Holly called back to discuss it with Wanda. No reply. When Wanda didn’t return messages for two days, Holly sent her ayumi to Tucson, where he discovered Wanda dead in her bathtub, the victim of an apparent slip and fall.

“Which was ridiculous,” Holly said. “She had osteoarthritis. Bending her knees for a bath was torture. She’d had a fancy separate shower installed.”

“I don’t suppose you still have the photo she faxed you?” Adam said.

She did.

If the mousy girl in the photo wasn’t related to my witch-hunter, I’d . . . well, I’d say I’d give up my spells, but it was a little late for that.

The original picture quality wasn’t great—technology has come a long way in fifteen years—but it was decent enough for me to scan onto my laptop. As we drove the rental car to Arizona, I fussed with the photo, making it sharper, then sent it to our phones.

“It’s getting too late to make any headway in Phoenix,” Adam said. “I say we swing over to New Mexico instead and pay Walter Alston a visit tonight.”

I looked over at him. He changed lanes to pass a truck, his gaze fixed on the highway.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged. “We need to check out this ‘Free the Supernaturals’ movement, and we’re in the area already . . .”

“Which is not why we’re going.”

He drove another mile in silence, then said, “I want to find out what happened to your powers, Savannah. It’s not my top priority right now but . . .”

He glanced over, then away, shrugging again.

But it’s yours. That was the part he didn’t say.

I knew his top priority was keeping me safe. There was a weird sort of comfort in that.

“Think you can drive for a while?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“I could use a break. Let’s grab some burgers, then you can drive to Albuquerque if you’re up to it.”

I pulled off the interstate in Albuquerque and followed the GPS directions to Walter Alston’s address. I’d bought a navigation app for Adam’s iPhone last Christmas, after we’d had one too many arguments over directions. Now we could argue with the GPS instead.

“So are you going to call your dad and tell him we’re visiting his archenemy?” I grinned over at Adam. “Sorry, that just sounds hilarious. I really can’t imagine your dad having an archenemy.”

“He doesn’t. Any rivalry exists purely in Walter’s head, which is how these things usually go. The student rebels. Makes bad choices. The teacher is disappointed. That’s it. Just disappointed.”

“So, now that you don’t need to be circumspect in front of Holly, how nasty is this guy?”

“He can summon just about any demon you care to deal with. And for the right price, he will.”

That was what made Walter Alston a bad guy, not the ability to summon, but the willingness to do it for a price. When supernaturals want to bargain with demons, they pick foot soldiers. That’s not because they can’t summon the officers and generals, but because with every step up the demon hierarchy, you increase your risk of ending up flayed or filleted. Powerful demons became powerful for a reason. They’re smart—smarter than mortals, meaning they’ll find a way out of any bargain. And, being powerful, they’ll kick your ass faster and harder than their underlings. So the rule of thumb is to always summon the lowest demon who can do the job.

You only summon a high-ranking demon when you want something big, something that isn’t going to win you Citizen of the Year. Which made me wonder what exactly these “activists” had wanted from Walter Alston . . . and how I was going to persuade him to tell me when I didn’t have my spells.

One look at Walter Alston’s house confirmed that he didn’t help supernaturals as a public service. It was on the city’s outskirts, in an oasis of money where residents cultivated lush lawns and gardens, thumbing their nose at Mother Nature.

Alston didn’t follow the pack, which I suspected was more a matter of obstinacy than humility. He embraced the desert, leaving his property looking like an angry red scar slicing through his neighbors’ manicured perfection. They’d retaliated by erecting ten-foot solid fences against him.

“I’m liking the fences,” Adam said as we idled a few doors down. “Should make it easy to pay Walter a surprise visit.”

“Are you sure that’s such a good idea?” I said. “If you called, he’d probably be curious enough to agree to meet you.”

“Right. Skip the break-in. Make an appointment first.” He laughed. Then he realized I wasn’t laughing and peered at me in the darkened car. “You’re serious?”

“Did you forget I don’t have my powers? No unlock spells. No blur spells. No cover spells. No defense spells.”

“So? His half-demon power is vision. Mid-grade power. He’s got nothing against my fire. All we need to do is get in the door. I can do that without an unlock spell.”

“Would you go in if you were alone?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Then that’ll be our criteria from now on. If you’d do it alone, we’ll go for it, because with me out of commission, you are alone.”

“You’re not—” He stopped himself. “All right. Park down the road and let’s move.”

Not being a spellcaster, Alston was stuck using human security methods. Strategically placed floodlights and cameras, a gated drive, and a dog kennel beside the house suggested he took his privacy seriously. Like door locks, though, they worked best to deter a casual thief, who’d take one look and choose the place next door instead. For someone determined to get in, they posed only inconvenient obstacles.

We breached the gate by sneaking into his less security-conscious neighbor’s yard and scaling the fence. That took care of the floodlights and cameras, too—those concentrated on the front, and left gaps elsewhere.

There was no sign of the dog—either the kennel was for show or the pooch was more of a pet, taken inside for the night.

I wished I had my sensing spell, though. Kept wishing it until I tripped over a stone and started wishing instead that I had my light ball. A flashlight—like the one in Adam’s hand—would work, too.