With Bis on my shoulder, I didn't need my second sight to see Al standing in the line, with Pierce an arm's length behind. I supposed it was a sort of show of goodwill on his part, letting me know that 'the runt' was still alive and relatively unharmed. Al was smiling brightly, but Pierce only looked worried. Most of that worry was probably on my behalf, seeing as he'd risked his life to allow me to stay out of the everafter, if I'd wanted. I spared him a moment of pity that his gesture, while appreciated, was going to be for naught. You can take the demon out of the everafter, et cetera.

Al noticed that I'd seen Pierce, and the two of them shared a short conversation that I couldn't yet hear. I've never been very good at reading lips in profile, or at all, really. As I approached the line, Pierce vanished with a look of anger pinching his handsome face. Al must have put him back in his box. Curiously, I continued forward. Al only got rid of Pierce when he wanted to tell or show me something without the demon hunter watching. This beat Al punching Pierce into unconsciousness. I gave a brief thought to how the coven was faring without him with all but their remaining two members being dead. Things had been quiet these last few months on that front. The weres and the vampires had also been eerily silent. I had my bets that a war was brewing, but it was a war fought in offices, shady back rooms, and kept mostly out of the public eye. My bet was that their weapons of choice were money and red tape. With the elves out of the closet, so to speak, the big wigs of the Interlander community were probably watching and waiting to see how the newly emerged race would fare before stirring up any kind of overt trouble. An entire race returning from extinction gave one pause to consider what else would come back from the darkness. My warnings about demons at my trial had kept them (for the most part) leery of burning any bridges with possible allies, should the demons get any bolder about interacting with reality.

I was interrupted from my musings by Al's offered hand. He was still clad in his early nineteenth century lordling outfit complete with the white gloves. I think he dressed like that to make me feel more at ease. For all I knew, the constructed guise had worked countless times over the centuries to draw in the unwary and gain himself new recruits to his build-a-familiar program. It wasn't working on me. He could have appeared as the black skinned, buck-naked devil and I'd have felt the same about him. He was my teacher, that much was true, and though he'd guarded me while I recovered from the creation of the petrified forest tulpa, he had also tried to kill me a number of times and had a temper with a lot of bite to back up his bark. I warily took his offered hand, expecting to be yanked headlong into the everafter.

He surprised me by casually stepping to my side of the line, the sun almost audible as it slipped beneath the horizon. We stood just outside of hallowed ground. He took my other hand, raised it, and made a great show of inspecting me from head to toe, despite my protests. Finally, he grinned, satisfied. "You look well-rested," he announced. "Your aura is as intact as can be. At least you've been taking care of yourself, even if your sense of fashion still leaves much to be desired." I would have been more suspicious if he'd showered me with praise, instead of letting fly the barbs about my appearance.

"What are we still doing here, Al?" I asked, crossing my arms over my barely-there chest and tapping my foot.

"Why, shopping, of course. I see you packed some lunch. I'll just send that on through to Pierce, along with your luggage, shall I? I have a hankering for marshmallows that I don't need to burn the hell out of to enjoy."

"Shopping? I thought you said we had a lot of work to catch up on."

"Why, Rachel. One would think you were embarrassed to be seen with me in public," he mirrored my crossed-arms posture in mock affront.

"That's not it at all, Al," I replied, dropping my arms, although actually, that accounted for part of my reluctance. I didn't want half of reality to think I was dating my demonic teacher. "I just thought you might want to get some of your rooms back as soon as possible. Or are you trying to keep me to yourself for a little while longer?" I asked, both eyebrows raised. I still hadn't managed to do the one-eyebrow thing, though I'd practiced. Many times. I'd had a lot of time on my hands.

He regarded me seriously over the rims of his smoked glasses, his red, goat-slitted eyes burning into my green. "Ku'Sox is up for parole, now that you've turned up not dead. Attempted murder is a different charge all together in the everafter. If a demon could be put away every time we tried to off one another, we'd all end up in jail. I just thought you might want to keep your head down until they figured out what to do with him."

I felt a moment of blind panic run through me at the thought of running into Ku'Sox at the demon mall and had to stifle a shudder. "Oh," was the wittiest thing I could come up with for the moment. The last time the demons tried to figure out how to deal with the little genetic designer dump of a demon, they banished him to reality and buried him under the St Louis arch. I doubted that they'd have any kind of permanent solution to the problem the second time around, unless Newt finally came around to Al's way of thinking and let them kill him.

