Fucking heck I could use a cigarette.

The interrogation room I was being held in was cold. Uncomfortably so. I'd been freezing my nips off for hours and was kind of beginning to suspect I had hypothermia. On top of everything else. Didn't help that I couldn't change my clothes, so I was stuck in wet pajama pants and Greg's holey t-shirt.

My robe—my precious, beautiful, lavender, silk robe—was both ruined and had been collected as evidence upon my arrest. You know, on account of all the blood and dirt and viscera clinging to it.

At least the bastards hadn't gotten to the Grumpkins. I sent the boys scampering home, straight home, before a trio of witches touched their brooms down in the yard. When they finally give me my phone call, I plan on spending it to call Sal to take care of them. Yeah, I could call my parents or sisters, but I don't have to. They'll find out about this eventually. But Sal won't ask questions about why Grumpkin suddenly sported a twin. Plus he fed his babies the premium kitty kibble.

I bent my head to down to reach my hands, which were bound to the table with silver plated and bespelled handcuffs.

The table itself had been carved with various runes and sigils. Salt lined the perimeter of the room. Hex bags and charms hung from the ceiling like cutesy windchimes. Pentacle was etched into the floor under me. Room emanated protective magic. Hexed jawn crafted to seal in the big baddies waiting to be questioned.

Magistrate had really pulled out all the stops for me. How sweet.

The walls were even covered in silver backed mirrors. Meaning I had an excellent view of how ratty I looked. My hair was frizzed to heck. There was no hiding the massive cut stitched up across my forehead. Or the bruise radiating out from under it. The swelling in my one eye had gone down a tad, meaning now only a quarter of my face was black and purple. Instead of half. Not counting the bags under my eyes or smeared mascara. Yay.

I had other bruises. On my arms and neck. Soles of my feet were in such bad shape I barely hobbled into my holding cell. My hands and knuckles were littered with scrapes and cuts. A few of my nails were broken. The beds were stained a ruddy brown, on the ones where an officer hadn't already scraped away the goo.

At least they'd given me a pair of paper-thin slippers for my bare feet. Pretty sure these were the ones they used to walk through crime scenes without leaving footprints or whatever.

Yeah. I looked the part of the wicked necromancer, alright.

Even after a witch had tended to my face and cuts with herbs and stitches and a magic salve—and not gently, by the way. I wasn't allowed painkillers, apparently. Or, at least, the witch had felt vindicative enough about my crimes that they figured I hadn't earned the luxury of anything beyond a single Ibuprofen.

I pressed my thumbs against my eyes. Exhaustion haunted my bones. Clung to me like a poltergeist at a pool party. Ugh. I'd been here all day and they hadn't let me sleep. For my own good, they claimed. Cause of the head wound. Had to be close to midnight now.

Jerks just wanted to see me suffer.

I hoped Greg was able to get some rest. Tried to will it from my cell, a couple of times this afternoon. Had no clue whether it would work, but a necromancer could try, couldn't she? At the very least it kept my mind occupied. Squeezed my eyes shut and meditated on allowing him rest. Letting him sleep. Gentle and warm. Cozy and not at all corpse-like in his bed. A real nap.

And then, of course, my thoughts would drift. I'd picture him starfished on the king mattress. And then myself tucked against his side. Arms and legs tangled under his fancy high-thread count sheets. Safe and soft and warm. Our chests would rise together as we breathed, slow and relaxed. He'd curl a hand into my hair. I'd drool on his chest.

"Ahem."

I shot up. Balls. I'd dozed off again.

As my blurry vision cleared, Nazira's frown came into focus. Her big eyes glimmered with concern as she exhaled. Even the snakes under her hijab, tonight a shimmering yellow with white flowers, were utterly silent.

She slid me a wax cup of water across the table. "Oh, sweetie, you look awful."

The water was too cold, but also soothing on my throat. I gulped it down. It might be my last sip of anything other than Eastern State Penitentiary's finest tap for the rest of my life. Because this was it, wasn't it? Nazira was here to deliver the bad news. I was busted. Broke every damn rule of my probation. Done for. Doomed.

Least I could do now was make good on my promise to keep Greg's name out of it.

