Dead Witch Walking (12 page)

“R
ache? Rachel, wake up. Are you all right?”

A warm, low, unfamiliar voice was a black thread pulling me back to consciousness. I stretched, feeling different muscles work. My eyes flashed open to see shades of gray. Jenks stood in front of me with his hands on his hips and his feet spread wide. He looked six feet tall. “Crap!” I swore, hearing it come out as a harsh squeak. I was a mouse. I was a freaking mouse!

Panic raced through me as I remembered the pain of transforming. I was going to have to go through it all again to turn back. No wonder transforming was a dying art. It hurt like hell.

My fear slowed, and I wiggled out from under my clothes. My heart was pounding terribly fast. That awful lavender perfume was thick on my clothes, choking me. I wrinkled my nose and tried not to gag as I realized I could smell the alcohol used to carry the flowery scent. Under it was that incenselike ash smell I identified with Ivy, and I wondered if a vamp’s nose was as sensitive as a mouse’s.

Wobbling on four legs, I sank down to a crouch and looked at the world through my new eyes. The alley was the size of a warehouse, the black sky above threatening. Everything was shades of gray and white; I was color-blind. The sound of the distant traffic was loud, and the reek of the alley was an assault. Jenks was right. Someone really liked burritos.

Now that I was facedown in it, the night seemed colder. Turning to my pile of clothes, I tried to hide my jewelry. Next time I’d leave everything at home but my ankle knife.

I turned back to Jenks, jerking in surprise.
Whoa, baby!
Jenks was hell on wings. He had strong, clearly defined shoulders to support his ability to fly. He had a thin waist and a muscular physique. His shock of fair hair fell artfully over his brow to give him a devil-may-care attitude. A spiderweb of glitters laced his wings. Seeing him from his size-perspective, I could see why Jenks had more kids than three pairs of rabbits.

And his clothes…Even in black and white his clothes were stunning! The hem and collar of his shirt was embroidered with the likeness of foxgloves and ferns. His black bandanna, which had once looked red, was inlaid with tiny shimmers in an eye-riveting pattern.

“Hey, Hot Stuff,” he said cheerfully, his voice surprisingly low and rich to my rodent ears. “It worked. Where did you find a spell for a mink?”

“Mink?” I questioned, hearing only a squeak. Tearing my gaze from him, I looked at my hands. My thumbs were small, but my fingers were so dexterous it didn’t seem to matter. Tiny savage nails tipped them. I reached up to feel a short triangular muzzle, and I turned to see my long, luxuriant, flowing tail. My entire body was one sleek line. I’d never been this skinny. I lifted a foot, to find that my feet were white with little white pads. It was hard to judge sizes, but I was a great deal bigger than a mouse, more like a large squirrel.

A mink?
I thought, sitting up and running my front paws over my dark fur. How cool was that? I opened my mouth to feel my teeth. Nasty sharp teeth. I wouldn’t have to worry about cats—I was almost as big as one. Ivy’s owls were better hunters than I thought. My teeth clicked shut and I looked up at the open sky. Owls. I still had to worry about owls. And dogs. And anything else bigger than me. What had a mink been doing in the city?

“You look good, Rache,” Jenks said.

My eyes jerked to him.
So do you, little man.
I idly wondered if there was a spell to turn people pixy size. If Jenks was any indication, it might be nice to take a vacation as a pixy and troll Cincinnati’s better gardens. Color me Thumbelina and I’d be a happy girl.

“I’ll see you up on the roof, okay?” he added, grinning as he noticed my ogling. Again I nodded, watching him flit upward.
Maybe I could find a spell to make pixies bigger?

My wistful sigh came out as a rather odd squeak, and I scampered to the drainpipe. There was a puddle from last night’s rain at the bottom, and my whiskers brushed the sides as I easily crawled up. My nails, I was pleased to note, were sharp and could find purchase in what seemed smooth metal. They were as good a potential weapon as my teeth.

I was panting by the time I reached the flat roof. I practically flowed out of the drainpipe, gracefully loping to the dark shadow of the building’s air conditioner and Jenks’s loud hail. My hearing was better, otherwise I would never have heard him.

“Over here, Rache,” he called. “Someone’s bent the intake screen.”

