“It’s easier for you, easier for you to accept because you’ve had this thing…” She waved a finger beside her temple. “You’ve had this for twenty years.”

“Haven’t you?” he countered. “It’s more likely you’ve had it since you were born.”

“Because of the demon hanging on my family tree?”

“That’s right. That’s an established fact. What you do about it’s up to you. You used what you have a couple of weeks ago when we were on our way to the Pagan Stone. You made that choice. I told you once before, Layla, you’ve got to commit.”

“I have. I lost my job over this. I’ve sublet my apartment because I’m not going back to New York until this is over. I’m working here to pay the rent, and spending most of the time I’m not working here working with Cybil and Quinn on background, research, theories, solutions.”

“And you’re frustrated because you haven’t found the solution. Commitment’s more than putting the time in. And I don’t have to be a mind reader to know hearing that pisses you off.”

“I was in that clearing, too, Fox. I faced that thing, too.”

“That’s right. Why is that easier for you than facing what you’ve got inside you? It’s a tool, Layla. If you let tools get dull or rusty, they don’t work. If you don’t pick them up and use them, you forget how.”

“And if that tool’s sharp and shiny and you don’t know what the hell to do with it, you can do a lot of damage.”

“I’ll help you.” He held out his hand.

She hesitated. When the phone in the outer office began to ring, she stepped back.

“Let it go,” he told her. “They’ll call back.”

But she shook her head and hurried out. “Don’t forget to call Shelley.”

That went well, he thought in disgust. Opening his briefcase, he pulled out the file on the personal injury case he’d just won. Win some, lose some, Fox decided.

As he figured it was the way she wanted it, he stayed out of her way for the rest of the afternoon. It was simple enough to instruct her through interoffice e-mail to generate the standard power-of-attorney document with the specific names his client required. Or to ask her to prepare and send out a bill or pay one. He made what calls he needed to make himself rather than asking Layla to place them first. That kind of thing had always struck him as stupid in any case.

He knew how to use the damn phone.

He managed to calm Shelley down, catch up on paperwork, and win a game of online chess. But when he considered sending Layla another e-mail to tell her to go ahead and knock off for the day, he realized that came under the heading of avoidance, not just keeping the peace.

When he walked out to reception, Mrs. Hawbaker was manning the desk. “I didn’t know you were back,” he began.

“I’ve been back awhile. I’ve just finished proofing the papers Layla took care of for you. Need your signature on these letters.”

“Okay.” He took the pen she handed him, signed. “Where is she? Layla?”

“Gone for the day. She did fine on her own.”

Understanding it was a question as much as an opinion, Fox nodded. “Yeah, she did fine.”

In her brisk way, Mrs. Hawbaker folded the letters Fox had signed. “You don’t need both of us here full-time and can’t afford to be paying double either.”

“Mrs. H-”

“I’m going to come in half days the rest of the week.” She spoke quickly now, tucking letters into envelopes, sealing them. “Just to make sure everything runs smoothly for you, and for her. Any problems, I can come in, help handle them. But I don’t expect there to be. If there aren’t problems, I won’t be coming in after Friday next. We’ve got a lot of packing and sorting to do. Shipping things up to Minneapolis, showing the house.”

“Goddamn it.”

She merely pointed her finger at him, narrowed her eyes. “When I’m gone you can turn the air blue around here, but until I am, you’ll watch your language.”

“Yes, ma’am. Mrs. H-”

“And don’t give me those puppy dog eyes, Fox O’Dell. We’ve been through all this.”

They had, and he could feel her sorrow, and her fear. Dumping his own on her wouldn’t help. “I’ll keep the F-word jar in my office, in memory of you.”

That made her smile. “The way you toss it around, you’ll be able to retire a rich man on the proceeds of that jar. Even so, you’re a good boy. You’re a good lawyer, Fox. Now, you go on. You’re clear for the rest of the day- what’s left of it. I’m just going to finish up a couple things, then I’ll lock up.”

“Okay.” But he stopped at the door, looked back at her. Her snowy hair was perfectly groomed; her blue suit dignified. “Mrs. H? I miss you already.”

He closed the door behind him, and stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked down to the brick sidewalk. At the toot of a horn, he glanced over and waved as Denny Moser drove by. Denny Moser, whose family owned the local hardware store. Denny, who’d been a balletic third base-man for the Hawkins Hollow Bucks in high school.

Denny Moser, who during the last Seven had come after Fox with a pipe wrench and murder on his mind.

It would happen again, Fox thought. It would happen again in a matter of months if they didn’t stop it. Denny had a wife and a kid now-and maybe this time during that week in July, he’d go after his wife or his little girl with a pipe wrench. Or his wife, former cheerleader and current licensed day-care provider, might slit her husband’s throat in his sleep.

It had happened before, the mass insanity of ordinary and decent people. And it would happen again. Unless.

He walked along the wide brick sidewalk on a windy March evening, and knew he couldn’t let it happen again.

Cal was probably still at the bowling alley, Fox thought. He’d go there, have a beer, maybe an early dinner. And maybe the two of them could figure out which direction to try next.

As he approached the Square, he saw Layla come out of Ma’s Pantry across the street, carrying a plastic bag. She hesitated when she spotted him, and that planted a sharp seed of irritation in his gut. After she sent him a casual wave, they walked to the light at the Square on opposite sides of the street.

It might have been that irritation, or the frustration of trying to decide to do what would be natural for him-to wait on his side of the corner for her to cross and speak to her. Or to do what he felt, even with the distance, she’d prefer. For him to simply keep going up Main so they didn’t intersect. Either way, he was nearly at the corner when he felt the fear-sudden and bright. It stopped him in his tracks, had his head jerking up.

There, on the wires crossing above Main and Locust, were the crows.

Dozens of them crowded together in absolute stillness along the thin wire. Hulking there, wings tucked and-he knew-watching. When he glanced across the street, he saw that Layla had seen them, too, either sensing them herself or following the direction of his stare.

He didn’t run, though there was an urgent need to do just that. Instead he walked in long, brisk strides across the street to where she stood gripping her white plastic bag.

“They’re real.” She only whispered it. “I thought, at first, they were just another… but they’re real.”

“Yeah.” He took her arm. “We’re going inside. We’re going to turn around, and get inside. Then-”

He broke off as he heard the first stir behind him, just a flutter on the air. And in her eyes, wide now, huge now, he saw it was too late.

The rush of wings was a tornado of sound and speed. Fox shoved her back against the building, and down. Pushing her face against his chest, he wrapped his arms around her and used his body to shield hers.

Glass shattered beside him, behind him. Brakes squealed through the crash and thuds of metal. He heard screams, rushing feet, felt the jarring force as birds thumped into his back, the quick sting as beaks stabbed and tore. He knew the rough, wet sounds were those flying bodies smashing into walls and windows, falling lifeless to street and sidewalk.