But nestled in the innermost circle of Sinclair’s sigil was a stylized rendering of a stalk of joe-pye weed in full bloom.

Across the parlor, Sinclair caught my eye. I nodded my understanding, and he returned my nod with sorrow and regret.

Jojo.

Jojo the joe-pye weed fairy had been a foulmouthed, sparkly little bitch with a wicked crush on Sinclair. When the Tall Man cut her down, Jojo had been trying in her own ridiculous way to protect Sinclair from the death-magic his own mother had unleashed on Pemkowet.

The tattoo needle buzzed steadily as Mark Reston etched ink onto Sinclair’s skin, until at length he announced, “Done.”

The sigil didn’t stand out vividly against Sinclair’s cocoa-brown skin, but it was beautiful; and hopefully, effective. With one last invocation and a chorus of “So mote it be,” the four members of the coven in attendance called a ceremonial end to the ritual. Sheila Reston swept the chalk circle away briskly with a broom while her husband swabbed Sinclair’s chest with antibiotic ointment and applied an adhesive bandage.

“Cas!” I called to Casimir as he made his way toward the exit. “Hey, did the Evanses come in this morning? Were you able to get them set up?”

The Fabulous One pursed his carmine lips. “They did and I was, although I had to offer them most of it on account, which, I might add, I did for your sake, Miss Daisy, since you seemed so concerned.” He shrugged. “Mr. Evans is strung awfully tight, dahling. You’re sure he’s not . . . ?” He raised his plucked eyebrows and circled one manicured finger in the vicinity of his temple.

“No,” I said honestly. “He’s pretty fucked up, and I don’t blame him for it. But he’s right about the Night Hag.”

The shrewdness that lurked behind Casimir’s false eyelashes surfaced. “You’re sure?”

I nodded. “Do you have a lot of whatever charms and wards you sold them in stock?”

He shook his head. “Not a lot, no.”

I laid one hand on his shoulder, which was draped in a vintage brocade kimono. “Time to order more.”

      Ten

Jen and Lee’s sort-of coffee date that afternoon turned into a group affair.

It wasn’t my fault. Sinclair invited me to get a cup of coffee with him to discuss whatever was on my mind. Stacey decided to join us—and by us, I mean Sinclair—and Jen jumped in to suggest that we all go together. Lee looked a bit crestfallen, but I didn’t want to take the time to argue.

Which is why the five of us were sitting at a table across the street at the Daily Grind—okay, not the most original of names, but since they do roast their own beans and grind them fresh to order, I guess they’re entitled to it—making awkward conversation while we waited for our orders to be called.

“Why do you always carry that clunky old thing?” Stacey asked me as I adjusted my messenger bag over the back of my chair. I actually think she might have been trying to make small talk, not slam me, because she flushed and backtracked, fidgeting with her ash-brown hair; which, of course, had expensive blond highlights. “I just mean . . . if it’s about money, you can get really cute designer knockoffs these days.”

Across the table, Jen raised her eyebrows at me.

“It’s not about money,” I said to Stacey. “I keep my magic dagger in here.”

Her flush deepened. “I was being serious.”

“So was I.” I patted my messenger bag. “You ever try to find a purse that can hold a dagger the length of your forearm? This clunky old thing was custom-made. It has a hidden sheath.”

“Oh.”

The barista called our order and Lee jumped up with alacrity, not to mention more physical coordination than I would have given him credit for. Joining the gym was definitely having a positive impact on him. “I’ll get it.”

“I’ll help,” Sinclair added hastily.

Cowards.

“Okay,” I said when the guys had returned and distributed our assorted beverages. “As long as you’re all here, I actually could use your help with this. We’ve got a Night Hag on the loose.” I told them what had happened, omitting the Evanses’ names, and what I’d learned since from Lurine and the Sphinx, omitting Lurine’s name.

“So you’re looking for me to hook you up with one of the fey?” Sinclair asked.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “It’s a starting place, anyway. Can you do it?”

“Sure.”

Lee frowned. “What about the Sphinx’s riddle?”

“Knock yourself out,” I said. “Got any theories?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Well, let me know if you do. In the meantime . . .” I shrugged. “Keep your ears open. Ask around. If you hear of any likely Night Hag visitations, let me know. Oh, and send them to Casimir. He’s going to lay in a stock of protection charms.”

“Maybe you should write a letter to the editor, Daise,” Jen suggested in a pragmatic tone. “Get the word out and warn people.”

“Oh, please don’t!” Stacey said quickly. The PVB’s new head of online promotion looked pained. “It’s just . . . after the fallout from the Halloween incident, we really, really can’t afford any more negative press.”

“Which is soooo much more important than the public safety of us ordinary citizens,” Jen retorted. “Right?”