My silky tail was twitching in excitement as I joined him at the air conditioner. One corner of the screen was missing a screw. Even more helpful, the screen was bent. It wasn’t hard to squeeze in with Jenks levering it open for me. Once through, I crouched in the more certain dark and waited for my eyes to adapt as Jenks flitted about. Slowly another mesh screen came into focus. My rodent eyebrows rose as Jenks pulled aside a triangular cut in the wire. Clearly we had found the I.S. vault’s unadvertised back door.

Full of a new confidence, Jenks and I explored our way into the building’s air ducts. Jenks never shut up, his unending commentary about how easy it would be to become lost and die of starvation no help at all. It became clear that the maze of ductworks was used frequently. The drops and steeper inclines actually had quarter-inch rope tied to the top of them, and the old smell of other animals was strong. There was only one way to go—down—and after a few false turns, we found ourselves looking out into the familiar expanse of the record vault.

The vent we peered from was directly over the terminals. Nothing moved in the soft glow from the copiers. Sterile rectangular tables and plastic chairs were scattered across the ugly red carpet. Built into the walls were the files themselves. These were only the active records, a measly fraction of the dirt the I.S. had on the Inderland and human populations, both living and dead. Most were stored electronically, but if a file was pulled, a paper copy stayed in the cabinets for ten years, fifty for a vampire.

“Ready, Jenks?” I said, forgetting it would come out as a squeak. I could smell burnt coffee and sugar from the table by the door, and my stomach growled. Lying down, I stretched an arm through the vent’s slats, scraping my elbow to awkwardly reach the opening lever. It gave way with an unexpected suddenness, swinging with a loud squeak to hang by its hinges. Crouched in the shadows, I waited until my pulse slowed before poking my nose out.

Jenks stopped me as I went to push a waiting coil of rope out of the duct. “Hold on,” he whispered. “Let me trip the cameras.” He hesitated, his wings going dark. “You, ah, won’t tell anyone about this, right? It’s kind of a—uh—pixy thing. It helps us get around unnoticed.” He gave me a chagrined look, and I shook my head.

“Thanks,” he said, and he dropped into space. I waited a breathless moment before he zipped back up and settled himself on the edge of the opening and dangled his feet. “All set,” he said. “They will record a fifteen-minute loop. Come on down. I’ll show you what Francis looked at.”

I pushed the rope out of the ductwork and started to the floor. My nails made it easy.

“He made an extra copy of everything he wanted,” Jenks was saying, waiting by the copier’s recycle bin. He grinned as I tipped the can over and began rifling through the papers. “I kept tripping the copier from inside. He couldn’t figure out why it was giving him two of everything. The intern thought he was an idiot.”

I looked up, just about dying to say, “Francis is an idiot.”

“I knew you would be all right,” Jenks said as he began arranging the papers in a long line on the floor. “But it was really hard to sit here and do nothing when I heard you run. Don’t ask me to do that again, all right?”

His jaw was clenched. I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded. Jenks was more of a help than I had thought to give him credit for. Feeling bad for having discounted him, I tugged the scattered pages into order. There wasn’t much, and the more I read, the more discouraged I became.

“According to this,” Jenks said, standing on the first page with his hands on his hips, “Trent is the last of his family. His parents died under circumstances reeking of magic. Almost the entire house staff was under suspicion. It took three years before the FIB and the I.S. gave up and decided to officially look the other way.”

I skimmed the statement of the I.S. investigator. My whiskers twitched when I recognized his name: Leon Bairn, the same who ended up as a thin smear on the sidewalk. Interesting.

“His parents refused to claim kinship to human or Inderland,” Jenks said, “as does Trent. And there wasn’t enough left of them to do an autopsy. Just like his parents, Trent employs Inderlanders as well as humans. Everyone but pixies and fairies.”

It wasn’t surprising. Why risk a discrimination lawsuit?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jenks said. “But he doesn’t seem to lean either way. His personal secretaries are always warlocks. His nanny was a human of some repute, and he roomed at Princeton with a pack of Weres.” Jenks scratched his head in thought. “Didn’t join the fraternity, though. You won’t find it in the records, but the word is he’s not a Were, or a vamp, or anything.” Seeing my shrug, he continued. “Trent doesn’t smell right. I’ve talked to a pixy who got a whiff of him while backing up a runner out at Trent’s stables. She says it’s not that Trent doesn’t smell human, but that something subtle about him screams Inderlander.”

