"We need to take the sword. For science reasons," Clive told Steven, the words carrying the weight of an apology--though not a sincere one. Clive couldn't give a straight apology with a gun to his head, but he had not couched it behind much of a joke. He had faced down a genocidal angel with nothing more than industrial metal on his earbuds. Still, a grizzled, filthy man with a sword had immediacy enough for some nervousness.

Steven studied the three, pausing on Clive, considering his worthiness for a reply, before shifting to Roselyn. "Miss, with respect, we're going to have to do this my way."

Roselyn's arms folded, her natural elegance tempered with a resolute, cold edge. "How are you in a position to dictate terms? We'll do it in the most effective, compassionate way," she said, "compassionate" sounding like a profane amplifier from her lips.

"My sword," he said, as if that explained everything. "So, my terms. Shane doesn't touch me. Non-negotiable." He nodded to Roselyn. "You take the sword." His gaze locked onto Clive, and his expression might, if one were generous, have been mistaken for a smirk. "And Junior is going to come over here."

Clive's eyes widened as he had already grown comfortable being overlooked by Steven. "Why?"

"Now, I'm sure you all are trustworthy folks -- salt of the earth. That said, I'm thinking you don't want Junior getting messy, and you aren't so concerned with caring the same to me. So he's going to stand right there next to me, and he'll let you know when it's time to hand that sword back." Steve's grin was thin and toothy. "He doesn't want to be in the splash zone. Me? Not so bothered because I trust you aren't going to do anything stupid."

Shane heard the threat beneath the smile. Steve spoke fluent menace. He couldn't harm Clive -- he needed Shane's cooperation, and hurting her allies would end that in a heartbeat and put her in mind of getting rid of him -- but it was an apparent attempt to assert control he did not have. If they decided he was more trouble than he was worth, they could throw the sword somewhere unreachable, and he would die horribly in a puddle of viscera (Shane assumed, having not asked enough particulars of his delayed injuries). Gooifying him wasn't their style, which he must suspect, but he would know it was still an option should he force their hands.

On the other hand, Steven knew he could brutalize them before he died, and he might prefer not to go to his death alone.

Shane wondered what else he knew. Yes, he was aware enough to find the nearest steward--they were not many, but stationed where a conspiracy theorist might assume--and Red Hook happened to be the site of the sword drop-off. She doubted he came ignorant of her. People in his position did some homework. She hated being at any informational disadvantage, but it was a frequent state. She contemplated accidentally tripping and using his bare forearm for balance long enough to read his thoughts. She doubted he would not have anticipated such a ruse. Better to think moves ahead, even if she was unsure he was playing the same game.

Clive shuffled over to Steven, his hand upturned as though requesting alms. "I am capable of asserting when it has gone too far without anyone suggesting they will crush my bones as insurance," he muttered, half to himself. "I want that on the record."

Shane almost echoed Roselyn, making explicit that bearing a cursed sword didn't come with the authority to force compromise. But she could allow him this, knowing she might not be so generous later. Also, she would leap upon him and forcibly change his mind before he dislocated much.

Clive swallowed and placed his hand above but not on Steven's, though he snatched it without hesitation. His hand trembled in Steven's grip--caged and fluttering like a baby bird.

"You got soft hands, Junior," Steven said, too close to his ear. "Just remember: don't be shy. Your girlfriend probably likes those soft hands like they are."

"She's not--" Clive started, then sighed. "Must we? Here, I am the paragon of helpfulness, and this is how I am treated? I, the second-best artist in this filthy town, am so abused?"

Steven extended the sword to Roselyn, blade down, ignoring Clive's melodrama.

She stepped forward. She'd faced better monsters than Steven and hadn't flinched. She placed the sword on the nearest folding chair like a grenade with a loose pin. The nature of curses was amorphous, and there was no sense in getting stained through prolonged contact.

Steven flexed his fingers, shaking his hand as though to restore feeling, banishing stiffness Shane was unsure the sword had let him feel.

Shane started her watch, hoping to accrue a large enough cushion of minutes between the sword leaving his hand and the first injury.

At 3 minutes, 23 seconds, a red slash opened along his ribs. Blood poured. Steven did not react until he realized Shane's eyes were on his side.

"They shot at me. I dodged," Steve said flatly. "Sword hit me when I landed."

His voice was calm, but Shane saw the tension in his jaw. He flexed his liberated hand again, the other clamped around Clive's wrist.

"Still okay?" Shane asked.

"It's not deep."

"How long until it is?" Roselyn said.

