I wake up the next morning to a light six shades too gray; I don't even twitch for fear I might glance at the clock. I close my eyes, snuggle down again, but I'm aware of every sound in the house, and I can feel the wrinkles in the pillow. I slump out of bed with a Byronic sigh, and commence the hunt for clean underwear.

The knock comes right as I'm starting to wonder if any pairs got cleaned with yesterday's whites. I hop into a pair of swim trunks, dump a Gators shirt over my head; I catch myself before I open the door, and remember to grab a sewing needle out of the box on my dresser. My hand rests on the Van Gogh print hanging on the door, and I feel the worn-out memories inside, masking my thoughts and filtering the others as I open the door to a sardonic Arabella.

"Morning, sunshine," she says, smirking like I'm a failed punchline. She's still in the sushi pajamas, and there are coal-black smudges around her eyes.

"Morning," I mutter. "How late were you up?"

"It was a single digit. That's all I'll say."

I chuckle despite myself. "Anything new?"

Her shoulders arch up toward her head; even through the poster I can tell I just touched a bruise. I step into the hallway, try not to flinch at the thoughts rolling off her; she stills a bit when my fingers brush her cheek. Every muscle I have goes stiff, and then I catch the thought she's clutching to.

"You told him."

She fills up with needles. "Like I had a choice." Her hand finds mine, her thumb runs along my palm.

I still sigh. "How bad is it?"

I'd call her shrug understated, but her thoughts are still soaking in brine. "About as bad as we were last night."

"Lecture time?"

"Only if you goad him."

There's a warmth to the statement, a sheen of honey on the edge. I detach from her, tug at my shirt, and make sure I know which pocket the sewing needle's in.

"Right," I say. "Let's go face the music."

The dining room's Martha Stewart clean, with all the streaks swabbed off the table and the newspapers piled to one side. There's a plastic tray of bagels in the center, a couple tubs of cream cheese strewn around, leaving the whole place smelling like wet bread and onions, and somebody picked up a bottle of fresh orange juice. Dr. Barg's at the head of the table, with Paul to his left, the former reading the Voice and the latter balancing a butterknife on his head. If it weren't for the miasma of stress and the whiteboards cataloguing violent crimes, you might lie to yourself enough to call it normal.

"Good morning Randall," Dr. Barg says, without looking up. He folds up the paper, and I see tension wadded up in his joints.

"Morning boss." I get seated before he looks at me, reach for a bagel. "Hear Arabella told you the news."

I get a glare for that one, meteor-fast at the back of my head; Dr. Barg rubs at his chest, and makes a prolonged scientific study of the bagels.

"I couldn't sleep last night," he says. "Calls on the business line all night."

"Complaints," Paul says, and for once he's not smirking.

Barg ignores him. "I came downstairs for some coffee, and Arabella was still up. Hardly her fault." He doesn't bother chiding me; he knows he just needs to plant the seed.

I grab a knife, spread a triple-helping of cream cheese over my bagel. "I'd have told you myself, but talking to zombies takes it out of you."

"They're not zombies," Arabella insists.

"He's baiting you," Dr. Barg says. He looks at me as he pulls a bagel off the pile. "So," he says, as he splits it in two. "Multiple murders."

"And demons trying to 'sucker' us into a deal," I say. "Not a good sign."

"Yeah," Paul jumps in, "'sucker'." He pulls the knife off his head, wiggles it between his fingers. "They let data slip and offer to solve the whole thing for us, and you don't take it?"

"For your sake," Arabella snipes.

"Bell," I snap. I stop partway to the table, my brain squirming as Paul tries to follow up on her comment. "It wasn't"—half of me's focused on keeping him out of thoughts, my words have the consistency of roux—"I'm not taking out a loan from the astral plane while we've still got options."

"And also you did it for me," Paul says, with a mustelid's smirk.

I slap my knife down next to my plate. "They wanted to scan you, Paul." I look at him with the force of a punch. "And you're welcome."

Paul tongues at the inside of his cheek, gives me a look that probably doubles as a lubricant.

"Don't we have a link up to do today?" I ask, desperate to deflect his attention.

"We need to the clear the air first," Barg says. "But yes." He leans under the table as he says that, and there's the pop of a Tupperware bin being opened. "So, we have a plurality of corpses on our hands," he says, as he comes up with the rope. "Any ideas on what comes next?"

Arabella cuts in while I'm watching the doctor bind up his wrist; the rest of the rope is trailing on the floor, a good thirty feet of it, mixed laundry grey from two years of our sweat. "No other murders in the papers last night"—she hitches—"well, except for the one that the demons clearly used. Nothing in the last week, either, all failed assaults or accidents. If the killer really is on a spree the rest of the bodies still haven't been found."

"And no stiffs from the angle men side, either," Barg intones. He tugs at the knot, flicks his wrist to be sure it's secure, and passes the rest of the rope to Arabella.

"So he must have hidden them," I say, while Arabella ties off. "Or the demons just know more are coming." Even saying it is a sucker punch to my duodenum.

Paul chuckles. "Or they're lying."

"You were objecting to me passing on them just a minute ago," I say.

He shrugs, and waves at the rope Arabella's offering me. I take it with a sour look on my face. Knowing annoyance is what Paul eats doesn't make him any less grating. Ever.

"We're safe for now," Dr. Barg says. "But we have to work fast. No playing around. What's the next step?"

"Boysenberry," I suggest. I wince, frustrated; the rope saws at my wrist as I try to tie the knot. "She's got the spit of half the city flowing through her, she'll be able to track the guy down."

"Still no good," Arabella says. "If detached demons can't pierce the mask how the hell will she?" Some of the heat in that comment is payback.

