The ritual that Pamela conducted on her victims had bound me to the sluagh.

As Gabriel mouthed that name, the woman herself appeared. Imogen Seale.

“Do you know the problem with children who think they’re terribly clever?” she said. “They’re very quick to decide others are not. As you were with poor Imogen. A silly woman, unworthy of your time. That’s how one sneaks past two like you. Stay beneath your notice.”

She was right. We’d dismissed Imogen as a pitiful creature, clinging to her youth and her memories of Marty Tyson, her supposed lover. That’s what the police had believed—that Imogen was his mistress. They’d found something in his belongings—a phone number, rendezvous times—and jumped to that conclusion. Then we tracked Imogen down with her “mother” and she “accidentally” revealed that Marty and Lisa were killers. She played us, and when we proved tiresome in our efforts to track her human identity, she staged the fire, victims and all.

“It’s the ritual,” I said. “The one my mother supposedly copied. You fed it to the Tysons.”

“It binds Olivia in some way,” Gabriel said. “But it does not mark her as yours. What exactly is the nature of her obligation to you?”

“Ah, the lawyer appears. Looking for a contract to weasel out of, counselor? You will need to wait until the papers are served, the obligation due.”

“Bullshit,” I said.

“Excuse me?” Imogen said.

“I call bullshit. You won’t name the obligation because you want me to fear the worst. It’s like telling a man you’ve cursed him, and then watching him fall into ruin because of his own superstitious fear. I’m not marked, as Gabriel said, so I’m not doomed to serve you. Nor am I forced to choose you over the Tylwyth Teg and Cŵn Annwn. If I was, you wouldn’t bother trying to frighten me into choosing the sluagh. You invented a ritual so you can convince me that I’m bound to you. I’m not.”

“Care to test that, Eden?”

“Olivia…” Gabriel moved up behind me.

“Listen to your lover, girl. He counsels caution.”

I turned to Gabriel. “I’m a client, and I’m asking your professional advice. Do I call her on it?”

His lips compressed. The question wasn’t fair because I knew the answer was yes, just as I knew there was no way in hell he could give me that advice.

“I’m calling your bluff,” I said to Imogen.

“Are you certain?” she said, advancing on me. “Quite certain?”

Gabriel had gone quiet, and I took that to mean he was biting his tongue. When I started to speak, he shot forward, grabbing me from behind, his hand clapping over my mouth.

And Imogen—the sluagh—laughed. Laughed so hard the building trembled.