His words cut off when Quen put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him down. “Close your mouth,” Quen said. “Listen before you draw your battle lines, lest you alienate your allies.”

Oh, that sounds just peachy damn keen. But at least it was quiet. Shifting my weight to my other foot, I glanced at Al—who was starting to match Mrs. Sarong in terms of pissed-off-ness, to Trent, who was clearly thinking furiously, and finally to Piscary. The undead vamp was smiling like the benevolent god he believed he was. A honey-hued hand sat atop the pale purity of Ivy’s, and I imagined he thought I was going to barter the focus for her and Kisten. I wanted to, but Keasley was right. She had to escape him on her own, or she would never be free of him.

“I’ll give it to Piscary,” I said as sweat trickled down my spine. “But I want something.”

All eyes were on me. Piscary’s smile widened. He slipped an arm behind Ivy and pulled her gently close. There was barely a flicker behind her brown eyes. “Ivy is mine,” he said.

My breath shook as I exhaled. “Ivy belongs to herself. I want you to rescind the blood gift you made of Kisten, take him back into your camarilla, and give me protection from yourself and those yahoos,” I said as I tossed my head to indicate everyone else in the room. “I also want my church back, and the freedom to pursue my business interests without interference.”

Trent stiffened. Quen uncrossed his arms and took a more balanced stance. Al turned completely around from where he’d been scribing more ley line symbols on the two-way mirror. Piscary blinked in surprise. “Kisten?” he murmured in question. “You want…Kisten?”

“Yes, I want Kisten back under your protection,” I said belligerently. “Will you rescind his blood gift or not?”

Piscary made a small sound of surprised consideration. Then, as if shifting his thoughts, he said, “You would have to restrain from persecuting me, of course.”

“That’s not fair,” Al protested indignantly. “I’m trying to get Cincinnati’s gambling and protection, and that gives you an unfair advantage. I want a witch on my payroll, too.”

I gritted my teeth. I will not put myself on Piscary’s payroll. I will not. “I can work on that,” I said to Piscary. “It depends upon how much you tick me off.”

The small man in his traditional Egyptian robes steepled his fingers in consideration. “You want me to rescind my gift of Kisten, take him back into my graces, grant you protection from all of them,” he said with an elegant gesture, “and have me still be subject to your unique sense of moral outrage?”