I thought of the spell I had used to disguise my looks tonight. Opening my mouth to ask Jenks about that, I shut it with a snap. I couldn’t do anything but squeak. Jenks grinned, and pulled a broken pencil lead from a pocket. “You’re going to have to spell it,” he said, writing down the alphabet on the bottom of one of the pages.

I bared all my teeth, which only made him laugh. But I had little choice. Skittering across the page like it was a Ouija board, I pointed out, “Charm?”

Jenks shrugged. “Maybe. But a pixy could smell through it, just as I can smell witch under the mink stink. But if it’s a disguise, it would explain the warlock secretary. The more you use magic, the stronger you smell.” I looked at him quizzically, and he added, “All witches smell alike, but those who work the most magic smell stronger, more unearthly. You, for example, reek from your recent spelling. You pulled on the ever-after tonight, didn’t you?”

It wasn’t a question, and I sat back on my haunches, surprised. He could tell from my smell?

“Trent might have another witch invoke his spells for him,” Jenks said. “That way, he could be able to cover his smell with a charm. The same goes for a Were or vamp.”

Struck by a sudden idea, I spelled out, “Ivy’s smell?”

Jenks flitted uneasily into the air before I had even finished. “Uh, yeah,” he stammered. “Ivy stinks. Either she’s a dabbler that quit sipping blood last week or an intense practitioner that quit last year. I can’t tell. She’s probably somewhere in between—probably.”

I frowned—as much as a mink can frown. She’d said it had been three years. She must have been very, very intense. Swell.

I glanced to the vault clock. We were running out of time. Impatient, I turned to Trent’s skimpy record. According to the I.S., he lived and worked in a huge estate outside the city. He raised racehorses on the property, but most of his income came from farming: orange and pecan groves in the south, strawberries on the coast, wheat in the Midwest. He even had an island off the Eastern seaboard that grew tea. I already knew this. It was standard newspaper fodder.

Trent grew up as an only child, losing his mother when he was ten and his father when he was a freshman at college. His parents had two other children that didn’t survive infancy. The doctor wouldn’t give up the records without being subpoenaed, and shortly after the request, the office had burnt to the ground. Tragically, the doctor had been working late and hadn’t made it out.
The Kalamacks,
I thought dryly,
played for keeps.

I sat up from the records and snapped my teeth. There was nothing here I could use. I had a feeling the FIB records, if I could by some miracle see them, would be even less helpful. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure that very little was known about the Kalamacks.

“Sorry,” Jenks said. “I know you were really counting on the records.”

I shrugged, pushing and tugging the papers back into the bin. I wouldn’t be able to put the basket upright, but at least it would look like it fell over and hadn’t been rifled through.

“You want to go with Francis on his interview concerning his secretary’s death?” Jenks asked. “It’s this coming Monday at noon.”

Noon,
I thought. What a safe hour. It wasn’t ridiculously early in the day for most Inderlanders, and a perfectly reasonable time for humans. Maybe I could tag along with Francis and help. I felt my rodent lips pull back across my teeth in a smile. Francis wouldn’t mind. It might be my only chance to dig something up on Trent. Nailing him as a distributor of Brimstone would be enough to pay off my contract.

Jenks flew up to stand on the rim of the basket, his wings moving fitfully to keep his balance. “Mind if I come with you to get a good sniff of Trent? I bet I could tell what he is.”

My whiskers brushed the air as I thought about it. It’d be nice having a second pair of eyes. I could hitch a ride with Francis. Not as a mink, though. He would probably scream like a sissy and throw things if he found me hiding in the backseat. “Talk later,” I spelled out. “Home.”

Jenks’s smile grew sly. “Before we go, do you want to see your record?”

I shook my head. I had seen my record lots of times. “No,” I wrote. “I want to shred it.”

“I
’ve got to get a car,” I whispered as I lurched off the bus steps. I snatched my coat out of the closing doors and held my breath as the diesel engine roared to life and the bus lumbered off. “Soon,” I added, pulling my bag closer.

I hadn’t slept well in days. Salt had dried all over me and I itched everywhere. It seemed I couldn’t go five minutes without accidentally hitting the blister on my neck. Coming off the caramel-induced sugar high, Jenks was cranky. In short, we were very good company.

A false dawn had brightened the eastern sky, giving the thin blue a beautiful translucence. The birds were loud and the streets were hushed. The chill in the air made me glad for my coat. I would guess the sun was only an hour from rising. Four in the morning in June was a golden hour when all good vampires are tucked into bed and wise humans hadn’t yet poked their noses out to find the early edition of the paper. “I am so ready for bed,” I whispered.

