On closer inspection, the former head of the Silver Circle didn’t look much like a farmer. Of course, he didn’t look much like a renowned war mage, either. His clothes were normal, if boring—an old oatmeal sweater with suede patches at the elbows, a blue plaid shirt and brown slacks. But he’d have stood out in any crowd because of the hair.

It was even worse than Pritkin’s, although in a totally new way. It would have been almost shoulder length if it hadn’t insisted on floating away from his face as though trying to escape his head. He had static electricity hair when there was no static. But at least it was a nice shade—silver white instead of salt and pepper. And his eyes were very blue behind the thick glasses.

We followed him to a two-story farmhouse. It had walls of jumbled gray stone in all shapes and sizes and no discernable pattern all held together by a weathered slate roof. It sat on a hill overlooking the forest on one side and a river on the other. It looked pretty normal except that it listed faintly to the left, like it was trying to escape the garden that had gone wild and appeared to be trying to eat it. A third of it had already disappeared under massive old vines. It was charming, in a run-down, overgrown, slightly quirky way—except for the pentacle smoking on the front door, its thick lines bubbling dark and angry against the fresh green paint.

“You had visitors,” Pritkin said, dripping onto the Cave Canem doormat.

“Will they be back?” I looked around nervously, unable to tell if anyone was sneaking up on us due to the aggressive flora.

“If they do, they won’t get in,” Marsden said cheerfully. “Renewed the wards myself last week. That’s my blood under the last coat of paint.”

I didn’t find that statement as soothing as he apparently intended but was too tired and wet and freaked out to make an issue of it. I bumped the door frame walking in, adding another bruise to Pritkin’s already impressive collection. His shoulders were broad and I hadn’t yet adjusted to the way this body moved or took up space.

Even more annoying were the sensations caused by his body starting to mend itself. He usually healed almost as fast as a vamp, but he’d lost a lot of blood in the fight and it seemed to be slowing the process down. All along my left arm were weird crawling sensations—pins, needles, knives, hot—like something was moving under there. I’d loosened the makeshift tourniquet on the way back, but it hadn’t seemed to help. I had my arms crossed to keep from clawing at his skin.

Marsden led us to the kitchen, which was huge, but its exposed wooden beams, bright saffron paint and log fireplace made it seem cozy. It also had a dog. It didn’t help so much with the cozy.

It was large and shaggy and gray and it drooled a lot—a fact that was much less disturbing than its coal-red eyes. “What’s wrong with it?” I asked Pritkin quietly while Marsden puttered around, brewing things.

Pritkin paused to regard the dog-shaped creature under the window for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked at Marsden accusingly. “Jonas! What did you do?”

Marsden turned, coffeepot in hand, and followed Pritkin’s gaze. He looked a little guilty. “Well, I didn’t have much choice, did I? They forced me to destroy his other form.”

“You were supposed to release him!”

“After all the trouble I had trapping him in the first place?” Marsden snorted. “Not likely.”

“Trapping what?” I eyed the dog warily.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Marsden said, placing a mug in front of me. “Have some coffee.” I took a sip and had to work not to choke. Marsden’s concoction could beat up espresso and take its lunch money. He noticed my reaction. “Is something wrong?”

I scrubbed at my chin, and beard stubble rasped under my fingers. I yanked my hand away. “I’d really prefer tea,” I managed to say.

“Now I know you aren’t John,” he commented, but he bustled off to plug in a WWII-era kettle.

I watched the dog mangle a rawhide chew bone, half of which had already dissolved into soggy mush, and I could have sworn I saw something pass behind those eyes. Something that looked awfully familiar. I got up so fast, I turned over my chair.

“There’s one of those things in there!” I told Pritkin, stumbling back against the fridge.

“What things?” Marsden looked intrigued.

“Rakshasas,” Pritkin said, glancing at me. “And it isn’t one, although it would be less dangerous if it were. Rakshasas can’t hurt the living. They’re scavengers, looking for an easy meal. They’re drawn to murders, battlefields, places where violence is about to happen. They feast on the dead.”

I sorted through that and picked out the relative bit. “You’re saying there is a demon in there and it can hurt us?”

