She gave a wan smile. “Sometimes I think a preshow broken limb wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” Her eyes clouded, but the look evaporated with a blink. “I should be wishing you luck, too. If you need anything, just pop by the theater.” She hesitated. “But if you do pop in—”

“Don’t really pop in. Got it.”

She murmured a good-bye, grabbed her purse, and left.

I spent the next hour reading through the first wall of printouts. I made two mental lists, one for likely suspects and one for possible. Some were obvious noncandidates. Like the hooker who accidentally killed a john, robbed him, then decided murder was more lucrative than turning tricks. Or the teen who’d set a bomb in the girls’ changing room during cheerleading practice and later told reporters “the bitches got what they deserved.” Women like that didn’t need the Nix’s booster shot for resolve. Likewise, I could exclude the women who’d committed their crimes under the influence of drugs or alcohol. The Nix needed very clear criteria for her partners, those on the verge of murder, needing only her extra push.

A low whistle sounded behind me. “You are busy.” Kristof stepped up to me and scanned the wall filled with articles. “I thought maybe you could use some research help, so I put on my bloodhound nose.”

I smiled. “You’re very good at that, you know. Scary good.”

“If I want something, I find it.” Kristof turned to the wall. “Where can I start?”

I hesitated, then pointed to the pages strewn over the bed and told him my criteria.

“I’ll cull the ones that fit,” he said. “Then you can read them, make your own decision.”

The more I read, the more I wanted this part of my mission to be over. I don’t have any hang-ups about violence. For a witch in the supernatural world, being powerful meant mastering the dark arts. Paige was trying to change that, and all the power to her. But when I was her age, I saw only two choices: become a black witch or accept that my powers were good for little more than spell-locking my door and cowering on the other side.

So I’d followed the path of dozens of young witches before me: I’d left the Coven. Left or was kicked out, depending on who you ask. Once gone, I’d devoted myself to learning stronger magic, which meant sorcerer magic, plus the odd black-market witch spell I managed to master. To become more powerful, I had to dig deep into the underbelly of the supernatural world and gain the respect of people who don’t respect anything but violence. It became a tool, one I learned to wield with little more concern than I would wield a machete to chop my way out of a jungle.