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  Sorcerers were among the first targeted by the Inquisition in Europe. How did they react? They turned on us. The Inquisitors wanted heretics? The sorcerers gave them witches. Freed from the moral restrictions imposed by Covens, the sorcerers turned to stronger and darker magic. While witches burned, sorcerers did what they did best, becoming rich and powerful.

  Today sorcerers rule as some of the most important men in the world. Politicians, lawyers, CEOs--search the ranks of any profession known for greed, ambition, and a distinct lack of scruples, and you'll find a whole cadre of sorcerers. And witches? Ordinary women leading ordinary lives, most of them so afraid of persecution they've never dared learn a spell that will kill anything larger than an aphid.

  "Figures," I muttered, loud enough for Sandford to hear.

  If he knew what I meant he gave no sign of it, only extended his hand and broad smile. I declined both with a level stare, then brushed past him and strode into the meeting room. Inside sat a red-haired woman, average height, lean, thirty-ish, with a blossoming tan and a ready smile. Leah O'Donnell.

  Sandford flourished a hand in my direction. "May I present the esteemed leader of the American Coven."

  "Paige," Leah said, rising. "Don't you look--" Her eyes took in every one of my excess pounds. "--healthy."

  "Any more insults?" I said. "Get them off your chest now, 'cause I'd hate for you to be lying in bed tonight, thinking of all the zingers you'd failed to get off."

  Leah dropped into her seat.

  "Oh, come on," I said. "Go ahead. I won't even retaliate. Cheap one-liners were never my style."

  "And what is your style, Paige?" Leah waved at my dress. "Laura Ashley, I presume. How very ... witchlike."

  "Actually," Sandford said, "from what I hear, most Coven witches prefer polyester stretch pants. Blue, to match their hair rinse."

  "Want to take a few minutes, think up something more clever? I can wait."

  "Oh, let's get on with it," Leah said. "I have things to do, places to be, lives to ruin." She bared her teeth in a grin and rocked back in her chair.

  I rolled my eyes, sat, and turned to Sandford. "She's right. Let's get this over with. It's simple. You're not getting Savannah. By arranging this absurd 'custody' meeting all you've done is put me on the alert. If you thought you could wave phony custody papers in my face and scare me into handing her over, you've got the wrong witch."

  "Oh, but they aren't phony," Sandford said.

  " Uh-huh. On what grounds could you possibly challenge me? My age? Leah's not much older. Because I'm not related to Savannah? Well, neither is she. I have a prosperous business, a house with no mortgage, a solid record of community service and, most importantly, the blessing of Savannah's sole surviving relative."

  Sandford's lips twitched in a smile. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, I'm sure. Is that your plan? Persuade Margaret Levine to relinquish custody?"

  "No, I mean: are you sure Miss Levine is Savannah's sole surviving relative? Just because her mother is dead doesn't make the child an orphan."

  It took me a second to realize what he meant. "Her father? Savannah doesn't even know who her father is. Oh, let me guess. You somehow managed to track him down, and persuaded him to cast his vote behind Leah. How much did that cost?" I shook my head. "Never mind. Take that route. It'll still be my suitability versus Leah's, a battle I'm willing to fight anytime."

  "Who said I'm the one who wants custody?" Leah asked from her end of the table. "Did you say that, Gabe?"

  "Of course not. Clearly Paige is leaping to conclusions. It says right here--" He raised his copy of the letter he'd sent me and feigned a deep frown--about as believable as smacking himself in the forehead. "I don't believe this. That new secretary of mine. I told her to include your name as a witness. What does she do? She puts you down as the plaintiff. Unbelievable."

  Both shook their heads, then left me dangling in silence.

  "Who is the plaintiff?" I asked.

  "Savannah's father, of course," Sandford said. "Kristof Nast."

  When I didn't react, Leah leaned toward Sandford and said in a stage whisper, "I don't think she knows who that is."

  Sandford's eyes widened. "Could it be? The leader of the all-powerful American Coven doesn't know Kristof Nast?"

  Beneath the table, I dug my fingers into my thighs, willing my tongue to stay still.

  "He's heir to the Nast Cabal," Sandford continued. "You do know what a Cabal is, don't you?"

