It had been a week since my I.S. death threat was officially nulled, and I was still seeing assassins. But then, more than the I.S. might want me dead.

Exhaling loudly, I willed the adrenaline from me as I yanked the door to the church closed behind me. The comforting crackle of newsprint echoed off the thick support beams and stark walls of the sanctuary as I found the classifieds. I tucked the rest of the paper under an arm and made my way to the kitchen, scanning the personals as I went.

“’Bout time you got up, Rache,” Jenks said, his wings clattering as he flew annoying circles around me in the tight confines of the hall. I could smell the garden on him. He was dressed in his “dirt clothes,” looking like a miniature Peter Pan with wings. “Are we going to go get that disc or what?”

“Hi, Jenks,” I said, a stab of anxiety and anticipation running through me. “Yeah. They called for an exterminator yesterday.” I laid the newsprint out on the kitchen table, pushing Ivy’s colored pens and maps away to make room. “Look,” I said, pointing. “I’ve got another one.”

“Lemme see,” the pixy demanded. He landed squarely on the paper, his hands on his hips.

Running my finger across the print, I read aloud, “‘TK seeking to reopen communication with RM concerning possible business venture.’” There was no phone number, but it was obvious who had written it. Trent Kalamack.

A weary unease pulled me to sit at the table, my gaze going past Mr. Fish in his new brandy snifter and out into the garden. Though I had paid off my contract and was reasonably safe from the I.S., I still had to contend with Trent. I knew he was manufacturing biodrugs; I was a threat. Right now he was being patient, but if I didn’t agree to be on his payroll, he was going to put me in the ground.

At this point I didn’t want Trent’s head; I wanted him to leave me alone. Blackmail was entirely acceptable, and undoubtedly safer than trying to get rid of Trent through the courts. He was a businessman, if nothing else, and the hassle of disentangling himself from a trial was probably greater than his desire to have me work for him or see me safely dead. But I needed more than a page out of his daily planner. Today I would get it.

“Nice tights, Jenks,” came Ivy’s weak croak from the hall.

Startled, I jumped, then changed my motion to adjusting a curl of hair. Ivy was slumped against the doorframe, looking like an apathetic grim reaper in her black robe. Shuffling to the window, she shut the curtains and slumped against the counter in the new dimness.

My chair creaked as I leaned back in it. “You’re up early.”

Ivy poured a cold cup of coffee from yesterday, sinking down into a chair across from me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her robe was tied sloppily about her waist. She listlessly fingered the paper where Jenks had left dirty footprints. “Full moon tonight. We doing it?”