Adele wasn’t eating at Casa Gomez next door, nor had anyone there seen her, but Lily learned that Adele usually parked her three-year-old Honda in back. A quick check showed that the vehicle was gone. According to the owner and chief cook at the little restaurant—Maria Esperenza Valenzuela Gomez—that wasn’t unusual; Adele often took long lunches, shutting her store for a couple hours or more.

No, she didn’t know where Adele liked to eat. Adele was one of those people who seem simpática, comprendes? A good listener, yes, with a nice smile, and always offering help or advice. But she says nothing of herself. And her help, it is always the help she wishes to give. Not always the help that is needed.

Yes, Adele was odd in her ways, but Mrs. Gomez didn’t hold that against her. Did she not herself have a great-aunt who was a curandera? And not a Catholic at all, she added, crossing herself. But Tía Jimena was a good woman, and God understood her heart. But Tía did not talk to strangers about her craft, no, not ever. She lived in the same village in Mexico where she had always lived, and she would not speak with someone from outside, and so she had told Adele when Adele asked.

After that, Mrs. Gomez said with a shrug, Adele had not offered help and advice so much.

Wolfbane? Mrs. Gomez knew nothing about that. Tattoos? Oh, yes, Adele used to work at a tattoo parlor in the city. She knew this because her sister’s son had gotten a tattoo there, a dragon of all things, and Felicia had been so upset, but she—Mrs. Gomez—had told her it was nothing, to forget it. It wasn’t a gang mark, was it? Boys need to do foolish things, so thank the good Lord it was nothing more than a silly tattoo.

After the interview, Lily ate a couple of Mrs. Gomez’s enchiladas, extra hot, at a tiny table while she jotted down notes. They were pretty good, though the “extra hot” should have come with an incineration warning. Then she checked her messages.

Rule had texted her at eleven. He was going to check out the crime scene. Lily looked up, chewing her lip. She wanted him to call, dammit, not text her a couple piddling lines. And that was just stupid. He usually texted instead of calling, especially about the little stuff, especially when she was on a case. He knew she kept her text alert on silent, so sending a text message didn’t interrupt her.

What she really wanted was an apology. He was wrong, dammit. He shouldn’t have used her password. He’d crossed a line, and he needed to know that.

But that had to wait until they were together. It couldn’t be discussed over the phone, and damn sure couldn’t be covered by a text. She checked her watch. Twelve twenty. Huh. Her inner Rule-compass, matched with the map she’d studied of the area, suggested he was still there. Either he hadn’t gotten to the scene right away after texting her, or he’d found enough of interest to keep him sniffing around awhile.

Well, if he learned something significant—like, say, if he found Adele’s scent all over—he’d call. Pissed or not, he’d call if it mattered.

There was a text from her sister—Beth had another boyfriend, and this one was hot—and one from Arjenie Fox: call me.

She did. And then she called Croft and told him she was now officially investigating murder by magical means.

The lacy choker tattooed around Steve Hilliard’s neck was a spell, all right. One that stopped his heart. That’s why there wasn’t much blood—his heart stopped pumping before his throat got cut.

“The slashed throat was intended to throw off the locals, keep us from being called in,” Lily told Croft. “It could have worked. The chief here is a member of Humans First. He wouldn’t look too hard, and if the body hadn’t been found so quickly, there might not have been enough of him left for us to even know about the tattoo. I bet she was counting on that.”

“She?” Croft said. “You’ve got a suspect already?”

“I do, but right now it’s all motive and speculation.” Hunch, she might have said, or instinct. Whatever she called it, she knew she was on the right track, but she didn’t have proof. “She does fit the M.O. She’s a spell-caster, an eclectic, so she could have learned that spell someplace.”

“You’ll need more than ‘could have.’”

“I’ll call you when I have it.”

As soon as she disconnected, she called Rule—and was shuffled off immediately to voice mail. Damn. Probably the mountains were interfering with reception.

She left him a brief message, checked her notes, refused the refill on her Diet Coke Mrs. Gomez wanted to give her, and set off to plug the meter—the patrol car was still cruising by every so often. Then she headed for the gas station on the corner. She wanted badly to get into Practikal Magik and look for Adele’s tattoo equipment, but she didn’t have enough for a search warrant, not yet. So she’d go see the closest member of Adele’s little group, one of the few males.

The pumps at the station were self-service, but there was a garage out back. That’s where she found Mannie Bouchard, scowling up at a Suburban raised high by the hydraulic lift.

Early twenties, six feet even, weight maybe one-fifty, black and brown. His skin was dark enough to suggest that Mannie might be short for Manuel in spite of the French surname. Slim verging on skinny, but his arms were ropy with muscle. Ragged hair, grease-stained jeans, sleeves ripped out of his T-shirt. A tattoo on his right bicep, but she couldn’t see what it was from here. “Mannie Bouchard?”

His head swung toward her, the scowl undisturbed—until someone flipped a switch and his thin face lit in a grin. “Hey! You’re Lily Yu, aren’t you?” He started toward her, pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. “I’m Mannie, yeah.” His voice dropped as he reached her. “And I’m ospi to Nokolai.” He held out a hand.

Her eyebrows lifted. Ospi meant out-clan friend; used as he had, as introduction, it probably meant he was related to someone who was clan.

She shook his hand. No furry magic, but a small bump of a Finding Gift. “Your mom’s Nokolai?”

“Yeah. Dora Bouchard. You know her?”

It took a second, but once Lily placed the name, she smiled. “Nice lady. There’s no nonsense to her.” Dora was the daughter of one of the Nokolai councilors, so was considered clan. Her children weren’t. “Would you be the wild child she blames for her gray hair?”

“Sorry to say, but yeah. Though I’m getting my act together finally.” He grimaced. “I should tell you I’m on probation.”

“Oh?”

“Drove drunk, smashed up my car and someone’s parked truck. Just lucky I didn’t kill myself or anyone else. I’ve paid off the fine and damages. Got another month on probation.” He repeated that quick, blinding grin. “Got another car, too, a sweet little ’65 Mustang. Needed a new engine, so it’s not original, but man, is she sweet. No way I’ll take a chance on busting her up.”

“Sounds like you’re doing it right this time. Can you talk to me for a few minutes?”

“Sure. You want to go in my office?” He waved toward the front of the station and, she assumed, the tiny glassed-in cubby where she’d seen a chair, a counter, and a cash register.

As they headed that way he asked, “Is this about Steve? Man, that’s some seriously bad shit.”

“It is.” She glanced at him. “I’m thinking that, being raised by clan, you’d be able to speak frankly of sexual matters.”

“Well…yeah, I guess. Since you’re clan, you’ll understand.”

“Tell me about your group. The one that included Steve, Adele, and Mariah.”

He did. They had some really bad coffee in the glassed-in cubicle with him on a stool behind the counter, her in the single chair, and she learned that the group was loosely organized around a belief in sexual plurality and an interest in magical exploration. Adele was the leader in both realms. According to Mannie, Adele hadn’t minded sharing Steve physically, but she got twisted up when Steve spent too much time with any of the other women.