“If it’s such a bad idea, why are you driving me out to Cooper’s Furniture Emporium?” Tess asks from the backseat. She sits with her cast in Allie’s lap. Steve is riding shotgun.

And I’m perched on the window ledge behind Tess. It’s a pretty drive on a late Sunday morning. I don’t have enough calm to add to the acid mixture upsetting my tummy to appreciate the scenery. Showers and broken sunlight offer different perspectives on lovely vistas at every turn.

“For once in your life, I think you should listen to him,” I whisper to Tess. I’ve tried tugging her hair to make her pay attention to me.

She’s ignoring both Donovan and me.

“I’m driving you so you don’t go off on your own and get into more trouble.” Donovan scowls. He does that beautifully. Too bad he’s not gay. I could really go for him. But no, he’s in love with Tess in his own twisted, selfish way. “You should meet Doreen on neutral territory, tell her what you need and have it delivered.”

“How much trouble can the Coopers cause?” Tess asks. “We’re customers. And they are Damiri. They like money almost as much as they like blood.”

“Um . . . what’s a Damiri?” Steve asks. He looks car sick. But I think it’s the conversation.

“It’s a tribe of demons,” Allie supplies him the information. “The Coopers are half-breeds, otherwise they couldn’t shape-change to human form in this dimension.”

“Um . . .”

“Get used to it, Steve. Your baby sister has gotten involved with some really bizarre lifestyle groups,” Tess tells him.

I almost laugh. But that would mean she’s winning this argument. I can’t have that. I need her to go home and nurse her hurts and spend some quality time with her brother and his lovely fiancée.

“More bizarre than the kids at science fiction conventions who dress up as demons?” Steve asks hopefully.

“Modern day demons hang out at those cons and win hall costume prizes, but they aren’t really costumes,” Tess says. “I found that out the hard way.”

“Tess, is it legal to tell Steve the truth?” Allie asks. “I mean ... didn’t you take an oath of secrecy?”

“Too late now.” Tess flashes them a grimace of a grin. “I’m out of the broom closet.”

Oh, boy. We’re all in trouble now. When she gets that determined look on her face, nothing can dissuade her.

What if I got sick? Imps don’t vomit like humans do. We reject toxic food in other ways. If I blow enough flammable gas in her face she’ll just open a window and throw me out.

What to do? What to do?

I rolled my eyes. I’d only met the Coopers twice. Right after I married Dill, then again at their son’s funeral three months later. They’d avoided me through the entire painful procedure, barely recognizing my short time with Dill as a real marriage.

We’d reached a compromise on Dill’s estate only after I threatened to take them to court with an ironclad will. They got his trust fund—or what was left of it after he liquidated it as a down payment on our house in Cape Cod, the one I sold to my father and his partner last year—and the income from his share in the mysterious furniture store on a back country road out in the middle of nowhere. I got the house and his life insurance—double indemnity for murder or accident.

Only Doreen seemed intent upon contacting me again, to return a few family photos of mine that got mixed up in Dill’s stuff I couldn’t bear to look at again. In the last month she’d become even more persistent in trying to arrange a meeting.

I’d driven by Cooper’s dozens of times in the last year and never had the courage to stop. They didn’t seem to keep normal business hours, or to have any customers. The open sign never changed to closed, even at two in the morning.

“I think I’ll start with a dining table and chairs. Something simple, Craftsman design to match the railing. Lots of plain wood, light colored, to accent the parquet floor and kitchen cabinets,” I replied. “And maybe some end tables and lamps.” That is, if the Coopers had in stock anything but heavy, dark, gothic stuff for their fellow half-breed demons.

“She’s serious, Donovan,” Steve said. “I wish someone would fill me in. I’m a computer engineer, not a superhero.” He flashed me a wry grin, parroting back my own protests.

So I told Steve all about the year I went missing after I buried Dillwyn Bailey Cooper.

“Only you, Tess, would find a Citadel hidden in a dry canyon in Central Washington that houses a Sisterhood of dedicated demon fighters. I thought you made that up for your books.” Steve shook his head and frowned in disapproval. “Part of me dismisses this as illogical, the stupid wanderings of your imagination. But it explains a lot. And Allie believes you. She’s hinted ... I just thought her reading material had latched onto her mind a little too tightly.”

