Ivy’s fingers gripped the stem of her empty wineglass, her knuckles white with pressure. The old vamp leaned close to her. “This isn’t working, Ivy girl. You either get control of your pet or I will.”

Ivy didn’t answer, sitting with that same frightened, desperate expression.

Still shaking, I was in no position to remind them that I wasn’t a possession.

Piscary sighed, looking like a tired father.

Jenks flitted erratically to our table with a faint whine. “What the hell am I here for?” he snarled as he landed on the salt shaker and started brushing himself off. What smelled like cheese dust sifted down to the table, and there was sauce on his wings. “I could be home in bed. Pixies sleep at night, you know. But no-o-o-o,” he drawled. “I had to volunteer for baby-sitting. Rachel, give me some of your wine. Do you know how hard it is to get tomato sauce out of silk? My wife is gonna kill me.”

He stopped his harangue, realizing no one was listening. He took in Ivy’s distressed expression and my frightened eyes. “What the Turn is going on?” he said belligerently, and Piscary drew back from the table.

“Tomorrow,” the old vamp said to Ivy. He turned to me and nodded his good-bye.

Jenks looked from me to Ivy and back again. “Did I miss something?”

Nine

“Where’s my money, Bob?” I whispered as I dropped the stinky pellets into Ivy’s bathtub. Jenks had sent his brood out to the nearest park yesterday to bring back a handful of fish food for me. The pretty fish gulped at the surface, and I washed the smell of fish oil off my hands. Fingers dripping, I looked at Ivy’s perfectly arranged pink towels. After a moment of hesitation, I dried my hands, then smoothed them out so she couldn’t tell I’d used one.

I spent a moment trying to arrange my hair under my leather cap, then strode out into the kitchen, boots thumping. My eyes went to the clock above the sink. Fidgeting, I went to the fridge, opening it to stare at nothing. Where the devil was Glenn?

“Rachel,” Ivy muttered from her computer. “Stop. You’re giving me a headache.”

I shut the fridge and leaned against the counter. “He said he’d be here at one o’clock.”

“So he’s late,” she said, one finger on the computer screen as she jotted down an address.

“An hour?” I exclaimed. “Cripes. I could have been out to the FIB and back by now.”

Ivy clicked to a new page. “If he doesn’t show, I’ll loan you the bus fare.”

I turned back to the window and the garden. “That’s not why I’m waiting for him,” I said, even though it was.

“Yeah. Right.” She clicked her pen open and shut so fast it almost hummed. “Why don’t you make us some breakfast while you wait? I bought toaster waffles.”

“Sure,” I said, feeling a tug of guilt. I wasn’t in charge of breakfast—just dinner—but seeing as we ate out last night, I felt I owed her something. The deal was, Ivy did the grocery shopping if I made supper. Originally the arrangement had been to keep me from running into assassins at the store and creating a new meaning to the phrase “cleanup in aisle three.” But now, Ivy didn’t want to cook and refused to renegotiate. Just as well. The way things were going, I wouldn’t have enough for a can of Spam by week’s end. And rent was due Sunday.