“Got it right here,” Pat said, heaving a canvas duffel bag onto the counter. “Sun pellets, plasmasphere rifle, iron filings. . . . Not the usual kit for a Romance agent. Or are you off on a Fantasy encroachment?”

  “I’ve been transferred,” Daisy said, weaving herself under the duffel’s strap. She and Pat stood in the Supplies Center, surrounded by centuries of costumes, ration packs, and the uncanny Devices favored by Sci-Fi and Spy Thriller. Normally, she’d have gone to the Armory for the rifle, but this duffel had been specially ordered for her and should contain everything she needed for her first assignment. Which might be a good sign but probably wasn’t. “Just starting in Horror.”

  All traces of humor melted off Pat’s face. “Horror!”

  “It was time for a change,” Daisy said lightly. “Twelve years in the same genre gets pretty old.”

  “But you can’t work in Horror!” Pat said, blank with disbelief. “It’s dangerous!”

  “All genres are dangerous.”

  “But you could get hurt!”

  “I sometimes got hurt in Romance.”

  “You could die!”

  Daisy gave him a pained smile. He meant well. They always meant well, and she’d never been able to convince anyone about Romance. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t her partner, and her life didn’t depend on what he thought.

  The Supplies Center door opened, and an analyst joined them. She was a tidy woman a couple of years younger than Daisy, with clean-cut, girl-next-door looks and the lean fitness of a former agent. Her name was Artemis Leto. Daisy knew her, because Daisy made a point of knowing everyone. Or she’d thought she had.

  “Daisy’s been transferred to Horror!” Pat said, like he couldn’t help himself.

  “I know,” Artemis replied, holding aloft a slim black binder. “I’ve brought your assignment, Daisy. Thought you might like to deliver it personally. Might help break the ice.”

  Of course, Daisy thought. Artemis worked in Horror herself. She looked at the analyst with fresh interest. “Do you know Agent Lawrence?”

  “Lawrence!” Pat said, in much the same way he’d said, Horror! “Isn’t your partner transferring with you?”

  Daisy shook her head, maintaining her smile with considerable difficulty.

  “I’ve seen her plenty of times,” Artemis said, “but I’ve never actually spoken with her. She’s not exactly social. Writes solid reports, though.”

  Pat blinked and shivered. He had been born in the Agency but had never been an agent, and it showed. Despite this, he turned to Artemis with a deadly serious tone. “We can’t let Daisy do this,” he said. “Horror’s bad enough, but Agent Lawrence is the worst.”

  “She’s an extremely skilled agent,” Artemis said. “It’s not everyone who can survive in Horror for twelve years, let alone work solo.”

  “You mean, it’s not every agent who kills all her partners”

  Artemis’s eyes flicked to Daisy. Pat went red. “Sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Daisy put a comforting hand on Pat’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Outside, one agent called to another in a laughing, excited tone. Another voice replied, and then both sank into obscurity. Inside, the clock moved silently, and dust settled. Artemis cleared her throat and handed over the binder. “Pretty typical Dead House, looks like,” she said. “Three centuries Pre. Agent Lawrence will understand the details. You’d better hurry. Go-time’s twenty-one thirty-three, and it’s just gone twenty.”

  “That’s tight.”

  “Pretty typical, for Horror. Good hunting.” Artemis hovered at the door a moment as if about to say something else, then shook her head and left. Daisy followed her a moment later.

  Horror and Agent Lawrence, she thought as she walked. A competent partner, and a genre that’s . . . that isn’t Romance, anyway. It’ll be fine. Better. It has to be.

  She kept this thought firmly in mind as she passed the green of the Agency’s central hub, crossed into the Speculative quarter, then to the Horror spoke. The dorm was ten minutes, which gave her plenty of time to convince herself. She didn’t see a single other agent on this spoke or in the dorm. Well, she’d heard Horror was understaffed. It didn’t mean anything.

  She knocked on Suite G and waited. After fifteen seconds, it occurred to her that Agent Lawrence might not even be home. The reassignment, when it had finally come, had been sudden and swift. Had Lawrence even been informed?

  She knocked again. She could, of course, let herself in; this was her home now, too. But it seemed rude, and what if Lawrence were only in the bathroom?

  She looked at her watch. Eighty-seven minutes left, and she hadn’t even opened the brief, let alone fully prepped. If Lawrence were in the bathroom or out, Daisy could sit out here and read . . .

