“That’s so sweet.”

“No, this is sweet.” He lifted his cup. “What did you do? Double the syrup?”

“Yes. It cost extra, but you’re worth it. Now drink it while we tackle today’s tidal wave of e-mail panic and see if there’s anything useful in it.”

Same song; second verse. More supernaturals had heard of the threat. More demanded answers. None offered to help.

“And none offering any useful information,” I said. When Adam didn’t answer, I glanced over to see his gaze fixed on his screen.

“Got one for you.” He turned his laptop to face me.

My name is Gary Schmidt. I’m a necromancer. We’ve never met, but I think you know who I am. At least, you know my work. Leah O’Donnell.

“Son of a bitch,” I said. “This is the guy who put Leah into Jesse’s body. He has the nerve to contact me? To do what?”

To apologize, it seemed. Leah had said she’d gone to an old necromancer contact and “convinced” him to do the ritual. Schmidt wrote that she’d used her Volo powers to play poltergeist. Deadly poltergeist, first killing their cat, then knocking Schmidt’s wife over a second-story banister. The woman was still in the hospital. Leah had promised to finish the job by pulling out her life support. That’s when Schmidt capitulated.

“Can’t say I blame him,” I said.

“Well, I do. The minute she killed his pet, he should have seen where it was going and gotten help.”

“He probably figured he could handle it. I know what that’s like.”

“But would you let her hurt your family? Would you eventually give in and zap a psychopath ghost into a body, then wash your hands of it, be glad the bitch was someone else’s problem? He got his wife badly hurt, and got a lot of people killed. He almost got you killed. Now he wants to talk to say he’s sorry? Piss on him.”

Schmidt did want to talk. He said it was a “matter of urgency” and “something I needed to know.” But with Leah back in her hell dimension, what could he need to tell me? Like Adam said, he was just feeling guilty.

I still called. If he only wanted to apologize, I’d let him know what I thought of that. And I’d let him know exactly what Leah had done. The number rang through to an answering machine. I hung up without leaving a message.

eleven

A my Lynn Tucker was dead. That would be a lot more comforting if my witch-hunter actually was Amy Lynn Tucker.

As we sat at a picnic table in Arizona outside a dorm, the dead girl’s roommate gave us the news that Amy had died a few months earlier.

“We had no idea,” Adam said. “The DMV still has this address.”

“I doubt her parents have told them. Under the circumstances . . .” She chewed her lip. “Well, I don’t think they’d want to talk about it much. It was suicide. She hung herself up there—” She gestured over our heads and I looked up at the tree, but she shook her head. “In our room. I’ve been trying to get a new one ever since, but they say I can’t switch until next term.”

As Adam talked to the girl, I gazed out at the campus. It was picture-perfect—a small, private Baptist college, which explained why classes were running so late in the term.

I leaned across the table. “Are you sure Amy died in March?”

“Of course, she’s sure.” Adam faked a whisper. “Someone made a mistake, okay? Case closed.”

“Mistake?” the girl said. “What kind of mistake?”

Adam looked uncomfortable.

I barreled ahead. “Like we said, we’re private investigators. Amy was the subject of a case we’re working. Only, according to our case”—I set down my picture of the witch-hunter—“Amy here was seen only last month.”

“That’s not Amy,” the roommate said. “It’s her sister. I mean, cousin. Amy called Roni her sister, because her parents raised her, but she’s really a cousin . . . I think.”

“Roni?”

“Veronica. She went to school here, too. She dropped out after Amy died.”

We sat in our rental car outside the Tucker residence. It didn’t look like the home of trained assassins. More like the home of trained preschool teachers. A pretty little suburban ranch with bright blue shutters, a red VW Beetle in the drive, and a swing on the porch. Even had a picket fence, painted yellow.

“Clearly the abode of evil,” I said.

“Creeps me out, too,” Adam said. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

He was opening his door when my phone sounded. The ring tone was The Doors, like all of mine. In this case, “Take It as It Comes.”

“I thought you confiscated Paige’s cell phone before she left?” Adam said.

“I did.”

I answered with a cautious “Hello,” wondering—and fearing—who might have broken into our house and stolen Paige’s phone.

“Good, you’re there. Did you get my message?”

The husky voice was unmistakable. “Paige?”

“Um, yes. Who else would be using my phone? I know, we were due back tomorrow, but we caught an earlier flight. I’d ask why my Prius is missing, and Adam’s Jeep is parked in its place, but I’m a lot more concerned about the fact that his vehicle was obviously in an accident. And your bike isn’t looking any better.”

“I can explain.”

“Are you okay?” Her voice dropped an octave. “That’s what I’m worried about, Savannah. You didn’t seem okay when we talked yesterday morning. That’s why we came home early. Seeing that bike and Jeep, I’m more worried than ever. Are you all right?”

I swallowed. No, I’m not all right. I wasn’t all right before and now I’m really, really not all right, and I wish I could come home.

I looked at the Tucker house, then over at Adam. He was sending a text on his phone.

“Savannah?” Paige said.

“I’m here. But you need to get—”

Adam waved for me to stop. His phone rang—the ring tone for Lucas. He handed it to me and took mine. “Savannah?” I heard Paige saying.

Adam opened the car door. “Hey, it’s me. Savannah was just about to say you need to get my car fixed. That’s why I took yours. Ransom.”