I parked Adam’s SUV on the side of the lot farthest from the cars and the church building. I gathered the Sig’s two spare magazines from my purse and stuck them in the back of my waistband because my stupid jeans didn’t have pockets. Sherwood scrounged around and came up with a tire iron. I shook my head at him, opened the rear hatch, and pushed back the mat to expose the big locked box. My handprint released the lock. I opened the box and revealed Adam’s new treasure chest. Inside was a collection of guns and various bladed weapons.

“Any idea what we’re facing?” Sherwood asked, examining the contents of the box.

I shook my head. “Probably fae, but it could be one of the anti-supernatural groups or Cantrip or anyone. If they are here, in the church, it probably won’t be vampires.” Sherwood had spent a few years in the Marrok’s pack. He’d know how to fight whatever we’d face as well as I did. “If you figure it out first, let me know.”

He picked up an ax and checked it for balance. “This works for the fae,” he said. Then he picked up the HK45 compact, checked it. (It was loaded.) “This will do for anything else.” He decocked it and put it in the pocket of his jeans. “Compact” was an optimistic label for that gun.

“That’s a dangerous place to carry it,” I told him.

He grinned at me. “Nah, that’s my bum leg. Can’t shoot my foot off ’cause someone already did that. What does the interior look like?”

“The church was a house, once upon a time,” I told him. Then I described it the best I could.

—

We paused for a moment by the cars. By now, the scent of fae magic lingered in the air, so I was pretty sure that was whom we were facing. However, the Ford Explorer belonged to a human male who did a lot of smoking.

“Do you recognize him?” asked Sherwood in a voice that wouldn’t carry.

I shook my head, but the church wasn’t empty during the week. I was grateful that it wasn’t a Tuesday when the choir practiced or Thursday when the youth group met to plan their monthly community service. On other days . . . “The pastor has a degree in sociology,” I told him, softly. “He makes most of his living as a counselor for recovering addicts.”

“Not a lot of money in that,” Sherwood observed. He was looking around alertly; the conversation was to keep relaxed and ready. It wasn’t how I functioned, but I’d fought side by side with enough people—mostly wolves—to know that it was a technique that worked for some people.