Steven didn't answer--he just touched his shoulder.

A scrape bloomed on his cheek. His arm gushed red, steaming in the basement's coolness. His knuckles shredded as though he had punched his way through a wall. Another hole exploded from his arm--a bullet, or maybe a serious puncture--and then a gash tore open in his torso, his sternum audibly cracking like a wishbone. Shane's eyebrows arched in silent question. Steven gave a short shake of the head. Not yet.

Did adrenaline dull the pain, or was it sheer stubbornness? Most people would be screaming by now. Steven bore it all in silence, stoic and slightly smug, which made Shane feel more pity than sympathy or respect. She could help someone who cared more about his survival and could be strong enough to show weakness. A stiff upper lip too often earned a punch--not from her, as she stuck to pacificism when possible, but the universe writ large.

Mystical mechanics rarely obeyed biology, but Shane hoped some glandular mercy would cushion his agony. Otherwise, he bore mortal injuries like his father had indoctrinated him into thinking crying was for girls.

His shoulder snapped backward, fragments of bone shooting free with the blood.

5 minutes, 32 seconds.

"Give him back the fucking sword!" Clive yelped, his hand convulsing in Steven's tightening grip.

Roselyn tossed it to Steven with no delicacy, and he caught it clumsily, fumbling it like a slick beer bottle in a bar fight. He was not a man built for grace, but it was enough of a distraction that Clive fell and scampered free of Steven's reach.

His restoration was instantaneous. Shane had feared they'd need to wait an equivalent time for the injuries to recede, a show she didn't care to watch in reverse.

His shirt clung with fresh blood, but Steven's eyes did not betray haziness at the loss. His healing didn't come at the expense of his humanity or the vitality of people around him--something that Shane had suspected would be the case but might have better warned her friends. Every time Shane repaired from a significant injury, she turned pale with daemonic energy, draining those around her of their thoughts--and occasionally plants of all their life in the absence of enough sapient, human minds.

"You look happy," said Steven, catching her scrutiny.

She hadn't meant to, but she couldn't deny how her lips had betrayed her. "Good information," she admitted. "Whatever that sword's doing comes from it, not you. It's a link, not an infestation. Self-contained magic."

"Dumb it down."

"Links can be cut. Parasites have to be poisoned and extracted, usually slowly. I had a cousin who got saddled with a worm during voluntourism in some jungle. He had to cut his skin open, wind the worm around a pencil, and twist it out over a week--a half-turn at a time. It would have broken and polluted him or dug in if he pulled it all at once."

"Is that important to know?"

"Only in that this isn't happening to you," Shane said. "Also, it's weird my cousin didn't just go to a hospital. Surely that would have been more sanitary."

Once sure his precious hand had survived its canary-in-the-coal-mine duty -- and after only two restrained-for-him jerking-off jokes -- Clive was ebullient at the minor challenge of a five-minute danger window in constructing their stopgap.

They didn't speak much after the sword was back in Steven's hands. Roselyn and Clive circled their subject, pointing at him like a statue needing restoration. Shane took in the scene more holistically--Steven, yes, but also her friends as they found their element.

Eventually, Roselyn glanced at Shane and gave the slightest nod--permission or a prompt. Either way, Shane took it.

Steven blinked slowly. "You got a plan, Miss?"

"Yes. Do what Roselyn says."

Steven tilted his head like predators sometimes did before pouncing or passing judgment. "Which is what?"

Roselyn raided what she could from the storage areas beneath the art building, deciding her apartment would make a better staging area, one less likely to be intruded upon by security guards or those intent on finding the sword.

"Your wards can hide me?" Steven asked.

Roselyn inhaled. "I trust them enough that I am offering up my place. Take that as you will, but the basement of the art building is not a defensible position."

After resetting this space to be closer to what it was when they arrived, Shane asked, "Do we need the tarp?"

Clive laughed. "Leave it. If we should have brought the tarp to Roselyn's, our issues would be so much worse than a mess."

The geometry of fitting Steven and the sword in the backseat of Roselyn's car threatened the sanctity of its doors and windows. Clive declined to sit there, confident he would end up decapitated for his trouble. Only Shane was willing, as she had once had her throat slit, and it wasn't too bad -- but Steven refused until they piled material between them to make a barrier.

"I can manage to sit in the car with you without touching you," Shane said, a little miffed that he requested her help and wouldn't believe her promise.

"I'm willing to take a precaution or two," he said.

