He shook his head, giving me a quick flash of a smile. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll see you through tonight. I owe you that for getting me out of that rat pit. One more week, and I was going to go insane.”

Just imagining it gave me a chill. There were worse fates than being on an I.S. death list. I touched his shoulder briefly and eased back into my seat, surreptitiously watching him as he lost his hidden tension and his breath came easier. The more I knew about him, the larger his contrasts with most of humanity became. But instead of worrying me, it made me feel more secure. Back to my hero/damsel in distress syndrome. I’d read too many fairy tales as a child, and I was too much a realist not to enjoy being rescued once in a while.

An uncomfortable silence settled in, and my anxiety swelled. What if we were too late? What if Trent changed the flight? What if it had all been an elaborate setup? God help me, I thought. I had gambled everything on the next few hours. If this didn’t happen, I had nothing.

“Witch!” Jenks shouted, jerking my attention to him. I realized he had been trying to get my attention for the last few moments. “Pick me up,” he demanded. “I can’t see jack from here.”

I offered him a hand and he clambered up. “I can’t imagine why everyone avoids you when you can’t fly,” I said dryly.

“This never would have happened,” Jenks said loudly, “if someone hadn’t torn my freaking wing off.”

I set him on my shoulder, where we could both watch the outgoing traffic as we headed into the Cincinnati–Northern Kentucky International Airport. Most people just called it the Hollows International, or even more simply, the “Big H.I.” The passing cars were briefly lit by the scattered streetlights. The lights became more numerous the closer we came to the terminals. A flash of excitement went through me, and I straightened in my seat. Nothing was going to go wrong. I was going to nail him. Whatever Trent was, I was going to get him. “What time is it?” I asked.

“Eleven-fifteen,” Jenks muttered.

“Eleven-twenty,” Edden corrected, pointing to the van’s clock.

“Eleven-fifteen,” the pixy snarled back. “I know where the sun is better than you know what hole to pee out of.”

“Jenks!” I said, aghast. Nick uncrossed his arms, a wisp of his confidence returning.

Edden raised a restraining hand. “It’s all right, Ms. Morgan.”

Clayton, an uptight cop who didn’t seem to trust me, met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Actually, sir,” he said reluctantly, “that clock is five minutes fast.”

“See?” Jenks exclaimed.

Edden reached for the car phone and snapped on the speaker so we all could hear. “Let’s make sure that plane is grounded and everyone is in place,” he said.

Anxious, I adjusted my arm sling as Edden punched three numbers into the phone. “Ruben,” he barked into it, holding it like it was a mike. “Talk to me.”