Andy took a step toward me, then stopped. His blue eyes widened, just a little. "All of it?"

"Everything."

I abandoned the case and raced into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator.

The four doses I kept on hand for emergencies were gone. I found the bottles in the trash, empty.

"Oh, Christ," I whispered. Andy's hands touched my shoulders, and I felt him behind me, solid and real.

"It's all right," he said. "I don't need it yet."

"It's not all right. It takes hours to brew, and—" A terrible thought struck me. I opened the pantry, where I kept all my supplies.

Gone. I'd been cleaned out.

I felt a numb horror go through me. "There's nothing. I can't even get the ingredients until tomorrow morning at the earliest, then it takes all day to brew the base—"

"It'll be all right," Andy repeated.

I turned on him, suddenly furious. "It's not! Don't you get it? I know you're in pain already! It's going to get worse, Andy, and if I don't let you go—"

His hands closed around my face. "Pain, I can handle. I ain't leaving you alone. They've been here. They were in your house."

"Who?"

"Somebody who knows you," he said. "Somebody who knows what you're afraid of."

I was afraid of hurting him. Again.

He smoothed my hair back, and kissed me. It was soft and cool and gentle, but I sensed how much restraint it took for him to keep it that way.

"I can handle this," he said. "I will. You believe me, Holly?"

I gulped and nodded convulsively. "Okay."

I didn't, and it wasn't. But he wasn't finished.

"Get dressed and pack a bag," he said. "We're going."

I pulled a suitcase from under my bed and threw a few items in. Then I opened a drawer and took out a pair of pants, a dark shirt, underwear, shoes, and socks: his own clothes, from the last time I'd brought him back. Somehow, I'd never been able to get rid of them. I put them on the bed, and Andy, standing at the door, gave me a long, measuring look that told me he understood why I'd kept them. Why they'd been so close.

He didn't say anything.

"Better change," I said without looking directly at his face.

"Holly—"

"Not now."

As soon as he changed into the clothes, we left.

No matter how tough you are, nobody takes pain well when it comes on slow and cold, with nothing to cushion it.

I kept dialing phone numbers, trying to get somebody on the phone who could help as we drove. Sam Twist wasn't answering—not his phone, his cell, or his secret emergency number. I tried Annika. No answer there, either. I tried Detective Prieto, but it rang directly to his voice mail.

I thought about calling 911, but what was I going to say? I have a dead man here who needs his medicine?

I had no idea what to do. I could feel Andy's pain, black and constant and growing, and I was helpless to prevent it from getting worse.

"Holly?"

I took my eyes off the road for just a second. His lights shone silver, unreal in the dashboard lights.

"Why'd you bring me back?"

Of all the questions I'd expected, that had to be last on the list. I held his stare for a long few seconds, then blinked and focused on the road. "Lottie," I said. "They were going to do it anyway, and they were going to let Lottie—I couldn't let that happen. I thought maybe it would be better for you if it was me, that's all."

"That's all."

"Yes."

"You're a liar. Pretty one, but a liar."

And he was right. I was lying not just to him, but also to myself.

I loved him. I'd grown to love him during that first resurrection, and I'd lost him, and it had hurt me. Having him back was a painful barbed-wire ball of a miracle, because it contained the seeds of its own destruction.

My hand left the steering wheel and touched his, and his fingers closed warm and strong over mine.

"Where we going?" he asked.

There was only one place, really. The other witches had been abducted, dragged out without warning, which meant that their supplies would have remained intact.

I needed to make him some potion.

Lottie's house was the closest.

"The cops," i said. "Are they following us?"

Andrew had shut his eyes—fighting back pain, I could feel it—but he opened them as I turned the car out of the driveway and scanned the street. "Don't see 'em," he said. "Don't mean they ain't around, though. Since we're bait in the trap, they'd like your killer to have room to breathe, seems to me."

I hoped the police would follow us, but I couldn't wait to find out. Time was running out.

On the way, I remembered to call in sick to work—not that keeping my day job was the most important thing in my world, but it was normal life, and I desperately wanted to believe that there would still be a normal life, after today.

The sun was on the rise as we navigated morning rush hour, heading for Lottie's neighborhood. She had a place in an upscale area, one story but sprawling. It was the kind of place that was deserted by day—working families out from seven to seven. The only sign of life along the street was a lawn-service truck in the distance, and a couple of guys on riding lawn mowers.

Lottie's driveway was empty, so I turned in and parked in the back. Yellow police tape fluttered here and there, but they'd finished their work in the yard. An official-looking seal was on the back door, and a newly installed padlock.

I opened the trunk of the car and took out a rusty tire iron, which I handed to Andy. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, then nodded and popped the padlock with a single wrench. He had to stop for a moment and brace himself, and I felt the swirl of darkness between us as the inevitable tide rolled over him.

"Andy," I said. He shook his head.

"Let's just get it done," he said. "This ain't nothing yet."

He was right. It would get a lot worse. That didn't mean it wasn't bad, though, bad enough to drive most men to their knees.

The death-tide was pulling him back. Pulling him away from me.

I ripped open the seal on the door and stepped into Lottie's kitchen.

There were few signs of violence in here—neatly ranked pots and pans, shelves of supplies. I quickly rummaged through them, breathing easier with every single thing I found. Yes, yes, yes…

I opened the refrigerator door, and inside saw not just a few bottles, but a gallon jar of swirling silver liquid.

A gallon jar.

Andy joined me, alerted by my expression. "Why'd she make so much?" he asked. I shook my head. There was absolutely no reason for Lottie to do a thing like that—the expense was enormous. Unless she'd found an effective way to really store the stuff—no, when I wrestled the gallon jar out of the refrigerator and onto the counter, I could tell that it was at least a week old, probably two. Not bad, but not fresh, either.

In another week, it would be useless. It was a foolish waste. Why the hell did Lottie brew it like this?

"She's been up to something," Andy said. He might have been reading my mind. "Makes you wonder why she wanted me back, don't it?"

I dipped up a cup of the potion, sniffed it again, and tilted it this way and that in the mug. "I don't trust this," I said. "It doesn't feel right, Andy. I just—"

He held up a hand to silence me.

"What?" I whispered.

"I think maybe someone's here," he said.

I sealed up the jar and hefted it. We'd take it with us. It'd have to serve until I could brew my own.

Andy turned his eyes back toward me, and there was something dawning in his expression, something grim and terrible.

He lifted the mug I'd filled and poured it into the sink.

"What are you doing?"

"Somebody's been studying up." Andy didn't bother to keep his voice down. "Used this same trick myself, long ago. Made up a batch of poisoned brew, left it for the revenants to drink when they came looking. Did for quite a few that way, back in the wars."