“I’m sorry, Rachel. I thought you were more highly evolved.” Bella slipped out of her robe and into her bath. Rachel stood in the doorway staring down at her.

“I love you,” she said.

“I know you do, dear. Now, go pack your things.”

Rachel couldn’t bear the idea of staying in Berkeley. Everywhere she went she encountered reminders of Bella. She loaded up her van and spent a month driving around California, looking for a place where she might fit in. Then, one morning while reading the paper over breakfast, she spotted a column called “California Facts.” It was a simple list of figures that informed readers of obscure facts such as which California county produces the most pistachios (Sacramento), where one had the best chance of having one’s car stolen (North Hollywood), and tucked amid a mélange of seemingly insignificant demographics, which California town had the highest per capita percentage of divorced women (Pine Cove). Rachel had found her destination.

Now, five years later, she was firmly set in the community, respected by the women and feared and lusted after by the men. She had moved slowly, recruiting into her coven only women who sought her out—mostly women who were on the verge of leaving their husbands and who needed something to shore them up during the divorce process. Rachel provided them with the support they required, and in return they gave her their loyalty. Just six months ago she initiated the thirteenth and final member of the coven.

At last she was able to perform the rituals that she had worked so hard to learn from Bella. For years they seemed ineffective, and Rachel attributed their failure to not having a full coven. Now she was starting to suspect that the Earth magic they were trying to perform just did not work—that there was no real power to be had.

She could lead the coven to attempt anything, and on her command they would do it. That was a power of sorts. She could extract favors from men with no more than a seductive glance and in that, there was a power. But none of it was enough. She wanted the magic to work. She wanted real power.

Catch had sensed Rachel’s lust for power in the Head of the Slug that afternoon, recognizing in her what he had seen in his ruthless masters before Travis. That night, while Rachel lay in the dark of her cabin, contemplating her own impotence, the demon came to her.

She had locked the door that night, more out of habit than need, as there was very little crime in Pine Cove. Around nine she heard someone try the doorknob and she sat upright in bed.

“Who is it?”