“If you don’t want the job, then I expect you to return my retaining fee.”

I hung up on him.

The phone was hot in my grip, and I set it gently on the mantel between Nick’s kitchen and living room before I threw it at something. “Get me home, please?” I asked tightly.

Nick was staring at his bookshelf, running his fingers over the titles.

“Nick,” I said louder, angry and frustrated. “I really want to get home.”

“Just a minute,” he mumbled, intent on his books.

“Nick!” I exclaimed, gripping my elbows. “You can pick out your bedtime story later. I really want to get home!”

He turned, a sick look on his long face. “He took it.”

“Took what?”

“I thought he was talking about the book in his hand. But he took the one that you used to make me your familiar.”

My lip curled. “Al wrote the book on how to make humans into familiars? He can have it.”

“No,” he said, his expression drawn and pale. “If he’s got it, how are we going to break the spell?”

My face went slack. “Oh.” I hadn’t thought of that.

Twenty-Five

The low lub-lub-lub-lub of a bike pulled my eyes up from my book. Recognizing the cadence of Kist’s motorbike, I pulled my knees to my chin, tugged my covers farther up, and clicked off my bedside lamp. The sliver of black beyond my propped-open stained-glass window showed a lighter gray. Ivy was home. If Kist came in, I was going to pretend to be asleep until he left. But his bike hardly paused before it idled back up the street. My eyes went to the glowing green numbers of my clock. Four in the morning. She was early.

Closing the book upon my finger to mark the page, I listened for her footsteps on the walk. The cold, predawn September air had pooled in my room. If I were smart, I’d get up and close my window; Ivy would probably turn the heat on when she came in.

I thanked all that was holy that my bedroom was part of the original church and fell under the sacred-ground clause: guaranteed to keep out undead vamps, demons, and mothers-in-law. I was safe in my bed until the sun came up. I still had to worry about Kist. But he wouldn’t touch me while Ivy breathed. He wouldn’t touch me if she were dead, either.

A stirring of unease pulled my finger out of the book, and I set it on the cloth-covered box I was using as a table. Ivy hadn’t come in yet. It had been Kist’s bike I heard driving away.

I listened to my heartbeat, waiting for Ivy’s soft steps or the closing of the church’s door. But what met me was the sound of someone retching, faint through the cold-silenced night.

“Ivy,” I whispered, throwing off my covers. Chilled, I lurched from my bed, snatched my robe, jammed my feet into my fuzzy pink slippers, and went into the hall. Skittering to a halt, I retraced my steps. Standing before my pressboard chest of drawers, I sent my fingers over the shadowed bumps of my perfumes.