"The Fellowship," I said. I struggled to rein in my emotions. For her sake, I couldn't afford to feel afraid. I edged a little toward her. "Let's sit down. You can tell me about the Fellowship."

For a second, I thought she wouldn't give way, but she did. "Fellowship," she said. "The Fellowship of Saint Giles."

"Saint Giles," I said. "The patron of lepers."

"And other outcasts. Like me. They're all like me."

"You mean infected?"

"Infected. Half-turned. Half-human. Half-dead. There are a lot of ways to say it."

"Uh-huh," I said. "So what's their deal?"

"The Fellowship tries to help people the Red Court has harmed. Work against the Red Court . Expose them whenever they can."

"Find a cure?"

"There is no cure."

I put my hand on her arm and guided her toward my couch. She moved with a dreamy deliberation. "So the tattoos are what? Your membership card?"

"A binding," she said. "A spell cut into my skin. To help me hold the darkness inside. To warn me when it is rising."

"What do you mean, warn you?"

She looked down at her design-covered hand, then showed it to me. The tattoos there and on her face were slowly growing brighter, and had turned a shade of medium scarlet. "To warn me when I'm about to lose control. Red, red, red. Danger, danger, danger."

The first night she'd arrived, when she'd been tussling with something outside, she'd stayed in the shadows for the first several moments inside, her face turned away. She'd been hiding the tattoos. "Here," I said quietly. "Sit down."

She sat on the couch and met my eyes. "Harry," she whispered. "It hurts. It hurts to fight it. I'm tired of holding on. I don't know how long I can."

I knelt down to be on eye level with her. "Do you trust me?"

"With my heart. With my life."

"Close your eyes," I said.

She did.

I got up and walked slowly to the kitchen drawer. I didn't move quickly. You don't move quickly away from something that is thinking about making you food. It sets them off. Whatever had been placed inside her was growing-I could feel that, see it, hear it in her voice.

I was in danger. But it didn't matter, because so was she.

I usually keep a gun in the kitchen drawer. At the time, I had a gun and a short length of silver-and-white rope in there. I picked up the rope and walked back over to her.

"Susan," I said quietly. "Give me your hands."

She opened her eyes and looked at the soft, fine rope. "That won't hold me."

"I made it in case an ogre I pissed off came visiting. Give me your hands."

She was silent for a moment. Then she shrugged out of her jacket, and held her hands out, wrists up.

I tossed the rope at her and whispered, "Manacus."