Back at Roselyn's, Clive darted around to clear the clutter into a workspace. He stripped the dining nook table of its decorative bowl of pinecones (which Roselyn insisted were not belatedly seasonal, just textural), replacing it with butcher paper to conjure schematics, duct tape, and a small armory of fasteners and scrap leather. Before Shane could negotiate fitting Steven into one of the chairs, Clive was already piling paintbrushes and screwdrivers on a dining room chair, his tongue between his teeth.

Shane rummaged through her bag for her book to give herself something to make her purposeful while she waited for her friends to summon their creation. "Are you going to lick them?" she asked Clive.

"I wasn't going to lick anything here," Clive replied, licking his thumb to smudge graphite from a skeletal sketch on the paper. "I do not lick most things, and I do not appreciate the accusation. Who is starting these rumors?"

Steven sat in one of Roselyn's under-stuffed chairs, elbows on knees, sword still in hand, looking the most uncomfortable Shane had ever seen a man in this apartment. The sword hadn't left his grip since Roselyn returned it. His posture was relaxed the way prey plays dead--hoping danger won't notice.

Shane sat across from him, diary open, pen spinning between her fingers.

"You're staring at me like I'm going to do a trick," Steven muttered without looking up.

"I'm observing."

"You're creeping."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm a paranormal diagnostician. Creeping is half the job."

He exhaled through his nose, tired. "Quit trying to get a reading. You won't touch me."

Shane leaned back. "I don't need to touch you to get a baseline. But it'd be faster."

"No."

She nodded at the sword. "Don't you want to be rid of it?"

"I want to be paid without dying. Kind of indifferent to the sword on its own."

"You think she will give you the money and a clean break?" Shane asked. "She let you be cursed. She may not have your best interests in mind."

"I wouldn't trust her if she did," he said. "I hold up my end." He shrugged, and the movement nearly dislodged the blade from its awkward rest along his thigh. He adjusted it like a cat swiping a twitchy tail into place.

Clive and Roselyn drew up plans like generals at war: muttering, sketching over each other's diagrams, arguing over whether the rotation lock should be brass or salvaged from a ceiling fan bracket. A half-eaten granola bar became a paperweight. Clive burned a fingertip. There were no raised voices, just the occasional string of curses to machinery and gods.

Shane offered Steven a book to occupy him in the absence of providing her an enlightening conversation. However, Roselyn's library was either artistic or occult. He paged through a photography book with his free hand, finding the monochrome nudes without trouble. He lingered over these with no outward appreciation and embarrassment -- Shane thought he ought to give the latter, but at least could have gleaned insight from the former -- but more focus than he gave to anything else in the room.

Behind them, Roselyn and Clive disassembled a camping chair for the aluminum tubing. Roselyn had zip ties between her teeth and a grease pencil behind one ear. Clive held something upside-down and declared it "visionary," to which Roselyn replied, "It's a bike chain, Clive. We are not reinventing the wheel."

Shane tilted her head, still watching Steven, who had even lost interest in the naked ladies. "You don't strike me as noble."

"I'm not."

"So you chose this line of work for the dental plan?"

His mouth twitched, half-smile, half snarl. "Maybe I like cursed objects."

"Maybe you just like trouble and think you are a cursed object."

He looked up, eyes catching hers like the snap of a mousetrap. "Maybe I get some use out of this sword before you break the curse--or even if you don't. Maybe I can do something with it before it kills me."

"Like find the guys who want it and cleave them in twain?"

Steven sucked his teeth. "Guys like that are wasted being in one piece."

"I'm sure they think the same of you," Shane said, goading him, but only slightly.

He shook his head slowly, not rising to the bait or even acknowledging it. "They're the bad guys."

Shane stilled, absorbing this information. "Does that make you the good guy by default?"

"No. I think I'm useful, and I don't want people who don't deserve it to get hurt," he said. "We both know how big that field of gray is."

From the table came the unmistakable sound of a Dremel going to war with something not meant to be Dremeled. Sparks spit. A puff of smoke wafted toward the ceiling, at which Clive cheered.

Steven barely blinked. "Are your friends insane?"

"They're artists," Shane said. "Artistry often looks like madness from the outside."

"Looks like a fire hazard."

Shane allowed herself a faint smirk. "You're the guy walking around with a blade that tries to murder you every time you let it go. Aren't you more comfortable with hazards than peace?"

Steven didn't answer, but his hand tightened on the hilt.

Minutes passed. Clive disappeared into the bathroom and emerged with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a roll of gauze.

The sound of a bolt locking into place echoed through the room.