"Nice word choice," Paul says.

I sneer. "Shut up, Paul."

Our resident Brit leans back, satisfied. Just call me dessert. I toss the end of the rope over to him, and contemplate actually eating my bagel.

"If we can't track down the killer," I say, "then our next priority is the girl."

Paul's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and there's a look on his face an idiot might call a smile. His aura's blue like a bruised middle finger, and I can't figure him out until I hear the gravel in Dr. Barg's sigh.

"Randall," he says, in that voice that knocks the sound out of a room. "The girl is our first priority."

My brain does a cartoon backpedal, runs for its life through angst-paneled corridors. I know I won't find an escape route before the jaws clamp down.

"Sorry, doc, I—"

"I know," he parries. "I know you, Randall." He's watching me from under beetled eyebrows. "I know exactly how you get." He reaches under the table again, comes up with the leather case of steak knives. "We are not a police force, Randall, and we are not here to catch the bad guy."

"I know—"

"Our priority, Randall, is to get the girl safe and in the care of someone who will help keep her from either going insane or being sucked dry by demons, and to make sure these killings don't wake the Inquisition back up—"

"I know!" I bark.

Everyone stops. The whole house feels like Daddy just hit Mommy, but at least Dr. Barg has shut up. I pick up my butterknife, flick it rapidly between two fingers.

"I know the agreement," I say, in a growl I'm pretending is diplomatic. "I know we aren't police, I know we aren't heroes, I know we might not get to hand this guy over to the cops. Keep the peace, not catch the crook. I get it." I look down at my bagel again. It looks like a tire dipped in lard. "I get it."

Dr. Barg opens the knife case, looks inside. Arabella's heart skips a beat. I look up at him, and talk before my better judgment can come across.

"But can't I hope for a happy coincidence?"

Dr. Barg raises an eyebrow. He's a Buddha carved of ice, thoughts as transparent as a sheet of lead. He raises his other eyebrow, and I see the laugh lines deepen at the corners of his eyes. A claw lets go of my sternum; I realize I'm forgetting to breathe.

"Alright," he rumbles, the lines the only hint of his mental state. "Alright." He reaches into the leather case, and pulls out the knife with the "K" Sharpied onto its handle.

Arabella shakes her head as she takes the case from him; her own knife is marked "J". "You two are going to give me a heart attack."

"And the Brontës will be jealous you died so young," I say, as I take hold of the case.

Paul snorts. Neither of the others thinks it's funny.

"So," Dr. Barg says, back to his business face, "what do you think we should do?"

I pull the "Q" knife free of the case lining; I don't have to look at Paul to know he's smirking. "If the girl is priority one, I'm proposing Caring Tommy. He might not know anything but he'll be one of the first who would."

"You don't think Caring Tommy would've called us?" Arabella asks.

"Depends, maybe he took her out on a date first?" Paul's far too pleased with himself.

"Paul," Dr. Barg snaps; in the split second his defenses are down I know some of that tone was meant for me.

Paul just shrugs, and pulls out the steak knife with the "A" on the handle, looking to Dr. Barg for direction. Our fearless leader leans back in his chair, his eyes all shadows as he stares back at Paul; I take the split-second before he looks at me to slip my sewing needle in between my second and big toes.

"I accept your proposal," he says, turning full on towards me. "Arabella and I will stay here, make sure we didn't miss anything. And we'll get Boysenberry on notice. You take Paul, though, in case Tommy is out of line." None of the humans appreciate his honesty.

"Great," I say. I check that I still have the needle in place. "Nothing like a pederast to help you wash down your lunch."

"Please," Barg chides. He glances around at all of us. "Now." He raises the steak knife. "I think we have something to do."

We nod, almost in unison. The rope stretches taut as we all extend our bound left wrists, as far into the center of the table as physics will let us go. Our pulses race, and I see Paul's pupils split sideways. We open our hands, palm up, and our auras flare as we cut into our life-lines.

On the outside I'm Sam Spade and Aleister Crowley, but at the heart of it I'm a kid in the third grade, whooping like a howler monkey about my cut finger. My thoughts ring back at me as psychic static engulfs the table. Arabella's fingers find my left hand, Dr. Barg grabs my right. We link hands, and squeeze, as we cast the only spell that still works.

First comes a shiver from the doctor, pins and needles bone-deep, exhaustion that makes you love your own life and hate yourself for having it. Then comes Arabella, cynicism spackled over wonder. And then it's the opiate nausea of Paul, an emotional landscape as rendered by Goya. Through all of us there's the wary peeking over our mental barricades, the trust via misery of a family stuck in an airport.

We breathe together, in and out, timed as best we can, as our thoughts flood into one another. We let it all in, all the victories and the horrors. We listen, and broadcast, and breathe; and then a part of me draws back as Arabella's foot slides onto mine. I try not to let my toes curl as I feel the first scratch of her sewing needle, pinched secretly between her toes. I nuzzle her foot with mine, and the pinch comes, sharp but not lasting; her breath hitches as my own needle pierces her foot.

Brighter than the others, sharper and more immediate, I feel her. She's worry and wide eyes against a backdrop of unsoiled white; she's the boys she likes and her questions about the world, surgical-sharp; and, nestled in the middle of things, she's the throb of a hangover, the soft feel of a bottle neck against her finger. A sick part of me smiles.

Our breathing diverges at the twenty-third exhale; we come out of the trance like newlyweds on the morning after the wedding, dazed, altered, leering at the air. Our brains are buzzing together, images and fragments punting back and forth. I look at Arabella, and feel the part of her that sings when she sees her reflection in my eyes. Dr. Barg doesn't seem to notice.

Things are looking up.