Ivy scowled. “Why didn’t you say so,” she grumbled as she walked out. “I’ll do it.”

“Mind that her bath isn’t too hot,” Keasley called after her.

“I know how to treat severe blood loss,” she yelled belligerently.

“That you probably do, missy.” Straightening, he backed a startled Nick into the wall. “You tell Ms. Morgan what she can expect concerning her wrist,” he said, taking his bag back.

Nick nodded once, looking surprised by the short, innocuous-seeming witch.

“Rache,” Jenks said, buzzing close. “What’s going on with your wrist?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s going on with your wrist, Hot Stuff?”

“Nothing!” I waved him away, almost panting from the effort.

“Jenks?” Ivy called loudly over the distant sound of water flowing. “Get me that black bag on my dresser, will you? I want to put it in Rachel’s bath.”

“The one that stinks like vervain?” he called, rising up to hover before me.

“You’ve been in my stuff!” she accused, and Jenks grinned sheepishly. “And hurry up about it,” she added. “The sooner Rachel is in the tub, the sooner we can get out of here. As long as she’s all right, we need to see about finishing her run.”

The recollection of Trent’s shipment came flooding back. I looked at the clock and sighed. There was still time to get to the FIB and nail him. But I was not going to be taking part in it in any way, shape, or form.

Swell.

Twenty-Eight

Bubbles, I thought, ought to be marketed as a medicinal inducement for well-being. I sighed, scooting myself up before my neck could slip under the water. Dulled by amulets and warm water, my bruises had retreated to a background throb. Even my wrist, propped high and dry on the side of the tub, felt reasonable. Faintly through the walls, I could hear Nick talking to his mother on the phone, telling her that work had gotten really hectic the last three months and that he was sorry he hadn’t called. Otherwise, the church was quiet. Jenks and Ivy were gone. “Out doing my job,” I whispered, my complacent mood going sour.

“What’s that, Ms. Rachel?” Matalina piped up. The small pixy woman was perched on a towel rack, looking like an angel in her flowing white silk dress as she embroidered dogwood blossoms on an exquisite shawl for her eldest daughter. She had been with me since I got in the tub, making sure I didn’t pass out and drown.

“Nothing.” I laboriously lifted my bruised arm and drew a mound of bubbles closer. The water was going cold and my stomach was rumbling. Ivy’s bathroom looked eerily like my mother’s, with tiny soaps in the shape of shells, and lacy curtains over the stained-glass window. A vase of violets rested on the back of the commode, and I was surprised a vamp cared about such things. The tub was black, contrasting nicely with the pastel walls and rosebud wallpaper.

Matalina set her stitching aside and flitted down to hover over black porcelain. “Should your amulets get wet like that?”