  But what if Lawrence didn’t come back? Daisy wouldn’t even know until it was too late, and then she’d have to find her, and they’d be late.

  Daisy pressed her lips together grimly and knocked one final time. “Agent Lawrence?” she called. “It’s Daisy. Daisy Allen, your new partner. I’m coming in.”

  Daisy’s first impression of Horror Suite G was that, aside from the unfortunate green, its bones were identical to the Romance suite she’d woken up in. It had the same blocky furniture, the same built-in bookcases, the same three doors leading to bedrooms and bathroom. There the similarities ended, however, for this room had no posters on the walls, no decorative pillows or fuzzy throws, and absolutely none of Hetty’s irrepressible clutter. The place was barren, save for a table at the back. Even from here, Daisy could see immaculately neat lines of matte black barrels, razor-edged blades, and soft leather bandoliers.

  Entranced, Daisy was halfway to the table before instinct caught up. Then she swiveled toward the threat, duffel bag flopping before her like a shield, smile dialed up to full power. “What an amazing collection!” she said to the watchful figure beside the door. “Are they all custom? I’m Daisy Allen, by the way.” She stepped forward to offer her hand.

  Agent Lawrence stood unmoving by the far wall, where the door had hidden her when opening. She had the sinewy, athletic strength of an agent in a combat-heavy genre. Her dark hair was cut too short to grab, and her clothes were from the Agency’s complimentary selection. Her eyes were wary, and her mind was a wall of ice. When she didn’t react to Daisy’s hand, Daisy converted her the movement into lowering her duffel bag. “Sorry for barging in, but Artemis told me I’d better hustle.”

  The oddest thing about Agent Lawrence, Daisy thought, was that she recognized her. More than recognized her: they had passed often over the years, and even exchanged the occasional “excuse me.” Daisy had assumed Lawrence was a hermit because she didn’t remember meeting her; but she now knew she had met her, many times, and yet never thought to ask her name.

  “She gave me our assignment,” Daisy explained, closing the distance enough to proffer the binder. To her relief, Lawrence accepted it. “They did tell you about the transfer?”

  “Yes,” Lawrence said, without inflection. She flipped open the binder and began skimming. “You’ll need a costume. Dead things, three centuries Pre-Agency Time. Plasmasphere rifle—the sixty-three, not the forty-eight. And running shoes.”

  “Got everything here,” Daisy said, indicating the duffel. “The Skeleton sent an order ahead. Timing’s pretty tight—”

  “Then get ready,” Lawrence said, and took the binder back to her desk.

  Daisy laughed to hide her feelings. “I’m transferred, not green,” she said. “Twelve years in Romance! Not the same as Horror, of course, and I’m happy to learn; but I don’t need my hand held.”

  Lawrence didn’t glance at her before settling down to read. Daisy’s smile went fixed, her eyes blank. They say only one of her partners lasted a full year, she thought, and wished Pat hadn’t reminded her of this. The most recent two died on their first missions with her. She didn’t go to any of their funerals.

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  There should have been an inquest into that last death. A petition had actually been started when someone leaked that the deceased agent had been transferred into Horror for ensorcelling her previous partner into taking the risks that had led to his death. After that, nobody cared what had happened to the dead agent, except to say she’d gotten off easy.

  Daisy shook herself and headed to the back of the room, where she began to unpack on an empty table. First out were her twin knives and silver gloves, which meant someone had gone to her suite after she’d left but before she’d finished talking with the Skeleton. Then there was the plasmasphere rifle—it was indeed a sixty-three—and a handful of other weapons and tools, none of them more than distantly familiar. Daisy examined each carefully, enduring she knew how to use it before laying it tidily on her table. When she was done, she had a spread every bit as neatly as the rows and columns on Lawrence’s weapons’ table. That left only her costume.

  The clothes they’d be wearing were gray and far shabbier than anything she’d used in Romance, but the style was familiar enough. The material looked rough, but her fingers told her it was actually one of the Agency’s special fabrics: lightweight, tough. Better than nothing, but not exactly armor.

  Lawrence finished reading the binder and went to ready her own gear. Daisy watched her out of the corner of her eye before asking, “What’s your analysis of our brief? I haven’t worked in Horror before, but Artemis said you’d be able to explain it.”

  Lawrence glanced irritably over and said nothing.

  Is she . . . going to refuse to tell me?

