And I thought about Heather Simkus with her soft, pretty sixteen-year-old face and a lattice of self-inflicted scars on her arms, wondering what she felt was so wrong with her life that the House of Shadows looked like a haven of belonging.

I thought about Bethany, too.

When I was done thinking about them, I turned off the TV, put away the leftover pizza, poured myself a few inches of scotch, settled Mogwai on my lap, and put Patsy Cline on the stereo. Usually I go for more traditional blues, but there’s a certain kind of ache that Patsy’s voice always speaks to, her voice floating above the pain with deceptive ease, timeless and yearning and poignant.

The last time I’d listened to Patsy had been the day Sinclair and I met the Oak King. Not long ago at all, really, just a couple of months. It felt like longer. Cody was right—a lot could happen in a short time. Two months ago, I don’t think I would have had the bravado to pull a Dirty Harry gambit on a vampire. Hell, I’d barely learned to create a mental shield two days ago. And two months ago, Sinclair and I barely knew each other.

Now he was my ex-boyfriend, and even though we’d only dated for three weeks and ending it was entirely my decision—and I was pretty sure it was the right one—I was home alone on a Saturday night, thinking Patsy Cline didn’t sound at all crazy for feeling so lonely and blue.

I guess when it comes down to it, we all yearn for a sense of connection, humans and eldritch alike, hell-spawns and vampires and werewolves, fairies and hobgoblins, Outcast and moody teenaged high school students. Even Gus the ogre had a thing for my mom.

Lying on my chest where he’d inched his way up from my lap, Mogwai stretched out one deliberate paw, unsheathing his claws just enough to prick the hollow of my throat. Amping up his purr, he fixed me with one of those implacable cat stares that could mean almost anything. Behind those round green eyes, he could have been plotting my demise or preparing to impart the feline wisdom of the ages.

Or maybe he was just reminding me that I wasn’t alone after all and shouldn’t be throwing myself a pity party when I had such an awesome sort-of-familiar in my life, as well as a lot of people, human and otherwise, whom I cared about deeply.

“You know what, Mog?” I stroked his head. “You have a point. Thanks.”

Retracting his claws, Mogwai closed his eyes in satisfaction and purred just a bit louder.

Twenty-seven

For the next week or so, things were fairly quiet in Pemkowet. No rutting satyrs, no threatening obeah women, no suspicious hell-spawn lawyers, no abducted teenagers, not even a hobgoblin prank.