  "I've heard of them."

  "Heard of them?" Sandford laughed. "Cabals are billion-dollar corporations with international interests. The crowning achievement of sorcerers and she's 'heard of them.' "

  "This Nast, he's a sorcerer?"

  "Naturally."

  "Then he can't be Savannah's father, can he?"

  Sandford nodded. "Admittedly it is difficult to comprehend how any sorcerer, particularly one of Mr. Nast's stature, could demean himself by sleeping with a witch. However, we must remember that Eve was a very attractive young woman, and brutally ambitious, so I can understand how she might have seduced Mr. Nast, in spite of the repugnance of such a union."

  "Don't forget," Leah said, "Eve wasn't just a witch. She was also a half-demon. A true supernatural."

  "Really?" I said. "A supernatural who can't pass on its powers to its children? More an aberration than a race, wouldn't you say?" Before she could answer, I looked over at Sandford. "Yes, I agree that I cannot conceive of any witch screwing around with a sorcerer while there was anyone else with a dick on the planet, but beyond that, there's the biological impossibility. A sorcerer sires only sons. A witch bears only daughters. How could they reproduce? It can't happen."

  "Is that a fact?" Sandford said.

  "Of course it is," Leah said. "Paige knows everything. She went to Harvard."

  Sandford snorted. "The most overrated school in the country, and now they even admit witches. How the mighty have fallen."

  "You couldn't get in, huh?" I said. "Sorry to hear it. However, if you do have proof that a witch and sorcerer can procreate, please fax it to my place. Otherwise, I'll assume I am right."

  "Mr. Nast is Savannah's father," Sandford said. "And now, with her mother gone, he wants to ensure she has the kind of power she deserves, the kind of power Eve would have wanted for her."

  "Good argument," I said. "Like to see you take that one before a court."

  "We won't need to," Sandford said. "You'll surrender custody long before we reach that point."

  "And how do you intend to make me do that?"

  Leah grinned. "Witchery."

  "What?"

  "You give us Savannah or we'll tell the world what you are."

  "You mean--" I sputtered a laugh. "You plan to accuse me of practicing witchcraft? Oh, that's a great plan. Or it would have been, four hundred years ago. Witchcraft? Who cares? It's old news."

  "Are you sure about that?" Sandford asked.

  "The practice of witchcraft is a state-accepted religion. You cannot discriminate against me on the basis of my religious beliefs. You should have done your homework, Counselor."

  "Oh, but I did."

  He smiled and, with that, they walked out.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE FURIES DESCEND

  We walk a fine line, as supernaturals in a human world. Human rules and laws often have little meaning in our lives. Take Savannah's case. A young girl, a witch, immensely powerful, pursued by dark factions who would kill to woo her to their side while she was still young and malleable. Her mother now dead, who will protect her? Who should protect her? The Coven, of course. Sister witches who can help her harness and control her power.

  Now look at it from the perspective of human law and social services. A thirteen-year-old child, her mother missing, turned over to a great-aunt whom she's never met, who in turn pawns her off on an unrelated woman barely out of college. Try going before a judge and explaining those circumstances.

  To the rest of the world, Eve wa
s only missing, and would remain so, since no one would ever find her body. This had made it easier to take de facto custody of Savannah because, technically, I was only caring for Savannah until her mother returned. So long as I provided a good home for Savannah, no one was about to argue that she should be handed over to child services and enter the foster-care system. To be honest, though, I wasn't sure how well my claim would hold up in court.

  The idea of battling a telekinetic half-demon, while daunting, was well within my sphere of understanding. But fighting a legal case? My upbringing prepared me for no such thing. So, faced with this custody suit, I naturally chose to research, not the legal side, but the supernatural aspect, starting with learning more about Cabals.

  I had heard of Cabals, but my mother always downplayed their existence. According to her, they were the supernatural world's equivalent of the bogeyman, a seedling of truth that had been twisted and blown out of proportion. They were unimportant, she said. Unimportant to witches, and to the supernatural interracial council.

