“Is it her?” said a voice behind me, and I managed to sit, grasping my arms to get them to stop shaking. My gun was right next to me. Thank you, God. Brooke, in her nice business dress all starched and pressed, and her shiny red heels. Why wasn’t I surprised? No Vivian, though. Maybe she got smart.

“Hi, Brooke,” I said dully as I sat cross-legged and put my splat gun in my lap. I hurt too much to be scared of the two big guys in lab coats with her. Where in hell was I? The sun was still up in the West Coast. With a thought, I reached for the nearest line through the purple bubble, finding I was still in Cincinnati and at the university. My eyebrows rose. Whatcha doing, Brooke? Working outside the coven’s mandates? You bad girl, you.

There were syringes on the cart beside the door. Looked like they were going to use human drugs instead of witch magic, understandable since earth magic wouldn’t work after the salt dip I was sure was coming. Crap, there was a rolling bed with straps in here.

I’ve seen this aura before, I thought as I tested the bubble, curling my fingers under when they cramped and the biting tang of iron hit me. Jeez, I think the circle was made with blood.

“Drop your circle,” Brooke demanded, and I followed her gaze to a corner, not recognizing the thin man pointing a shaking pistol at me. A security guard masquerading as a nurse was next to him, three muscle guys total. He was grim faced and watching the pistol, but clearly not minding it being pointed at me. My summoner was wearing a suit that looked a half size too big for him, tie askew, disheveled and scuffed, as if he’d been in a fight. Short black hair framed his small-featured face, and a new scrape on his cheekbone marred his honey-colored skin. Frightened expression. Actually, now that I was paying attention …

“Lee?” I blurted out, taking up my splat gun but not pointing it anywhere. He looked awful. When we’d first met, he’d been in a tux and I’d been in a borrowed dress that cost more than my car. He’d been dashing, charming, confident—and vying for the gambling cartel in Cincy. It had been a bid he’d been on his way to winning until he made the mistake of betting everything on a trip to the ever-after and pitting himself against me in a ley-line magic contest. I’d lost, and Al had taken him, the better ley-line witch, as his familiar.

The last time I’d seen Stanley Saladan, he’d been all but dead, having endured hosting Al in his head and body so the demon could run around this side of the lines for the better part of a month. Lee didn’t look much better now.