“I don’t need practice,” I said through gritted teeth. “I need my name back. They’re talking lobotomy. Sure would be a shame for your investment to end up dumber than a rock.”

Coattails furling, Al strode to the pile of electronics, picking up a camera and opening the back to take the memory card and slip it into a pocket. “You are so cute when you squirm,” he murmured, looking at me over his glasses and dropping the camera so it hit with a crack.

“Al—”

“I’m giving you the chance to grow,” Al said as he sat on the couch, spreading his arms across the top. “I’d be a poor guardian if I fought all your battles for you. They’re paltry witches. You’re demon kin. What can they do to you?”

Frustrated, I held my arms out, hands in fists and palms up. “My knees are the size of grapefruits from dancing, maybe? And these shackle marks are from what?”

Al’s red eyes slid past me to Pierce. “Play?” he said, his voice dripping interest. “Gordian Nathaniel Pierce’s quirks are legendary. Why do you think I want the runt so badly? Size truly doesn’t matter if you can do what he can.”

I looked at Pierce—his softly curling hair hid his face, but his jaw was tight and his hands shook as he measured out the grounds and plugged in the percolator. Male witches’ anatomy generally didn’t measure up to a human’s, but witch women always came back.

“‘Course it might all be propaganda,” Al said as he pulled a watch from his fob pocket. His eyes met mine, and I shivered when he rose. “Let me guess …,” he said as he started walking to me, each foot placed precisely. “The little wizard summoned you to the West Coast with my name knowing he would get you, then fled here to summon you out of their grasp, probably whining some poppycock bull about how he lo-o-o-oves you.”

I retreated as Al advanced until my back hit the counter. “Nick is slime,” I said, scared.

Al pressed close, far too close, and I held my breath, cringing. Not quite touching me, but almost, the lace at his throat shifted. “The question is,” Al whispered, eying Pierce, “Nicky wouldn’t know you had my name unless someone told him. Who told him, Rachel?”

“The coven.” Al stank of burnt amber, and seeing me wince, he drew back, frowning. Knees shaking, I pushed from the counter.

“The coven,” Al echoed, mocking me. “Yes. But who told them?”

I thought about Trent and dropped my eyes. “The problem isn’t who told the coven your name,” I said. “The problem is someone told them I can invoke demon magic. Maybe it was you trying to force me into the ever-after.”

Al huffed, turning away. “Rachel, Rachel, Rachel … Such thoughts of paranoia. And you say you don’t need a babysitter.”