His smile was fleeting. “You are an odd woman, Corine Solomon. I’ve slain many, but you’re the only prospective victim who ever tried to console me.”

“Is it working?” I wondered aloud.

“Somewhat.”

That seemed like a good place to let the conversation rest. I left my hand in his as a comforting gesture and didn’t protest when he turned his face toward the window. He closed his eyes, tilting his head against the seat; gods, I hoped we could wake him up when the train stopped.

To my relief, it wasn’t a problem.

When we arrived in London, Shannon hailed us a cab, and I helped Booke climb into the back. It was late enough that we should be ashamed of turning up at Geoff Stenton’s door, but I’d drag his ass out of bed if I had to. Booke needed this passport urgently.

Fortunately, the forger lived on the ground floor. Otherwise, I’m not sure whether Booke would have made it. He looked older and frailer with each passing moment. My heart broke a little as I thumped on the knocker, relentless, until I heard movement within.

The man who flung the door open was short, balding, with a pair of smudged glasses hastily perched on a broad nose. His shirt was undone and it looked as if he’d put on a pair of sweatpants that he’d grabbed from the floor. They sported a number of interesting stains, particularly around the knees. I hoped his documents were better than his hygiene.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he demanded.

“Eva sent me,” I said.

“Good for you. Come back at a decent hour.”

“You don’t understand, it’s an emergency.” I indicated Booke, holding my arm for balance. “He has to get out of the country right away.”

Stenton studied my friend, frowning. “Is he a war criminal or something? Never mind,” he added. “I don’t want to know. Since you’ve gotten me out of bed, you may as well come in.” I didn’t know that much about British regional dialects, but when Geoff said “something” it sounded like “somefing.”

We all traipsed inside. Within, the place was a typical townhome with a front room, a hallway that had a half bath on one side and ended in a small kitchen. The place was cleaner than the forger’s pants. He beckoned us upstairs with an impatient wave of one hand.

“My studio’s upstairs. Can you make it?” Stenton asked Booke.

“I’ll manage,” he answered.

With my help, he clambered up the stairs, but I could tell by his expression it was painful. How old was he now? Eighty? I wished I could calculate the rate at which the years were catching up to him. Then I might be able to predict how long he had left. My sense of urgency built even more; I had to show him something lovely before he died. I’d promised.

If my mother taught me anything, it was the importance of keeping my word.

Frequent Flyer

Conscious of time ticking away, I made short work of our business with Geoff Stenton, and I paid him handsomely for the interruption to his sleep. The others milled in various stages of boredom, until he needed Booke to pose for a picture. Then Stenton referred me to a local witch who could help us leave the country with our false passports.

“How long will Booke’s cooked documents take?” I asked.

He considered. “Ordinarily, a couple of days, but with what you’re paying, I’ll get it to you within a few hours. Where should I send it?”

“Do you think the witch would mind if you sent a courier there?”

Stenton shook his head. “No, we’ve often dealt with gifted who have a need to leave the country in a hurry.”

I didn’t doubt that at all. Geoff gave off a sketchy vibe, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. That concluded our business, so we caught a cab to our next destination while Booke grew frailer by the moment. At night, London radiated a much different vibe than Mexico City. Even in the evening, there were always people milling around open-air cantinas, dogs lolling on the sidewalk in hope of scraps. Police cars patrolled with their lights flashing, though you only had to worry if they turned on the sirens. The lights were just to let you know they were watching. London was quieter by comparison, less yelling in the street, certainly no mariachis, but there was plenty of traffic, even at this hour.

The cabbie dropped us at the door of a crumbling brick row house. I could tell that the neighborhood wasn’t the best. If only I had my witch sight, I could check the premises for wards and see how effective her work was. Crazy, but I had gotten used to my magick, started taking it for granted. And then it was gone, leaving me to miss it. The same could be said for Chance. I banged on the door with a closed fist, angry with the awful grief that hung around my neck like an albatross. The fury accompanied the feeling because it implied I had accepted he was gone. It was a stage in the mourning process—and I did not concede that he was beyond my reach.

Even death cannot keep me from you.

I kept thumping on the painted red door, until it swung open to reveal a podgy little woman with her hair up in curlers; I hadn’t known women still did that. At first, the witch was no happier about being awakened in the middle of the night.

“Come in, before the neighbors decide I’m running a bawdy house.” She stomped inside, muttering, “At this hour? Can’t imagine what Geoff was thinking.”

“Probably that you wanted to get paid,” Shan said.

“What do you need then? Spit it out.” I couldn’t blame her for the attitude, as being rousted from a warm bed by demanding patrons who wanted a spell right now had to suck. This never happened when you ran a store with regular hours, one of the compensations of working in retail. When she saw my cash, her mood improved dramatically.

