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The wolf felt her magic and backed away. Not frightened, just cautious. When she pulled the towel away, it was clean of my blood and the window was intact.
“Waste not, want not,” she said. “I thought I’d have to supply some of my own to finish it up—but your blood is potent.”
I took her arm. “Let’s go before he breaks loose,” I said, though I didn’t think he’d really break loose. The suggestions she’d planted might fade. But she’d broken him, and my instincts said that was permanent.
That’s the problem with witches; they don’t really care about anyone except themselves. Their power comes from pain, blood, and sacrifice—other people’s pain, blood, and sacrifice, when they could manage it. If they flinched away from doing harm, they wouldn’t have any power. Then other witches would take advantage of that and steal what little power they had. White witches were few, and tended to be psychotically paranoid. Elizaveta and her family skirted the edge of true black magic, but they did stand on that edge and look into the abyss with open eyes.
The wolf could respect a predator like that, but neither of us were entirely comfortable with it. What she’d just done to the doctor was wrong: it would have been kinder to kill him.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly as I drove back across the river into her part of Richland.
“What for?” I asked. “Saving my life?”
“You didn’t like it that I stole his will,” she said. “I admit I could have been more careful. But he’d shot you, and I used that, used your pain. It gave me a little more power than I’m used to. He’ll be all right.”
If she wanted to believe that, who was I to tell her differently? Maybe I was wrong, but I didn’t think so.
“So,” she said softly, “are you finished with this? Did you find out what you needed to know with Dr. Sullivan? Is it solved, then?”
I o
pened my mouth, thought a bit more, and said, “Yes, I suppose I am finished.”
We didn’t talk much more, but when she hopped out of the truck when I stopped in her driveway, she said without looking at me, “Maybe we could see each other again? I make a mean cherry pie.”
I smiled. “Maybe so.”
She relaxed, gave me a rare grin, and kissed her fingertips, and blew the kiss my way before she ran into her house, looking about sixteen.
Everything will be all right. I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel.
KYLE AND I ATE DINNER AT A MEXICAN RESTAURANT KITTY-CORNER FROM Kyle’s offices. The music was loud enough that human ears wouldn’t hear private conversations—one of the reasons I liked to eat at this place.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Kyle said. “Find something?”
I looked at him. He looked tired. “Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
I looked down at my food. “Yes. But not tonight. I have a few more things to check out—a couple of things to do.”
“Illegal?”
I gave him a half grin. “Like I’d tell you ahead of time.”
“You’ll just make me an accessory afterward,” he grumbled.
“I’ve a little justice to serve,” I told him.
He thought about it while he ate a few bites of his fish tostada. “Toni McFetters deserves justice,” he said. “Are you sure you can’t go about it legally?”
“I plan on using proper channels for some of it,” I said. “But there’s some of it that it’s not possible to do that with.”
Kyle believed in the court system—one of the few traces of optimism in his cynical worldview. However—as his blackmail of Sullivan proved—he understood its limitations.
“All right,” he said. “I can live with justice. Will I see you at home tonight?”
“I’ll be in later,” I said. “Maybe very late.”
