Qebhet took the pita mechanically. She didn't want to talk. Or maybe she did, maybe it would help to unburden the heavy weight behind her ribs. Maybe that was why it ached so. Because the one person in New York she could go to for counsel on this had stopped answering her phone three days ago, and might not return for many days to come. Her father was on the opposite coast, and she didn't dare tell any other immortal, for fear it might get back to Ares or some other god who meant Hecate ill. And how could she think to set this weight on a mortal's shoulders, even if she could share the half of it?
But Genesis was patient and quiet, the soft pressure of her hand a reassuring anchor. And Qebhet was so, so tired.
"I think my friend is..." Dead. The word lay leaden on her tongue, but she flinched from it at the last. "...in trouble. And I can't help her."