“With Ellasbeth, I presume,” he said, and my gaze flicked over his shoulder to Quen staggering out from the nursery.

Al picked himself up, stiffly tugging at his lace cuffs and brushing cookie crumbs off his crushed velvet. He was avoiding me even as he stood there, listing slightly. He had to see the mystics on me, making my skin tingle. Had the collective seen them? But how could they not?

“Thank God you’re okay,” Trent said, crushing me to him again.

“The girls,” I protested.

His breath came fast, and he held me tighter, so close I couldn’t see Al. “Ellasbeth has them, not a terrorist. We’ll get them back.”

Quen coughed, and I pulled back to see him leaning heavily against Ceri’s old high-backed chair. He held his ribs, and his nose was bleeding. “You are a poor babysitter, Al.”

Al opened his mouth to say something, and Trent gave me a little shake.

“How am I supposed to let you go off and do things when you might be pulled out of my reality like that?” he said, and I winced as his aura seemed to tingle through mine.

“I don’t feel very good,” I said, the sensation of being overly full making me ill.

Trent tensed when Al leaned over to peer into my eyes, his hands on his knees as his back hunched. “I’m not surprised,” he said dryly, giving me a final grimace before he slowly, almost painfully, walked down into the living room. “May I use your phone?”

Surprised, Trent’s grip on me eased. “Sure,” he said cautiously, and I took the tissue that Quen handed me.

“What does a demon need with a phone?” I said as I eased myself out of Trent’s lap and just sat there on the stair, heart pounding and wishing the mystics would go check on something. Anything. Would just leave me alone.

Al gave me an askance look, hesitated as he peered over his glasses at the phone as if never having used one before, and then began punching buttons. My nose was bleeding, and I dabbed at it. “Al?”

“What,” he said flatly, turning to stand sideways to me.

I cautiously brought up my second sight, relieved that it didn’t hurt. His aura was patchy but enough of it was there that he could do magic. Trent’s glowed with agitation, and Quen’s was dark with regret and guilt. “I’m glad you weren’t pulled back.”

He frowned at me, then turned his back on us. “Good evening. This is Al.” He hesitated. “Then why did you give me this number? You’d rather I just pop in?” he drawled suggestively.

Trent sat on the step with me. Leaning over, he whispered, “Who?,” and I shrugged.