“Where do you think I got the idea, Steve? I may be a bit crazy but I’m not delusional. You know me. I changed the situation in my books to a post-apocalyptic world to protect the guilty from witch-hunts. Last time that happened a lot of innocent women died horribly,” I said nonchalantly, as if everyone should know about my secret life.

“So where’s the imp?” he asked.

“You have read the books!”

“Only the ones you’ve had published, not the one that’s a year overdue,” he replied.

That was hitting below the belt. I had my reasons for not writing a word since Mom died and Gollum deserted me. But I had this mental block. Every time I sat down to write, the words evaporated. Nothing. Nada. And I was running out of money.

What would I do if I never wrote again? I felt like only half a person without stories and characters running rampant through my brain demanding I give them life through words.

My checking account was also growling like an empty stomach.

I could tap the money Mom left me. But that was blood money. I didn’t feel like I had a right to it.

The rain evaporated and the clouds thinned. A bit of bright sunshine peeked through the tattered remnants of mist.

Donovan wove deftly through traffic headed east toward the mountain. Most of the cars turned off into the farm country, probably looking for corn mazes and harvest festivals. And don’t forget the wineries and microbreweries.

Not once did Donovan ask for directions. He drove like he really knew his way around, getting into the proper lane on the freeway well before interchanges and exits.

“Did you drive all night from Half Moon Lake?” I asked when the conversation wound down and he turned uphill from the freeway toward the Mount Hood Parkway and took the quick left turn onto Elsewhere Avenue. This was the back way into Cooper’s, not the simpler, but longer route offered by the road signs.

He’d been here before.

“I was in town already,” he growled. “I have business and friends in this town other than you. I even have a new girlfriend. But I’ll dump her in a minute if you take me back.” He flashed me an almost sincere grin in the rearview mirror.

A hay wagon pulled out in front of him and crawled at twenty-five miles an hour in a forty-five zone. It shed bits of straw like a long-haired cat snoozing before the fire. Donovan backed off to avoid soiling his lovely car.

“Who is she? I want to give her my blessing, or warn her about you. I’ll have to meet her before I decide which,” I riposted brightly. I didn’t dare settle back in the luxurious seats. I might get too comfortable and let someone else make decisions for me.

Me, a control freak? You bet your sweet patootie I am. For a good reason.

“You’ll meet when I decide you deserve to meet her. Mostly, I’m here on business.” He clamped his mouth shut, a clear sign that he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Halfling Computer Games business, family business, or Cooper’s business?” I never know when to shut up.

“You work for Halfling Computer Games?” Steve asked in awe. “I love their games.” Donovan might legally be described as our stepbrother. His adopted father married our mother then got himself murdered thirty-six hours later. I don’t think Steve and Donovan had met any time other than Mom’s funeral. Steve normally lives in Chicago, far enough away that our wacky family couldn’t just drop in on him but close enough to get home in an emergency. Donovan only showed up to Mom’s funeral because he was executor of the massive fortune Mom had inherited from his adopted father. Most of that money was supposed to come to me now.

I couldn’t bring myself to touch one filthy dollar.

“I own Halfling,” Donovan said proudly.

“Wow, if you ever need a beta tester, let me know,” Steve replied eagerly. The two men rolled off into geek speak about various role-playing games and the logic puzzles of programming them.

I sighed. No more information coming from Donovan.

I let the luxury car cradle me and turned my attention to the autumnal colors beginning to show on the trees, mostly golden cottonwood and brown alder in the foothills, with just enough splashes of red vine maple to delight the eye. With the sunshine breaking through the broken cloud cover, those crimson leaves nearly glowed from within. They looked like something a faery would paint.

The last time Gollum and I had been together we’d helped some lost faeries get home.

Don’t go there. Don’t even think about those few magical days with Gollum.

“The place looks closed,” Donovan said almost happily as he pulled into the gravel parking area in front of the single story building. Blinds covered the multitude of windows beneath the flat roof. A big sign nearly filled one corner. CLOSED. No hours of operation. The brick house behind the store had plywood nailed to all the windows and doorframes. The door of the barn/garage sagged, showing three empty bays.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say this place had been deserted a long time,” I said. “But I drove by two weeks ago. It was open and well kept.”

Maybe it’s not deserted, Scrap whispered to me. I smell demon glamour. Like they knew you were coming and disguised the place. Like someone tipped them off.

Someone like Donovan? I whispered back to him.

Someone like the Nörglein.