And make a few apologies.

"I'm sorry about your promotion," I said quietly.

"Hmm. Okay, right," Nazira clicked her trusty pen and flicked up her notebook. "Let's get this part over with, yeah?"

I nodded.

My fingers trembled around that silly little wax up. Instinctively, I crossed my legs and hid my cursed ankle behind the other under my chair.

Buck up, Buttercup. No more lies.

"Remember, be truthful. Since your last check-in have you communed, conjured, or contacted any spirits, ghosts, or souls on this side of the veil?"

"Y-yes."

"Have you communed, conjured, or contacted any passed over and/or moved on and/or lost spirits, ghosts, or souls from the other side of the veil?"

Pressed my eyes shut. My head was pounding so fiercely I nearly asked her to repeat the question. But she's asked me this one a thousand times before. And, uh, yeah, I certainly didn't pull any souls that had moved beyond this plane, into the Netherworld, back into this realm. I made a point of keeping that door shut. All the ghosts I dealt with had already been haunting this joint.

"No."

"Have you performed any resurrection and/or reanimation," Nazira seemed to take extra care annunciating the words, "curses on human remains?"

"Y—"

"Since your last check-in."

Oh. Uh. "No..."

"Have you performed any bloodletting, magic, or rituals of any kind?"

"Oh, yes."

"Have you willfully entered onto consecrated burial grounds?"

Consecrated? No, Dmitri's yard couldn't have been consecrated. Vamps wouldn't have been able to enter. "No."

"Have you willfully been within six feet of human remains?"

Willfully? To be honest, I wouldn't call any interaction I've had with corpses, cadavers, and/or unattached human body parts in the last week or so willful.

"Uh. No?"

Nazira clapped her notebook shut. She glanced to her side, at what I presumed to be the two-way mirror, beaming. "Ah, well, four out of six's not so bad!" She laughed. "Honestly, Isla, we all thought it was going to be so much worse."

Yikes. "We?"

She waved it off. "I told the inspectors they wouldn't find any reanimated bodies strolling about. And I was right! According to the homeowner all the residents in the cemetery have been appropriately accounted for. Just wrong place, wrong time. Not even your fault, oh, gosh, now that I think about it, how harrowing the whole ordeal must have been."

Huh? "Homeowner?"

"Yes, ahhh, oh, a Sloane Slater. She and your employer vouched for your services."

Oh, jeez, my brain really was on the fritz. What was even happening here? How'd Sal get involved? I jammed my thumbs so hard into my eye sockets I saw sparkles.

"Nazira," I groaned. "I think my head's really messed up. What are you talking about?"

"Your employer! For your work release program! Oh dear, you must be in bad shape," the gorgon suddenly stood, her chair scraping agonizingly against the tiled floor. Snakes slithered and hissed as she jabbed a finger at the two-way mirror. "Did nobody give her a proper check-up? Have her see a real Witch Doctor? Hm? No? Oh, just wait till her family's lawyer hears about that. Especially," noticing my wincing Nazira lowered both her voice, and herself—hand cradling her round belly—back into her chair. "Especially since you were wrongfully arrested while working a case. I'm sure those charges won't hold up, dear."

"My—who?"

Nazira rolled her eyes. She ripped a form out from a manila file folder. Slapped it onto the table with a flourish. It was a... Indeath Tax form?

"G. Vasilescu, Private Investigations. You've been doing consulting work with them for some time now. Mr. Vasilescu's secretary, Ms. Fliss, sent us over the paperwork this evening."

What the ever-loving fuck...

I leaned over the table to get a better look at the document. Sure enough, my information was all there. Isla Margarita Santiago-Corrigan, according to this, had been a freelance independent consultant of G. Vasilescu for the last several months. Phoebe had even attached a recommendation letter.

I peeked up.

Nazira, as motherly and radiant and kind as ever, was glowing with excitement. "Oh, Isla! I'm so proud of you for sticking with this one. I know how much you've struggled to find a good fit in the work release program," she even pouted and stroked the back of my hand for emphasis. "I have been insisting for years that we do better at finding you a way to utilize your special talents to benefit the community. And now our extensively vetted experiment is a success! Wow, look at me, really going above and beyond here for my most... challenging charge. Oh but look at you! My reformed little necromancer is well on her to becoming a fully rehabilitated member of Society!"

