Taking out one witch would be easier to deal with than an entire coven, if it came down to that. Come to think of it... “How many witches are in this coven?”

“I really don’t know.” He turned away from me. “A little over fifty, perhaps.”

A little over fifty?

Fifty?

Sweet Jesus and baby llamas everywhere. Maybe all of them wouldn’t be here. I doubted Roth expected me to hunt down every one. That would be too time-consuming, and there was no way I could get that done before Zayne returned.

Sort of horrified by myself, I shook my head. Here I was, thinking about how time-consuming it would be to kill fifty or more witches.

What bad life choices had I made that had led to this moment in my life?

My eyes narrowed on the back of Roth’s black shirt. Oh, yeah. There. Right there. Agreeing to owe a favor to a damn demon prince. This was Zayne’s fault. Sounded about right. I mean, he’d introduced me to Roth. I was going to throat punch Zayne when I saw him.

Come to think of it, how had Roth known Zayne wasn’t home? Was it a lucky guess and that was what yesterday had been about? Roth hadn’t been bored, but had come hoping to find Zayne absent? Before I could ask, Roth opened the door, and the sound of jazzy music drifted out, along with the hum of conversation. The same dark-haired woman who’d been there the last time we’d come stood behind the hostess table.

She opened her mouth as the door slid shut behind me. I heard the click of the lock and knew that had been Roth’s doing.

“We’re not expected, Rowena. I know.” Roth stopped her with a raised hand before she could speak. “And we don’t care.”

The witch snapped her mouth shut, and something unholy burned bright in her eyes. A gleam that wasn’t entirely human. Sort of like me. Her gaze shifted to me and then away, as if I wasn’t a concern. “I’ll let Faye know you’re here.”

“How about you just stand right there and do whatever it is you do. We know our way.”

We did. Rowena didn’t look happy about it, nor did she appear to listen. As we walked past her, she was reaching for what I guessed was a phone, her movements quick and jerky, as if her show of cool annoyance was a cracking facade.

Cutting through a maze of booths and tables, I noted that there were at least twenty or so witches here. Did they not have jobs?

As it had last time, conversation stopped as we stalked past their tables. Forks halted halfway to mouths. Spoons clattered off bowls. Plastic straws wavered in front of lips.