I leaned against the back mirror and smiled weakly at him. “Sorry. I know how that feels.” I had quit my old job at Inderland Security, the I.S., almost a year ago to go independent. Though it had been rough—and still was, occasionally—it was the best decision I’d ever made.

“Still,” he persisted, the not unpleasant scent of musk growing as he turned to me in the confined space. “This isn’t your job. I owe you.”

“David, let it go,” I said, exasperated. “I’m happy to come out here and make sure some witch isn’t scamming you. It’s no big deal. I do this stuff every day. In the dark. Usually alone. And if I’m lucky, it involves running, and screaming, and my foot in somebody’s gut.”

The Were smiled to show his flat, blocky teeth. “You like your job, don’t you?”

I smiled right back. “You bet I do.”

The floor lurched, and the doors opened. David waited for me to exit first, and I looked out onto the huge, building-sized room on the top floor. The setting sun streamed in the ceiling-to-floor windows, shining on the scattered construction materials. Past the windows, the Ohio River made a gray sheen. When finished, this would be an excellent apartment. My nose tickled at the scent of two-by-fours and sanded plaster, and I sneezed.

David’s eyes went everywhere. “Hello? Mrs. Bryant?” he said, his deep voice echoing. “I’m David. David Hue from Were Insurance. I brought an assistant with me.” He gave my tight jeans, T-shirt, and red leather jacket a disparaging look. “Mrs. Bryant?”

I followed him farther in, my nose wrinkling. “I think the crack in her wall might be from removing some of those supporting members,” I said softly. “Like I said, no problem.”

“Mrs. Bryant?” David called again.

My thoughts went to the empty street and how far we were from the casual observer. Behind me, the elevator doors slid shut and the lift descended. A small scuff from the far end of the room sent a stab of adrenaline through me, and I spun.

David was on edge too, and together we laughed at ourselves when a slight figure rose from the couch set adjacent to a modern kitchen at the end of the long room, the cupboards still wrapped in plastic.

“Mrs. Bryant? I’m David Hue.”

“As prompt as your last yearly review claims,” a masculine voice said, the soft resonances sifting through the darkening air. “And very thoughtful to bring a witch with you to check your customer’s claim with. Tell me, do you take that off your end-of-the-year taxes, or do you claim it as a business expense?”

David’s eyes were wide. “It’s a business expense, sir.”

I looked from David to the man. “Ah, David? I take it that’s not Mrs. Bryant.”