"Uh. Thanks?"

"Awww, honey, come here!"

She stood and waddled over to me, smothering me a warm hug against her breast. Her snakes hissed. Struggling for breath, I tried to delicately, careful of her baby bump, disengage from Nazira. But woman held tight. Her sweet, sing-songy voice whispered in my ear: "And I know this vampire isn't the same not quite boyfriend we spoke about. Because that would just be too much, Isla. Relations with your sponsor and employer are not only unprofessional but strictly prohibited."

"No, uh," I spit a bit of scarf out my mouth. "No worries there."

What the heck, what the heck, what the heck was happening?!

Did—was—I—had Greg and Phoebe just saved my fat ass from certain doom?

Nazira released me.

"Oh good! Now, let's get you out of those," she turned back to the mirror and raised her voice, adding a touch sternness, as if she were punishing her children, "completely unnecessary shackles."

The cuffs left red welts around my wrists. But they were off. I was... free? I hadn't even been able to ask Nazira exactly what it was I was supposed to have been consulted by Mr. G. Vasilescu Private Investigator for. A uniformed, gargoyle officer entered my holding room mere moments after Nazira's remark and informed me that I was free to go.

"Can I get back my robe?"

He grunted and led both Nazira and I (the former humming merrily all the while, hand on her belly) down a long, stone corridor. Fluorescent lights hung from the rounded ceiling flickered. Water dribbled down their bulbs. Guess that was a no then.

As we approached the iron gate out onto the main floor, I saw him.

Greg was there. Just beyond the gate. Waiting for me. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his dress pants oh wow did that vamp look good in his navy suit. Really filled out his assets. Matched his eyes to boot. He even wore a tie.

Upon hearing our approaching footsteps, he turned. My breath seized in my throat as a phantom kiss caressed my neck. Greg smiled at me, just for a moment, with that lopsided grin of his. It lasted a mere second. A fraction of a heartbeat—that skipped in my chest and I wondered if Greg felt it too—before he masked his face with a more professional expression.

The rusty gate swung open. Loud and squeaky.

"Mr. Vasilescu!" said Nazira. "Thank you for waiting. And for all the extensive paperwork your secretary faxed over."

Greg didn't even look at her. Those eyes stayed locked onto mine. "Of course. Yeah, ah, anything else you need just contact Phoebe—you cold?"

"My nips didn't give it away?" I said.

Nazira flicked me in the ear. "Language."

Greg bit his lip to hide his chuckle.

He unfurled a bundle that had been tucked under one arm. It was a heavy peacoat, no doubt one of his own. Vamp draped it gently over my shoulders, studying my injuries with knit brows and concerned eyes all the while.

I hugged the coat against me. It smelled like him. Woodsy, like winter pine. A moth, one with a fractured wing, flapped cautiously in my stomach.

My guy knew I'd be cold.

"Thank you," I said, soft and slow. For everything.

Greg nodded. I watched that tongue of his swish around inside his mouth. He opened it a couple times, only to sew it right back up. And still, his fingers remained curled around the lapels of the jacket he'd just blanketed me with.

"Unhand me, peasant!" shrieked a familiar voice, "I am the Lord of Darkness and Terror! I shall gnash my royal fangs into thy pathetic flesh until I am freed! Where is my wife! My truest love! My Rosemond, bring her to me, ye swine!"

The poorly lit main floor of this Magistrate station was built in a decommissioned subway tunnel. Signage for Franklin Station was still tiled into the walls with little black and white squares. Officers' desks were scrunched and scrabbled together across the platform. Occasionally, a train would still come rumbling through the exposed tracks of the station. Magic, of course, would hide the hustle and bustle of the place from passing, prying, Touristy eyes.

The stairwell up the main level was blocked with an iron gate and guarded by another armed gargoyle. Several offshoot tunnels either led to offices, other stations, or more cursed places, like where I had just come from.

And Dmitri, said self-proclaimed Lord of Darkness and Terror, pouted like a child across the booking desk on the bottom of the stair. A child in handcuffs.