  As Coven Leader, my mother had also led the interracial council, and as her heir I'd been sitting in on meetings since I was twelve. Some wits liken the council to a supernatural United Nations. That's not a bad comparison. Like the UN, we're supposed to keep the peace, to end injustice in our world. Unfortunately, also like its human counterpart, our power lies more in a semimythical reputation than in reality.

  Last year, I'd overheard my mother and fellow council member Robert Vasic arguing over the importance of Cabals. These days Robert downplayed his role in the council, acting more as a resource and ceding his place to his stepson Adam who, like Robert, was a half-demon. Though Robert claimed he was backing off because of declining health, I often suspected that he was frustrated with the council's limited sphere of influence, its inability to fight the true evil in our world. In the argument I'd overheard he'd been trying to convince my mother that we needed to pay more attention to Cabals. Now, I was ready to agree.

  Once I got home I called Robert. No answer. Robert was also a professor of demonology at Stanford, so I tried his office there and left a message on his machine. Then I almost dialed Adam's old number before remembering that he'd moved back home last month, after enrolling at Stanford to take his second shot at a bachelor's degree.

  A year older than I, Adam has also been attending council meetings since adolescence, preparing for his role. We've been friends for almost as long--discounting our actual first meeting, where I called him a dumb ox and he roasted me for it, literally, leaving burns that lasted for weeks. Which might give some idea of what kind of half-demon he is.

  Next I prepared to make a far tougher call: to Margaret Levine. If Leah and Sandford were serious about this custody suit, they'd have to contact her. I should have thought of this yesterday, but my knee-jerk reaction had been not to tell the Elders.

  I was still dialing when Savannah emerged from her room, cordless phone in hand.

  "You called Adam?" she said.

  "No, I called Robert. And how'd you know that?"

  "Redial."

  "Why are you checking the redial?"

  "Did you tell Adam about Leah? I bet he'd like another shot at her. Oh, and how about Elena and Clay? They'd come too, if you asked. Well, Clay wouldn't. Not if you asked. But Elena would come, and he'd follow." She thumped down beside me on the sofa. "If we got everyone together again, you guys could kick ass, like back at the compound. Remember?"

  I remembered. What I remember most was the smell. The overwhelming stench of death. Corpse upon corpse, littering the floors. Although I'd killed no one, I'd participated. I'd agreed it was necessary, that every human who had been involved in kidnapping supernaturals had to die, to guarantee that our secrets would not leave those walls. That didn't mean I didn't still jolt awake at least once a month, bathed in sweat, smelling death.

  "For now, let's see if we can handle this ourselves," I said.

  "You haven't told the Elders yet, have you?"

  "I will. It's just--"

  "Don't. They'll only screw things up. You're right. We can handle this. All we need to do is find Leah. Then we can kill her."

  Savannah said this with a nonchalance that took my breath away. Before I could respond, the doorbell rang.

  It was the Elders. All three of them, standing on my porch, their expressions ranging from vapid confusion (Margaret) to worried concern (Therese) to barely contained fury (Victoria).

  Margaret Levine, Therese Moss, and Victoria Alden had been the Coven Elders for as long as I could remember. They'd been my mother's friends and, as such, part of my life. I remember, even as recently as last summer, seeing the four of them sitting down together for their regular Wednesday Elders meeting, and thinking what a disparate group they made.

  Therese fit the image Gabriel Sandford ascribed to witches, right down to the blue rinse and polyester stretch pants. The stereotypical grandmother with a wide lap and a purse that held enough supplies to see her through a three-day siege. Savannah's aunt Margaret was, at sixty-eight, the youngest of the Elders. A beauty in her youth, Margaret was still strikingly attractive, but, unfortunately, fulfilled another stereotype, that of the dimwitted beauty. And Victoria Alden? She was the model twenty-first-century senior, an impeccably groomed, energetic woman, who wore suits to church and khakis on the golf course, and sniffed at less active seniors, as if any physical or mental impairment they suffered was due to self-neglect.

