“Or you could get caught, arrested, and held in contempt of court,” Lee pointed out. “As long as they’re setting legal precedents, why not charge you with attempted supernatural tampering?”

“You’re not helping,” I informed him.

He shrugged. “I’m just being realistic. We don’t even know if it’s going to be a jury trial or not. If it is, that’s twelve more people you have to worry about, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s the judge who has the final say on the terms of the settlement,” Jen observed. Over the course of days, everyone in Pemkowet had become an armchair expert in class-action lawsuits, mostly based on gossip, anecdotes, and something someone thought they remembered hearing Nancy Grace say on television. “Even if the jury voted to award the plaintiffs the full forty-five million bucks, the judge has to approve it. Or he could decide we’ve got ten years to pay it.”

Stacey sniffled. “If you think anyone in Pemkowet’s going to vote to approve a ten-year millage for this, you’re delusional.”

Jen shot her a look a lot like the one she’d given Stacey back in high school when she’d threatened to cut all her hair off. I didn’t blame her, although Stacey was probably right.

“It would be a risk,” Sinclair mused, still thinking about the charm. “A big risk for something that might only work for a day, and probably wouldn’t make a difference in the long run.”

“Is there any way one could create some sort of magical battery or generator?” Lee inquired. “Something that would allow magic to function in a limited way in a mundane environment?”

Sinclair shook his head again. “Not that I’ve ever heard.”

I had, though. A faint spark of hope kindled inside me. “Dufreyne,” I said. “When he told me his powers of persuasion worked everywhere, he said he carried the underworld inside him.”

Everyone stared at me.

“So it might work,” Sinclair said slowly, a grin spreading across his face. “A hell-spawn’s presence in the courtroom might be enough.”

I smiled back at him. “Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “It would. At least it’s worth a try. I’ll call Casimir and the coven so we can strategize.”

“Is that our cue to leave?” Stacey asked him, a slight edge to her tone. “I’m not sure about the others, but I know I’m not coven-approved.”

Sinclair hesitated, his brow creasing.

Okay, I’ll admit it, there was a part of me that wasn’t sorry to see that there was trouble in paradise; but there was another part that was all too aware that Stacey’s habitual bitchiness was a defense against her insecurity, which was at an all-time high right about now.

“It can wait until tomorrow,” I said to Sinclair. “There’s time. I think we all need to take a step back and calm down, maybe do something normal for a change. Order some pizza, watch a movie.”

His expression eased. “You’ve got a point. I don’t know what I was thinking, turning to Emmy for advice. You’re right—we should be focusing on protection rather than influence; the right-hand path, not the left.”

I knew exactly what Sinclair was doing. He was continuing on the path I’d set him on when I’d asked him to curse me, but that’s not what I said. “Is that like the path of light versus the path of darkness?” I asked him instead.

“Yeah, that’s the terminology the coven uses,” Sinclair said. “Same idea, fewer racial overtones.”

“It’s an old term in the craft,” Lee offered. “Its usage in Western culture dates back to the nineteenth-century occultist Madame Blavatsky, who founded the Theosophical Society.” He shrugged at the startled glance Sinclair gave him. “What? Lots of us in the gaming industry are knowledgeable in all sorts of arcana.”

Jen raised her hand. “As a left-handed person, I’d like to lodge a protest against the whole right-equals-good, left-equals-bad analogy. Why not say that up equals good and down equals bad?”

“As the representative of an underworld deity, I take offense,” I said to Jen with a straight face. “That’s so . . . directionist of you.”

“How about four legs good, two legs bad?” Stacey suggested. It drew blank looks. “Um . . . Animal Farm, remember? We read it in ninth-grade English?” She flushed. “I know, it’s stupid. I’m sorry. Sometimes I don’t quite get your jokes.”

“Sometimes our jokes aren’t funny,” Lee assured her. “If you ask me, if we don’t want to offend anyone, we’d have to use nonsense words, like zig equals bad, zag equals good.”

“Really?” Jen nudged him. “Zig equals bad? Now you’re discriminating against the Spice Girls?”

He blinked at her. “Huh?”

All three of us girls, including Stacey, sang the chorus of “Wannabe” in unison. “I wanna really really really wanna zigazig ha!” We burst into laughter; probably more laughter than the situation warranted, but it felt good.

“Oh, God!” Jen wiped her eyes. “I remember Bethany and me dancing around her bedroom, singing into our hairbrushes. I must have been all of seven years old.”

“Me, too,” Stacey admitted.

Sinclair let out a groan. “Enough with the Spice Girls. Didn’t someone mention pizza?”