I nodded, and my shoulders eased. “Before Newt got us back underground, a gargoyle came to see who had been messing around in my ley line.”

His carefully trimmed eyebrows high, Dali eyed me, but if it was because Newt helped us or that a gargoyle was involved, I didn’t know. “In the daylight?”

“He had a huge sword that looked like it had been propping up a laundry line for the last fifty years,” I said, angry. “He said the line would fix itself in time, but destroy the ever-after in the doing of it, and that they were going to leave and to save who they could.”

“The gargoyles are leaving?” It was a soft but alarmed utterance.

“He also said I wouldn’t find enough time to fix it before it fixes itself. If you can’t give me Ceri, at least give me some time,” I demanded. “Four days,” I added, thinking of Al’s burn.

Dali’s intent gaze focused on me, considering it. Sighing, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”

Adrenaline jerked through me as I realized he’d probably come here with the intent to kill me and be done with it before he left. “I think I can fix the line,” I said, scrambling to find something positive to take away from this. “I just need to borrow . . .” My words trailed off reluctantly, as if not wanting to divulge just what it was, not that I had no clue what I needed. “Something from Al,” I finished, trying to appear cagey, not confused.

Dali peered at me, his mouth a thin line. “You don’t trust me.”

“Sure I do,” I said, and Bis snickered, making a weird snuffing sound.

The older-looking demon frowned. “You don’t have a clue how to fix that line,” he said, but inside, I felt a tiny spot of hope. He was thinking about it.

Beside him, Bis cleared his throat. “I can see the lines,” he said, flushing a heavy black. “I know I can help. I’m good at auras.”

Dali ignored him, which made me mad, and I said, “Ku’Sox cursed my line. That purple sludge is demon made. I have yet to find the curse I can’t untwist.”

His face scrunched up, making him look like the benevolent uncle who wanted to give you the quarter of a million dollars to start your chinchilla farm, but those darn investors just didn’t see the potential. “It’s not that I don’t want to believe you,” he said, and I let out a loud, exasperated sigh as he continued. “But belief will be a thin comfort if we get sucked into oblivion waiting for you to figure it out. It’s not like you have much to lose.”