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She hadn’t told the two police officers who’d taken a look at the gate and her statement, or Old Matthew when he’d driven the four blocks from Cole’s to her apartment.
    She’d seen shadows following them, slinking through the dark streets—most of them, she was certain, the product of her paranoia. Most of them.
    â€œI had an…incident down at Cole’s.” Though she’d tapped it off into a saucer before her last draw, the ash at the end of her cigarette was already a quarter-inch long. Not a leisurely smoke—she was sucking on it like a drowning woman might air. “Three vampires tried to attack me on the roof, but the Lone Ranger arrived and shot them with a crossbow. Or maybe the Rifleman. I couldn’t tell, and I don’t know my cowboys very well.”
    Ethan didn’t respond, not even with the slow Why, Miss Charlie, I do believe you are having me on he’d given her when, a month ago, she’d told him her voice was a mess because she’d traded it to a sea witch for a pair of legs, and that she lived in Seattle because it was so wet.
    He’d never seen the scar. She’d never seen him, but judging by the angle and projection of his voice, she thought he must be tall, with a chest to match.
    It was probably fortunate that a wall separated them, because she could have used a chest like that to lean against. Would have used it.
    So she used a plastic patio chair instead. Her crutches: a chair, a cigarette, and a white feather. It lay on her lap—stiff, but like silk to the touch. When she’d spoken with the police, she’d clung to it like Dumbo with his magic feather.
    â€œMy hero had wings,” she added when his silence continued. Might as well make it as ridiculous as possible. “Like a guardian angel. And, for a second, I thought he was you.”
    Charlie knew from experience that almost anyone else who’d found themselves included in such a story would have said Me? with a bit of startled laughter.
    Ethan only said, “I’m no hero.”
    â€œWell, I didn’t take you for the type of guy to go flying around looking for vampires to shoot.”
    â€œNo. Demons need shooting more than vampires do.”
    Humor had slipped into his tone. His quick answers were usually accompanied by it, and apparently he’d decided to play along. A tall tale to him, truth to her—but his response made it less frightening, easing her tension, and she laughed softly.
    It was one of the few noises she could make that wasn’t much different before the accident.
    Most of her life had revolved around voices. Studying them, perfecting hers. They could be as distinctive as a face, and when she’d heard the first Easy, Charlie , it had been familiar. Low, warmed by deep amber tones, and roughened with a hint of oak.
    â€œHe sounded exactly like you. The pitch, the resonance. But he didn’t talk like you.”
    â€œNo, Miss Charlie, I reckon he didn’t. Most flying men of my acquaintance are Easterners, and liable to talk like a book.” Ethan’s drawl thickened, and Charlie grinned, reaching forward to stab out the cigarette.
    â€œAnyway, that’s why I’m home early.” She ran the feather between her fingers. The quill’s surface was rounded and smooth, the end a blunt point. “Did you get in tonight?”
    â€œThat I did.”
    â€œSan Francisco again?”
    â€œYes. And a handful of other cities.”
    She didn’t know exactly what Ethan did for Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals, but she couldn’t see why they’d relocate him to Seattle when he spent most of his time in California and the rest hopping around the country—but it wasn’t for her to decide, anyway. “Did you eat, or get to the store? Old Matthew sent me home with a box, but I wasn’t hungry. I could toss it over.”
    â€œI’m settled, Charlie.”
    â€œOkay.” She