Dahlia stood in the middle of the bedroom and pondered. She couldn't rest her soot-stained bottom on the high bed; it was covered with a flounced white spread. Dahlia was not surprised it had a matching canopy. All the bedroom furniture was painted white and gold. The bathroom was pink, with red roses stenciled around the ceiling. Dahlia hated the decor with a passion. The only illicit thing she'd found had been a wood box of sex toys pushed discreetly under the ruffled bed. She'd tapped the floors for hidden compartments, checked for pockets in the walls, thumped the stairs, and opened the suitcases. Grimoires had to be bulky. Though Kathy had a computer, she wouldn't have committed the grimoires' contents to such a hackable machine.

Admitting defeat, Dahlia prepared to wriggle up through the chimney. As she braced herself to dislocate her shoulder, she muttered, "Charon's balls! Where could the damn thing be?"

The cat began meowing down in the cellar.

Dahlia cursed in a several ancient languages and stomped down the stairs again. It was the work of a second to weaken the clasp on the cage so it would appear the cat had butted against it once too often. Then Dahlia opened the wire door and the animal leaped out.

"Come on, then," Dahlia said, and went back upstairs to the chimney piece. Before she began working her way up the narrow opening, she held out her arms and the cat leaped into them. The added burden made the upward trip even more difficult, but when Dahlia set her mind to something, she generally succeeded.

After some painful minutes, she was again in the garden, again sitting on the wooden box, this time with the cat leaning against her legs and purring. Again, she stared at the house. Dahlia was beginning to feeling a bit discouraged. There was no garden shed, no garage.

The cat stretched up to begin sharpening its claws on the hinged wooden lid. It howled. Dahlia glared down at the animal—and then she got the message.

In a flash, Dahlia had leaped off and raised the lid, felt a shift in the atmosphere that indicated the presence of magic, and tossed out trowels and saws to find books wrapped in heavy plastic. They were bound in different ways, in different materials. But one was clearly the most ancient. Dahlia hugged it to herself for a moment of triumph. Then she reloaded the garden tools in the box. I only hope she doesn't need it tonight, Dahlia thought, and gripping the book and the cat to her body, she rose into the sky. Under the black leather of her jumpsuit, her arms were feeling curiously itchy. She wondered if there'd been bugs in the wooden box, bugs with a fondness for dead flesh. Or perhaps she was allergic to cats? She snorted. Vampires didn't have allergies.

That night Kathy's boyfriend's car had two flat tires when he and Kathy emerged from the cinema. He was burly and strapping, a dark man with enough chest hair to stuff a mattress. When he saw the tires, he cursed fluently and called AAA. Kathy took the opportunity to practice an inflation spell, but it didn't work well enough to get the car out of the parking lot and into the street.

Clifford watched from a restaurant across the busy street while the two waited for the AAA truck, which was forty minutes in arriving. When the truck pulled in, the young shaman called Dahlia, who had consented to carry a cell phone that night just for the occasion.

"They'll be out of here in thirty minutes," he said. "You through?"

"Yes, I'm out of the house and I have it with me," she said, though her voice sounded funny to Clifford. He thought he heard a cat mew in the background.

"Well, see you tomorrow," he said.

"Yes," Dahlia said, and clicked END. She couldn't concentrate on flying anymore, so she walked through the streets carrying a large and ancient book swathed in plastic and followed by a black cat. As if that weren't conspicuous enough (very dusty tiny woman carrying huge whopping book through the night), Dahlia had another problem. She was clinging to every bit of available shadow for a very good reason. Her arms were covered with vines that had erupted from her skin.

Some magic did work on dead flesh. It had been a spell of light, just as the Ancient Pythoness had predicted. Light meant growing things. A garden meant vines; vines that itched.

The rest of the night was extremely painful. After she had crept into Taffy's room and frightened Taffy in the middle of having a weepy phone conversation with Don, Dahlia had conscripted her friend for surgery duty. It took an hour and more, but finally Taffy finished shearing off the vines at skin level. Dahlia was so battered by that time that Taffy gave Dahlia a drink from her own wrist. Even Cedric, who wandered into Taffy's room in search of diversion, was surprised enough to donate some healing blood to his nest child.

Once Dahlia had quit cursing, and after the open cuts began healing, she opened the spell book and began to translate, slowly and painfully. There were advantages to being extremely old and to having friends who even more ancient.

"We'll be ready tomorrow night, right?" Taffy asked anxiously. "I don't want Bart to challenge Don. He'll use some trickery to defeat him."

"We'll take care of it," Dahlia said. "My husband is dead, but we'll save yours." Truthfully, though Dahlia loved Taffy, she didn't give a rat's ass about Don. Her goal was vengeance, just as she'd told the Circe. She was just aiming that vengeance in a different direction, and she planned on doling it out in different amounts.

Clifford was reluctant to stay with the two vampires the next night, to Dahlia's exasperated amazement. He'd kept surveillance on the Fitness Factory off and on since his shaman class let out earlier in the afternoon, and when full dark fell, he'd rendezvoused with Dahlia and Taffy.

They'd already performed one errand together, the three of them, and Dahlia was carrying a big sack over her shoulder. It snorted, from time to time, in a sleepy way.

But when they hurried back toward the gym, Dahlia heard Clifford whimper as he looked up at the sky. It was the moon night. From the corner of her eye, she caught him almost twitching with anxiety to be away, to have his run with the rest of the Swiftfoot pack, even though its new second in command would have to be included with the pack tonight.

Dahlia remembered Todd's erratic behavior on moon nights, and she felt some sympathy for her partner in crime. But Dahlia figured magic might need to be cast by a live person; she was worried that her essential deadness would pervert the effects of the spells. Clifford, though he hadn't completed his training, was as close to a witch as she could get on short notice, so she ruthlessly exerted her charm, along with a little bullying, to ensure his help for just a little longer. She had a three-pronged plan that would punish all the wrongdoers with the correct degree of severity. Once she had made sure that earlier that afternoon Clifford had told Don exactly how Bart had been able to defeat Todd, she and Taffy herded the young Were along with them.

"You'll get to go run, very soon," Taffy reassured him. "We just need one more little thing, and then you're off to join the others."

The Rippers had been gathering since the evening began, most of them stopping at the Fitness Firm when they got off work. Clifford told Dahlia and Taffy, "I think they're going to change in their gym. Then they can just slip out into the park when it gets dark enough." A large city park was less than a block away.

The Rippers had thought their procedure through, but tonight, Dahlia had developed other plans for the pack.

When the three decided the pack had completely assembled, they waited ten more minutes to be sure. Then Dahlia and Taffy drew specific patterns in chalk all the way around the building. They had studied the pattern and they were steady and swift, but it was still quite a job. When they finished, Dahlia glanced at Clifford's watch, which conveniently lit up. "They'll be changing any minute," she said. "We have to proceed."