“Evening, Ms. Morgan,” came a gravely voice, and I spun, falling into a crouch.

Jenks made a snuff of sarcastic laughter from my earring. “It’s the neighbor,” he said dryly. “Jeez, Rache. Give me some credit.”

Heart pounding, I slowly stood, feeling as old as I was supposed to be under my age spell. Why wasn’t he in bed? “ ’Morning, rather,” I said, stepping even with Keasley’s gate. He was unmoving in his rocker, his face shadowed and unseen.

“Been shopping?” He wiggled his foot to tell me he noticed my boots were new.

Tired, I leaned on the top of the chain-link fence. “Would you like a chocolate?” I asked, and he motioned for me to enter.

Jenks hummed in worry. “A splat ball’s range is longer than my sense of smell, Rache.”

“He’s a lonely old man,” I whispered as I unlatched the gate. “He wants a chocolate. Besides, I look like an old hag. Anyone watching will think I’m his date.” I eased the lock down quietly, and I thought I saw Keasley hide a smile behind a yawn.

A tiny, dramatic sigh slipped from Jenks. I settled my bag on the porch and sat down on the uppermost stair. Twisting, I pulled a paper sack from my coat pocket and extended it.

“Ah…” he said, his gaze on the horse-and-rider trademark. “Some things are worth risking your life for.” As I expected, he chose a dark piece. A dog barked in the distance. Jaw moving, he looked past me into the silent street. “You’ve been to the mall.”

I shrugged. “Among other places.”

Jenks’s wings fanned my neck. “Rachel…”

“Cool your jets, Jenks,” I said, peeved.

Keasley got to his feet with a pained slowness. “No. He’s right. It’s late.”

Between Keasley’s obtuse comments and Jenks’s instincts, I became decidedly wary. The dog barked again, and I lurched to my feet. My thoughts returned to that pile of splat balls outside my door. Maybe I should have hiked in through the graveyard, disguised or not.

Keasley moved with a pained slowness to his door. “Watch your step, Ms. Morgan. Once they know you can slip past them, they’ll change tactics.” He opened the door and went inside. The screen shut without a sound. “Thank you for the chocolate.”

“You’re welcome,” I whispered as I turned away, knowing he could hear me.

“Creepy old man,” Jenks said, making my earring swing as I crossed the street and headed for the motorbike parked in front of the church. The false dawn glinted on its chrome, and I wondered if Ivy had gotten her bike back from the shop.

“Maybe she’ll let me use it,” I mused aloud, eyeing it appreciatively in passing. It was all shiny and black, with its gold trim and silky leather; a Nightwing. Yummy. I ran an envious hand across the seat, leaving a smear where I wiped the dew away.

“Rache!” Jenks shrilled. “Drop!”

I dropped. Heart pounding, my palms hit the pavement. There was the hiss of something overhead where I had stood. Adrenaline surged, making my head hurt. I shoved myself into a roll, putting the bike between me and the opposite street.

I held my breath. Nothing moved among the shrubs and overgrown bushes. I pushed my bag in front of my face, my hands searching inside.

“Stay down,” Jinks hissed. His voice was tight, and a purple glow laced his wings.

The prick of the finger stick jolted me to my toes. My sleep charm was invoked in 4.5 seconds; my best time yet. Not that it would do me much good if whoever it was stayed in the bushes. Maybe I could throw it at him. If the I.S. was going to make a habit of this, I might want to invest in a splat gun. I was more of a confront-them-directly-and-knock-them-unconscious kind of a gal. Hiding in the bushes like a sniper was cheesy, but when in Rome…

I gripped the charm by the cord so it wouldn’t affect me and waited.

“Save it,” Jenks said, relaxing as we were abruptly surrounded by a host of darting pixy children. They swirled over us, talking so fast and high I couldn’t keep up. “They’re gone,” Jenks added. “Sorry about that. I knew they were there, but—”

“You knew they were there?” I exclaimed, my neck hurting as I peered up at him. A dog barked, and I lowered my voice. “What the hell were you doing?”

He grinned. “I had to flush them out.”

Peeved, I got to my feet. “Great. Thanks. Let me know next time I’m bait.” I shook out my long coat, grimacing as I realized I’d squished my chocolates.

