The Outlaw Demon Wails by Kim Harrison Page B

hardwood floor from the arts and crafts. Pixies living in the church was a bloody nuisance, but I’d do anything to put off the inevitable another year. If there was a charm or spell, I’d use it in a heartbeat, regardless of its legality. But there wasn’t. I had looked. Several times. Pixy life spans sucked.
    I smiled wistfully at Matalina and her daughters as they set up housekeeping, and after rolling the top of the desk down to leave the now-traditional one-inch gap, I grabbed my clipboard and looked for somewhere to sit. On it was a growing list of ways to detect a demon summoning. In the margin was a short list of people who might want me dead. But there were safer ways to kill someone than sending a demon after them, and I was betting the first list would get me closer to who was summoning Al than the second. After I exhausted the local stuff, I’d look out of state.
    The lights were high and the heat was on against the hint of chill in the air, turning the autumn night to a noon summer. The church’s sanctuary wasn’t much of a sanctuary anymore; the pews and altar had been removed even before I had moved in, leaving a wonderfully open space with narrow stained-glass windows stretching from knee height to the tall ceiling. My desk was atop the shallow stage up front, to the right of where the altar had been.
    Back by the dark foyer was Ivy’s seldom-played baby grand piano, and tucked into the front corner across from my desk was a new cluster of furniture to give us somewhere to interview prospective clients without dragging them all the way through the church to our private living room at the back. Ivy had a plate of crackers, cheese, and pickled herring arranged on the low coffee table, but it was the pool table my gaze lingeredon. It had been Kisten’s, and I knew that the reason I was drawn to it was because I missed him.
    Ivy and Jenks had given the table to me on my birthday. It was the only piece of him Ivy had taken besides his ashes and her memories. I think she’d given it to me as an unspoken statement that he’d been important to both of us. He had been my boyfriend, but he had been Ivy’s onetime live-in and confidant, and probably the only person who truly understood the warped hell that their master vampire, Piscary, had put them through with his version of love.
    Things had changed radically in the three months since Ivy’s former girlfriend, Skimmer, had killed Piscary and landed herself in jail under a wrongful-death charge. Instead of the expected turf war, with Cincy’s secondary vampires struggling to assert their dominance, a new master vampire had stepped in from out of state, one so charismatic that no one rose to challenge him. I’d since learned that bringing in new blood was commonplace, and there were provisions set up in Cincinnati’s charter to deal with the sudden absence of a city power.
    What was unusual, though, was that the new master vampire had taken in every single one of Piscary’s displaced vamps instead of bringing his own camarilla. The small bit of kindness cut short an ugly mess of vampire misery that would have put me and my roommate in serious jeopardy. That the incoming vampire was Rynn Cormel, the very man who had run the country during the Turn, probably had a lot to do with Ivy’s quick acceptance. Respect usually came slowly from her, but it was hard not to admire someone who had written a vampire sex guide that sold more copies than a post-Turn bible, and had been president.
    I had yet to actually meet the man, but Ivy said that he was quiet and formal, and that she was enjoying getting to know him better. If he was her master vampire, they were going to have a blood tryst at some point. Euwie. I didn’t think they had yet, but Ivy was private about that sort of thing, despite her well-earned reputation. I suppose I should have been thankful he hadn’t taken Ivy as his scion and made my life