his skin in tense, uneasy patterns.

He should get a second chance out of here. "You know, I can give you my phone number. Then you could just talk to me later. No one knows how long it'll take her to pass on."

"Do you want me to leave?"

I can't tell which answer he wants to hear, and after a moment, I realize that's intentional. He's leaving the decision entirely up to me.

Even though I hesitate, I know the answer right away. For whatever reason, I'm comfortable around him in a way I haven't been with anyone, even Laci. It's chickenshit to want him to stay in this godawful situation, and the little fib of yes waits on my tongue. But I can't get it out, and finally, I look down at my phone, still cradled in my hands. "No. I want you to stay."

The bench creaks as he shifts beside me, and when he speaks, he sounds closer. "Then I will."

But I don't look over, too busy hating myself for admitting discomfort over being alone with my dying grandmother. Christ, I wish Maria would call me back.

I mark off the second hour of the vigil by giving Gran another dose of morphine and the sedative, per Denise's instructions. I try my best, but my hands shake and the dropper is fussy. Each time she coughs and chokes on a drop, I flinch, murmuring an apology. On the other side of her, Gideon says something in Spanish probably meant to be soothing, going by his tone, but I'm so strung on nervous energy that I hardly hear him.

My phone rings just as I put the medication bottles back on the dresser. A glance at the screen tells me it's Maria, and I blindly move into the hallway for some privacy. "Maria. Hi."

"Nina." As soon as I hear the tone of her voice, my heart sinks. I know my sister; even in those two syllables, I can pick out her guilty feelings.

"You're not coming," I say, flatly.

"I can't. It's the end of the term, and they don't give make-up tests."

"Christ, Maria. Gran's dying."

"Well, they don't. And..." Her voice falters. "I don't want to see Gran like that. Maybe I was too young to remember Mom and Dad going, but I do remember the look on Gran's face whenever she talked about it. It must be awful to see. I don't want my last memory of her to be a horrible one."

I can't blame her there. It's pretty bad, watching her skin turn a funny color and her jaw drop loose like she's already half-skeleton. She hardly even looks like Gran, anymore. "Look, it's not like I want to, either."

"But you're stronger; you've always been."

"Quit the bullshit. I don't have time for that and neither does Gran." As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them.

"I'm sorry." Maria tries to sound only sullen, but I hear the small quaver to her voice that means she's fighting back tears.

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." I leech all the emotion out of my voice until it bunches up in my shoulders instead. "I'll call after she's gone, and again when I leave with her—her remains. Okay?"

"Okay. Hey, Nina?"

"Yeah?'

She hesitates. "Thanks for letting me know."

"Sure." Then I hang up to keep her from hearing the growl coming up my throat. I shove my phone back into my pocket before rubbing at my burning eyes. Goddamnit to hell, I will not cry where Gran can hear.

Which means I end up in the laundry room, face buried in a towel to keep from making too much noise. I don't know how much time passes before a hand brushes my arm, the heat of ink rippling along my skin. Panic bursts through me, and I clean the tears and snot from my face with a rough wipe of the towel. "Oh my God, did she die?"

"No, she's still stable," says Gideon, quickly. When I slump back against the washing machine, his fingers settle around my elbow. "I wanted to see if you were all right."

Dumping the towel into the basket for dirty laundry, I shrug and try to keep my voice steady. "You mean the phone call? It was my sister. She can't make it here, and I really wanted her to."

When he only nods, watching me with concern, I decide to tell him it's okay, I'm through crying about it. Instead, I find myself saying, "I went into his house. It didn't work out too well."

I'm not sure what to expect in response, so when his hand tightens against my arm, I tense up, ready for an explosion.

But he only says, "I'm glad you made it out alive."

I scan his face for any hint of sarcasm, but all I'm aware of is the incredible blue of his eyes, and how they look the same as when he bowed over my hand, the nearness of his lips making my skin prickle. An odd feeling flutters in my belly, but I manage to get some words out. "So am I. But, um, no rant about how I should've listened to you?"

The line that appeared between his eyebrows at my first words smooths out again. "I thought you might try something from the expression on your face when I warned you not to. If you're willing to dismiss a detective's words, why would you have an issue over doing the same with an agent's?" His small, wry smile takes the sting out of the words.

Still, I feel compelled to say, "I didn't dismiss you. Not really. It's just that I heard screaming coming from his house."

