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Mere. You—”
    â€œChris,” he groaned. “Christopher Mere, do I have to carve it into my forehead?”
    â€œShut up. You go away and do whatever you have to do until your thirtieth birthday, and I’ll do what I have to do, and then the next generation can worry about it.”
    â€œForget it,” he gurgled.
    â€œAnd no more of this showing up at my house being all chatty and shit. Stay away from my family and stay away from me. For the next couple of years at least.”
    â€œSorry. Can’t do it.”
    â€œYou’d better do it. And keep your Mere lips to yourself.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with my lips?” He put his hands around her small waist and tossed her off him. She hit the dirt (literally), planted her arms, and spun right back over him.
    He shoved. She shoved. Soon they were rolling around in the driveway like a couple of kids having a playground spat.
    â€œGo away!”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBuzz off!”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI hate you!”
    â€œWell, I hate you, too, sunshine. But you taste pretty good, I must—ow!”
    â€œAnd don’t even think about using your rhymes on me. You’re a lousy poet and an evil magic-doer.”
    â€œYeah? Well, you come from a long line of cold-blooded murderers.”
    â€œI do not!”
    â€œDo too.”
    â€œNot!”
    â€œYou totally, completely do.”
    â€œShut up!”
    â€œMake me, sunshine.”
    â€œI’ll make you, all right.” She had temporarily gained the upper hand and was again on top. “I’ll make you wish you were never born .”
    â€œDon’t you think we’re a little too old for this kind of thing?” He brought his legs up, hooked them around her neck, and rode her all the way down. “Now will you stop trying to beat the hell out of me—ow—and listen? Ouch!” He wondered dizzily if that last punch had given him a concussion.
    Beneath him, she wriggled and squirmed in the dirt like an outraged snake. That was actually a big, big problem, because the fight (and the kiss) had seriously turned him on. He prayed she couldn’t feel his erection. She’d cut if off. He pressed down harder, careful not to hurt her, inwardly groaning as he tried to hide the biggest boner of his life.
    A boner for the witch-hunter! Jesus wept.
    â€œWill you stop wiggling and listen?”
    Gasping from her efforts, Rhea wheezed, “There’s nothing to listen to.”
    â€œOh, that’s the spirit.”
    â€œWe don’t talk, we fight. And kill. You’d better reread your archives.”
    â€œRhea, I can see how it is with you, but you don’t know how it is with me. I won’t kill you.”
    She blinked up at him. Her eyes were watering from all the dust in the air. “You’d better,” she said. “Because I’m going to do my damnedest to kill you.”
    â€œI won’t fight back, Rhea. It’ll be murder. Cold-blooded murder.”
    â€œIt isn’t murder.”
    â€œIt really, really is.”
    â€œDe Mere, you’d better fight!”
    â€œNo.”
    Before she could screech at him some more, he heard a car pull into the drive, then skid to a halt with the left front tire no more than six inches from the top of Rhea’s face.
    Car doors were flung open, and quite a few Goodmans piled out and swarmed (how many were there, anyway?) around him. He realized he was pinning their eldest into the dirt and the two of them were filthy and sweaty. And their clothes were ripped.
    He craned his neck to look up at Rhea’s father, who looked about ready to start breathing fire. “Hi, Goodmans. Uh. This isn’t what it looks like.”
    Then somebody came up behind him and turned off all the lights inside his skull.

Chapter 7
    R HEA’S lips were still burning from the kiss.
    She thought of a line from King of the Hill : “That boy’s not