My musing must have shown on my face, or Al must have been taking a peek, because he answered my thought aloud. "Newt almost let them kill him after she thought he'd killed you. The Collective is all in agreement that you, and those like you, are the future of our kind."

"Almost?" I didn't have the guts to tell him that I had no plans to do my part in making the next generation of little demons. Actually, I was firm in my decision not to.

"I doubt you, Rachel Mariana Morgan, could stomach the idea of putting your own child to death, even if he turned out to be a brat."

"He's her son?" I blurted in surprise. I let the 'brat' comment slide. We both knew Ku'Sox was much more than just that. He was a brutal sociopath.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Newt was behind his creation as well as a good portion of his tutelage. She feels responsible for how he turned out."

"An insane, manipulative serial killer? What, is he being treated like a mental patient by the courts or something?" I shouted, not caring in my ire how it would sound to anyone on my street, listening to me have a shouted conversation with a demon in my back yard.

"In a way, yes. Do you condemn a tiger to death for killing prey? Do you scold a monkey for throwing feces at another creature encroaching on its territory?" His voice raised to the level of my own, though he seemed tired, instead of angry. He lowered his voice again, speaking reasonably and slowly, as if explaining something to a child. "There's something fundamentally different about him from us. He's missing a part and acting on his instincts to assuage the emptiness. That doesn't mean I want him in my kitchen having tea, but he is one of us. In some fashion or another, his failings are our failings. We made him and he is our responsibility. It was naive of us to think we could put him away and never see him again. We were just putting off the inevitable."

"So we're just going to hide and hope we're not his next victims?" I muttered, exasperated with the entire mess.

"You could have left him in the line and let him die. You could have ended him right then and there. You were defending yourself and were perfectly within your rights. Why didn't you kill him?" His eyes were narrowed, glaring at me, and his self-righteous anger gave me pause.

I didn't have an answer ready for that one. I glared at him, then shook my head and let my anger deflate. "So, the supermarket, then? I suggest you put on something a little less conspicuous. I'd rather not give the press any more fuel for their anti-Rachel campaign."

A wash of red-tinged everafter shimmered over him and he stood before me looking exactly like Pierce. I glared, but didn't tell him to change. Doppelgänger curses weren't that expensive to create but he'd just spent one at my request. Pierce was still technically coven, so I figured it was as diplomatic a disguise as I would get from him. The fact that I was still prickly about Pierce's confession of love despite the fact that it was his testimony that had damned me, literally, didn't matter at the moment. I was just glad that he didn't appear as Kisten. I appreciated Al's restraint.

Apparently, he wasn't finished with his questions just yet, because even though he allowed me to take his arm and lead him around the headstones, he asked, "Do you regret not killing him?"

I paused, looking anywhere but at Al. "No. But I bet I will, before it's all over with."

He made a low, thoughtful sound, satisfied with my answer for the time being. He gestured that we continue on. "The best shopping Cincinnati has to offer awaits, my Itchy Witch."

"I suppose I'll drive us, then. Unless you've somehow learned how to drive a car." Looking at my little blue station wagon, I gave a thought to how much I missed my red convertible. I'd totaled it on the bridge between the Hollows and Cincinnati when the coven had Nick summon me out the previous spring. I'd long since lost my anger over it, seeing as the crash could have been a lot worse. Nobody had died. On second thought I said, "Never mind. Anybody could summon you and if you get pulled out in traffic, things could go really bad. A lot of people know your summoning name."

"Not quite as many on this side of the lines any more." He showed his teeth in a feral grin that made my pulse pound. Crap on toast! When will I quit forgetting what I was dealing with?

"Nick does."

"What makes you think I haven't gotten him yet?"

"Have you?" I muttered, unlocking the doors.

"If it will ease your itchy mind, no," he replied, and climbed in. I climbed in after.

I shoved the key into the ignition and listened as the engine sputtered to life. "Thanks, Al," I said, and meant it. The Turn take it, why did I still care? If he was stupid enough to still be summoning demons, he deserved whatever he got. And while summoning demons wasn't yet illegal, it was definitely very stupid.

I put a hand behind the passenger seat headrest and slowly backed us out of the drive. Al made no comment at how close I came to touching him. Again, I appreciated his restraint, although it left me feeling wrong-footed.

