I hesitated. “Mainly work.”
Sheets rustled as he moved. “Given the slight pause there, am I to take it that in the process of doing your job you bent the leash a little?”
“Afraid so.”
I explained what had happened, and he made a low sound deep in his throat. “A deliberate unleashing, while generally unwise, should have no overall effect on the strength of the walls we have built. Only consuming sheer and utter evil could do that, and only then if you willingly drank from that well over a longer period of time.”
“I know, but I guess there’ll always be a little voice deep inside asking what will happen if we’re wrong?” A little voice that had always, and would always, ask that question, because of what I’d done so long ago.
“The mere fact that voice exists makes it even less likely your walls will fail.”
I wasn’t worried about them failing as much as I was of becoming addicted to the heady rush of “drinking” all that power. I swallowed heavily and tried not to think about it. That way lay only danger.
“Tell me, have you ever come across anyone who had no life readout? As in, a dead space in a sea of vibrancy?”
“Only once, when confronted by death reanimated, and even then the faint hum of its creator sung through its limbs.”
“A zombie?” I said, surprised. “When did this happen? And why did I never know?”
His laugh was warm and familiar and wrapped around me like a hug. “It was well before you came onto the scene, my dear. Remember, I am an old man.”
“You’re only a few years older than Michael, and he would never consider himself old.” My voice was dry. “Besides, you’re the fittest fifty-nine-year-old I’ve ever met.”
“Which is not saying much, given you probably haven’t met all that many.”
“You forget the household I grew up in. Besides, it doesn’t alter the validity of my statement.”
Another warm laugh. I briefly wished it were possible to pluck such sounds from the air and hold them close. Even though our divorce had been planned—and wanted—by both of us, I still missed his ever-reliable presence in my day-to-day life. Probably always would, no matter where life took us.
“I take it you came across such a person?” he asked.
“Well, he wasn’t dead, and certainly wasn’t reanimated flesh, as there was no stain of outside magic, foul or otherwise, on his person.”
“You got close enough to be sure of that?”
“He saved me from the demon that was hunting me, Owen.”
“I thought this mission involved nothing more strenuous than baby-sitting Tane’s seriously spoiled only child?” Concern rippled through his voice. “Are you okay?”
“A minor cut on my face and bruising down my spine, the latter coming from a confrontation with the two men who may or may not have been responsible for Francesca and Marnee’s murders.” I told him everything that had happened. “Any idea what a comp demon is?”
“None at all, but I can ask Henry to do a little digging, if you wish.”
Henry Overton was the current head of the National Witch Library and Resource Center and a longtime friend of Owen’s. “That would be great.”
“As to the other matter—the man with no life energy—I have no suggestions other than to be wary. Given there are few witches in this world who have the capacity to hide their magical output, let alone the very essence of life to such a degree, it’s possible he could be something other than human.”
“He felt human.”
“Many demons do.”
“But their energy is different. Besides, why would he save me from a demon if he was one himself?”
“A question no one but the man himself can answer.” He hesitated. “Until we get more information on the situation, caution would be wise. I doubt it is a coincidence that your path crossed his tonight, of all nights.”
Concern stirred through me, and I frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“The omens speak of change.”
