Could we actually be on the same track for once? “We’ll be in information-gathering mode,” I say, “not information-sharing mode.”

“Right, but—”

“No ‘but’s, Shepard. No extraneous words at all. The fact that you’re cursed is already too much information. They don’t need to know your life story—or mine.”

“It doesn’t hurt to be sociable, Penelope.”

I grab his tattooed forearm. “It literally does.”

“I just don’t think Kipper’s mother is going to be dangerous…”

“Do you ever?”

“All right. Fine.” He’s not smiling. He rubs one eye, under his glasses. “Ten-four, Debbie.”

“‘Ten four.’ What’s that?”

“It means—I’ve got it. Copy. Roger that. Message received. No being sociable.”

“‘Impenetrable,’ that’s just what my friend Ken said. Ken’s a giant. There aren’t too many giants in the Midwest. I’ve never met any in Omaha. That’s where I’m from—Nebraska, right in the heart of America.”

We’re sitting in a kitchen with Old Kipper and her mother, who is indeed named Debbie, and Debbie’s boyfriend, who is literally a fox. (Maybe a fox spirit? Maybe something disguised as a fox? I’m waiting for Shepard to ask an impertinent question that will shed some more light on the subject.)

At the moment, Shepard’s sitting on a stool with his jacket off and his T-shirt sleeves pushed up, while Debbie and Jeremey (the fox) shake their heads over his tattoos. Debbie has her reading glasses on. She has eight eyes when she wants, but she only wears glasses over one set of them. (Eight eyes. And at least thirty fingers! Shepard didn’t even flinch when she unveiled an extra hand to poke at him.)

“Bloody impenetrable,” Debbie says again.

“So it’s not a Demonic language?” Kipper asks, craning her head over her mother’s shoulder.

“No, it is,” Debbie says. “But it’s legalese. You don’t need a translator—you need a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” I’m on Shepard’s other side, at the table. “For a curse?”

“For a contract,” Debbie says. “It’s as bad as he told Kipper—”

“Where did you learn Demonic languages, Debbie?” Shepard cuts in. “Did you go to school for it?” He’s sitting there, perfectly at home, drinking a cup of Yorkshire tea. He’s already eaten half a packet of biscuits—it’s no wonder he’s been trapped by so many fairies.

“Live long enough,” she says, “and you pick up all sorts of things.”

“She’s being modest,” Jeremey says. With his voice. Because he is a talking fox. A talking fox wearing a tracksuit. “Deb has a real head for languages. And she’s a whiz with song lyrics. She can hear something once on the radio and sing the whole thing.”

She swats him. “He’s exaggerating.”