Al toyed with the bite-me-Betty doll Jenks had somehow glued to my dashboard as I swung the car around and put it in drive. I hadn't found an industrial-strength solvent up to the challenge of getting the horrendous thing off. It came away in his hand with the tiniest trickle of power and I almost smacked myself in the forehead for not thinking of doing that myself.

I pondered the mountain of crap that awaited me in the everafter as I navigated the quiet streets toward the expressway. I'd avoided the suspension bridge since my accident, although it was the most direct route into downtown Cincy. Call me superstitious, but I didn't want to chance that again. I took the curve of the onramp, revving the engine up to merge onto northbound 471 and cringed inwardly as some yahoo blew past me at a blistering eighty-miles an hour, far too close for comfort. As an added bonus to his dickery, he flipped me off, as if I was somehow in the wrong for doing the speed limit. I prayed for a highway patrolman to see him as I checked the lane to my left and switched over.

I felt vindicated when I saw Mr. Asshole, as I had decided to call him moments after he flipped me off, pulled over on the shoulder by a car with flashing lights. There was smoke coming out from under his hood, as well. I glanced briefly over at Al, wondering if he'd had anything to do with Mr. Asshole's mountain of misfortune, but he was still playing with the doll, not even looking at the world outside of the car. I figured that Karma had simply caught up with Mr. Asshole, and that my oblivious companion had nothing to do with it. I guessed again as my car suddenly swerved over three lanes in a window barely large enough to park a bus in and into the left hand lane, making us too far away from the exit I'd planned on taking. Horns sounded behind me, while I grit my teeth and prayed I wasn't about to get splattered all over the interstate. My passenger-seat driver continued to control the car without looking up, until we had taken the Reading Road exit on the left hand side. The car was back into my control as we slid to a stop at the light at the end of the exit ramp. I could have still gotten us into downtown, had there not been a sign prohibiting a left hand turn at the intersection.

"Was there somewhere in particular you wanted to go, Al?" I simpered sweetly, while inside I was boiling.

Without missing a beat, and with a bored tone, he replied, "Go straight through this intersection and maintain the left-hand lane. Go up the hill a bit, and once you've passed Greaters, there will be a left-turn lane at a defunct-looking overpass. Take the left fork onto Burnet, and keep going until you reach University Avenue. Hang a left there."

"We're going to the university? Why didn't you just say so?"

"Not quite, Itchy Witch. We're making a few stops in that direction." He seemed pleased as pie, so I refrained from chewing him out until I figured out what he was up to.

I didn't have long to wait. Five minutes later, he was having me pull over at a parking meter and checking his pocket watch against some unknown time. I glanced around as I dug out a quarter for the meter. We were at the cross streets of Highland and University avenues, outside of what looked to be a real-estate agency for college student rental properties. Business must have been doing really well, if the high-price cars parked around it were any indicator. It was quarter-to five. Al leaned against my blue beater, content for the moment to wait.

I sighed and sat on the hood, taking a moment to really look at the buildings around us. Across Highland avenue was a quaint little white brick building with a fenced-in patio covered in grape vines with metal scaffolding that appeared to be the skeletal supports of an awning. I could smell the gravy, sauerkraut, and sausages cooking from where I stood, and hear German polka being pumped out through outdoor speakers over the hiss of passing cars. A painted sign on the brick done in green and gold scrollwork proclaimed the place as Mecklenberg Gardens. Huh. I'd heard of the place, but never gone. It had closed sometime during the Turn when the owner had fallen victim to the Angel virus, which was a shame, since it had been family owned and operated since the early 1800's and was the self-proclaimed first restaurant in Cincinnati. Apparently, it opened up under new management, possibly the deceased owner's kid or nephew, since then.

Across University avenue from Mecklenberg, and caddy-corner to the real-estate office was a dilapidated apartment complex, housing a tiny corner store on its first floor with neon proclaiming that lottery tickets were sold there. Across University avenue from where I'd parked was a towering three-story redbrick building covered with ivy. On my way through the light, I'd seen that there was a hand-painted gigantic hanging sign from the front of the building, proclaiming the place to be Highland Coffeehouse, with a faintly cubist representation of a coffee mug, with pinks, purples, greens, and blues surrounding the yellowing white of the mug. Another sign at the entrance, also hand-painted, but in green and white, stated that they were closed, but I hadn't been able to read the small print of their hours.