“Oh, no, no. He’s perfectly harmless.” Marsden patted my arm. “He was my golem for years. But when I ‘retired,’ the Council forced me to give him up. Said I wasn’t a war mage any longer, and civilians aren’t allowed to have them. Can you imagine? I led the Circle for almost sixty years, but I can’t be trusted to keep one pesky demon in thrall!”

“So you put it in the dog?” Pritkin demanded.

“Temporarily, until I get a few things sorted. It seems to be working out all right. Orion has started piddling on the rug, but that could be his age.”

“You have a devil dog?” I sat down again but moved my chair a little farther away. The dog chewed on, oblivious.

“Demon,” Marsden corrected. “War mages are allowed to trap certain of the incorporeal demon races as our servants. Very useful in combat, although ticklish to acquire in the first place. Poor Parsons,” he added, and Pritkin winced.

“Who is Parsons?” I asked, deciding to just go with it.

“Who was Parsons. He wanted to trap a demon, you see, but he’d barely passed the trials. I told him he might want to give it a while, find his legs, so to speak, but he was having none of it. All the leading mages had golems—it was seen as a mark of prestige at the time—and he wouldn’t rest until he’d acquired one, too.”

“Did he?”

Marsden sighed. “Well . . . in essence . . . no. You see, when you summon a demon, there are several possible outcomes—”

“He didn’t trap the demon,” Pritkin said roughly. “It trapped him.”

He and I looked at each other, hollow and blank and grave. I wasn’t sure how much he’d been able to see of the demon attack through my eyes, but apparently, it had been enough. Or maybe he was just remembering similar scenes. And I’d thought I saw bad stuff. I couldn’t imagine living with that kind of double vision all the time.

Marsden was looking thoughtful. “Do you know, I wonder if Parsons’ disappearance had anything to do with the practice of golem-making falling out of fashion? You don’t see that many with the younger sort, do you?”

I’d been around war mages enough by now to know that the crazy always came out, sooner or later. Nice to know Marsden was getting it on the table early. I glanced at the phone on the wall. “I need to make a call,” I told him.

“You want to find out what happened to the children,” Pritkin guessed.

“What happened is that I thought I could protect them, when proximity to me is probably what drew the Circle’s attention to them in the first place! I wouldn’t even put it past them to have kidnapped the kids in the hopes that I’d come after them.”

“Possibly. But that doesn’t mean they would have been ignored otherwise. They are dangerous—especially in a time of war, when they could possibly be recruited for the other side.”

“They’re not evil!”

“I never said they were. But they do have a grudge against the Circle, something that could be exploited.”

“And the wards are online in any case,” Marsden added. “I am afraid they interfere with telephone service.”

“Your friend hid the children for years,” Pritkin reminded me. “She can manage for a while on her own.”

“She hid them before she was a target for the Circle,” I reminded him right back.

“They’ll be fine,” he repeated, reaching for my mug. “If you aren’t going to drink that—”

I snatched away my potentially lethal coffee. “You’ve had enough. You’re going to make me sick!”

“I wouldn’t have to work very hard. We’re increasing the number of training sessions when we get back—you’re in worse shape than I thought.”

“At least I’m not an addict.”

“Neither am I.”

“Really.” I held up a hand. It kept trembling unless I really concentrated. “How long has it been since your last caffeine fix?”

“Considering the day I’ve had? Far too long,” he muttered, slowly resting his—my—head on his arms.

He did look bad. The wardrobe-in-one was having a rough day. Apparently, it didn’t have a setting for demon fighting, or maybe it was just broken. It kept shifting to different shapes and patterns, all of which were muddy and wrinkled and torn in various places. The body underneath didn’t look much better. A dark bruise was mapping its way across my left cheekbone, matching the ring of them that circled my right wrist like a bracelet.

“You look really pathetic,” I told him.

One eye cracked, regarding me hopefully from behind a clump of lank curls.

“But you’re still not getting my coffee.”

“You owe me,” he muttered, not bothering to lift his head.

“How do you figure that?”

“Look at me!”

“You wouldn’t have gotten that way if you hadn’t run off toward the guy who’d just tried to kill us.”

Pritkin’s head jerked up. “And we wouldn’t be here in the first place if you hadn’t gone after the Corps on your own!”