  Once I'd undone the perimeter and locking spells and opened the door, Victoria barreled past and strode into the living room, not bothering to remove her shoes. That was a bad sign. Rules of Coven etiquette--which bore a disquieting resemblance to those by Emily Post, circa 1950--dictated that one always removed one's shoes at the door, as a courtesy to the housekeeper. Walking in with your shoes on treaded the border of insult. Fortunately, Therese and Margaret did take off their orthopedic slip-ons, so I knew the situation wasn't critical.

  "We need to talk," Victoria said.

  "Would you like some tea first?" I said. "I should have fresh muffins, too, if Savannah hasn't finished them."

  "We aren't here to eat, Paige," Victoria said from the living room.

  "Tea, then?"

  "No."

  Turning down baked goods was damning enough, but to refuse a hot beverage? Almost unheard of in the annals of Coven history.

  "How could you have kept this from us?" Victoria said as I joined them in the living room. "A custody battle is bad enough. A legal custody battle. But--"

  "It's not a legal custody battle," Savannah said, slipping around the corner. "Taking custody means kidnapping, like breaking in at midnight and dragging me away kicking and screaming. That kind of custody battle."

  Victoria turned to me. "What is she talking about?"

  "Savannah? How about you take your aunt downstairs and show her your artwork."

  "No."

  "Savannah, please. We have to talk."

  "So? It's about my life, isn't it?"

  "See?" Victoria turned to Therese and Margaret, and waved a hand at Savannah and me. "This is the problem. The girl has no respect for Paige."

  "The girl has a name," I said.

  "Don't interrupt. You aren't ready for this, Paige. I said so right from the start. We should never have let you take her. You're too young and she's too--"

  "We are fine," I said, teeth gritted so hard they hurt.

  "Wanna see my art, Aunt Maggie?" Savannah asked. "My teacher says I have real talent. Come see." She bounced off, wearing a " good-girl" grin that looked as painful as my clenched teeth.

  "Come on, Aunt Maggie," Savannah called back, her voice a high-pitched singsong. "I'll show you my cartoons."

  "No!" I yelled after her as Margaret followed. "The oils, please. The oils."

  Somehow I doubted Margaret would see the humor in Savannah's dark cartoons. They'd probably give the Elder a heart attack. Just what I needed.

  Once they were gone, Victoria turned
on me. "You should have told us about this."

  "I just got the notice yesterday after we spoke on the phone. I didn't take it seriously, so I didn't want to upset you. Then, when I met with them this morning, I realized it was serious, and I was just about to call Margaret--"

  "I'm sure you were."

  "Now, Victoria," Therese murmured.

  "Do you know what they're threatening to do?" Victoria continued. "Expose you. Expose us. They're alleging you're an unfit guardian because you're a practicing witch."

  "So are thousands of mothers in this country," I said. "It's called Wicca and it's a recognized religious choice."

  "That's not what we are, Paige. Don't confuse the issue."

  "I'm not. Every person who reads that custody challenge will jump to the conclusion that by 'witch' they mean 'Wiccan.' "

  "I don't care what they'll conclude. I care about protecting the Coven. I will not allow you to risk exposing us--"

  "That's it! Of course. Now I get it. That's why Leah's accusing me of witchcraft. Not because she thinks it'll win the lawsuit. She wants to scare us. A witch's worst fear is exposure. She's preying on that weakness. Exploiting it. She threatens us with exposure, and you'll force me to relinquish Savannah."

  "A small price to pay--"

  "But we can't let her win. If this ruse succeeds, they'll use it again. Every time a supernatural wants something from the Coven, they'll pull the same scam."

  Victoria hesitated.

  I hurried on. "Give me three days. After that, I promise you won't hear anything more about witches in East Falls."

  After a moment, Victoria gave a curt nod. "Three days."

  "There's just one other thing. And I'm telling you, not because I believe it, but because I don't want you to hear it from someone else. They say Savannah's father is a sorcerer."

  "Wouldn't surprise me. There is definitely something wrong with the girl."

  "There is nothing--" I began, then cut myself short. "But it's not possible, is it? For a witch and a sorcerer to have a child?"

  "How should I know?" Victoria said.

  As Victoria snapped at me, I thought of my mother, how she would have responded. No matter how many questions I asked, or how silly they seemed, she always found the time to answer, or to find an answer. I stifled the sharp pang of grief and pushed on.