After the session, Devina took herself north and east, casting herself into the air as a dark shadow and winging her way through the night. She coalesced on Boylston Street, across from the Boston Public Garden, where the weeping willows over the pond were just greening up.

The demure brick box of the Four Seasons Hotel took up nearly the entire block, between its entrance, porte cochere, and windowed restaurants. Although the exterior was quite plain, the interior was all warm wood and elegant brocade, and there were always fresh flowers.

She could have just flashed up to her room, but what a waste of an outfit: her Escada lizard-print pants and Chanel blouse were stunners, to say nothing of her Stella McCartney trench.

And what do you know, only her second night here and already the doormen and front-desk staff called out greetings as she swept into the lobby, her Louboutins clipping on the marble.

Which served to remind her of what she already knew: Of all the suits of illusioned flesh she had ever worn, this one—of a brunette woman with legs that didn’t quit and a set of breasts that made human men trip over their own tongues—was the one that fit her best. Even though technically she was a sexless “it,” experience had proven that her arsenal of weapons was best wielded by a manicured hand.

Plus she liked the clothes for women better.

The fucking, too.

Her suite on the top floor had a magnificent view of the garden and the Boston Common, and a lot of grand rooms—as well as excellent room service. The bouquet of roses was a nice touch and supplied gratis.

Which was what you got when you paid thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars for digs.

She walked through the sitting room and the master bedroom to the marble bath. On the counter between the two sinks, she put down her bag and took out the sweatshirt she’d taken from that MMA octagon. The hoodie was the color of fog and a size double-XL. Found at any Wal-Mart or Target, it was one of those anonymous garments that could have been worn by any man, something that was easy to find, easy to afford. Nothing special.

Except this one was unique. Especially given the bloodstains.

Thank God those cops had shown up when they had. Otherwise, she would have missed the appointment with her therapist altogether.

Quickly shedding her clothes, she tried to leave them in a wrinkly mess . . . and lasted about a minute and a half. The disorder made her head hum and she had to gather them up, stride for the closet, and hang everything where it needed to be. She’d worn a bra, so that got put in the bureau. No panties to worry about.

She was decidedly calmer as she went back to work at the bathroom counter.