"Fuck," I hissed, babying my bad leg. The gash was long and deep and would probably require stitches. "Ow, ow, ow..."

I limped a few steps, using the brick of a pawn shop to keep myself upright. At least the armor was keeping my blood from dribbling to the asphalt. Most things of a supernatural ilk could do some fairly horrible things to you if they had bits of your body. Though, for utility's sake, it was almost always blood or hair that was used in spells. It was much easier to stash bloody tissues and locks of hair than a spleen or a pair of eyeballs. Toenail clippings could work too, though it was creepier and would result in an awkward conversation if someone found them hiding out in your closet.

The cut pissed me off. I'd been in the clear. Wannabe sorcerer defeated, all of the vagrants he'd rounded up as followers or sacrifices released—save one. At first, I'd mistaken her for a corpse. She'd been so small, so still that I'd been convinced that the lust-fueled ritual had drained everything she had. A few of the weaker members of his cult had died during the orgy when the magic hit their hearts. It wasn't unlike what a White Court vampire could do to a person with enough exposure, and each ecstatic death fueled the sorcerer's power.

It had scared the hell out of me when she'd sputtered to sudden life and grabbed the first thing she could get her hands on. She'd managed to work the ritual dagger in at just the wrong spot, slicing deep before I'd even registered that she was moving. One swift punch and she was out again. I'd tipped S.I. off and cleared out of the scene before I could bleed on it and implicate myself in a crime. Marcone bankrolled a nearby clinic, paying several of the doctors under the table to fix up his guys without questions or paperwork. They'd stitch me up and send me on my way with a bottle of Tylenol 3, giving me advice about rest that I'd never take.

But their proximity didn't mean much to me now. This fucking hurt.

A disembodied giggle was the first clue that someone was eavesdropping. A felt an abrupt pang of guilt when I realized that one or both kiddos were listening in on the profanity streaming out of my mouth as I made my slow, careful way to the clinic.

"Do not repeat any of what you just heard," I warned. "I shouldn't be saying those words in the first place."

Another giggle, high and feminine. "Why not? Swearing has a hypoalgesic effect on pain. It seems a waste not to take advantage of a proven method to relieve your discomfort, simply to adhere to some societally constructed idea of what is morally right in one country at one point in history. That word didn't used to be as offensive as it is presently."

I wanted to rub my temples to assuage a growing headache. I contented myself with a groan and another muttered swear word. Fortnea was right. It helped a little. I was sure she'd tell me why if I prompted her.

There were times when she sounded exactly like her Other Mother. It wasn't right or fair, but Fortnea worried me more than her brother, though they'd come from the exact same union. It was the way she talked and presented herself that reminded me unpleasantly of Lash. And then she'd say or do something that betrayed her utter lack of guile, and I'd feel guilty for doubting her. She had her mother's personality and a great deal of her knowledge without the context behind any of it.

I had a theory that the twins had started at the same being at some point and split when I became of two minds about their Other Mother. Pax was laidback and fun, the sort of peaceful refuge Lasciel had been in the beginning. He spoke up less frequently and tended to be less technical than his sister. Fortnea was a spitfire and a know-it-all, which I couldn't totally attribute to Lasciel's influence. Her mother and I had gotten along for a reason.

I sighed. "Still."

"Most countries have an equivalent to the word fuck," Pax added thoughtfully. "Joder, jebote, cazzo, merde, fanculo, porra..."

I let out an unwilling laugh as Pax continued down a list of expletives, occasionally stopping to explain the language, cultural context, and the possible etymological origin of the word. He sounded so pleased with himself that I didn't have the heart to tell him off.

"I've got a pair of potty-mouthed Rosetta Stones," I muttered, pulling a veil over myself before crossing the street. The clinic was finally in sight. "Fuckin A."