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he said. “She must have split in the confusion.”
    “Damn it!” Charlie kicked the wall in frustration. They both knew that, by now, the undead Summer had joined the army of free shades, relentlessly searching for a new body.
    “What about them?” Thérèse asked, pointing her sword at the huddled survivors, who shifted nervously under their scrutiny.
    Gabriel’s rule was—slayers don’t leave witnesses. Secrecy was their best protection. But it was one thing to slay one shade in a back alley and keep it quiet. It was another to fight off an army in broad daylight.
    “Leave them alone,” Jonah said. “It makes no sense to stop a bloodbath and then riff the survivors.”

Chapter Four

Lies and Secrets
    Mickey didn’t ask any questions when Emma showed up at the club teary-eyed and told him she needed a place to stay. He agreed to let her bus tables and wash dishes in trade for a meal and a bed to sleep in. He knew that squabbles between Emma and Sonny Lee never lasted very long.
    She’d decided to keep the news of Sonny Lee’s death to herself for as long as possible. There was too much chance she’d get tangled in the county welfare web. But word would get out quick. She needed to move fast and have a plan before it did.
    Late that night, after the final table of poker players had left, Emma locked the door to the spare room over Mickey’s bar. She slumped down onto the bed and pulled the envelope out of her jeans pocket.
    She traced the words on the outside. Memphis Slim. That had become her grandfather’s nickname for Emma during those wary, standoffish days when she’d first come to stay with him. When he didn’t really want to admit he was a grandfather at all.
    You’re all eyes and hair , he’d say. You have to stand twice to cast a shadow.
    A lump formed in her throat, and she blinked back tears. She tore open the envelope and unfolded the notebook paper inside. A wad of crumpled bills dropped onto the bed. She spread the creased paper over her knees.
     
    Dear Memphis,
If you’re reading this, then likely I’m dead. I want you to have my guitars, my tools, and all my wood and supplies. I filed papers down at my lawyer’s office saying that. Anything you want to sell off, go ahead. It won’t hurt my feelings, since I’m dead. I just wish I had more cash money to leave you. I’ll be straight with you: I wasn’t happy when you first came to me. Now I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. You’re the best (only) apprentice I ever had. I should have kept a better eye on you, should have made sure you spent more time in school, but you turned out pretty good anyway. So far. If I was murdered, or might of been, you’re in danger, too, because of some of the bad things that went down when you were a child. None of it was your fault, but if I was murdered, you need to get out of Memphis.
So call this number and ask for Tyler Boykin. He’ll look out for you—he’s got to, now.
    Love, Your Grandfather, Sonny Lee Greenwood
     
    A phone number was scribbled underneath. It had been erased and rewritten, crossed off and changed, so often the paper was worn thin.
    She flattened out the money and put it in a little stack.
    Two fifties, four twenties, two tens. Two hundred dollars. With what she’d saved from the sale of the guitars, that made . . . $3,200. Walking-around money for a while.
    Tyler Boykin. Who was he, and why would he look out for Emma? And why would she want him to? Maybe she could stay in Memphis. She had a little money, and a roof over her head, and all the music she needed within a city block. If she stayed, she could pretend like Sonny Lee was still around. He’d might be just around the corner, or down the block, his whiskey voice and slide guitar leaking out of some after-hours club.
    It wouldn’t seem so much like she’d lost everything.
    The question was—would Mickey let her stay? Could she stay out of the way of the police and the county?
    As if called by