“The kitchen’s back here,” she said, and I followed her and the smell of coffee. My mouth fell open as I rounded the open archway, and I forgot to be angry again.

The kitchen was half the size of the sanctuary, as fully equipped and modern as the sanctuary was barren and medieval. There was gleaming metal, shiny chrome, and bright, fluorescent lights. The refrigerator was enormous. A gas stove and oven sat at one end of the room; an electric range and stovetop took up the other. Centered in the middle of it all was a stainless steel island with empty shelves beneath. The rack above it was festooned with metal utensils, pans, and bowls. It was a witch’s dream kitchen; I wouldn’t have to stir my spells and dinner on the same stove.

Apart from the beat-up wooden table and chairs in the corner, the kitchen looked like one you might see on a cooking show. One end of the table was set up like a computer desk, the wide-screen monitor blinking furiously to itself as it cycled through the open lines to find and claim the best continuous link to the net. It was an expensive program, and my eyebrows rose.

Ivy cleared her throat as she opened a cupboard beside the sink. There were three mismatched mugs on the bottom shelf; other than that, it was empty. “They put in the new kitchen five years ago for the health department,” she said, jerking my attention back to her. “The congregation wasn’t very big, so when all was said and done, they couldn’t afford it. That’s why they’re renting it out. To try and pay off the bank.”

The sound of coffee being poured filled the room as I ran my finger over the unblemished metal on the island counter. It had never seen a single apple pie or Sunday school cookie.

“They want their church back,” Ivy said, looking thin as she leaned against the counter with her mug cradled in her pale hands. “But they’re dying. The church, I mean,” she added as I met her eyes. “No new members. It’s sad, really. The living room is back here.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut and followed her into the hallway and through a narrow doorway at the end of the hall. The living room was cozy, and furnished so tastefully that I had no doubt these were all Ivy’s things. It was the first softness and warmth I had seen in the entire place—even if everything was in shades of gray—and the windows were just plain glass. Heavenly. I felt my tension loosen. Ivy snatched up a remote, and midnight jazz drifted into existence. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“You almost got tagged?” Ivy tossed the remote onto the coffee table and settled herself in one of the voluptuous gray suede chairs beside the empty fireplace. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I admitted sourly, seeming to sink nearly to my ankles in the expansive throw rug. “Is all this your stuff? A guy bumped into me, slipped me a charm that wouldn’t invoke until there were no witnesses or causalities—other than me. I can’t believe Denon is serious about this. You were right.” I worked hard to keep my voice casual so Ivy wouldn’t know how shaken I was. Hell, I didn’t want to know how shaken I was. I’d get the money to pay off my contract somehow. “It was lucky as toast the old guy across the street took it off me.” I picked up a picture of Ivy and a golden retriever. She was smiling to show her teeth; I stifled a shiver.