“He’s been trying to reach you,” Ivy said, her tone both bothered and concerned. “He says—are you ready for this?—he says he’s killing women and he doesn’t remember. Look, will you call him? He’s called here twice in the last three minutes.”

I wanted to laugh but couldn’t. The Were murder the I.S. was covering up. The demon tearing my living room apart for the focus. Shit.

“Okay,” I said softly. “Thanks. ’Bye.”

“Rachel?”

Her voice had changed. I was upset, and she knew it. I took a breath, trying to find a glimmer of calm. “Yes?”

I could tell by her hesitation that she wasn’t fooled, but she knew that whatever it was, I wasn’t running scared. Yet. “Watch yourself,” she said tightly. “Call me if you need me.”

My tension eased. It was good to have friends. “Thanks. I will.”

I hung up, glanced at Kisten’s expressive eyes waiting for an explanation, then jumped when my phone, sitting in my lap, vibrated. Taking a breath, I picked it up and looked at the number. It was David’s. I recognized it now.

“You going to take that?” Kisten asked, his hands on the wheel though we were parked.

In the next spot over, I watched a girl slam the door to her mother’s minivan. Ponytail bobbing and mouth going nonstop, she chatted as she headed to class with a friend. They disappeared past the glass doors, and the woman behind the wheel wiped at her eye and watched through her rearview mirror. Kisten leaned forward to get into my line of sight. The phone vibrated again, and a sour smile lifted the corners of my mouth as I flipped the phone open.

Somehow I didn’t think I was going to make my class.

EIGHT

David’s hand trembled almost imperceptibly as he accepted the glass of cold tap water. He held it to his forehead for a moment as he gathered his calm, then sipped it and set it on the solid ash coffee table before us. “Thank you,” the small man said, then put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

I patted his shoulder and eased farther from him on his couch. Kisten was standing next to the TV, back to us as he looked over David’s collection of Civil War sabers in a lighted, locked cabinet. The faint scent of Were tickled my nose, not unpleasant at all.

David was a wreck, and I alternated my attention between the shaken man dressed in his suit for the office and his tidy, clearly bachelor town house. It was the usual two stories, the entire complex about five to ten years old. The carpet probably hadn’t ever been replaced, and I wondered if David rented or owned.