At that, the smile drops from his face, and when he speaks, his voice seethes. "What happened?"

I keep my words quiet as I explain, not wanting my voice to carry and disturb Gran. Denise told me the sedative would take effect and knock her out pretty quickly, but she also later said hearing was the last sense lost while dying, and that Gran might still understand words, even if she can't respond. Contrary advice, like even the people who deal with death all the time aren't sure how it works.

When I get to the part about Zoe, my hands start shaking. Gideon doesn't say anything, just covers them with one of his own. Feeling his fingers over mine, warm and sure, keeps me talking. "I can't stop thinking about her. She felt so bad about her mom. And now there's nothing of her left. I mean nothing. So, who the hell would take me seriously if I told them what happened to her?"

For a long moment, Gideon doesn't say anything. Then he takes off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "No one."

And just like that, I know what kept him from leaving on his new assignment. "There's a problem with sending an agent over here, isn't there? I mean, on an official basis."

"Yes." The word is short and clipped, but then he adds, "Several factors are involved, but the end result is that some people feel there is too much chance and not enough evidence for INKtech to become involved."

Suddenly, I'm very glad I contacted my mother's pack after all. "But your other case, the one you said was connected..."

"Will remain closed." He sounds calm enough, but his eyes are furious when he looks up. This is the first time I've seen his bare face, and without thinking, I reach for the red marks on the bridge of his nose left by his glasses. "Those look painful."

He blinks, startled, but doesn't move away. "Minimal compared to contacts. I can hardly keep those in for more than an hour. Ironic, as I spent my entire youth wishing to be allowed to wear them."

"Let me guess, Aunt Bettina always said no?" I murmur.

"Mm. She thought spectacles hid my nose, which isn't nearly refined enough for a member of the Glass lineage." His voice is carefully neutral, the same tone I remember when he admitted having Chetli blood. He definitely has issues about that. Or at least, had someone else's issues drilled into him. Anger sparks up in me, and I make a show of studying the feature in question, even standing on my toes to better scrutinize it.

Free of the lessening effect from the frames, his nose is more prominent; it reminds me of those ancient stone busts of conquerors and philosophers shown in art class, faces with strong, proud noses that looked better than any shape a cosmetic clinic can shave you down to. It must have been a real beak when he was a kid, but now it balances out the angles in the rest of his face and gives him a formidable edge. He wouldn't look nearly as attractive without it. "That's ridiculous. Even a cat witch would agree your nose is elegant and nicely-shaped. I think it's fantastic."

His eyebrows are raised at my scrutiny, but he's also smiling a little. "Well, thank you."

My hand hovers by his face; his is still around my elbow. That funny feeling goes through me again, warm and shimmering like the ink on his arm. And suddenly, it's hard to breathe, but not in a bad way. In fact, I'm smiling back at him.

Like those stupid airheads.

Without warning, Elliot's words flash through my head. Christ, is that what this is? Am I falling for Gideon? At first, the sharpness to those words threatens to cut me, but when I remember what else Elliot said, I can't help laughing. It's not much, just a huff, but Gideon still eyes me curiously.

"I'm sorry. You probably think I lost my mind. I just thought of something my—my boyfriend told me about you."

At those words, he falls completely still. Even his ink freezes for a moment, mid-pulse.

I quickly add, "Not about your nose. See, he was jealous that you talked to me during that stupid bio lab, so he downplayed it, saying it wasn't like you'd show up at my door and surprise me. And then you actually do that." Another giggle escapes me.

"My intentions are very likely not what he expected." The warmth from his ink fades as he pulls away to put his glasses back on, and his words sound so stiff that even in my odd state of mind I realize he's uncomfortable.

My hand drops back to my side. "No, I know. I told him it wasn't like that."

"Does he know about the situation with your neighbor?" And now he gives me the agent face again. Damn. I shouldn't have laughed. I guess he's not so different from Elliot after all.

"He doesn't have a clue. I don't want to bring him into something this dangerous." It's the truth, but not all of it. The complete truth is that he wouldn't believe a word of what I'd say.

The sound of the doorbell breaks through the awkwardness between us, and I mutter something about getting it. As I walk toward the front door, each step brings back more of the current situation I'm in. Gran's merely feet away, dying, and tonight Valentine will be back with a vengeance. And what am I doing? Acting like an airhead.

Shit, what's wrong with me?