  It hardly seemed possible. A competent agent knew the importance of information, and would want her partner properly prepared.

  Except doesn’t want me here, and she’s already gone through six partners.

  Daisy dug her fingernails into her palms. Of all the partners she’d had, of all the incompetence and foolishness, there had never been a one who didn’t like her, who wouldn’t have preferred her alive than dead. And yet all she could think was that here she was again, when she’d thought she had escaped, when she’d hoped.

  But everyone has the right to survive, Daisy thought, the roots of her despair a decade deep.

  Not noticing how her smile froze and her fingers twitched, Daisy sharpened her mind at her new partner. “Tell me—”

  “You have worked Harem strains,” Lawrence said.

  Daisy blinked, her concentration evaporating before the influ-ence could take effect. “That’s right,” she said. “The trick is disabling or imprisoning the innocents so you can unravel the Heart without them interfer-ing. Undoing the ensorcellment at its source lets you release the threads gently enough not to drive the innocents insane.” Not, she remem-bered with a flash of annoyance, that her partners had ever under-stood that part, which meant that she—

  “There are no innocents in Horror, only enemies and victims; and the victims are seldom in the direct line of fire,” Lawrence said. “When we are inside, you will kill everything you see, no matter what it looks like, unless I indicate other-wise. Once we reach the Heart, you will unravel it while I cover you. Only after that will we track down and release any surviving victims. If we become separated, what do you do?”

  Daisy palmed a handful of spare sun pellets. “Kill everything I see. Even if it looks like you.”

  Lawrence’s lips twitched in something close to approval. “Don’t attempt to unravel the ensorcellment unless I’m there to protect you. If we get sepa-rated, kill the Heart if you can; if you can’t, escape and wait for me on the Path. I will deal with the victims.”

  This was another thing Daisy had heard: that if Lawrence could not defeat the Heart, she executed the victims on her way out. When confronted about this after a particularly gruesome report, Lawrence had claimed that otherwise the victims might become infected by the Horror—and that even if they weren’t, death was better than remain-ing in its power. Attempting to save victims without defeating the Heart first, Lawrence had added bitterly, was one of the primary reasons so many Agents died in Horror.

  “So you understand,” Lawrence said, observing Daisy’s expres-sion. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

  “I think,” Daisy said carefully, “that you have survived in Horror for twelve years.”

  “Then follow my orders,” Lawrence said, “and come back alive.” She double-checked her running shoes and went over her gear once more: the rifle on her back, the extra plasma cartridge and grenades, the rope and pitons, the salt and holy water. Her face, never expressive of much, relaxed into an impassive mask as she holstered her final and most important tools: a pair of silver-edged, steel-reinforced iron hatchets, one for each thigh.

  Here again, Agent Lawrence surprised Daisy. Instead of tapping her foot or glancing impatiently at her watch (as Daisy had been known to do) while Daisy struggled with the delicate ties of her silver gloves, Lawrence circled her new partner, tugging on gear and adjust-ing it for greater security and access. Daisy endured this, equal parts uncomfortable and comforted, but stopped Lawrence from touch-ing the many delicate bindings on her gloves.

  “They aren’t meant to be fastened one-handed,” Lawrence said.

  “I know, but I still must do them myself,” Daisy explained apolo-geti-cally, and was surprised to be rewarded by a second hint of almost-approval.

  Despite Daisy’s fears, Lawrence’s efficiency meant they arrived at the Path Room the correct fifteen minutes before go-time.

  The tech on duty nodded as they entered. Unlike the techs in Romance, who were inclined to chat and sidle up while she frantically wrangled her various partners, he stayed at his station. Daisy supposed it would be awfully hard to do otherwise, with Lawrence watching.

  “Welcome, Agents,” he said, saluting and using the proper phrases. “Your Path has been prepared and will activate on schedule.”

  “Good,” Agent Lawrence said, and took up her position in the waiting area before the columns.

  “Thanks, Derek,” Daisy said. The tech waved before returning his focus to his console.

  The Path Room descended into deep silence, broken only by the quiet press of fingers against padded keys and the way the empty space picked up every breath and whispered it back. Daisy wasn’t sure if she found this more restful or more disturbing. The ambiance certainly had little in common with the velveteen intimacy of the Romance Path Room.

