Jenks’s wings blurred into motion and stopped. Tossing his blond hair from his eyes, he frowned, almost sitting on the demon text and catching himself at the last moment, wings going full tilt. “Mix earth and ley line magic? Isn’t that what makes a demon curse?”

Fear slid through me and away. “It won’t be a demon curse if I invent it, will it?”

His wings drooped and he seemed to slump. “I don’t know. Marshal’s here.”

I sat up and glanced over the kitchen. “How do you know?”

“He drives a diesel, and one just pulled up to the curb.”

A smile curved over me. “He’s got a diesel engine?”

Spilling a glittering path of dust, Jenks rose. “Probably needs it to pull his big-ass boat out of the water. I’ll get the door. I want to talk to him.”

“Jenks,” I warned, and he laughed, halfway to the hall.

“About Al being after you. God, Rachel! I’m not your daddy.”

I relaxed, then got to my feet and shoved the demon books under the counter, vowing to do some rearranging tomorrow when the sun was up. I heard the front door open before the bell even rang, and a masculine greeting filtered softly back to me in a way that sounded really…comforting.

“Is she all right?” came Marshal’s soft query from the sanctuary, but I didn’t hear Jenks’s response. “No, that’s cool,” he added, clearly closer, and I spun to the hallway at the soft sound of the floorboards creaking and the smell of hot rice.

“Hi, Marshal,” I said, glad to see him. “You made it.”

Marshal had taken the time to get out of his interview clothes, and he looked good in jeans and a soft flannel shirt of rich blue. There was a folded newspaper under his arm, and he set it and the steam-damp bag on the table before taking off his coat. “I was starting to think the world was conspiring against us,” he said. “Jenks said you had a rough early evening.”

I glanced at Jenks, wondering what he had told Marshal. I shrugged, arms wrapping around my middle. “I survived.”

“Survived?” Jenks landed on top of the rolled-down bag. “We kicked that demon’s ass from here to the Turn. Don’t sell yourself short, Rache.”

Marshal hung his coat on the back of Ivy’s chair, pausing to watch Jenks manhandle the bag open. “I like your church,” he said, gazing at the kitchen. “It suits you.”

“Thanks.” A flash of gratitude went through me. He didn’t pry, didn’t ask why a demon had been in my kitchen, didn’t take my hand and peer into my eyes and ask me if I was okay and did I need to sit down, didn’t tell me I was going to die young and that I should take up canasta instead. He accepted my explanation and let it go. I didn’t think it was because he didn’t care either. I think it was because he wanted to wait until I was comfortable and told him myself. And that meant a lot. Kisten had been like that, too.