"Okay," Roselyn announced. "It's awkward but probably functional. Like Clive."

"Hey," Clive said, not looking up from the table where their collaboration rested. "I am made in God's image. A mad god who devours his young, but a god nevertheless."

Steven stood--slowly, warily--and moved toward the table.

Roselyn slipped the Frankenstein of leather, brass, gears, and reinforced plastic over his sword arm. He pulled his shirt free--which took no real effort given how tattered it had become--and Roselyn installed it across his torso. Clive busied himself tightening metal strapping over the pommel, quillions, and guard, then slipped a circle of paracord over Steven's thumb.

"It'll need tuning," Roselyn said, "but the rig shouldn't fall apart before he does."

She just tightened a bolt, then stepped back, arms crossed, watching the contraption with a frown as he jerked his sword arm. He did not trust them enough to release the sword, even though it would have been three minutes before he regretted it.

"It'll work?" Shane asked.

"Well," Roselyn began, matter-of-fact, "it'll fail slowly and can probably last three days before doing it. We'll see it coming. As far as I can imagine, it'll seize up more than fall apart. Then he just has to be sure the sword is touching some part of him when it does."

"Flick your wrist up while pulling the thumb cord," Clive directed Steven. He then took an unnecessarily big step back.

Steven did as requested. Nothing happened. Clive slipped under Steven's arm, showing a deficit of self-preservation or a surfeit of confidence; his screwdriver and a squeeze tube of petroleum jelly deployed within ten seconds. Steven barely had the time to swear under his breath.

Clive resumed his distance, then motioned for Steven to try again.

The next attempt produced no more results than the last. Steven cleared his throat with suspicion.

"Once more," Clive directed. "I feel good about this one."

Steven attempted the flick and pulled slowly, once more, in a gesture that Shane could not help but find sarcasm. His eyes opened a little more as the sword jerked up his forearm. When he straightened it, it traveled over his tense bicep and shoulder, then down his back, where it rested along his spine. Sitting that way without piercing the unfortunate seat would not be comfortable. Still, it did not badly impede his standing. Absent the fear of slicing his butt if he moved the wrong way--which would not bother Steve more than a bullet had--it did not appear to interfere much with his range of motion.

"It's one-way," Roselyn said, factually and without apology. "You must pull it down with your left hand to reset it."

Steven sneered but looked impressed. "Like giving myself a hug," he said with false cheer.

"May I explain?" Clive asked, already puffing out his chest.

"Do you have to?" replied Steven.

"On the off chance this is helpful to you, yes," he said. "Also, because artists are a proud lot, and I wish my work to be appreciated sufficiently." He stepped to Steven's side as though presenting the prize at a game show. "We have a reinforced track on top of a bike chain to draw the sword to his back. Every six inches is a copper rivet through the leather that connects the sword's metal to this bruiser's skin. We opted for copper for its conductivity and because we had these on hand from a massive blue-ring octopus sculpture that proved less exciting in reality than it did in my head. For the scientific and apparently magical potency, I would have preferred gold rings, but Red Hook lacks a suitable pawn shop for the brokenhearted to give these up. Also, our cash reserves are low and not to be expended on outfitting strangers with something so cool." He looked expectantly at Shane, who nodded this was accurate. "So, copper it is. The curse seems to transmit through this well enough that it doesn't see a difference between touching metal that is touching Steven and just touching Steven."

"Curses are made of electricity?" Shane asked.

"Many things are made of electricity," said Clive. "Things we do not lick."

Shane laughed. "How much did you know that would work?"

"We have our five-minute window if it didn't."

"I do not have a carpet shampooer to eradicate his blood."

"We'd know before he exploded too much," said Clive. "At least three minutes before it's going to stain. Plus, it still wouldn't be the most blood that has ever been loose in this place."

Shane caressed the device without breaking the prohibition on touching Steven. There were no crystals or sigils, no whiff of smoke or essential oils. Roselyn had not bothered with witchcraft.

"No need to muddle things up with my own magick," said Roselyn, guessing the target of Shane's examination. "A cursed sword is enough, and this only needs to keep him from breaking contact, not breaking the curse. That's your department."

Steven pulled the sword down, which involved more force and jerking than Shane liked but clearly no more than anyone else in the room expected, and then activated the mechanism three more times. It grew only smoother and quieter with each successful iteration, the unguents lubricating it more evenly distributed. When satisfied it wouldn't fly off and butcher him, Steven asked, "Mind if I hit the head?"

