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of false advertising. In Hell, you get whatā€™s on the label. Fiendykeā€™s got fiends in it. Soulfieldā€™s got souls. Fuckinā€™ Ipanema Bourbon, probably comes from Wisconsin.

I donā€™t want to ask, because Iā€™m not sure I want to know, but the same crazed impulse thatā€™s driven me since the demon crashed into my life forces the thought to the front of my brain. Where are you?

Borders.

Heā€™s invaded my bookstore. Youā€™re downtown? About two blocks away if heā€™s at the Borders on School Street. My body tightens for absolutely no good reason.

Nope, Burlington. Parking downtown is Hell.

He would know. Why are you at the mall? No, wait. I donā€™t want to know.

His rich, wicked chuckle slides through my mind. Lotsa neglected housewives doinā€™ the retail therapy thing. Good huntinā€™.

Stop. I mean it.

Here comes one now. Fresh outta the salon. I can smell the acrylic. Letā€™s see what she does if I flash her the cover . . . oh, yeah, that got her attention. Here she comes.

Stop!

Whatā€™s the matter, sweet meat? Iā€™m not gonna fuck her. Iā€™m not even gonna feed off her. You stuffed me so full last night I got a pot belly this morning.

Unlikely. Heā€™s got the tightest six-pack Iā€™ve ever seen. I snort aloud, the sound echoing a little in the cavernous space of my hearth room.

Whaddo you think she wants? Huh, health, wealth and happiness. Fuckinā€™ predictable. You humans need to come up with some new desires. Those are so last century.

I rub my hands over my face and try to shake his thoughts out of my head. Iā€™m brewing. Leave me alone.

Aww, cā€™mon, sweet meat, talk to me. Iā€™m bored. Stealinā€™ souls off these mallrats wouldnā€™t challenge an imp. How ā€˜bout I drive into town for a quickie?

Absolutely not! But my breasts and belly tighten crazily at the thought.

Yeah, youā€™re right. Iā€™m too full to take any more without rupturinā€™ a gut and you taste too good when youā€™ve been doing your greenwitch thing for me to resist. Although . . . I could just bend you over your cauldronā€”

No!

Killjoy. Iā€™ll spend the afternoon huntinā€™ smokers. Thatā€™ll use up a little charge. Theyā€™re so easy to find in this decade itā€™s almost not sporting, though. All I gotta do is check the nearest doorway.

I really donā€™t want to hear anymore. But thatā€™s a lie. Iā€™m fascinated. I knew he was feeding off me during sex, but I didnā€™t understand the dynamics of it. How often do you need to feed?

Depends on what Iā€™m doinā€™. When Iā€™m topside, every week or so. Why?

Iā€™m just curious. And I am. There are moments when I think Iā€™m beginning to understand him, and then thereā€™s the rest of the time, when I feel like I donā€™t know anything at all. Certainly nothing that can help me.

You thinkinā€™ of holding out on me? Seeinā€™ how long it takes me to starve? His thought goes flat and hard.

No. I wouldnā€™t do that. You know I wouldnā€™t do that.

Good. ā€˜Cause ā€˜noā€™ stopped meaninā€™ ā€˜noā€™ around the time you let me tie you up.

That spiderweb sense of constriction around my wrists. I shake my head. ā€˜Noā€™ still means ā€˜no.ā€™ I stopped saying it.

Yeah, you did. Letā€™s keep it that way. ā€˜Noā€™sā€™ not my favorite word outta you. I like ā€˜yes, yes,ā€™ and ā€˜harder, harderā€™ better . . . oop, Miss Acrylic here wants to talk business. Wealth anā€™ beauty. Ciao, sweet meat. See you at six.

I feel him slide away, the hot pressure of his presence receding to a dim awareness, like the body-memory of really great sex the morning after. I feel a warm surge between my legs at the thought.

I shake it off and return to my potion.

Chapter 29

Thereā€™s an intercom in my hearth-room, but it only works on the odd day. When the energies Iā€™ve called donā€™t interfere with its temperamental electronics. Today either Iā€™ve closed my casting circle better than usual or Iā€™ve summoned less juice, because the intercom buzzes while Iā€™m ladling the magic milk into containers.

I re-trace my circle widdershins. Once Iā€™ve broken the circle, I walk over to the intercom and hold down the talk button.

ā€œTsara, thereā€™s a Timmy Karr in reception asking for you.ā€

ā€œNew client?ā€

Evonne clears her throat audibly. ā€œI donā€™t think so. She says sheā€™s from the Column Museum.ā€

A nervous ruffle runs down my spine. I shrug it off. I donā€™t have anything to be nervous about. The Museum wanted King Solomonā€™s ring; they got King Solomonā€™s ring. Itā€™s not my fault it was a little worse for wear. ā€œIf sheā€™ll give me five minutes, Iā€™d be happy to see her.ā€

Five minutes later, with the magic milk bottled and dated, I stand next to my desk while Evonne shows a short, smiling, older woman into my office. Her hands are too small and frail for the extremely firm handshake she gives me.

ā€œTimothea Karr,ā€ she says, her words precisely enunciated and slightly accented, although I canā€™t say right off where her accentā€™s from. ā€œPlease call me Timmi.ā€

ā€œItā€™s very nice to meet you.ā€ I stumble over ā€˜Timmiā€™ and decide to give it a miss. She hands me a cream business card with a gold outline of a temple on it.

ā€œCurator of Iconic Art and Late Antiquity,ā€ I read off her business card. ā€œWow, I donā€™t really know what that is.ā€

ā€œItā€™s not as impressive as it sounds, believe me.ā€ Her smile crinkles the corners of her bright black eyes. ā€œYour office is very harmonious, Tsara. May I call you Tsara?ā€

I nod. ā€œMy partnerā€™s a feng shui practitioner. She designed the offices.ā€

ā€œVery nicely balanced. Although I feel there should be a bit more Earth, if I may say so.ā€

I force myself not to flinch. My Element. And thereā€™s no reason she would have named it unless she was testing me. Which means the good Curator is a practitioner and sheā€™s sensitive enough to sense the source of my magic. Thatā€™s a talent I donā€™t have, and I didnā€™t even get a buzz off her when I shook her hand, so she shields better than I do, too.

Iā€™m not

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