Yanking open the door, I held it for David, my jaw clenched. I’d get him to come back. If I had to hire a pilot to write my apology in the sky, I would get him to come back.

“David,” I said as he passed. “If I give you something, will you take it to Jenks?”

He glanced at me from the first step down. “Maybe,” he said warily.

I grimaced. “It’s just some seeds. I couldn’t find anything in my language of flowers book that said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m an ass,’ so I went with forget-me-nots.”

“Okay,” he said, sounding more sure. “I can do that.”

“Thanks.” It was a whisper, but I was sure he heard me over the calls at his arrival.

I took the heated wine from David and placed it near the fire. Howard looked content talking to Keasley and Ceri, sneaking unsure glances at Takata lurking in the more-certain shadows of the oak tree. “Come on over,” I said to David as Kisten tried to get his attention. Ivy’s sister was prattling next to him, and he looked exhausted. “I want you to meet Takata.”

The midnight air was crisp, almost painfully dry, and I smiled at Ivy when I saw her trying to explain to Ceri the art of making a s’more. The puzzled elf didn’t understand how layering chocolate between a sugary grain product and spun confection could possibly taste good. Her words, not mine. I was sure her opinion would change after she ate one.

I felt Kisten’s eyes on me from around the lowering flames and I stifled a shiver. The come-and-go light played on his face, not unattractively thinner after his stint in the hospital. My thoughts of Nick had waned to a soft ache under the living vamp’s attentions. Kist was here, and Nick wasn’t. The reality was, Nick hadn’t truly been here for months. He hadn’t called or sent a solstice card, and he had intentionally left no way for me to reach him. It was time to move on.

Takata shifted his perch atop the picnic table in case we wanted to sit. The concert earlier tonight had gone off without a hitch, and since Lee wasn’t around, Ivy and I watched from backstage. Takata had dedicated “Red Ribbons” to our firm, and half the crowd had waved their lighters in tribute thinking I was still dead.

I had only been joking when I invited him to my bonfire, but I was glad he came. He seemed to relish that no one was fawning over him as he sat contentedly in the background. I recognized that distant look on his lined face from when Ivy was planning a run, and wondered if his next album might have a song about sparks among the frost-blackened arms of an oak.