Inside, her room was busy with arcane accoutrements paired in uneasy truce with excessive lace and handcrafted knitted goods. I wondered if she could make an athame cozy, and then decided I was too tired to be funny. Shan helped Booke over to a chair with a kindness I found touching. She hadn’t known him as long, but he was definitely part of our crew, even if he’d been a virtual member.

As my friends got comfortable, I followed the witch into the kitchen, where she had all her components—and maybe it was exhaustion, but it amused me to find esoteric ingredients neatly labeled in glass spice jars and ceramic canisters. While she put on a pair of reading glasses, I summarized our business.

As it happened, people requested this particular charm from her quite often. Once she put the kettle on and checked her stock, she found she had two of them ready, but she needed to make a third. Which worked out well, as we were waiting for a messenger anyway, and I was spared the need to ask if we could hang around her parlor until Stenton came through. She shooed me away, but I found it hard to settle, worrying about whether I was doing the right thing with Booke. Maybe she had Luren blood in stock . . . but no, I’d promised him I wouldn’t. It was his choice, dammit.

Shannon curled up on one end of a sofa and went to sleep. That was a gift I shared; under normal circumstances, I could sleep anywhere, but I was too tense to be able to relax. Kel nodded off at the other end, and I didn’t bother him, knowing he had depleted his resources in setting my friend free. I could see the changes in Booke’s face already: more lines, faint liver spots dotting his temples. His hair seemed a little thinner, a sparse silver down.

“Are you all right?” I asked, perching on a chair near Booke.

“I’m not ill. Just old. Considering I’ve been alone for so very long . . . and I’m free at last, yes.”

It was unlikely he would complain, regardless. But we had some important decisions to make. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I have a couple of ideas. We can see as much of Europe as you can. The benefit is that it’s close by, and the countries are smaller. Or we can fly across the Atlantic. I’ll call Chuch and Eva, ask them to set up a kick-ass going-away party for you.”

He tilted his head, much struck by that notion. “Would they do that for me?”

“You bet your ass. I just thought you might want to meet them in person, as you were friends with Chuch first. Then Eva, of course. You’d get to see Cami too.”

“Then that’s what I would like,” he said decisively.

“To go see Chuch and Eva?” That choice would make Shannon happy, as she was dying to see Jesse. Not literally, as with Booke, thank the gods.

“I’ve always wanted to. I didn’t dare hope . . .” He trailed off, lifting a thin shoulder in a sheepish half shrug. “Thank you.”

“Then let me make the arrangements.” For that, I had to borrow Shannon’s smart phone. She was sound enough asleep that she didn’t even twitch when I slid the cell out of her bag. A few clicks later, and we were set.

I wasn’t sure if Kel would be traveling with us; as I recalled, he hated modern flight. But I booked him a seat just in case. Since it was a one-time-only occasion—and I wanted Booke to be comfortable for the transatlantic flight—I bought four first-class tickets. If Kel vanished as he had a tendency to do, then one of us would have two seats. I hated using Chance’s credit card, though. I’d memorized the number due to repeated use when we were ordering furniture together in Mexico, and it wouldn’t work for brick-and-mortar purchases, but it was my only option for getting plane tickets fast. Fortunately, he carried a low balance and a high limit. I’d pay the bill before anybody knew he was gone.

Still, fresh hurt lanced through me, making it difficult to navigate the mobile travel site. When I finished, I glanced up to find Booke watching me with a concerned expression. He hesitated, natural reticence warring with sympathy.

“Does it ever get easier?” I asked.

“Sometimes days pass before I think of Marlena. But at others, it’s like she’s just stepped out, as if I expect, despite all this time, that she’s coming back to me.”

I didn’t want to acclimate to his loss. Once I had Booke squared away, I meant to find some way to save Chance. The need to act on that pounded in my head, echoed in my heartbeat, but I had to take care of my friend first. It’s not a betrayal, I told myself. Chance will understand.

Thinking of him in present tense helped.

An hour later, the courier arrived. I took the liberty of answering the door—and I was relieved to find Booke’s documents ready to go. The passport looked fantastic for all its speed. Hard to believe Stenton had taken the picture with a digital camera just a little while ago. I tipped the messenger generously, and he saluted me before heading back down the stairs.

From the kitchen came the sounds of the witch as she worked, muttered imprecations and rattling pots. A strong medicinal smell lingered in the air; gods, I hoped we didn’t have to ingest the charm for our passports to work in the scanners. That might not end well. But to my vast relief, when the woman emerged, she was carrying three sachets, which we were to wear around our necks.

“As long as the bags remain in contact with your skin,” she explained, “you should have no trouble. The machines will malfunction just long enough to process your immigration.”