The sword on his back changed his posture--it made him seem taller and less dangerous than when hunched. Shane could've passed him on the street and not looked twice, shirtlessness and mechanism aside.

Shane gestured to the bathroom without looking up from her annotation of sword lore in her book. "Don't break anything if you can help it. If Roselyn has any security deposit left, I would hate to void it on your behalf."

He paused at the threshold, then leaned closer, voice lowering like they were confidants.

"The thing of it is," he said, almost sheepish, "I haven't had anything like a shower in... well, let's just say some time."

So close, the perfume of WD-40 and machinery did not compliment the aroma of rank sweat and coagulation accumulated on his skin. "There's men's body wash under the sink, some shampoo." Shane glanced at his closely cropped hair, thin in spots. Maybe it was tacky to have offered that. This was the first time Steven showed anything like self-consciousness, and she liked him fractionally better for that. He could be a person and not only a problem.

He sucked his teeth. He nodded toward Clive. "Boyfriend?"

Clive piped up from the corner, juggling a screwdriver as he skimmed his drawings of the device. "Nope. I'm a coconut-lime kind of guy."

Shane added wanly, "Roselyn entertains on occasion."

"Good," said Steven. "The kid gets on my nerves."

Shane bristled. She had every right to find Clive annoying--he was hers to be annoyed by. Steven had no right to assert this judgment. Clive was like an alley cat--drawn to trouble, content to sit just outside the splash zone when it came--but good enough for a cuddle and keeping the rats away.

When Steven disappeared into the bathroom, Shane breathed deeper. Not calmer--just deeper.

He was not gone long--definitely not long enough to have made that shower count--before he returned, the wet sword still clutched in his hand as he tried to put the mechanism on one-handed.

Shane moved toward him to fasten it, knowing she should get the practice as one of her unenviable stewardship duties but also because she hated a man who mistook martyrdom for self-reliance. He leaned away from her, and she earned more of his trust by letting no part of her skin touch his.

He did, at least, smell more like tangerines and tea than a man who had spent days on the run. She didn't suspect the leather and steel would encourage this freshness for long.

"How are you with the cold?" Shane asked.

"Not a fan," Steven said. "I'm more of an autumn than winter."

"But it won't hurt you?"

He sniffed. "Wouldn't guess anything much would." His thick brows drew together. "Why?"

"Shirts are not made that can accommodate the rig, to say nothing of the skin contact."

It wasn't about modesty--such considerations were beneath his notice or caring--as much as visibility. The daemons had magic to pass as normal. Steven had only that people instinctively knew better than to look someone like him in the eyes.

"You've given up on making me inconspicuous?" he asked.

"It's Red Hook," Roselyn said. "There are weirder things."

Fortunately, Roselyn had been one of the weirder things, at least regarding her dress sense. "Try this," she said, handing over a black leather cloak from the Renaissance Faire. "It's mildew-chic. Retro plague doctor."

He tried to fasten it over his throat but struggled with the fine motor skills of tying the knot as though his fingers knew only gripping, stabbing, and punching.

Shane stepped in to do this for him as well. "At some point, you'll need to tell me what the mermaid is paying you," she said. "I am going to find out, and you would save us both some time."

"It's not money."

"You mentioned," Shane noted. "Then what?"

"Something I want."

That was the difference between them. Shane worked in layers and wanted every piece on the table before she moved. Steven was all impulse and grit and quiet deals. He wasn't reckless, just indifferent to what did not contribute to his plan. That made him dangerous in a way even the sword couldn't match.

Roselyn pulled Steven away to adjust the mechanism further based on what she had seen of his movements. However, Shane did not have a discerning enough eye to notice what was wrong with it. The man beneath it, however, was giving her clues. He didn't want life. Maybe a man in his position never does, knowing the bitter tang of existence gone too long. If Steven had wanted someone or something dead, he would not have contracted out. Material gain was beyond his caring. She knew those possessed of avarice, and they whined when cursed with a hoisted petard. Steven did not want magic or power--she knew this type too, and they would not have come to her for help without implying they hoped to take advantage of her hospitality.

What to get for the man who had nothing?

Shane's eyes flickered over his face, his squint as Roselyn tightened metal and leather as she sliced off a stray flap with a utility knife. She was gorgeous--Roselyn could not help it, and people tended to not let it slip their notice--and Steven did not care. Not in that way. He looked at Roselyn, and he saw something other men did not.

What could a man like Steven want that he could not get otherwise?

It took only a brief calculation for Shane to render her guess: something lost.

Or someone.