A clatter of pixy wings turned into Jax, and Jenks’s eldest son, dressed in black and looking so much like his dad it hurt, darted erratically in front of Nick. “I gotta get to a phone!” the pixy exclaimed, and he vanished through the open skylight and into the early dusk.

The sight of Jax was a shock, and realizing what I must look like—practically foaming at the mouth and raging like … a demon—I forced myself back from the barrier, the warning buzz having escalated into cramping my toes. Most circles didn’t burn, but this one had been drawn to hold demons. To hold me. I am not a demon. I’m not!

The surrounding witches held to their posts to keep the circle strong,but Nick, who had apparently done the actual summoning, seeing that he knew Al’s name, was picking up his stuff and jamming it in a worn, army-green satchel. “It’s cold in Cincy, Nick,” I said, shaking. “You son of a bitch. Even if he survived the crash, he’s going to have a hard time staying alive.”

The witch with the laptop shifted to draw my attention from Nick’s grim expression. She was the tallest one there, wearing a black business suit and gray hose. Her legs were too muscular to be called pretty, and her sandy blond hair was in a simple cut with gray highlights. She looked familiar, like from a news article, but it wasn’t until I saw her Möbius-strip pin holding a sprig of heather that I finally got it. Crap, it was the coven.

Worry colored my anger, and I moved back to the center of the circle, looking over my summoners again to see the balances in play. Vivian was still in Cincinnati, but if she had been here, there’d be three men and three women, an equal number of earth and ley-line users, all carefully selected to supplement one another’s skills. Remembering Vivian’s strength, I knew I was in trouble. Yes, they had been voted into the position, but they’d been trained for it from early childhood like Olympian athletes, skills and traditions embedded into them until magic was like breathing—instinctive, fast, and powerful. This was going to be … tricky.

The woman with the laptop seemed to be the high witch, since she did a quick look around at the others before asking Nick in a pleasant voice, “Is this Morgan, or the demon?”

I wrapped my arms around myself, wanting to demand that they let me out, but I knew they wouldn’t. They wanted me in a hole in the ground—quick and quiet. I was in so much trouble.

Nick obviously knew it was me, but he came close, as if unsure, faded satchel in hand, shoulders at an uneven slant and a tired look in his eyes. He appeared old and weary, and the sheet of ever-after between us hummed as I moved so close that my breath came back to me. His wrist was a mass of scar tissue where his hand had almost been chewed off during his stint as a rat, and his black hair was longer than I remembered. Slowly, my hands formed fists.