My condition kept getting worse. It had been days, and now I was having trouble staying upright. I tried to stick it out and continue working, and did whatever I could to hide my symptoms from Jezze and everyone else.

They wanted me in bed, resting, but I needed to stay active. For one thing, I couldn’t track down our mystery villain from bed. For another, sitting around while Sorsha doted on me would drive me insane. Then the ghouls wouldn’t be the problem anymore. It would be me.

I spoke with all the customers who came into the bar, asking if they’d heard anything about the attacks or the cause. Everyone had heard, all right, but it was only rumors. Nothing concrete. I collected every lead, regardless of the likelihood that they were dead ends. I’d take whatever I could for now.

I checked in with Sorsha every night so she could look me over.

The prognosis wasn’t good. By the third day after the attack at the school, the sickly blue veins stretched from the wound, up my ribs, across my back and stomach and down one leg. While her remedies had slowed the spread, she seemed no closer to a cure.

“Give it to me straight,” I demanded while she applied a fresh poultice. The area had turned numb and I could hardly feel her fingers as she spread the paste over my skin.

She looked up at me, wariness in her gaze, and for a moment I expected her to give me a lame excuse mixed with a dash of false hope. Instead, she straightened and met my stare. “You’re dying.”

It was probably hard for her to say. It was sure as hell hard to hear.

“No shit. How long?”

I needed to know how much longer I could hunt the asshole that had done this to me.

“I can’t be sure.” She shook her head and picked up a chart where she’d taken notes on the spread of the disease with her other patients. “Without treatment, most of the infected turn into one of those things almost instantly. Even with treatment, no one has survived this long. You’re only still here because of your unique physiology.”

I wasn’t sure which of my five fathers to thank for living this long, but they all probably gave me a little bit of something. The purity of my unicorn father was keeping the poison out of my blood. The endurance of Father Earth giving me strength. The power of my werewolf father keeping me on my feet even when I felt weak. Maybe even the sheer stubbornness of my Crusader father making me too stubborn to give up when I should have seen the writing on the wall already.

“Take a guess.”

Sorsha released a long sigh. “At this rate, maybe another week.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, staring at the floor instead of at her. A week to live. After being on this Earth for over six hundred years, this sudden expiration date was hard to absorb. I didn’t want to believe it was true. I didn’t feel like I was dying. Sure, there was some weakness and nausea, and I kept having dizzy spells, but it didn’t feel like something I couldn’t walk off. Maybe she was exaggerating. Sorsha had never been one to be pessimistic, but people changed, right?

“There’s nothing else you can do?”

“I’ve tried everything and I’m not going to stop looking, but…”

I gave her a wry grin. “But I’d better get my affairs in order.”

She touched my arm with trembling fingertips, a sad look in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Caith.”

I shook my head. “Don’t be sorry.” I hopped off the bed and headed for the door. “Be working. Even if you don’t find a cure in time to help me, you can help others.”

She nodded. “I will. Don’t worry.”

I headed to my SUV and sat in the driver’s seat for a while. I stared at nothing, mind muddled and too dull for any thoughts to take root. My condition was getting worse. I grew sicker and dizzier with every second that passed and soon I didn’t think I would be able to stand under my own power.

I’d die in bed like some invalid.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out one of my daggers—a black handled athame with an obsidian blade and pentagrams carved into the cross guard. It was a ceremonial dagger. I’d recovered it from a sick fuck a few years ago after he’d used it to murder innocents to fuel his dark magic. I’d kept it just in case I ever found myself in a situation where dark magic was my last resort.

You never knew when that kind of thing could come in handy if you turned it against the evil assholes intent on using it against you.

I turned the knife over in my hands and pressed a finger to the edge of the blade. It drew a drop of blood at the lightest touch, and I stared at the bead of red liquid on my fingertip. It was made to kill supernatural creatures.

Creatures like me.

Death wouldn’t be my end. Not necessarily. Being Satan’s niece meant I knew where I was headed when I died. It would be more like a transition rather than an ending.

Right now, I existed freely on the mortal plane because I had mortal blood. I wasn’t a demon who’d been summoned or one that had been strong enough to break free of Hell’s bindings. I wasn’t a being that could be banished back to Uncle Luc’s pits.

I’d been born here, but my death would change me. My body would rot like any mortals and my soul would crawl into the depths of Hell until I reached Uncle Luc.

Possibly with a detour through unimaginable horrors in the Underworld.

It wouldn’t be forever, though. Maybe after a century or two I’d be able to manifest a physical form without being summoned by a mortal.

Regardless, it wasn’t a journey I was too interested in taking. Especially since I’d be bound in service to any mortal who decided to drag my ass from Hell. Just like any other dem.

I tucked the dagger into my jacket. I wasn’t ready to shuffle off this mortal coil just yet. And I sure as shit wasn’t going to face death lying down. I wasn’t ready to give up.

I drove home and found Bry waiting up for me. I walked into the living room and he looked up at me with concern in his eyes. “You’re late.”

I forced a smile and pinched his cheek. “I know, kiddo. I was talking to Sorsha.”

“Is she going to make you better?”

I could lie, but Bryony had already seen too much death and disaster in his short life. He knew the answer to his question even as he asked. Well, I wasn’t ready to admit defeat yet. “She’s working on it.”

“Okay.” He frowned and I saw the doubt creeping over his expression.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for bed?” I met Esmeralda’s eyes. She rose and wrangled Bry, ushering him upstairs to take a bath and prepare for bed.

I stood in the middle of the living room for a minute, drumming my fingers on the back of the couch. I’d fought for everything in this house. I’d fought for that kid upstairs. I’d fought for my life through pain and tears.

I wasn’t ready to stop fighting, but I was running out of time and options.

But there was one I hadn’t explored. Now I was desperate enough to do it.

I jogged upstairs and strode into my bedroom, grabbing an empty duffel from my closet. I threw clothes and whatever else I thought I might need into the bag. In minutes I was nearly done and Esmeralda strode into the room.

She crossed her arms and arched a brow in question.

I ignored it and asked my own. “Is Bry in the tub?”

“Yes,” her voice was cool, emotionless. “I’m sure he hoped you’d tuck him into bed when he’s done.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and listened to my son giggle and splash in the bathroom. I paused for a moment, wondering if I should give him a kiss goodbye, but that seemed too... final. I wasn’t ready for final.

“Tell him I have some work to do. I’ll be back in time for dinner tomorrow.”

“And if he asks where you went?” Her face remained a blank mask.

“Tell him I’m going to visit an old friend.”

Of sorts.