The treatment was palliative, relieving symptoms, and preventative: avoiding sudden cardiac death.

Dancer had never breathed a word of it to me.

We’d raced through the streets at dizzying, dangerous speeds, set off bombs and outrun them. He’d let me whiz him around in freeze-frame, crashing him into all kinds of stuff, bruising him, hurting him. Laughing his ass off the entire time.

Now I understood why he’d liked to laze on uncommon days of sunshine as boneless as a cat, soaking up the sun: stillness was his friend. Being able to relax so completely might just be what had kept him alive this long.

Now I understood why Caoimhe had stared daggers at me whenever she’d seen me.

I might have killed him.

You’re going to get the boy killed one day, Ryodan had said to me five and a half years ago, Silverside time.

Rot in purgatory, dude, I’d fired back. Batman never dies. Dancer won’t either.

But Batman didn’t have a bad heart.

Dancer did.

When the door whisked silently open, I stalked into Ryodan’s office and dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the desk from him. In the month we’d been gone, the floor and walls had been replaced and the office, like the man, was good as new.

For a moment I just looked at him, appreciating that he was no longer charred to a human crisp and his skin was golden and smooth, except for the skein of scars at his throat and the long, wicked one that stretched from what I could see of his collarbone up to his left ear. Dressed as he usually was in dark pants and an impeccable crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, silver cuff glinting, he looked more like a business tycoon than something that I knew wasn’t human, sometimes had fangs, could move faster and knew far more powerful magic than me. I realized then, as I never had when I was young, that he’d chosen such civilized attire for precisely that reason—to make people think he was something other than the ruthless, immortal being he was.

I opened my mouth to give him the carefully scripted speech I’d worked on for the past hour, the one that was logical and persuasive and built gently to the point and came off as neither pushy nor needy—the deft, tactful speech that was going to win him over and guarantee his aid—but my mouth had other plans and growled, “How the bloody hell did you keep Dageus alive?”

Up until that moment he’d been regarding me with more benign interest than I’d ever seen from him before. Weird fuck. I just killed him recently, and now he was all laid back.

Benign vanished. A scowl stomped the living shit out of it and did a dance all over his face. He lunged from the chair, was around the desk and had me on my feet, gripping me by my shoulders before I’d even processed that he’d moved.

I would give not just my eyeteeth but every last one of my teeth and wear dentures for the rest of my life, if he’d teach me how to do that.

“How do you know about Dageus?” he said with careful precision. Like Barrons, he spoke differently when he was deeply pissed off or offended. Barrons got softer. Ryodan went all upper-crust British formal and precise, enunciating each word crisply.

I shrugged his hands off my shoulders. “Saw it on the monitor last night.”

“You weren’t here last night.”

“My last night. Thirty-five days ago. We had a meeting here when you were dead. How did you do it? Really, it’s not so much to ask. I just said ‘when you were dead.’ I know that happens, that you die and come back, as if that’s not a huge, sacred secret. I’m not even asking you how. I’m not asking a single thing about you. Nor am I asking you anything about Dageus. You can keep all those secrets and I’ll never bother you about them again. But I want to know how you were able to keep someone who was mortally injured from dying.”

He stared down at me a moment then turned away, stalked to the wall and stared out through the glass at the shadowy, empty, silent clubs below.

His shoulders were rigidly contracted, muscles bunching, and the tension in his spine held him as formal as a soldier in full dress uniform. As I watched him, I was startled and a little irked to see him implementing one of my own tactics—the tension began to vanish, starting at eye level. I frowned, wondering if I’d noticed him doing it years ago and copied it from him. I thought I’d invented it. I’d liked thinking I invented it.

Only when he was smoothly muscled as a lazing lion did he turn and say, “Who’s hurt that you want me to save?”

I assessed him in silence. I knew why I’d worked so hard preparing my speech. I didn’t believe he’d help me. Why would he? He’d never liked Dancer. “It’s not an issue of hurt so much as it is…well, if someone had a bad heart, could you fix it?”

He narrowed his eyes and stared at me as if trying to pluck the name from my brain, so I began mentally singing the theme song from Animaniacs that I loved so much when I was a kid, really loud on the top of my brain. It always put me in a great mood. It didn’t this time. It’s time for Animaniacs, and we’re zany to the max, so just sit back and relax, you’ll laugh till you collapse, we’re ANIMANIACS!

His eyes narrowed to slits. “What the fuck are Animaniacs?”

I scowled. “I knew you did that to me. You used to do it all the time, poke around in my head for stuff I didn’t feel like telling you. You said you wouldn’t do it anymore.”

“I said, precisely, that I wouldn’t do it much. Who has a bad heart?”

I dropped back down into the chair and stared up at him. “Dancer,” I said flatly.