I checked the in-dash GPS and switched lanes to make the next exit. “Meaning there’s a good chance we’re going to be heading into a war zone tonight.”

“The war’s already here, hon,” Deb said airily. “While you’re off messing around in your lab or testifying and looking for ‘compromise,’ people like me are getting killed in the streets. Nobody should have to compromise their right to exist.”

Two hours later, we were heading out in a rented thirty-four-foot fishing boat called the Nemo. The owner had been hesitant about letting three strangers take one of his boats, but a mental nudge from Deb and a large cash deposit from me persuaded him.

“When did you learn to drive a boat?” asked Lena.

“My dad taught me on our pontoon boat when I was eleven years old. We used to spend a few weeks each summer camping by the lake. I learned to sail, too.”

It had been a while though, and the Nemo was significantly bigger than I was used to. Its twin outboard motors made the old pontoon boat look like a child’s bathtub toy.

The weather was good: clear skies and gentle winds. The waves were topping out at about two feet, and the Nemo cut through them with hardly a bump. We moved quickly enough to keep the spray behind us, making for a surprisingly dry ride. On another night, I’d have been happy to just cut the engines and drift beneath the stars with Lena.

Deb stood at the port rail, working on a bucket of KFC she’d insisted on picking up on our way to the docks.

I leaned out from the small cockpit. “I thought Renfields had to eat living bugs and birds, not dead ones.”

“Hon, nobody eats fried chicken because it’s good for them.” She tossed a bone into the waves and grinned.

Whereas Deb was acting like this was nothing more than a late-night ocean joyride, Smudge was visibly anxious. I’d kept him in his cage in the cockpit, shielded by the clear acrylic windscreen. He’d spent the whole time crouched flat, with threads of smoke rising from his back.

I flipped on a small overhead light and checked my books. I’d sealed some of them in plastic bags as a precaution in case things went badly. I used C. S. Lewis to create an additional vial of healing magic for Lena, then ran my finger along the inner edges of the page. The book was beginning to char. I’d have to update the Porter catalog with a note to leave this one alone for a couple of years.

“How much farther?” called Deb.

I checked the screen. The Nemo was fitted with a radar and satellite positioning, overlaid with an electronic chart of the waters off the coast. “About two miles.”