"Hey, I'm sorry." Marshal continued to fill the silence. "I don't know why they're taking so long, but it looks like I'm not going to get out of here for a few hours more."

"You're still there?" I asked, glancing at the dark stained-glass windows and thinking that what time his interviews ended didn't matter anymore.

"It's down to me and one other guy," Marshal rushed to say. "They want to make a decision today, so I'm stuck trying to impress the hell out of these people over pasta and sparkling water."

Resigned to another evening alone with the pixies, I picked at the edge of my chipped nail and wondered if I had a file in my bag. Rex was on her back, the pixies hovering just out of her playful, lethal reach. "No problem. We'll do it some other day," I said as I rummaged for the file, disappointed even as I was sort of relieved.

"I must have met with six people already," he complained. "Honest, they told me it was going to be a two-hour interview when I came down here."

My fingertips brushed the rough surface of a file, and I tugged it out. Three quick swipes, and the damage was smoothed out. If only it were that easy for everything else.

"I've got to be done by midnight," he continued at my silence. "You want to go out to The Warehouse for a beer? The guy I'm interviewing against says they let you in free this week if you come in costume."

My gaze slid to the dark windows as I slipped the file away. "Marshal, I can't."

"Why—" he started, then went silent. "Oh," he continued, and I could hear him kicking himself. "I forgot. Um, I'm sorry, Rachel."

"Don't worry about it," I said. Feeling guilty about my relief, then determined to get past it, I took a slow breath, steadying myself. "You want to come over when you're done? I've got some reports to go over, but we can play pool or something." I hesitated, then added, "It's not The Warehouse, but…" God, I felt like a coward, hiding in this church.

"Yes," he said, his warm voice making me feel a little better. "Yeah, I'd like that. I'll bring dinner. You like Chinese?"

"Mmmm, yes," I said, feeling the first hints of enthusiasm. "No onions?"

"No onions," he acknowledged, and I heard someone in the background call his name with authority. "I hate to keep saying this, but I'll call you when I'm done."

"Marshal, I said don't worry about it. It's not like it's a date," I said, remembering Kisten's calm acceptance of my breaking our arrangements because of last-minute runs. He had never gotten upset, maintaining the belief that when he had to do the same, I'd respond in kind. It had worked, and now I could take a lot of last-minute cancellations before I let it get to me. Marshal had called. He couldn't make it. Case closed. Besides, it wasn't like we were…anything.

"Thanks, Rachel," he said, sounding relieved. "You're something else."

I blinked fast, remembering Kisten saying the same thing. "Okay, um, I'll see you later then. 'Bye, Marshal," I said, making sure my voice didn't betray me. Unclenching my fingers from the top of my right arm, I hit the "end" button and closed the phone, torn between feeling good at Marshal's last words and depressed at the reminder of Kisten.

Knock it off, Rachel, I thought, taking a cleansing breath and tossing my hair.

"'By-y-y-y-y-ye, Marshal," Jenks mocked from the safety of my desk, and I turned—just in time to see Matalina backhand him on the shoulder.

"Jenks," I said wearily as I lurched to a stand. "Shut up."

Matalina rose, her wings a pale pink. "Jenks, dear," she said primly. "Can I see you in the desk for a moment?"

"What…," he complained, then yelped when she pinched his wing and jerked him through the crack of the roll-top desk. The kids cheered, and their eldest daughter grabbed the hand of the youngest, flying the toddler away from the desk and to some pixy distraction.

Smiling at the thought of a seasoned warrior being dragged about by his just-as-deadly wife, I straightened my legs, which ached from being motionless so long on the hardwood floor. I really needed to do some stretches to loosen up, and I wondered if Marshal liked to run. I'd be willing to get him an early-hours runner's pass for the zoo just for the company. No expectations, no hidden agendas, just someone to do something with. Kisten had never run with me. Maybe it would help if I did different things—for different reasons.

I scooped up my bag and headed to the kitchen and my reports, my mood changing to one of surprising anticipation as I planned out my night. Marshal could tell me all about his interviews, and I could tell him all about my demon death mark. Ought to make for interesting conversation over rice. And if that didn't scare him away, then he deserved everything he got.

Going sourly introspective, I slapped at the pixy dust on me again as I entered the hall. The dust glowed briefly from the friction as it sifted from me to light the darker space. I passed the old his-and-hers bathrooms converted on Ivy's side to a conventional bathroom, and to a bathroom/laundry room on my side. Our bedrooms had once been clergy offices, and what was now the kitchen and living room had been added on to provide the long-absent congregation with a place to prepare and serve church suppers.

I leaned into my room to throw my bag onto the bed, and my cell phone rang again. Digging it back out, I sat on my bed to take my boots off and flipped the top open. "Back already?" I said, letting my voice hint at my anticipation. Maybe Marshal was done.

"Sure, I only had to check three days of records," David's rich voice said, startling me.

"Oh! David!" I said, getting one lace undone and kicking my boot off. "I thought you were Marshal."

"Uh, no…," he drawled, the question clear in his voice.

Phone tucked between my shoulder and my ear, I swung my other foot up. "Just some guy I met up in Mackinaw," I said. "He's moving to Cincinnati and coming over for dinner so neither of us have to eat alone."

"Good. It's about time," he said with a small laugh, and when I cleared my throat in protest, he continued. "I've been through the recent filings. There's been a spate of interesting claims out at the smaller cemeteries."

As I worked the laces one-handedly, my fingers slowed. You could get just about all the parts you needed to do black magic from any charm shop, but the ingredients were regulated, and oftentimes people just collected their own. "Grave robbing?"

"Actually…" There was a rustling of papers. "I don't know. You'd have to go to the FIB or the I.S. for that, but there's been a statistically large increase in the amount of damage to small cemeteries, so you might want to keep a closer eye on yours. Only the active ones have been hit so far. Damage to monuments, broken gates, cut locks, ruts in the landscape. It could just be kids, but someone stole the equipment to dig up the comfortably dead. My guess is someone is setting themselves up for a long-term commitment, either to supply black witchcraft and demon summoners on a commercial basis, or just themselves. You should check with your FIB guy. I won't hear about grave robbing unless something's been damaged or stolen, seeing as we don't insure the truly dead."

"Thanks, David," I said. "I've been talking to Glenn already." My gaze slid to the four reports on my dresser, sandwiched between the perfume bottles. "I'll ask him if any bodies are being moved out. I appreciate you checking." I hesitated, kicking my second boot off. "You didn't get in trouble, did you?"

"For working before Halloween?" he said around a guffaw. "Not likely. I do have one thing before I let you go. I've got a minor-damage claim that came in from a woman just outside the Hollows. I'm not scheduled to be the field adjuster for it, but if I can trade, do you want to come with me and check it out? An entire basement wall is bowing out from water damage. It could be a typo, seeing as water bows walls in, not out, but even so, we haven't gotten much rain in months."