"Who did you get the statue from?" he asked as we started up the stairway.

I looked at his dark fingers encircling my arm, remembering that thick folder he had given me listing Nick's crimes. Shaky, I reached for the filthy banister and gripped it as I rose. "Tell me you'll do your damnedest to keep this locked in a drawer," I asked. "All of it."

"Tell me, Rachel," he threatened, not giving an inch.

Exhaling, I watched David's slumped back. "Nick," I said, seeing no point in not telling him. The thief was playing dead, so there was no reason for Glenn to go looking for him.

His entire posture easing, Glenn nodded. "Okay," he said. "Now I believe you."

It was hot at the bus stop, and I stood breathing in air flavored by pavement, gas fumes, and the nearby Skyline Chili. It was probably the only chain restaurant serving a tomato-based food that had survived the Turn and the tomato boycott that half the world's surviving population had adopted. I was hungry and tempted to get myself a cardboard bowl to go, but I knew that the moment I left the stop, the bus would show and I'd be waiting another half hour.

So I stood there in my jeans and green T-shirt, sweating in the sun beating down and watching the heavy traffic. The tidy Were beside me smelled nice, and the two warlocks monopolizing the shade of a newly planted tree chatted about nothing. I could tell they were warlocks because their characteristic redwood scent was almost hidden beneath the overdone perfume that was making the Were's eyes tear.

The more magic you practiced, the stronger your scent, though usually only another Inderlander could pick it up. The same went for vampires, the ones who indulged themselves the most having a more obvious incense smell. Jenks said I reeked of magic and Ivy stank of vampire. And we all lived together in a little stinky church, I sang in my head.

Uneasy, I ran a finger between me and the strap of my bag. Warlock was a designation of skill, not sex, warlocks simply being witches who hadn't gone through the trouble of learning how to stir a spell by heart.

They could invoke them all right, but stirring them safely was out of their skill level. And as soon as humanity got their head wrapped around that, the entire demographic slice of educated male witches could take the chip off their shoulder and relax.

I had a two-year degree plus enough life experience to get the license to use my charms in my work. It wasn't skill holding me back from getting the license to sell my charms, but capital. Which might explain the incongruity of my riding the bus with an artifact that could start an Inderland power struggle. With my luck, I'd get mugged on the way home.

A sigh shifted me, and I plucked at my T-shirt, wondering if I should take it off and wear the chemise I had on under it home. It would be fun to watch the guy next to me react when I started stripping. A private grin curled up the corners of my mouth. Maybe I'd take off my sneakers and go barefoot. Muggers usually left dirty people with no shoes alone.

The Were next to me made a long whistle of appreciation, and I lifted my gaze up from my nasty sneakers, blinking at the Gray Ghost limo edging out of traffic and into the bus pull-off. My first reaction of surprise melted into annoyance. It had to be Trent. And here I was waiting for the bus with filthy knees and sweating. Just peachy damn keen.

I peered over my sunglasses when the tinted back window rolled down. Yup, it was Trent, the wealthy bastard looking good in his cream-colored linen suit and white shirt. His tan had deepened with summer, leading me to think he got out into his prizewinning gardens and nationally renowned stables more often than he let on. Smiling a confident, somewhat expectant smile, the elf in hiding arched his thin eyebrows at the dirt on my knees.

I didn't say a word, looking through his lowered window to the front seat to find Quen, his head of security, driving instead of his chief bootlicker, Jonathan. My pulse eased at the absence of the tall, sadistic man. I liked Quen, even if he occasionally tested my magic and martial-arts skills. He was honest, at least, unlike his employer.

Hand on my hip, I said snidely, "Where's Jon?" and the Were behind me had a conniption fit that I knew Trent well enough to be nasty to him. The two warlocks were busy taking photos with their phones, giggling and whispering. Maybe I ought to be nice lest I find my ugly scene plastered all over the Internet, and I relaxed my posture a smidgen.

Trent leaned to the window, green eyes squinting at the sun. His fair, neatly translucent hair moved in the breeze from the street, marring its carefully styled perfection. Much as I hated to admit it, his wind-mused hair pegged my attraction meter. Though his business prowess, expressed through his pristinely legal Kalamack Industries, was esteemed, his lean, well-proportioned body would look as good in a tight swimsuit perched on a lifeguard chair as it did in a suit in the boardroom. "Jonathan is occupied," he said, his practiced voice catching my attention and the hint of annoyance in it taking nothing from its mesmerizing grace.

"With Ellasbeth?" I mocked, and the Were beside me choked. What, like I have to be nice to him because he supplied the East Coast's Brimstone trade and had half the world's leaders in his pocket through his illegal bio-medicines? After failing to buy my lifetime services, he had tried to scare me into it. It was a nice bit of blackmail that kept him off my back, but he refused to take the message that I wasn't going to work for him. 'Course, that might be my fault… since I seemed unable to say no when he waved enough money at me.

Trent sighed, visibly bothered at my admittedly childish behavior, but I was hot, damn it, and needed money, and therefore I was vulnerable to his bribes and his air-conditioned car.

"Get in," he said, and then, smiling and waving to the two warlocks, he slid back from the door and into the shadows.

I glanced at the Were beside me, guessing Trent wanted to talk to me about the RSVP I hadn't RSVP'ed to. "Think I should?" I said, and the man nodded like a bobblehead doll.

Trent leaned into the light. "Get in, Ms. Morgan. I'll drop you wherever you want."

I want to go to Vegas and win a car, I thought, but I stepped forward. "Do you have the air on in that thing?" I asked, and he arched his eyebrows. Okay, that was probably a dumb question. "I could use a ride home," I added.

Trent beckoned, and the two warlocks behind me almost swooned by the sound of it. "All I want is fifteen minutes," he said, his perfectly political smile starting to look forced.

He slid himself over so I could get in, and in a surge of defiance I grabbed the handle of the front passenger-side door and yanked it open. Quen jerked in surprise as I slipped in, slammed the door shut, and reached for the lap belt.

"Ah, Ms. Morgan…" Trent said from the backseat.

The air was on, but not nearly high enough, and after I put my shoulder bag at my feet, I started fiddling with the vent. "I'm not riding in the back," I said, angling my half of the vents to me and opening them full bore. "God, Trent. I feel like a kid back there."

"I know what you mean," he muttered, and Quen behind the wheel smiled.

That our dads had been friends and worked together to resurrect Trent's species didn't mean pigeon spots to me. After they had died a week apart, Trent was raised in privilege and I learned how to fight off teenage scumbuckets who saw me as an easy mark—being raised by a mother so thrown by her husband's death she almost forgot about my brother and me. Maybe I was jealous, but I wasn't going to let him think I'd sit beside him like we were friends.