Our relationship had gotten complicated. Either I had to sleep with her to safely share blood, or we could try to keep it to a blood exchange alone and run the risk that she would lose control and I’d have to slam her against the wall to get her to stop before she killed me. In Ivy’s words, we could share blood without hurt if there was love, or we could share blood without love if I hurt her. There was no middle ground. How nice was that?

Ivy cleared her throat. It was a small sound, but the pixies went silent. “You’re going to damage the felt,” she almost growled.

My eyebrows rose, and I turned to look at the table, already knowing its surface like the palm of my hand. “Like it’s in such good shape?” I asked dryly. “I can’t make it any worse. There’s a dent in the slate the size of an elbow by the front left pocket, and it looks like someone stitched up nail gouges there in the middle.”

Ivy reddened, picking up an old issue of Vamp Vixen that she had out for clients. “Oh, my God,” I said, untwisting my legs and jumping off as I imagined just how gouges like that could get there. “I’ll never be able to play on it again. Thanks a hell of a lot.”

Jenks laughed to sound like wind chimes, and he joined me as I headed over for some of the pickled herring. The puff of leather was soothing as I flopped into the couch across from Ivy, dropping my clipboard beside me and reaching for the crackers.

“The blood came right out,” she muttered.

“I don’t want to know!” I shouted, and she hid behind her magazine. The cover story was SIX WAYS TO LEAVE YOUR SHADOW BEGGING AND BREATHING. Nice.

Silence slipped between us, but it was a comfortable one, which I filled by shoving pickled herring into my mouth. The tart vinegar reminded me of my dad—he had been the one who’d gotten me hooked on the stuff—and I settled back with a cracker and my clipboard.

“What have you come up with so far?” Ivy asked, clearly looking for a shift in topics.

I pulled the pencil from behind my ear. “The usual suspects. Mr. Ray, Mrs. Sarong. Trent.” Beloved city’s son, playboy, murdering slicker-than-a-frog-in-a-rainstorm bastard Trent. But I doubted it was him. Trent hated Al more than I did, having run into him once before to come away with a broken arm and probably a recurring nightmare. Besides, he had cheaper ways to knock me off, and if he did, his secret biolabs would hit the front page.

Jenks was jabbing the point of his sword into the holes of the crackers to break them into pixy-size pieces. “What about the Withons? You did bust up their plans to marry off their daughter.”