“Rachel,” Ivy cajoled as she shifted atop the counter. “Don’t be stupid. He’s not an elf.”

Arms crossed, I pressed my lips together in frustration. “He sleeps at noon and midnight,” I said, “and he’s most active at dawn and dusk, just like elves were. He possesses nearly vamplike reflexes. He likes his solitude but is damn good at manipulating people. My God, Ivy, the man tried to ride me down on horseback like prey under the full moon!” I tossed my arms as I gestured. “You’ve seen his gardens and that artificial forest of his. He’s an elf! And so are Quen and Jonathan.”

She shook her head. “They died. All of them. And what would they have to gain by letting even Inderland think they were gone if they weren’t? You know how we throw money at endangered species. Especially intelligent ones.”

“I don’t know,” I said, exasperated with her disbelief. “Humanity was never keen on their history of stealing human babies and substituting their own failing infants. That would be enough for me to keep my mouth shut and my head down until everyone thought we were dead.”

Ivy made a noise of doubt deep in her throat, but I could see her belief shifting. “He works ley lines,” I insisted. “You said it yourself. Eliminate the impossible, and what’s left, no matter how improbable, is the truth. The man isn’t human or witch.” My eyes closed as I remembered biting both Jonathan and Trent when I had been a mink, struggling to escape. “He can’t be. His blood tastes like cinnamon and wine.”

“He’s an elf,” Ivy said, her voice shockingly flat. I opened my eyes. Her face was alive and alight. “Why didn’t you tell me he tasted like cinnamon?” she said as she slipped from the counter, her black ankle boots hitting the linoleum without a sound.

Self-preservation pulled me a step from her before I knew I had moved. “I thought it might have been from the drugs he had knocked me out with,” I said, not liking that the mention of blood had jerked her into motion. The brown of her irises was shrinking behind her widening pupils. I was sure it was from discovering Trent’s ancestry and not me standing in her kitchen with my blood pounding and my palms sweating. But still … I didn’t like it.

Mind whirling, I gave her a warning look and put the island counter between us. Okay, so I knew Trent’s history. Telling him would certainly get me an audience with him, but how do you tell a serial killer you know his secret without ending up dead?

“You aren’t going to tell him you know,” Ivy said, giving me an apologetic look before putting her back against the counter in a blatant show of keeping her distance.

“I have to talk to Trent. He’ll talk to me if I drop this on his plate and serve it up with gravy. I’ll be okay. I have that blackmail on him.”