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Tina stared at me. “Did you get Glitch spit in your brain or something? This concert is my big chance. We’re gonna be on TV and everything. Plus we’ve been rehearsing for, like, a whole week.”

I gripped her arm, trying to convey how important this was. “If the concert goes ahead, there’ll be an attack to make what happened at the Halloween parade look like a Sunday picnic.”

“A demon attack—is that all?” She shook me off and waved her hand dismissively. “You can handle that. I’ll have Paul put you on security. Just bring, you know, some extra weapons. If you need help, I’ll jump in.” Her eyes widened. “Ooh, bring that big sword, the one I borrowed at Halloween. That was awesome.”

She was talking about the Sword of Saint Michael, and stole was a more accurate word than borrowed, but I didn’t argue the point. I needed to figure out how to prevent the concert. That would give me time to find Pryce, kill him, and put the Morfran back into its slate prison. If I could handle the ritual.

“It’s almost sunrise,” I said. Tina wasn’t bundled up in protective clothing. “Shouldn’t you go home before it gets light?”

“Yikes, you’re right. This would be, like, the worst time ever to get a sunburn.” She pulled the plastic over her costume. “Come see me before the concert. I’ll put you on the guest list so you can get backstage. The show starts at seven, but I’ll be in my dressing room by sunset.”

After Tina left, I got busy making phone calls. I tried Kane first—if anyone would know who to call and what to say, it would be Kane. But I got his voice mail again. My message explained the situation and asked him to call whoever he could think of with authority to cancel the concert.

Sunrise was the wrong time of day to call anyone—too late for Deadtown’s zombies and too early for Boston’s norms. I tried Monster Paul’s recording studio. I tried all the talent agents in the Yellow Pages to see if I could reach him that way. But all I got was one voice mail system after another. I left the same message: “Tell Monster Paul he has to cancel tonight’s concert. If he’ll call me back, I’ll explain why,” giving my name and phone number. By the third time I’d said it, I realized how much I sounded like a complete crackpot, even to myself.

What about Mayor Milliken? Maybe I could get the concert’s permit revoked. But City Hall wouldn’t open for hours, and Kane actually knew the guy—he’d have better luck than I could hope for. I tried the police department instead. A man with a tired-sounding voice answered the phone.

“My name is Vicky Vaughn. You’ve got to revoke the permit for tonight’s Monster Paul concert …” I began.

“Thank you for your call, ma’am.” He sounded like he was reading from a script. “Many concerned citizens such as yourself have made the same request. But the mayor’s office approved the permit, and there’s nothing the police department can do.”

Apparently I wasn’t the only crackpot in Boston. “You don’t understand. If that concert goes ahead, something terrible will happen.”

Mr. Sleepy Voice woke up. “Ma’am, are you making a threat against tonight’s event?”

For a minute, I even considered it. I could turn this call into a bomb threat. But the cops would check the area—and when they didn’t find a bomb, on with the show. Besides, I’d told him my name. “No, nothing like that. There’s a demi-demon in town; his name’s Pryce Maddox. He’s planning to launch a demon attack on the concert.”

“Ma’am”—the weariness was back in his voice—“the place is going to be full of zombies, werewolves, vampires, and who knows what else. What difference can a few demons make?”

35

WHEN I COULDN’T THINK OF ANYONE ELSE TO CALL ABOUT the concert, I tried Kane again—still no luck. I left a message at the Cross and Crow to let Mab know I was home. Then, I finally took my shower—long, steamy, and damn near scalding. Just what I needed. I lathered my hair four times, scrubbing the shampoo into my scalp, to make some progress with the Glitch spit. It would take a few days to eliminate all traces of the gunk. Shifting would get rid of it, but I didn’t have the energy. Anyway, I couldn’t shift now. I had work to do.

I toweled off, threw on my blue terry cloth bathrobe, and strapped Hellforged in its sheath onto my calf. The athame continued to lie quietly against my leg, with no sign of skittish-ness. Not so much as a flutter since I’d fought the Glitch on the plane. For now anyway, Hellforged seemed willing to work with me. And that was good, because we needed to practice.

I pulled on some sweats and went into the living room. There, I propped the HOME SWEET HOME slate against the sofa and stepped back to give myself room. I imagined myself standing on the lawn at Maenllyd, Mab watching. Just like I’d done there, I went through the rituaclass="underline" Hellforged in my left hand, big circles, smaller circles to draw the Morfran toward me, then—as fast as I could manage it—a shift to my right hand. I hurled imaginary Morfran at the slate, shouting, “Parhau! Ireos! Mantrigo!”

There was obviously no loose Morfran floating around my apartment, because the slate didn’t jump and smoke. But I’d made it through the whole ritual without losing Hellforged or forgetting the words. Score one for Vicky.

I could almost hear Mab’s voice: What counts, child, is the final score when you’re dealing with an actual opponent.

I practiced the ritual until my arm ached. When my circles went lopsided and Hellforged felt like a heavy sword instead of a lightweight athame, I put the dagger back in its sheath and snapped it in place. We were getting along, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I stretched my shoulders and my triceps, then I headed into the kitchen and put some water on to boil. I went back to the bedroom to get the bag of no-dreaming tea Mab had given me. As I dug around in my bag, my hand brushed the leather binding of The Book of Utter Darkness. Revulsion shuddered through me, but I pulled out the book and set it on the bed. After a little more digging, I found the herbs. I carried them and the book to the kitchen.

The kettle shrieked and steamed. I turned off the burner, found a teapot, and got down a mug. It was Juliet’s favorite mug, black ceramic emblazoned with FANGS FOR THE MEMORIES in dripping red letters that were supposed to look like they were bleeding. Juliet never met a bad pun she didn’t like—probably a side effect of her Shakespeare obsession. I missed her. Wherever she was right now, I hoped it was far from the Old Ones.

I spooned tea into the pot and poured in the boiling water, then put the mug on the table and sat down. While the tea steeped, I’d try to coax the book into revealing something about how Pryce would attack. I opened it. The pages emitted a whiff of sulfur, and nausea clenched my stomach. I turned away and took three deep breaths, then bent over the book again, slowly turning pages until words formed in my mind.

As the dead dance, the Brenin shall claim what’s his.

There it was—the latest prophecy, just as Mab had said. It seemed like a clear reference to tonight’s concert, although nothing about the damn book was ever clear. I needed more. I needed to know how Pryce would make his move. I stared at the page. Other words started to form, faint and undulating, like writing seen through water. I blanked my mind, and they took shape: From a goddess two lines diverged, but they are reunited in Victory.