The judge dismissed me. I exited the courtroom with my head held high, feeling Daniel Dufreyne’s gaze boring into my back the whole way.

Granted, it was a limited victory. Dufreyne’s infernal influence over the jury and members of the media was still in full effect. But any settlement would have to be approved by the court, and Judge Martingale was now a neutral party. By the time the local news aired that evening, it was obvious that while the media remained biased in favor of the plaintiffs, the tone of the proceedings had shifted.

Oh, and it appeared that Lee’s untraceable bomb threat was proving to be well and truly untraceable.

I was willing to call that a win.

So was the coven. The Fabulous Casimir hosted an impromptu victory celebration at his place.

“It’s far too soon to break out the champagne, dahlings,” he announced to us. “But I think the occasion deserves at least a passable merlot.” Casimir hoisted his wineglass. “To a job well done.”

“And to never having to do anything like it again,” I added fervently before drinking.

On my way home, I noticed Cody’s cruiser parked in front of Callahan’s again, and stopped to tender a more formal apology.

“That thing I asked you to do yesterday?” I said. The waitress was nowhere near us, but I figured it was best to be oblique. “I just wanted to say that I’m really, truly sorry, Cody.”

He sipped his coffee and eyed me. “You should be.”

“I am,” I promised him. “I wouldn’t blame you if you never trusted me again.”

“Ah, well.” Cody’s mouth quirked. “I thought Judge Martingale was evenhanded while I was on the stand. I did my best to push back against Dufreyne’s narrative. Whatever you did, it sounds like things went better in court today for our side.”

“Yes,” I said. “They did. And anyway . . . thank you.”

Cody took a breath as if to speak, then let it out in a long sigh. “It’s okay, Daise. I’ve still got your back.” He slid out of the booth and shrugged into his uniform coat. “Look, my break’s over. I’ve got to get back on patrol. I’ll see you later.”

I watched him go, feeling like I’d missed something. Or maybe that was just the way it would always be with Cody and me.

It was the one detail I didn’t tell Stefan when I reported on the success of our venture to him. It’s funny, but since his ravening, we were both more relaxed and more careful with each other. He was right; the worst had happened, and we were both still standing.

We were also both very, very aware that we didn’t want it to happen again.

“Are you feeling better about the business of this lawsuit?” Stefan inquired, stroking my back as I lay against him in bed that night, cautiously testing the limits of postcoital cuddling.

“A little,” I said. “It felt good to do something, anyway. Terrifying, but good.”

Stefan smiled at me, eyes glittering. “I’m glad.”

“Me, too.” Stretching, I leaned up to kiss him. “I should go, shouldn’t I?”

“Probably,” he said with regret.

Including the weekend, the celebratory phase of our victory lasted approximately four days.

It ended at around a quarter past five on Monday. I was passing Mrs. Browne’s Olde World Bakery on my way home when the warm aromas of bread and cinnamon wafting through the door as a patron exited mingled with something foul and rank, a smell that wasn’t a smell. Reaching into my messenger bag, I eased dauda-dagr from its sheath before I rounded the corner and entered the alley, where a sleek silver Jaguar was idling.

And there was Daniel Dufreyne, leaning against it, his hands in the pockets of his long charcoal-colored wool coat, his breath frosting in the cold February air.

My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach and I tightened my grip on dauda-dagr. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Dufreyne smiled—his sharklike smile, not the bland one he used in court. “Why, hello to you, too, cousin.”

“I’m not your cousin!” I spat at him.

“Tsk-tsk!” Removing one gloved hand from his coat, he wagged a finger at me. “And here I made the trip just to congratulate you in person.”

I was confused. No decision had been reached in the trial yet, and from what I knew of Dufreyne, it didn’t seem like him to accept a setback as a defeat. “What do you mean, congratulate me?”

“It was an outstanding effort,” he said. “Really, it was. In fact, I was lucky to figure it out in time. But in the end . . .” Turning his hand over, he opened it to reveal the silver cross lying in his palm. Tendrils of smoke rose from it as it slowly seared a brand into the expensive leather of his glove. “Nice try.”

I didn’t say anything.

“It wasn’t until this morning that it occurred to me to cook up a pretext to have a word with Judge Martingale in his chambers,” Dufreyne continued conversationally. “That’s when I realized that whatever you’d done to render him immune to my charms, shall we say, it was only in effect when he was on the bench. So I asked for a brief recess and had a look. That was quite ingenious, affixing it to the underside of his chair.”

Ingenious, hell. It had been inspired by a prank Kim McKinney’s brother used to play with a fart machine. I stared at the smoldering cross, thinking that should have been my first tip that this whole thing had been a very, very bad idea.