His mouth twitched ever so slightly, then he inclined his head and took a stance about ten paces away.

On the whole, I was feeling pretty good about our show of strength.

The sun hadn’t set yet, but it had sunk beneath the tree line in the west and dusk was deepening in the cemetery. Things stirred in the shadows—members of the fey, creeping closer to observe the coming showdown.

Sinclair’s father shuddered.

“It’s okay, Dad.” Sinclair laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “They don’t mean any harm. They just want to see.”

Everyone waited. Cooper and the ghouls waited on their motorcycles. Casimir and the coven waited in their semicircle. I waited with Sinclair and his father, and Stefan not far away. Curious fairies, hobgoblins, bogles, and whatnot whispered and lurked in the shadows, also waiting.

In the distance, headlights.

There was a faint popping sound, and Jojo blinked into existence, her wings buzzing like a tiny helicopter. “They’re coming!” she shrilled, her narrow chest heaving. “They’re on their way!”

Wait a minute.

“Um . . . Jojo?” I said. “What do you mean, they?”

She shot me a disdainful look. “The sister and the other one, lackwit.”

“Other one?” My temper flared. “Other one? What fucking other one, Jojo? Why didn’t you tell me there was an other one?”

Backing away, Jojo bared her sharp, pointed teeth at me. “Because, you lumpish, hedge-born harpy, you didn’t ask!”

I gritted my own teeth. “I would have assumed—”

In midair, she folded her skinny arms and looked smug. “You know what they say.”

I did.

The rented convertible approached slowly along the winding cemetery drive. The top was down. I was guessing the car probably had heated seats. It stopped before us, headlights blazing. Two figures emerged, silhouettes in the glare of the headlights—one tall and slender and elegant, one stalwart and blocky.

“It’s Letitia,” Thomas Palmer said in a low voice. “It’s her.”

Sinclair swallowed audibly and shot me a single stricken glance before returning his gaze to the car. “Mom?”

It seemed the Right Honorable Judge Palmer had arrived.

Thirty-four

Note to self: When striking a bargain with fairies, be very, very specific.

I’d like to say a cloud passed over the moon and thunder rumbled as Letitia Palmer and her daughter approached our group. It didn’t happen, but it felt like it should have. Sinclair’s mother wore a lavender suit that looked like one of Hillary Clinton’s more ill-advised fashion choices. She carried a matching clutch purse in one hand and an empty glass jar in the other, and an aura of power surrounded her like a storm cloud.

Still, she wasn’t expecting to see her ex-husband. The sight of him brought her and Emmeline up short.

“Thomas.”

“Letitia.”

There was a whole lot of history in that exchange of names. Sinclair’s father gathered himself, standing taller.