... Okay maybe that was a bad analogy. I'll blame it on my swollen brain.

But he did pout.

And... I squinted. He was wearing leather pants and a Hawaiian print shirt like some kind of Jimmy Buffett leather daddy. Add fashion crimes to Rosemond's rap sheet, cause anything lacking a cape had to be her influence.

Dmitri was marched, bound in his own set of silver plated and cursed handcuffs, toward us by a tall black man with long, swaying dreadlocks, an even longer wool scarf, a grungy duster, and a sour look on his face. The crowd of Magistrate officers and interns and fellow arrestees ducked hurriedly out on their path, though it was difficult to tell which of the two creatures they found more intimidating.

Moment the vamp caught sight of me and Greg he snarled, and extended those fangs in some perverse tooth measuring contest.

"Wench," he hissed. "Tramp! Homewrecker! What hast thou done to my beloved!"

Greg stepped in front of me.

"Can it, Dmitri. Your Rosemond died centuries ago. End of story. She..." Greg snuck a cautious glance at me. "She ain't never coming back."

"Ho! Gregorio! Nonsense! Tell this fop to release me! I am an innocent! And for this false arrest, I am enraged!" Dmitri growled. His eyes glowed a murderous red as his jaw unhinged. "Thou hast displeased me, wretch! I shall, by guessing, go off—mmm!"

Dreadlocks guy pointed a finger at Dmitri's mouth. His eyes flashed green, and a thread of the same hue shot out from the layers of his scarf. Said thread pierced Dmitri's upper lip and proceeded to stitch the old vamp's mouth shut.

Oh, thank my frozen tits. His voice was really grating.

"Octavius," said Greg. "They teach you that trick in wizardry 101 at community college?"

"Nah, learned that one all by myself. Homeschooled."

The guy, Octavius, scowled at Greg. He caught my eye, peeking out from around Greg's shoulder, and raised a brow that caused my vamp to turn and inspect exactly what kind of face I was pulling at the wizard.

Octavius waved at the gargoyle who escorted me out of the damp corridor, handing the wriggling Dmitri off to him. Vamp hissed into his sewed lips as he was hauled away.

Once behind the locked gate, Greg nodded over his shoulder at him. "Got your man?"

"Followed your lead. Went the domestic route. Managed to not only rack up charges for underage bloodletting in that club, but," Octavius counted the crimes off on his fingertips, green sparks shooting out from the tips of his woolen gloves with each count, "inhumane disposal of a familiar, attempted murder for the staking of his wife," Sloane? Pretty sure Rosemond had done that, but hey, I wasn't going to correct him. "And two counts of kidnapping."

"Kidnapping?" I blurted.

The wizard's eyes settled on me.

"Oh."

So I guess that's the official story of how I ended up on the vamp's property.

With a snap of his fingers, a business card sparked into existence from the threads of one of Octavius's gloves. He extended it to me. "We'll be in contact regarding your testimony."

Well shit. Was this supposed to make me feel better? Guess I shouldn't have expected a completely get out of jail free card, but testifying against Dmitri? Over a lie? In court? With my record? Oh, troll nards, I hoped my Uncle Seamus wasn't retired. And was willing to represent me a second time.

Greg intercepted the card handoff, crumpling the tiny cardboard into his pocket.

"You can direct your calls through my secretary."

Octavius merely hmmphed.

Finally, the wizard noticed Nazira, and a wide smile split across his glum face.

"Looking good, Naz! You get my RSVP?"

Nazira grinned. "Of course! So happy you'll make it. Oh! That reminds me," she dipped a hand into her floral print purse and withdrew a canary-yellow envelope. The heavy cardstock kind. My name was written on it. Octavius's lip twitched under his beard as Nazira handed it off to me. "For the baby shower. It's in April. Hope to see you there."

"Yeah." I stuffed the invite into my borrowed pocket and wiped my eyes. They still hurt. I was still tired. I resisted every nerve ending in my body urging me to lean into Greg at that moment. "Wouldn't miss it."

Greg sniggered and slapped Octavius on the back. "You two should carpool."