The large industrial-sized kitchen had never been sanctified, having been added on to the church for Sunday suppers and wedding receptions. It had two stoves—one electric, one gas—so I didn’t have to cook dinner and stir my spells on the same surface. Not that I made dinner on the stovetop too often. It was usually microwave something or cook on Ivy’s hellacious grill out back, in the tidy witch’s garden between the church and the graveyard proper.

Actually, I did most of my spelling at the island counter between the sink and Ivy’s farmhouse kitchen table. There was an overhead rack where I hung the herbs I was currently messing with and my spelling equipment that didn’t fit under the counter, and with the large circle etched out in the linoleum, it made a secure place to invoke a magical circle; there were no pipes or wires crossing either overhead in the attic or under in the crawl space to break it. I knew. I had checked.

The one window overlooked the garden and graveyard, making a comfortable mix of my earthy spelling supplies and Ivy’s computer and tight organization. It was my favorite room in the church, even if most of the arguments took place here.

The biting scent of rose hips came from the tea Ceri had made me before she left. I frowned at the pale pink liquid. I’d rather have coffee, but Ivy wasn’t making any, and I was going to bed as soon as I got the reek of burnt amber off me.

Jenks was standing on the windowsill in his Peter Pan pose, his hands on his hips and cocky as hell. The sun hit his blond hair and dragonfly-like wings, sending flashes of light everywhere as they moved. “Damn the cost,” he said, standing between my betta, Mr. Fish, who swam around in an oversize brandy snifter, and Jenks’s tank of brine shrimp. “Money doesn’t do you any good if you’re dead.” His tiny, angular features sharpened. “At least not for us, Ivy.”

Ivy stiffened, her perfect oval face emptying of emotion. On an exhale she drew her athletic six-foot height up from where she’d been leaning against the counter, straightening the leather pants she usually wore while on an investigation run and tossing her enviably straight black hair from habit. She’d had cut it a couple of months ago, and I knew she kept forgetting how short it was, just above her ears. I’d commented last week that I liked it, and she had gotten it styled into downward spikes with gold tips. It looked great on her, and I wondered where her recent attention to her appearance was coming from. Skimmer, maybe?