“Now, Rache,” he cajoled, hovering by my ear. “If I had told you, your reactions would have been off and the fairies would have just waited until I wasn’t watching.”

My face went slack. “Fairies?” I said, chilled. Denon must be off his rocker. They were expe-e-e-e-ensive. Perhaps they gave him a discount because of the frog incident.

“There’re gone,” Jenks said, “but I wouldn’t stay out here for long. The word is the Weres want another crack at you.” He took off his red bandanna and handed it to his son. “Jax, you and your sisters can have their catapult.”

“Thanks, Papa!” The small pixy rose up two feet in excitement. Wrapping the red scarf around his waist, he and about six other pixies broke from the group and zipped across the street.

“Be careful!” Jenks shouted after them. “It might be booby-trapped!”

Fairies,
I thought as I clutched my arms about me and looked over the quiet street. Crap.

The remainder of Jenks’s kids was clustered around him, all talking at once as they tried to drag him around back. “Ivy’s with someone,” Jenks said as he started to drift upward, “but he checks out okay. You mind if I call it a night?”

“Go ahead,” I said, glancing at the bike. It wasn’t Ivy’s after all. “And, uh, thanks.”

They rose like a swarm of fireflies. Close behind them were Jax and his sisters, working together to carry a catapult as small as they were. With a dry clattering of wings and shouts, they flew up and beyond the church, leaving a hard silence in the morning street.

I turned my back and shuffled up the stone stairs. Glancing across the road, I saw a curtain fall against the single lit window.
Show’s over. Go to sleep, Keasley,
I thought, tugging open the heavy door and slipping inside. Easing it shut, I slid the oiled dead bolt in place behind me, feeling better despite knowing most of the I.S.’s assassins wouldn’t use a door.
Fairies? Denon must be royally ticked.

Blowing wearily, I leaned back against the thick timbers, to shut out the coming morning. All I wanted was to take a shower and go to bed. As I slowly crossed the empty sanctuary, the sound of soft jazz and Ivy’s voice raised in anger filtered out from the living room.

“Damn it, Kist,” I heard as I entered the dark kitchen. “If you don’t get your butt out of that chair right now, I’m going to sling you halfway to the sun.”

“Aw, lighten up, Tamwood. I’m not gonna do anything,” came a new voice. It was masculine, deep but with a hint of a whine, as if whomever it came from was indulged in almost everything. I paused to dump my used amulets into the pot of saltwater beside the refrigerator. They were still good, but I knew better than to leave active amulets lying around.

The music snapped off with a jarring suddenness. “Out,” Ivy said softly. “Now.”

“Ivy?” I called loudly, curiosity getting the better of me. Jenks said whoever it was had the all clear. Leaving my bag on the kitchen counter, I headed for the living room. My exhaustion spilled into a tinge of anger. We had never discussed it, but I assumed that until the price was off my head, we would try to keep a low profile.

“Ooooh,” the unseen Kist mocked. “She’s back.”

“Behave yourself,” Ivy threatened him as I entered the room. “Or I’ll have your hide.”

“Promise?”

I took three steps into the living room and jerked to a halt. My anger vanished, washed away in a surge of primal instinct. A leather-clad vamp sprawled in Ivy’s chair, looking like he belonged. His immaculate boots were on the coffee table, and Ivy shoved them off in disgust. She moved quicker than I’d ever seen before. She took two steps from him and fumed, her hip cocked and her arms crossed aggressively. The mantel clock ticked loudly.

Kist couldn’t be a dead vamp—he was on holy ground and it was almost sunup—but burn my britches if he didn’t come close. His feet hit the floor with an exaggerated slowness. The indolent look he gave me went right to my core, settling over me like a wet blanket to tighten my gut. And yeah, he was pretty. Dangerously so. My thoughts jerked back to Table 6.1, and I swallowed.

His face was lightly stubbled, giving him a rugged appearance. Straightening, he tossed his blond hair out of his eyes in a movement of artful grace that must have taken him years to perfect. His leather jacket was open to show a black cotton shirt pulled tight over an attractively muscled chest. Twin stud earrings glittered from one ear. The other had a single earring and a long-healed tear. Otherwise, he hadn’t a visible scar anywhere. I wondered if I would be able to feel them if I ran my finger down his neck.

