The first witch took the glass from her companion, then handed it to Surreal. “Drink this. You’ll feel better in no time.”

Yeah. Cramps aren’t a problem when you’re dead, Surreal thought. As soon as the other woman let go of the glass, she used Craft to probe the liquid and the glass itself. No poisons. But there was something in the sparkling wine. She didn’t recognize the drug, but she could sense its presence. Probably meant to knock her out for a while. But why knock her out?

Obvious. They wanted her out of the way for some reason. Of course, if she was unconscious, she wouldn’t be hard to kill.

Refuse the drink and put these two bitches on alert—maybe make them nervous enough to bolt—or drink it and hope she wasn’t doing something stupid? Because if they did end up killing her, Lucivar would help her make the transition to demon-dead just so he could spend a decade or two yelling at her, and the High Lord . . . Uncle Saetan would be sooo pissed.

She studied the two women and saw a kernel of suspicion in the eyes of the witch who had first approached her. So she took a sip, figuring she could get enough of a sense of what the drug was without it disabling her.

She figured wrong. That one sip made the room lift and drop with stomach-churning speed. Her fingers went numb. The glass dropped to the floor. Her vision faded.

She made one attempt to contact Lucivar on a psychic thread, but even that was already beyond her ability.

“Ah, shit,” she muttered before she tumbled off the bench.

Lektra suppressed the urge to give her rival a hard kick in the ribs. Or in the face. After all, she’d promised Tavey he could have the whore for a while, so it wasn’t fair to damage the bitch beforehand. And it was possible that the SaDiablo family would be upset if anything . . . permanent . . . happened to Surreal. But they could hardly complain about a whore spreading her legs for one more man. Besides, it wasn’t like Tavey would be paying for the sex.

“Let’s get her out of here,” Lektra said.

Roxie opened the lounge door, peeked out, then signaled. A moment later, a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord slipped into the room.

Lektra didn’t like the man. Rough manners, rough temper. Roxie had found him somewhere, and the payment that had been promised had been enough to make him put aside any qualms about being an “escort” for an unwilling witch.

“Take her to the country house as arranged, and keep her there until I say otherwise,” Lektra said.

“Gets boring in the country,” he growled.

“I’m sure you’ll find something to do,” she replied, glancing pointedly at Surreal.