LITMIR.BIZ

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eyes closed as I gathered my strength. Too late, I thought, clicking the pen closed. “This is an independent runner service,” I said tiredly, “not a bloodhouse. And kid? Do yourself a favor and take the shy girl. She’s cooler than you think, and she won’t own your soul in the morning.”

      The phone clicked off, and I frowned. This was the third such call this month. Maybe I should take a look at the yellow pages ad that Ivy bought.

      I wiped my hands free of the last sugar and shuffled in the narrow cabinet that the message machine sat on, pulling out the phone book and dropping it on the coffee table. The red message light was blinking, and I tapped it, leafing through the heavy book to Private Investigators. I froze when Nick’s voice came rolling out, guilty and awkward, telling me he had stopped by about six this morning and picked up Jax and that he would call me in a few days.

      “Coward,” I breathed, thinking it was one more crucifix tied to the coffin. He knew no one but the pixies would be up then. I vowed to enjoy myself on my date with Kisten, whether Ivy would have to kill him afterward or not. I jabbed the button to clear his message, then went back to the phone book.

      We were one of the last listings, and as I found Vampiric Charms in a friendly font, my eyebrows rose. It was a nice ad, more attractive than the full-page ads around it, with a line drawing of a mysterious-looking woman in a hat and duster ghosted into the background.

      “’Fast. Discreet. No questions asked,’” I said, reading it. “’Sliding scale. Payment options. Insured. Week, day, and hourly rates.’” Under it all were our three names, address, and phone number. I didn’t get it. There was nothing here that would lead anyone to think bloodhouse or even a dating service. Then I saw the tiny print at the bottom saying to see the secondary entries.

      I flipped through the thin sheets to the first one listed, finding the same ad. Then I looked closer; not at our ad, but the ones around it. Holy crap, that woman was hardly clothed, having the perky body of an animé cartoon. My eyes flicked to the heading. “Escort Service?” I said, flushing at the steamy, suggestive ads.

      My gaze jerked to our advertisement again, the words taking on an entirely new meaning. No questions asked? Week, day, or hourly rates? Payment options? Lips pressed together, I shut the book, leaving it out to talk to Ivy about. No wonder we were getting calls.

      More than a little irate, I unmuted the stereo and headed back into the kitchen, Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” trying its best to lighten my mood.

      It was the hint of a draft, the barest scent of wet pavement, that made my step hesitate and the palm streaking out at me past the archway to the kitchen miss my jaw.

      “God bless it!” I swore as I dove past it into the kitchen instead of falling back into the cramped hall. Remembering Jenks’s kids, I tapped the ley line out back but did nothing else as I fell into a defensive crouch between the sink and the island counter. I almost choked when I saw whom it was standing by the archway.

      “Quen?” I stammered, not getting out of my stance as the lightly wrinkled, athletic man stared at me with no expression. The head of Trent’s security was dressed entirely in black, his tight-fitting body stocking looking vaguely like a uniform. “What in hell are you doing?” I said. “I ought to call the I.S., you know that? And have them haul your ass out of my kitchen for illegal entry! If Trent wants to see me, he can come down here just like anyone else. I’ll tell him he can suck dishwater, but he ought to have the decency to let me do it in person!”

      Quen shook his head. “I have a problem, but I don’t think you can handle it.”

      I made an ugly face at him. “Don’t test me, Quen,” I all but snarled. “You’ll fail.”

      “We’ll see.”

      That was all the warning I got as the man pushed off the wall, headed right for me.

      Gasping, I dove past him instead of backward the way I wanted. Quen lived and breathed security. Backing away would only get me caught. Heart pounding, I grabbed my dented copper spell pot with white frosting in it and swung.

      Quen caught it, yanking me forward. Adrenaline hurt my head as I let it go, and he tossed it aside. It made a harsh bong and spun into the hallway.

      I snatched the coffeemaker and threw it. The appliance jerked back at its cord, and the carafe fell to shatter on the floor. He dodged, his green eyes peeved when they met mine, as if wondering what in hell I was doing. But if he got a grip on me, I was a goner. I had a cupboard of charms in arm’s reach, but no time to invoke even one.

      He gathered himself to jump, and remembering how he had evaded Piscary with incredible leaps, I went for my dissolution vat. Teeth gritted in effort, I tipped it over.

      Quen cried out in disgust as ten gallons of saltwater cascaded over the floor to mix with the coffee and glass shards. Arms pinwheeling, he slipped.

      I levered myself onto the island counter, stepping on frosted cookies and knocking over vials of colored sugar. Crouched to avoid the hanging utensils, I jumped feet first as he rose.

      My feet hit him squarely in the chest and we both went down.

      Where was everyone? I thought as my hip took the fall and I grunted in pain. I was making enough noise to wake the undead. But as such commotion was more common than silence these days, Ivy and Jenks would probably ignore it and hope it went away.

      Slipping, I skittered from Quen. Hands reaching unseeing, I scrabbled for my paint ball gun kept purposely at crawling height. I yanked it out. Nested copper pots rolled noisily.

      “Enough!” I shouted, arms stiff as I sat on my butt in saltwater, aiming at him. It was loaded with water-filled splat balls for practice, but he didn’t know that. “What do you want?”

      Quen hesitated, water making darker smears on his black pants. His eye twitched. Adrenaline surged. He was going to risk it.

      Instinct and practice with Ivy made me squeeze the trigger as he leapt onto the table to land like a cat. I tracked him, squeezing out every last splat ball.

      His expression went affronted as he pulled himself to a crouching halt, his attention jerking from me to the six new splatters on his skintight shirt. Crap. I’d missed him once. Jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed in anger. “Water?” he said. “You load your spell gun with water?”

      “Ain’t you just lucky for that?” I snapped. “What do you want?” He shook his head, and my breath hissed in as I felt a dropping sensation in me. He was tapping the line out back.

      Panic jerked me to my feet, and I flung my hair out of my eyes. From his vantage point on the table, Quen straightened to his full height, his hands moving as he whispered Latin.

      “Like hell you will!” I shouted, throwing my splat gun at him. He ducked, and I snatched up whatever I could to throw it at him, desperate to keep him from finishing the charm.

      Quen dodged the butter tub of frosting. It thunked into the wall to. make a green smear. Grabbing the cookie tin, I ran around the counter, swinging it like a board. He dove off the table to avoid it, cursing at me. Cookies and red-hot candies went everywhere.

      I followed him, grabbing him about the knees to bring us both down in a sodden splat. He twisted in my grip until his livid green eyes met mine. Hands scrabbling, I shoved saltwater soggy cookies into his mouth so he couldn’t verbally invoke a charm.

      He spit them at me, his deeply tanned, pockmarked face vehement. “You little canicula—” he managed, and I jammed some more into him.

      His teeth closed on my finger, and I shrieked, jerking back. “You bit me!” I shouted, incensed. My fist swung, but he rolled to his feet, crashing into the chairs.

      Panting, he stood. He was soaked, covered in water and sparkles of colored sugar. Growling an unheard word, he leapt.

      I lurched upright to flee. Pain lanced through my scalp as he grabbed my hair and spun me around into an embrace,

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