“Amelia,” I croaked, “you got to avoid this guy. I mean it. You and Tray get away from him. And for God’s sake, don’t answer any questions about me!”

I could see from the guilt on her face she had already answered quite a few. Though she was a clever witch, Amelia couldn’t always tell when people weren’t really people. Evidently, neither could Tray—though the sweet smell of even a half fairy should have alerted a Were. Maybe Dermot had the same scent-masking ability that his father, my great-grandfather, did.

“Who is he?” Amelia asked. She was scared, which was good.

“He’s . . .” I tried to formulate the best explanation. “He wants to kill me.”

“Does this have something to do with Crystal’s death?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I tried to give the possibility some rational consideration, found my brain simply couldn’t deal with the idea.

“I don’t get it,” Amelia said. “We have months—well, weeks—of nothing but plain old life, and then, all of a sudden, here we are!” She threw up her hands.

“You can move back to New Orleans if you want to,” I said, my voice faltering. Of course, Amelia knew she could leave anytime she wanted, but I wanted to make it clear I wasn’t sucking her into my problems unless she chose to be sucked. So to speak.

“No,” she said firmly. “I like it here, and my house in New Orleans isn’t ready, anyway.”

She kept saying that. Not that I wanted her to leave, but I couldn’t see what the delay was. After all, her dad was a builder.

“You don’t miss New Orleans?”

“Of course I do,” Amelia said. “But I like it here, and I like my little suite upstairs, and I like Tray, and I like my little jobs that keep me going. And I also like—a hell of a lot—being out of my dad’s line of sight.” She patted me on the shoulder. “You go off to work and don’t worry. If I haven’t thought of anything by morning, I’ll call Octavia. Now that I know the deal about this Drake, I’ll stonewall him. And Tray will, too. No one can stonewall like Tray.”

“He’s very dangerous, Amelia,” I said. I couldn’t impress that on my roommate emphatically enough.

“Yeah, yeah, I get that,” she said. “But you know, I’m not any little honey myself, and Dawson can fight with the best of ’em.”

We gave each other a hug, and I allowed myself to immerse in Amelia’s mind. It was warm, busy, curious, and . . . forward-looking. No brooding on the past for Amelia Broadway. She gave me a pat on the back to signal she was letting go, and we stepped back from each other.