My heart pounded, and I dropped my gaze, promising myself I wouldn’t look again. Ivy didn’t scare me as much as this one did. He moved on feral instinct, governed by whim.

“Aw,” Kist said, scooting himself up in the chair. “She’s cute. You should have told me she was such a dar-r-r-rling.” I felt him take a deep breath, as if tasting the night. “She reeks of you, Ivy love.” His voice dropped in pitch. “Isn’t that the sweetest?”

Cold, I clutched the collar of my coat closed and backed up until I was in the threshold.

“Rachel,” Ivy said dryly. “This is Kisten. He’s leaving. Aren’t you, Kist.”

It wasn’t a question, and my breath caught as he got to his feet with a fluid, animal grace. Kist stretched, his hands reaching for the ceiling. His lean body moved like a cord to show every gorgeous curve of muscle on him. I couldn’t look away. His arms fell and our eyes met. They were brown. His lips parted in a soft smile as he knew I had been watching him. His teeth were sharp like Ivy’s. He wasn’t a ghoul. He was a living vamp. I looked away even though living vamps couldn’t bespell the wary. “You have a taste for vamps, little witch?” he whispered.

His voice was like wind over water, and my knees went loose at the compulsion he put in it. “You can’t touch me,” I said, unable to resist looking at him as he tried to bespell me. My voice sounded like it was coming from inside my head. “I haven’t signed any papers.”

“No?” he whispered. His eyebrows were raised in sultry confidence. He eased close, his steps soundless. Heart pounding, I looked at the floor. I felt behind me to touch the doorframe. He was stronger than me, and faster. But a knee in the groin would drop him like any man.

“The courts won’t care,” he breathed as he drifted to a stop. “You’re already dead.”

My eyes widened as he reached for me. His scent washed over me, the musty scent of black earth. My pulse pounded, and I stepped forward. His hand cupped my chin, warm. A shock went through me, buckling my knees. He gripped my elbow, supporting me against his chest. Anticipation of an unknown promise made my blood race. I leaned into him, waiting. His lips parted. A whisper of words I couldn’t understand came from him, beautiful and dark.

“Kist!” Ivy shouted, startling both of us. A flash of ire filmed his eyes, then vanished.

My will flowed back with a painful swiftness. I tried to jerk away, finding myself held. I could smell blood. “Let go,” I said, almost panicking when he didn’t. “Let go!”

His hand dropped. He turned to Ivy, completely dismissing me. I fell back to the archway, shaking, but unable to voluntarily leave until I knew he was gone.

Kist stood before Ivy calm and collected, a study in opposites to Ivy’s agitation. “Ivy, love,” he persuaded. “Why do you torment yourself? Your scent covers her, but her blood still smells pure. How can you resist? She’s asking for it. She’s screaming for it. She’ll bitch and moan the first time, but she’ll thank you for it in the end.”

Expression going coy, he gently bit his lip. Crimson ran, wiped away with a slow, taunting, deliberate tongue. My breath sounded harsh even to me, and I held it.

Ivy went furious, her eyes going to black pits. The tension wouldn’t let me breathe. The crickets outside chirped faster. With an exaggerated slowness, Kist cautiously leaned toward Ivy. “If you don’t want to break her in,” he said, his voice low with anticipation, “give her to me. I’ll give her back to you.” His lips parted to show his glistening canines. “Scout’s honor.”

Ivy’s breath came in a quick pant. Her face was an unreal mix of lust and hatred. I could see her struggle to overcome her hunger, and I watched in a horrid fascination as it slowly vanished until only the hatred was left. “Get out,” she said, her voice husky and wavering.

Kist took a slow breath. The tension flowed out of him as he exhaled. I found I could breathe again. I took quick, shallow breaths as my gaze darted between them. It was over. Ivy had won. I was—safe?

“It’s stupid, Tamwood,” Kist said as he adjusted his black leather jacket in a careful show of ease. “A waste of a good span of darkness for something that doesn’t exist.”

With swift, abrupt steps, Ivy went to the back door. Sweat trickled down the small of my back as the breeze from her passage touched me. Cold morning air spilled in, displacing the blackness that seemed to have filled the room. “She’s mine,” Ivy said as if I wasn’t there. “She’s under my protection. What I do or don’t do with her is my business. You tell Piscary if I see one of his shadows at my church again, I’ll assume he’s making a bid of contention to what I hold. Ask him if he wants a war with me, Kist. You ask him that.”