“He tried to say your name. His last thoughts were of you.”

She gave a derisive snort and said, “A hero and a romantic. You’re a—”

“A sentimental ass, a fool, yes, I know. What did you do with his medal, Mariamna? Is it in the trash, too?”

“I gave it to Grekor. He collects such trinkets. Relics of the old days when Americans feared us. We should have beaten you. You are all such sentimental fools.”

“You called out to him when you were delirious.”

“Concern that he’d finally died and I was doomed.” Her voice was harsh. There was no softer emotion that Franny could discern.

“Deflection? Or do you really not give a fuck about a man you worked with, made love with, protected for decades?”

“First sentimentality and now psychobabble. You really are pathetic, Francis.” She read something in his face and her brows snapped to gather in a sharp frown. “What, boy?”

“Nothing. Thank you for clarifying things for me.” He turned and headed to the door. Paused and looked back.

“May I ask where you’re going?”

“Going to come visit?”

“You never know.”

“Paris. I haven’t been there in a while and I like it.”

“Bon voyage, Mariamna.”

The gravediggers didn’t understand why they were burying a chair, but they were happy for the work.

Mollie relished the feel of the sun on her skin. She stood, along with her supervisory entourage, at the edge of a cemetery in a remote Hungarian village. At least, the GPS anklet said it was Hungarian. Ffodor had been born close to a wrinkle in geography where Croatia, Slovenia, and Hungary came together. He had planned to bring her here, just for the hell of it.

But that had been a million years ago. Before Horrorshow. Before Baba Yaga. Before the fight club, before the botched robbery at the casino. Before she’d lost control of her power. Lost control of her mind.

Her ankle itched. The anklet was specially designed to detect any discontinuities in her GPS location, such as if she stepped through a portal. If it did detect a problem, it would tase the living shit out of her (which made showering a little nerve-racking) and then drug her unconscious long enough for a recovery team to collect her.

She snaked a finger under the band to scratch the itch. One of her minders frowned. For a few heartbeats a rage boiled so hot within Mollie she thought she might erupt like an Icelandic volcano, despite the raft of antipsychotics the docs had prescribed for her. But Mollie remembered her centering exercises and caught herself in time.

They wanted to keep Mollie an emotional zombie. That was for the best. Bad things happened when she got angry.