His gunmetal gray hair was parted on the side, with a thick doo-wop that curled up, down, and around his forehead like a scoop of vanilla soft serve. Given the gray hair, I would have put his age at around sixty. But he had the face of a much younger man—smooth, clean-shaven, and curiously free of wrinkles, even around the corners of his brown eyes. My guess? The finest Air elemental facials and skin treatments his hefty retainers could by.

Debutantes and trophy wives weren’t the only vain folks in Ashland. He’d left his hair au natural, though. Probably thought the silver color made him look more distinguished.

Still, for all his youthful vigor, the man radiated awshucks charm the way a snake-oil salesman might. Shake his hand, and you’d be wiping the grease off yours for the next ten minutes. And wondering where your wallet went. I recognized him from his many pictures in the newspaper and Fletcher’s thick file on Mab Monroe and her flunkies.

Jonah McAllister, Ashland’s slickest attorney and personal counsel to Mab herself, had just walked into my restaurant.

And he wasn’t alone.

Jake McAllister strutted in through the door behind his old man. Rock-star jeans, vintage T-shirt, heavy boots, a black leather coat that skirted the floor. Another punk getup.

Two giant bodyguards also stepped inside the restaurant, taking up all the available space by the front door.

The goons were probably on loan from Mab Monroe, via her other number-two man, enforcer Elliot Slater, who was a giant himself. Even if I’d had a customer today, she wouldn’t have been able to get inside with the two behemoths blocking the entrance.

I stared at the giants, with their big, buglike eyes and black suits that had probably taken a whole field of cotton to construct. No telltale bulges could be seen under their arms. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about them shooting me, if things went badly here. They’d enjoy beating me to death more anyway. Giants who worked for Elliot Slater were notorious for that.

And they just might get a chance, the way the hate and magic sparked in Jake McAllister’s brown eyes.

Jonah McAllister stood in the middle of the Pork Pit.

But instead of looking at me or even Sophia, McAllister’s gaze slid over the blue and pink booths, the faded pig tracks on the floor, the clean tabletops, the ancient cash register. His eyes resembled his son’s—flat, brown, hard—but without the fiery glint of magic. Jake must have gotten his Fire power from his mother. She died several years ago, from what I remember having read in Fletcher’s file.

Jonah McAllister didn’t say anything. I might as well not have even been in the same room with the man for all the attention he paid me. His arrogance annoyed me.