Did I believe him? Hell, no, not for an instant. I had no doubt that Lee would build some kind of back door into the program, and I’d never in a million years be able to find it or have the faintest idea of what to do about it if I did.

So I settled with threatening him with dire consequences if he went poking around in the database once I started entering confidential material. If it hadn’t been for our trip to Little Niflheim, I don’t think he would have taken me as seriously as he did, but the thought of being escorted to the underworld and facing down Hel in the full wrath of a goddess betrayed definitely gave him pause.

As it should. Although I also planned to use a private code for certain entries, just to be extra-safe.

“You can trust me, Daisy,” Lee promised, looking pale. “I swear, I won’t do anything to jeopardize this.”

“Good,” I said. “Because if you do, I’m not taking the blame for your transgression this time.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “Duly noted.”

I spent time with Sinclair, too. In honor of his new commitment to a magical vocation, I rented one of my favorite guilty-pleasure movies from the library and spent an evening introducing Sinclair to The Craft.

To be honest, the video was just an excuse. It was good to spend time with him. There was a little lingering awkwardness, like figuring out how close together we should sit on the couch, but we found ourselves establishing new patterns of platonic friendship without a great deal of difficulty.

Ongoing home improvement projects aside, Sinclair had always kept a tidy house, but now it was immaculate. Apparently the ritual that Kim McKinney had overseen included not only a full-immersion bath performed in the Fabulous Casimir’s backyard under moonlight—Sinclair glossed over the details on that part—but a thorough cleansing of the entire rental property. It had been scrubbed top to bottom with a wash that included essential oils of rosemary, juniper, and lavender, after which every nook and cranny was smudged with purifying sage smoke, all of which left his place smelling sweet and herbaceous. There was an altar set up on a sideboard in the living room. The thresholds of the front and back doors had been blessed with salt water, and there were crosses of rowan branches tied with red thread.

Theoretically, it meant that not only could no malevolent spirit cross the threshold but no mortal could enter Sinclair’s home with ill intent.

“Do you think it will work?” I asked him.

Frowning, he turned down the volume on the TV. “On a duppy? Yeah, I do. Magic here feels strong, Daisy, stronger than it does on the island. The roots go deeper. Everything’s more powerful. Casimir says it’s because of Hel and the underworld. All I know is that I can feel it working.”