The lights from oncoming traffic illuminated him. He took a breath and let it out. “You do anything in your little vendetta to jeopardize me proving Dr. Anders is the murderer, and I’ll tie you to a bonfire in Fountain Square,” he said softly in threat. “You will go to the university tomorrow, and you will tell me everything you learn.” His shoulders eased. “Just be careful.”

I eyed him, the passing lights illuminating him in flashes that seemed to mirror my uncertainty. It sounded as if he understood. Imagine that. “Fair enough,” I said, settling back. My head turned as we turned left instead of right. I glanced at him with a feeling of déjà vu. “Where are we going? My office is the other way.”

“Pizza Piscary’s,” he said. “There’s no reason to wait until tomorrow.”

I eyed him, not wanting to admit I’d promised Ivy I wouldn’t go out there without her. “Piscary’s doesn’t open until midnight,” I lied. “They cater to Inderlanders. I mean, how often does a human order a pizza?” Glenn’s face went still in understanding, and I picked at my nail polish. “It will be at least two before they slow down enough to be able to talk to us.”

“That’s two in the morning, right?” he asked.

Well, duh, I thought. That was when most Inderlanders were hitting their stride, especially the dead ones. “Why don’t you go home, sleep in, and we’ll all go out tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “You’ll go tonight without me.”

A puff of affront escaped me. “I don’t work like that, Glenn. Besides, if I do, you’ll go out there alone, and I promised your dad I’d try to keep you alive. I’ll wait. Witches’ honor.”

Lie, yes. Betray the trust of a partner—even unwelcome ones—no.

He gave me a quick, suspicious glance. “All right. Witches’ honor.”

Seven

“Rache,” Jenks said from my earring. “Take a squint at that guy. Is he trolling or what?”

I tugged my bag up higher onto my shoulder and peered through the unseasonably warm September afternoon at the kid in question as I walked through the informal lounge. Music tickled my subconscious, the volume of his radio set too low to hear well. My first thought was that he must be hot. His hair was black, his clothes were black, his sunglasses were black, and his black duster was made of leather. He was leaning against a vending machine trying to look suave as he talked to a woman in a gothic black lace dress. But he was blowing it. No one looks sophisticated with a foam cup in his hand, no matter how sexy his two-day stubble is. And no one wore goth but out-of-control teen living vamps and pathetically sad vamp wannabes.