  The Path Rooms were one of the mysteries of the Agency. Each one contained a pair of columns—more than one pair, if a building hosted multiple genres, which neither Romance nor Horror did—which could be opened to its respective Path. Down the years, analysts and techs had learned to operate the Path Rooms and direct agents down the Paths, but no one had discovered who had built them or why. Daisy hadn’t even realized before now that the columns took on attributes of their genres: for while the Romance columns reeked of cloying perfume, Horror’s were as cold and impassive as Agent Lawrence, with the added unpleasantness of black mold in their pleats.

  Of all the genres to be transferred to . . .

  Lawrence stood at ease, breath slow and eyes closed. Daisy bit her tongue. It felt stranger and stranger, this placid silence. Not having to go over a million things last minute; not having to prod and remind and plead . . .

  Lawrence has survived in Horror for twelve years.

  Daisy shot another glance at her partner, at the emotionless mask and balanced stance. Romance is every bit as tough as Horror, she told herself. Would I get worked up for a—a—a Harem strain? Not a chance!

  Daisy jumped at the sixty-second warning, and Lawrence’s eye-lids slid open. The irises beneath were the frosty gray of predawn.

  “Ten seconds,” Tech Derek announced from his console. “Nine.”

  Daisy touched one glove and then the other. She was ready. She’d be fine.

  “Two. One. Opening.”

  Claws of vile yellow light rent the air between the two columns, parting the space like curtains. A shimmering nothing remained between, and damp cold gushed out. Agent Lawrence grabbed Daisy’s arm above the elbow, and they stepped between the columns. Blindness and suffocation spiked past, and then the agents stood together upon a ragged stair.

  The air was horribly cold, cold enough to kill. Daisy’s breath fell out of her in shock, and then a puff of searing fog enveloped them, faintly red and rancid with rotting meat and fresh feces. Her knees wobbled and would have given out without Law-rence’s stabilizing hand. She gasped, wrenched her mind around, and forced herself to process and understand.

  The Horror Path was not a corridor but a staircase, a dubi-ous struc-ture of cracked concrete and thick black mold. The staircase was narrow enough she could have wrapped her fingers around either side at once, but it stretched endlessly below. Beyond it lay only an abyss of bottomless dark and pitiless cold and the feeling of something hungry and vast watching her. It never occurred to her to look up.

  “Six hundred,” Lawrence said, and started down, counting each step aloud.

  Daisy followed, hands out to keep her balance. She had known Horror was, to put it kindly, exercise-intensive, but she had never imagined this description included the Path itself. Her shins and hips ached by the time they’d descended six hundred steps.

  “Take a five-minute break,” Lawrence said, consulting her watch.

  Daisy laughed breathily and sat to dig out her water bottle. “I’ve heard about such things as breaks, but we’ve never arrived early enough to get them. You wouldn’t believe how I’ve had to pull and beg and harass my other partners to get anywhere remotely on time.”

  “What will pass in Romance will not pass in Horror,” Lawrence said.

  The coolness with which the words were spoken, the casual disdain of the tone, cut through Daisy’s defenses, through her deter-mination to be charming, through everything but the desperate need to be taken seriously. “You have no right to make fun of Romance!” she snapped. “I know you people think it’s all lovey-dovey happy end-ings, but that’s not how it works. It’s twisted. Once love spells go wrong (and they always go wrong), the innocents get crazy and violent, and it’s awful. The fantasies behind it are sick. People get hurt.”

  Lawrence regarded her with empty eyes. “One minute left. Deo-dorize your-self; your emotions are running too hot.”

  “I’m an experienced agent, not an ignorant greenie. Don’t dismiss me.”

  “Thirty seconds,” Lawrence said. “Let’s get this straight, Agent. I don’t care what you did or didn’t do before. When we are inside the scenario, I will not cut you any slack or look for you if you get lost. Stay close, and let me take point until we reach the Heart. Twenty seconds.”

  Daisy stared at her, the burst of emotion doused into a coal of despair. And yet she mustn’t think about that now, mustn’t think about anything but surviving. So, without another word, Daisy deodor-ized herself in quick, practiced Xs and reholstered the aero-sol.

  Meanwhile, Lawrence knelt and hacked open the air beside the stair with a hatchet. Then she peeled back the space, drew her other hatchet, and dropped through.

  Daisy waited three seconds before sliding in after her, rifle ready. As she went, she pulled the rough-cut flap mostly closed, feeling the fabric of the void tingle through her gloves. This opening would serve as their even-tual exit, and it was better that the Horror never know it existed.