I glanced askance at her, then back to the nearing door. “Not yet.”

She snorted, sounding angry. “He will. And then I’ll kill him.”

Annoyance sifted through me, the jolts from my steps going all the way up my spine. “I can take care of myself,” I said, not caring that Nick was listening.

“I can take care of myself too,” she said. “But if I’m making an ass out of myself, I’d hope you’d stop me.”

“I am handling this,” I said, forcing my voice to be pleasant. “How about you?” I asked, turning the tables. “I didn’t think you could leave Cincinnati.”

Her expression went guarded. “It’s only for a day. Piscary will get over it.” I was silent, and she added, “What, like the city will fall apart because I’m not there? Get real, Rachel.”

My head nodded, but I was still worried. I needed her help planning how to get out of my latest fix, but she could do it by e-mail or phone if she had to.

“We should be safe enough here for a while,” she said, her eyes canvassing the building as we slowed at the door and Nick came even with us. “It’s all humans.”

“Good,” I replied faintly, feeling out of place and vulnerable. Paper sack crinkling, Ivy opened the door for me with her free hand, leaving Nick to handle the swinging, blurred-glass door by himself. I had shifted back to witch with absolutely nothing in my stomach at all, and starved, I breathed deeply of the smell of grilled meat. It was nice in there: not too bright, not too dim, no smoky smell to ruin it. There were animal parts on the walls and few people, seeing as it was Tuesday afternoon. Maybe a tad too cold, but not bad.

The menu was on the wall, and it looked like basic bar food. There were no windows but for the door, and everyone seemed willing to mind their own business after their first long look. The short bar had three fat men and one skinny one, each sitting on green vinyl stools torn to show the white padding. They were shoving food in their mouths as they watched a recap of last week’s game, talking to a matronly woman with big hair behind the bar.

It was only three in the afternoon—according to the clock above the dance floor whose hands were fishing poles and numbers were fly lures. A dark jukebox filled a distant corner, and a long light with colored glass hung over a red-felted pool table.

The bar had Northern Redneck all over it, which made me all warm and fuzzy. I didn’t like being the only Inderlanders in the place, but it was unlikely anyone would turn ugly. Someone might get stupid after midnight with seven shots of Jäger and a room of humans to back him, but not at three in the afternoon and only five people in the place counting the cook.