Dahlia tried not to look as exasperated as she felt. "No, Taff, that's not what I was thinking. Just find out from the AP, and we'll plan from there."

Dahlia had thought of a final polish to her plan.

Taffy reported that Clifford had had a great time with the Ancient Pythoness, who was in a chipper mood and propositioned him several times. Clifford easily dodged the AP's salacious suggestions, charmed her with his health and youth and budding shaman abilities—and his horns—and in the end, obtained everything he'd been told to ask for.

He reported back the next night, happily rid of his unwanted head decorations, to tell Dahlia and Taffy that he'd located the meeting place of the Ripper pack. Dahlia wouldn't have been surprised if they'd convened in a Starbucks, but it was even worse; they met in a gym called the Fitness Firm.

Taffy made gagging sounds.

"What?" Clifford asked. It was the night before the full moon, and he was antsy and tense. "It looked like a great gym. Boy, those Rippers got some good-looking women, let me tell you!" He let out a happy yip, then looked sideways at Dahlia, embarrassed. "Hey, you'll never believe who I saw in there with the Rippers, looking really not-so-great in yoga pants!"

"Oh," Dahlia said, "I think I can guess."

"Why'd you want to know where the Circe's spellbooks are hidden?"

"Because we need one."

"But they're going to be protected by all kinds of magic," Clifford said.

"Yes, it is. But the magic will be geared to live people."

"How can you be sure?" The young Were was doubtful, and Taffy was clearly anxious.

"The original Circe never met a vampire," Dahlia said. "Her descendant told me so. It stands to reason that the spells to safeguard the grimoires do not protect them from the dead."

"You're willing to risk it," Taffy said. "And I have to thank you, sister, because I'm too frightened." She looked ashamed. "But I know my husband is the one in danger, and whatever else you tell me to do, I'll do it well. You've never let me down."

Dahlia did not mind one bit that Taffy had failings. She herself was simply more self-sufficient and ruthless. "Was Bart there?" Dahlia asked Clifford.

"Oh, yeah. He's our second in command, so he's supposed to hang with us since he's a Swiftfoot now. But no, there he was with his old pack acting large and in charge. I saw him doing imitations of our pack members. I mean, I could recognize them, he was so good. The Rippers were laughing their asses off."

"How could you see that?" Dahlia said. "We told you not to risk getting close."

"The gym is a big glass cube," Clifford said reasonably. "It's the second floor of an office building, and the Fitness Firm is a very highfalutin gym. Between nine and ten every night, it's open only to select parties. That's when the Rippers go—"

"Well, how very obliging of them," Dahlia said, and Taffy began laughing.

"Do you have any idea where the Circe is now?" Taffy asked Clifford when she'd calmed down.

"She's out with her boyfriend," Clifford said. "They're at the movies. You want I should delay them on their way home?"

"Yes, please," Dahlia said.

She left twenty minutes later, dressed head to toe in a very becoming facsimile of Kate Beckinsale's skintight outfit in Underworld. Dahlia could tell Clifford's mouth was watering when she strode into the darkness. It perked her up no end.

The Circe had a little house on a cul-de-sac in a bland suburb of Rhodes. As camouflage, it was perfect, and the taxes would be reasonable, too. Dahlia could appreciate the choice, which definitely looked more Kathy Aenidis, Schoolteacher, than Circe, Dread Sorceress.

Kathy's defenses were formidable, but the Ancient Pythoness had supplied Clifford with a charm, and it seemed to work for a vampire as well as it would have for a werewolf. Dahlia was still uncertain if Kathy would have thought about defending her family records from a dead creature, but at least Dahlia had managed to cross the deck to the back door without being turned into a lizard or impaled on a sliver of bamboo. Dahlia crept close to the door and listened intently. A cat was meowing inside. Whether it was sounding a warning, like some kind of feline burglar alarm, or simply talking to itself, Dahlia couldn't tell. She was not a pet person.

Just before she was about to pick the lock, Dahlia had second thoughts. Second thoughts were rare for her, and she listened to them when she had them. The door was simply too obvious, too likely to be booby-trapped. In one smooth leap, Dahlia made it up onto the roof. She moved lightly across the shingles, noting that Kathy Aenidis needed to get a roofing crew in pretty soon. To avoid the loose shingles, she lifted herself off the roof and flew to the chimney. Pulling away the screen designed to keep out birds and bugs, Dahlia peered down into the heart of the house. The flue was open, and she could see light. Ooooh, Miss Scary Witch left a night-light on. Dahlia dropped a piece of shingle down the aperture. The piece of shingle exploded in a puff of bright light.

Okay, so the chimney was protected. If the magic would explode a chimney tile, it would certainly deal with Dahlia, too. Time to regroup.

Dahlia floated down to the grass and circled the house. The backyard was fenced in, and Dahlia felt less conspicuous there, so after one circuit she found herself sitting on a large wooden bench in the middle of the Circe's herb garden. The bench was probably also storage for garden tools; she was sitting on the lid, not a true seat, as she stared at the back wall of the house. With her excellent night vision, she watched bugs enjoying the spring garden. Bugs had short, short lives, especially if they encountered a bug zapper, like the one she saw hanging on Kathy Aenidis's deck. One flash, and they were gone.

One flash.

In a jiffy she was back up on the roof, looking down into the chimney. She had another piece of tile in her hand, and she tossed it down. Ha! No flash! The Circe's alarm didn't automatically reset. It needed to be charged up again, now that it had gone off.

Dahlia looked at the dimly lit brick and had another rare moment's misgiving. But then she squared her shoulders and plunged into the chimney, twisting her flesh and bones with a fluidity even a shapeshifter might envy. By the time she landed in the fireplace—she was grateful that the house-proud Kathy had cleaned it out after the last fire of winter—she was battered and her black leather suit was scuffed and scraped far beyond its previous pristine smartness.

Dahlia crouched in the semidarkness, listening and looking with all her senses on alert. The only thing living in the house was the cat, whose mewing had gotten quite aggravating. Dahlia emerged from the fireplace and straightened gratefully into her normal shape and size. A clock ticked, the cat kept making noise, and somewhere a faucet dripped. She waited for five minutes, and no other sound intruded.

First, silencing the cat. Dahlia found the animal caged in the basement. Dahlia had taken the precaution of bringing down the box of hard cat food she'd seen in the kitchen, and she poured some into the bowl which protruded out from the cage. The food slid into the inner portion of the bowl, and the cat began eating immediately. It had water in a bottle suspended from the side of the cage. At least the animal was temporarily quiet.

The Ancient Pythoness had told Clifford that the grimoires were "sealed in a dark place under the light spell."

"Thanks, oh wrinkled one," Dahlia said out loud, and the cat paused its eating for a moment to take a look at her. "That means absolutely nothing," said Dahlia, and began to search the house's dark places. There were a few in the basement-closets and the like. Upstairs, in the very flowery living room and the gleaming little dining room, no dark places after she'd looked under the couch. Dahlia was a good searcher, and very swift and sure, and it didn't take her long to go over the house in detail, including the two bedrooms and the attic, which contained only (empty) luggage.