The sound of the front door opening jerked my attention to the clock. Ivy was home? Already? I had wanted to be tucked in bed pretending sleep when she came in.

“You up, Rachel?” she said, loud enough to be heard and soft enough to not wake me.

“Kitchen,” I called back. Nervous, I glanced at the potpourri. It was enough. Kisten had said it was. Standing, I flicked on the overhead light and resettled myself. As the fluorescent bulbs flickered on, I tucked my amulets behind my sweater and listened to her thump about in her room. Her steps in the hall were quick and stilted.

“Hi,” I said when she walked in, a vision of tight leather and tall boots. A black satchel was over one arm, and a silk-wrapped package about the size of a broken fishing pole was in her hand. My eyebrows rose as I realized she had put on makeup. Her image was both professional and sexy. Where was she going this late? And dressed like that?

“What happened with dinner with the folks?” I prompted.

“Change of plans.” Setting her stuff beside me on the table, she crouched to dig in a lower drawer. “I came to get a few things, then I’m gone.” Still at knee level, she smiled at me to show teeth. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Okay,” I said, slightly confused. She looked happy. She actually looked happy.

“It’s cold in here,” she said as she pulled out three of my wooden stakes and set them clattering on the counter by the sink. “It smells like you had the windows open.”

“Um, it must be from our plywood door.” My brow furrowed as she stood, tugging the hem of her leather jacket down. Crossing the room with a speed just shy of eerie, she unzipped the satchel and jammed the stakes into it. I silently watched her, wondering.

Ivy hesitated. “Can I use them?” she asked, mistaking my silence for disapproval.

“Sure. Keep them,” I said, wondering what was up. I hadn’t seen her in this much leather since she took that run to liberate a vamp child from a jealous ex. And I really didn’t want a stake back if it had been used.

“Thanks.” Boot heels clacking on the linoleum, she went to the coffeemaker. Her oval face creased in annoyance as she peered at the empty carafe.

“You have a run?” I asked.

“Sort of.” Her enthusiasm dimmed, and I watched her throw the old grounds away.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I flicked back the silk covering to see what was under it. “Holy crap!” I exclaimed as I found a shiny length of steel smelling faintly of oil. “Where did you get a sword!”

“Nice, isn’t it.” Not turning, she added three scoops of coffee to the filter and set it to brew. “And you can’t trace it like bullets or charms.”

Oh, such a warm and fuzzy thought. “Can you use it?”