I figured that was where Al had wanted to go. Feeling a sudden hankering for my raspberry latte, I bit back any complaint I might have harbored for Al's high-handedness in getting us here. I'd been banned from Junior's, despite having my shunning revoked, and was keen to find a new place to get my fix.

As a nearby church bell tolled the hour, Al pushed off the car and sauntered to the crosswalk. I hadn't seen him this excited about anything since he yanked Pierce's ghostly form from my graveyard right in front of me, so I knew this place had to be something special. The fact that it opened at five p.m. during the week recommended it to humans and Interlanders alike. It would catch the crowd of humans, coming home from their nine-to-five jobs as well as cater to those of us who started their days in the after noon. I hadn't known of many late-night MPL places since Piscary's lost theirs. I followed Al quickly, my strides bringing me along side him at the next curb.

I mounted the five stairs at the front of the building and passed through a french door with only one of the doors having been open. The door was propped with a little kickstand. Deep red terra cotta tile made up the floor in a tiny foyer with a defunct sewing table jammed up against the opposite wall, covered in free papers in wire holders. Turning to look behind me at the sign that hung in the front window, now that the 'open' part had been turned to the street, I read over the hours briefly, noting that they stayed open until 2:30 a.m. every day of the week. Their MPL was displayed discreetly by the no-smoking sign in the tiny foyer, next to posters about local indie bands playing locally for the next month or so. Al opened the second door for me, a glass-fronted affair with a push-bar on the inside, but a long handle on the outside, and I was struck with the smell of freshly-ground coffee and the plants that had obscured the view inside through the gigantic plate-glass windows, six feet above street level. Soft music with a reggae beat came out to greet me with the smell, and I felt transported back in time as I stepped over the threshold and looked around me, although exactly which era I'd found myself in was a mystery.

I took in the 1920's art deco coffee grinder, the late 1800's heavy brass cash register, the mix-and-match chairs and tables, and the 1940's pin-up-girl lamps holding court on either side of the bar that ran perpendicular to me in a rush. The place looked like it was decorated from equal parts antique shops and garage sales, and a forties-something human with long, greying blond hair gave us a cheerful wave from behind the bar. He was wearing a teeshirt and jeans, instead of a uniform. "Hi guys! Come on in and I'll get you set up with some menus," he called over the music, wiping his wet hands on a towel that hung from a metal clip off the countertop behind him.

Al made his way to sit at the bar while I stood, looking around me in awe. He gestured me over impatiently while I gaped like a fish, doing my best impression of a tourist on holiday. "Rachel, sit down before you break your neck," he demanded. Meekly, I lowered my head and clomped to sit on a stool, with one acting as a spacer between us.

"What can I get you guys?" the man behind the bar smiled, with a twinkling in his grey-green eyes over an unfashionable goatee. I silently looked around for the moment, noting that the espresso machine that dominated the back counter was built in 1952 (it had white numbers stuck on the middle group. I suspected that's why two of the three groups didn't have a handle.) I suspected that the newest appliance in the place was the credit-card machine. It alone had an LCD backlit screen. Everything else looked to be from the previous century or earlier.

I let Al place my order as he placed his own, a little disappointed that he'd gotten it to go. I could see that the coffee house stretched further beyond the bar and had been eager to explore its depths. Without missing a beat, our bartender/barista started frothing milk while remarking cheerfully that our order was, "Coming right up."

I made the excuse of having to use the bathroom to get a better look at the place. Our barista gave me brief instructions on where to go, head toward the cigarette machine (circa 1970's) and take a right. It's the first door on your right. I followed the instructions, opened a door with another handmade sign, marking the door for 'Ladies', and found myself in a tiny, one-toilet bathroom with a tiny sink, with a single sconce to light the little room with yellow light. I amused myself reading the graffiti that peppered the dark magenta walls with light periwinkle stars stenciled on while I did my business. I read a bit of poetry that had been etched into the mirror over the sink, thinking that they had misspelled a word or two, and made my way back out to the front room. I was definitely coming back to this place when I had the chance.

Al was paying for our drinks with cash at the register. I took up my cup from its place on the bar and took a swig, then another, deeper one. I had to suppress the urge to wiggle with delight as goosebumps broke out over my skin. "God, that's good," I proclaimed, while the man who made it for me smiled at me for the complement and continued counting out Al's change.

Sad to go, I followed Al back out of my newest favorite hangout as a couple of students came in with laptop bags slung over their shoulders. I contented myself with sipping my coffee while Al and I waited for the light to change so we could go back to the car.