Chapters (42)
- Title Page
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Acknowledgements
- Also by Kim Harrison
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
- Cover
Crap, scaring him this much wasn’t what I wanted. If he was scared, then he’d fight me. “I’m a demon only if you call me one,” I said as I eased my hold. “If you call me a witch, then I’m a witch, and a witch doesn’t know the curse to boil blood.” I eyed him, letting his front go and rocking back. “Wouldn’t me being a witch make everything a hundred times easier?”
His fear shifted to anger as the wind rose, scattering the mist. We were alone no more, and I rocked back.
The crowd was frightened, the people on the outskirts making a hasty retreat. Pierce, too, was no longer there when I looked. Here at the stage, however, no one had moved. There was a slight stir at the two downed officers, but I was standing passively, hands behind my back. The reporter knew, though, watching me with a knowing glint.
“Mr. Coven Leader!” she shouted, loud over the surrounding calls. “Is Ms. Morgan going with you, or to the FIB for due process as she clearly requested?”
The crowd hushed somewhat as Oliver clenched his jaw and tugged his clothes straight. He glanced at my arms, held behind my back, and I wondered which had scared him more, that I might know a curse to boil his blood, or that I got out of a pair of charmed handcuffs.
“It won’t ever be said that the coven wrongfully denied an accused witch due process,” he said sullenly. “I will accompany her to the FIB to be sure that she doesn’t escape, but she may officially enter the FIB’s custody.”
Someone in the crowd actually cheered, and relief took the strength from my knees. I would have fallen if Glenn hadn’t caught my arm, and, as the crowd became noisy, he escorted me down the stairs to a waiting FIB car, Oliver lagging behind. Everyday people wanting to know about the fog pressed close, and Glenn had to force his way through. I felt small beside him, and damn it if a tear didn’t well up. I’d done it. No, we’d done it.
Head high, I placed each bare foot precisely, looking neither to the right or left as I crossed Fountain Square. I might be wearing nothing but an I.S. coat and six weeks’ worth of hair on my legs, but this was my city, and I’d go to my cell with pride.
The clatter of pixy wings was almost unheard over the din and requests for answers from the press. “Way to go, Rache!” Jenks said as he joined us, flying a good two feet over my head. “Pierce says you did good. He’s going to go watch my kids so I can come with you. He says you’ll be okay now. You smoked them, Rache!”