"Yes, But this conversation isn't over. I want—"

"I don't give a fuck what you want. Leave, or I'll throw you out." I looked across at Kye. "If I see you or your boss anywhere near the nightclub Adrienne no doubt mentions in her letter, your asses will rot in jail for the next month."

"You can't—" Patrin began.

"Oh, trust me. I can."

He muttered something I didn't even try to hear, then pushed off the sofa and stomped toward the door. Kye gave me a polite nod, and followed.

I slammed the door behind them, then headed for the bathroom and a long, hot soak in the tub. It wasn't just the blood that needed to be washed away—there was also the dirt and anger from the past.

Marg rang at eleven. By midnight, I was standing at Wilson's graveside in the Fawkner cemetery, shivering inside my coat as the wind howled around me and slivers of the dead teased my peripheral vision.

"Here," Marg said, her pale skin giving her an almost ghostlike appearance under the flashlight's not-too-bright light. "Wear this."

"This" was a little sack attached to a looped string. The aromas coming from the sack were a wild mix that had my nose quivering—the sweet, licorice scent of fennel, the reek of garlic, a soft flowery scent I didn't recognize, and something woody. At least it was a better smell than freshly dug earth and old death that was coming from Wilson's gravesite.

A gravesite that had a whole lot of hair scattered around it. At least we finally knew where it had all gone.

I held the little bag from one finger and studied it dubiously. "What is it?"

"Protection. It'll help ward off evil."

Given that I'd seen what Wilson could do, I wasn't betting my life on this little bag. Still, I wasn't about to refuse anything that just might help, either. Wilson wasn't going to be confined without a fight.

I shoved the string around my neck, then tucked the little bag inside my jacket. That way, it was out of the way if I had to move fast.

Marg leaned forward and sprinkled something white into my hair.

"Now what?" I said, resisting the urge to shake my head.

"Pure salt. Works as a ward because evil hates it."

"This is a vengeful soul we're dealing with here, not evil."

She shrugged. "Same basics."

"And how many times have you done something like this?"

"It's not the experience that matters," she said calmly. "It's the knowledge."

Yeah, right. Believing that totally. I crossed my arms and scanned the night. Gravesites loomed out of shadows and wisps of white drifted about almost aimlessly. Part of me wondered what held them here, but I had no intention of opening myself up to them and finding out.

I returned my gaze to Marg. She and her assistant had begun to surround the opened grave with incense sticks while murmuring under their breaths.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, once they'd finished.

"We're going to start the summoning," she said. "Let us know if you feel his presence."

"Right."

I rubbed my arms and tried to ignore the growing sense of trepidation. None of the other women seemed concerned, but then, I'd seen what Wilson could do to people. They hadn't.

Marg and one of her assistants joined hands at the base of the grave and began to chant. Their words were so soft they were snatched away by the wind long before they reached my ears, but the power of them lingered, a sharpening spike of electricity that ran across the night and had the hairs on the back of my neck rising.

I scanned the darkness, my senses—psychic and regular—on high alert for anything out of the ordinary. The branches of the nearby trees tossed in the breeze, and in the distance, traffic rumbled. It might have been after midnight, but Sydney Road was never empty of life. And that worried me—especially when we were dealing with a soul who had the ability to control others.

The chanting continued. The feel of electricity in the air remained at the same sharp level, but something else ran under that power now. A throbbing, whispering demand that rode the wind.

Uneasiness swirled through me. I rubbed my leather-clad arms—an action that oddly sent little sparks skittering into the darkness—and scanned the graves again.

The wispy souls had disappeared. Only gravestones, tossing tree branches, and thorny roses were to be seen now. I wondered if the magic had chased the souls off, or whether it was something else.

Like Wilson being forcibly returned from his nightly hunting trip.

My gaze went back to Marg. She seemed to be putting more power into her chant now, her lips moving quickly and forcefully. I still couldn't hear the words, and I was beginning to think the wind had little to do with that.

I shivered. Tension wound through my body, and my nerves felt stretched to the limit. I flexed my fingers, trying to relax, but it didn't really do a whole lot of good. The sense of power and demand was growing, and the night seemed to hold its collective breath.

The third woman began lighting the incense sticks. They spluttered, the faint smells of rosemary and sandal wood touching the air before being spun away by the wind. She only lit half the sticks, leaving one side unlit and open. Then she repeated the process using the salt.

Were they leaving a gate so the spirit could reenter his coffin? If so, they were being overly hopeful. Somehow I didn't think getting Wilson back to his deathbed was going to be so straightforward.

In the distance, a horn blared, the sound cutting across the night. A car engine roared then shot away.

Youths, I thought. Or drunks. Or maybe even both.

Yet the tension in my limbs intensified, and sweat began to trickle down my back. I drew my weapon, feeling suddenly safer with the weight of it against my palm, even if a laser couldn't actually hurt a soul.

Was it this morning that I'd left my weapon locked up, refusing to carry its weight, feeling safer without it?

But now was not the time to worry about such things, because something was coming.

Awareness skittered along the outer reaches of my psychic senses, a darkness that was all power, all hate.

Wilson.

And he was approaching fast.

I scanned the night, trying to pinpoint his position, wondering what he was doing. What he was planning. Marg and her crew might have succeeded in summoning him, but he was fighting all the way.

Brightness speared the trees, twin spotlights that momentarily blinded. I blinked, saw the sweep of them move on as the car followed the road. But how had it gotten in here? We'd acquired the code to the main gates and had locked up after ourselves. The cemetery itself wasn't open to the public at this hour. No vehicles besides our own should have been in here.

As the car drew closer, the roar of the engine became clearer. It was being revved hard, the driver gunning it as he sped around corners. No sane person drove like that in a cemetery. He had to be under the influence—and I didn't think that influence was alcohol.

"I think we've got a problem." I flexed the fingers of my free hand and shifted my stance a little.

"Wilson is here?" the third magi asked softly.

"I think he might be."

"Think? That's not good enough."

Annoyance rose through the tension. "Hey, you're the people doing the summoning. Why the hell haven't you got some means of knowing if he is or isn't in the area?"

"Because that takes more energy, and given the apparent strength of this soul, we need all the power we can get for containment. Which is why you're here."

Another reason to wish I couldn't communicate with the dead. I'd avoid situations like this.

The lights cut through the trees again, closer and sharper than before. I squinted against their brightness and raised the laser, "I think it highly likely that the driver of the car coming toward us is controlled by Wilson."