I didn’t appreciate the reference to Nick, and my mood darkened. “Jenks, shut up,” I said tiredly, then turned to David. “Have you talked to the ladies about the pack tattoo?”

Jenks snickered. “Nice segue, Rache. From one pain in the ass to another.”

“Learn a new word, Jenks?” I needled.

David grinned to show his small teeth. “I’ve got an appointment for you with Emojin, Cincy’s best tat design artist, the first week in April. I’ll pick you up.”

“April?” I said, my fear and anticipation easing. “I didn’t know it would take that long.” Maybe with a little luck, they’d forget about the entire thing.

Shrugging, David watched the road. “She’s the best, and nothing but the best for my first female alpha.”

I snorted and propped my elbow up on the window as I looked out. My schedule was going to be very full in April. Just watch.

Jenks was snickering, and I sent my gaze to the passing upper-class homes, ignoring him. We were almost there by the look of it, and I’d be glad to get out of the car and take my frustration out on some demon summoners.

“Big lots,” I said, seeing the eighty-year-old oaks and shady lawns. The houses were set way back and had iron fences and stone drives.

“The harder to hear your neighbors scream, my dear,” was David’s answer, and I sent my head up and down in agreement.

Halloween decorations were everywhere—expensive and elaborate displays. Most of them moved, a combination of mechanics and magic that had been found only on locked Hollywood back lots until the Turn. David exhaled loudly as he turned the car onto a cobblestoned, circular drive. “This is it,” he said as our momentum slowed and the sound of the tires became louder.

The house was a sprawling ranch with what looked like an inground pool in the back and elaborate landscaping in front. Inside the garage was a black two-seater Beemer, a riding lawn mower, and little else. A basket of cherry tomatoes with a gingham liner was sitting on the steps, a clear indication that the homeowner was Inderlander. I still had to go out and get my tomatoes, and I made a mental note to ask David if he would mind stopping at the Big Cherry on the way home.

Black and orange decorations covered the front porch between the huge Boston ferns and the greyhound statue. They might want to take it in tonight, or someone was going to cover it in tomato. Or worse.

The brakes squeaked as David stopped, and as he put the car in park, Jenks hovered before me. “Be right back,” he said, then zipped out the window.