I finished the dishes and let myself out, locking the door behind me. It was a bright, sunny morning, and being alone in broad daylight in yesterday’s clothes—which were probably tainted with satyr-funk—I felt more than a little slutty.

Which, I have to admit, wasn’t entirely a bad feeling. Except maybe for that guilty thrill I felt when I thought about what had happened with Cody at the nightclub, not to mention the latent shock of discovering that Sinclair’s mother was an obeah woman, whatever that meant.

So, yeah. It’s complicated.

Heading for my Honda, I went over a mental checklist of Things to Do Today. What I really wanted to do, first and foremost, was call my best friend, Jen, and give her the 411 on everything that had just gone down. In a close second place, I wanted to do some research into exactly what an obeah man or an obeah woman was. I mean, obviously we were talking about some sort of magic worker, but beyond that, I was clueless. Not a lot of call to study up on Caribbean lore here in the Midwest. Casimir, aka the Fabulous Casimir, might be able to help; he was the head witch in Pemkowet’s local coven. Or my old teacher Mr. Leary, who knew more about eldritch history and folklore around the world than anyone I knew.

Of course, what I had to do first was head down to the station and fill out a report on the orgy for the Pemkowet X-Files. Checking my phone, I saw there were voice mails from Chief Bryant and, oh, gah, Amanda Brooks at the PVB.

Okay, those could wait. After all, I was reasonably certain that Lurine had the satyr situation under control. If all hell had broken loose again, Cody knew where to find me. Before I did anything, I was damn well going to go home, take a shower, and change my clothes.

I was reaching for the driver’s-side door handle when something sharp stung the back of my neck. “Ow!” I brushed frantically at the spot, thinking a bee had stung me, but nothing was there. “What the hell?”

It stung me again.

“Goddammit!” Spinning around, I waved my arms in the air. “Seriously, what the . . . oh, crap.”

Ten feet away, beside a scraggly juniper bush, a joe-pye weed fairy with green skin and clumps of pale purple hair piled atop her head hovered in the air. Her face was contorted with jealous rage, her translucent wings were a blur, and she was carrying some kind of sling-type weapon made of woven grass.

“Hey, Jojo.” I held up both hands in a peaceful gesture. “Look, I was just leaving.”

“Foul, sluttish hoyden!” she shrilled, whirling the sling and whipping another pebble at me. “Leave him be!”

I dodged. “I really don’t—”

“Hell-spawned, urchin-snouted doxy!” She flung another, her tip-tilted eyes bright with tears and fury. “I hate you!”