“I’m not sending you off on your motorcycle if you’re sick.”

“Then we’re stopping at the sawmill unless you can give me one valid reason why Jesse would be parked in that neighborhood all night.” I met his gaze. “Michael Kennedy almost certainly got killed because of a lead I sent him on. Are you honestly asking me to leave, knowingJesse could be in trouble?”

The anger fell from his voice. “No. I’m just ...” He looked at me. “I’m worried about you, Savannah. First a killer targeting investigators. Then a killer targeting witches. Now you’re almost certainly poisoned, and I’m worried.”

“I know. And I appreciate it.”

He blinked then, like he’d expected me to come back with a smart-ass rejoinder. When I didn’t, he didn’t seem to know how to answer, just took out his keys, jiggled them for a second, then said, gruffly, “A quick check. Very quick,” and started the Jeep.

WE FOUND JESSE’S truck a quarter-mile from the sawmill gates. We parked behind it. I tried his cell one last time—I’d been calling it since before we said good-bye to Bruyn—and got his voice mail again.

As Adam got out of the Jeep, I tested a light-ball spell. It took two tries, but if I concentrated it would work. When I tried moving on to a fireball, Adam opened the passenger door.

“I’m just—” I began.

“Fretting about your spells.”

“I’m not fretting. I’m heading into a potentially dangerous situation. Just give me a minute—”

He hauled me out. “You’re quite capable of taking care of yourself, spells or no spells, Savannah.”

I wish I could agree. With my spells failing, I felt like a knight walking around in his long underwear. I reminded myself that I wasn’t completely naked. I just needed to conserve spell power, which meant letting Adam bring a flashlight and lock picks.

The sawmill was surrounded by an eight-foot-tall barbwire-topped fence, plastered with Keep Out signs and security company warnings. That would have been a lot more impressive if those signs didn’t appear to have been printed on a home computer. They were barely leg ible, the laminate weather-beaten and cracked.

All I could make out was the company: R. G. Ballard out of Columbus. There was certainly no sign of a patrolling guard. The entrance into the parking lot was locked, but the gates didn’t close properly and we easily slipped through the gap.

The sawmill was short and sprawling, with a few small outbuildings. A lot of square footage to cover. Adam looked from building to building, scowl deepening.

“We’ll start at the midpoint, behind the sawmill,” I said. “I’ll cast my sensing spell.” I stopped. “Shit.”