In a basement with twitching bright at the four corners of the ceiling. She had her hands and legs tied in vines. Her head was sweating and her mouth was dry. She would pass out in a minute. She prodded her head against the wall to get the attention of her captors. They were so engrossed with their dealings with witches they didn’t take one look at her.

     “Finley made it clear didn’t he?” Ophelia snapped.

     “That was the plan,” Marco interjected. “And the wolves you trusted… those goddamn mutts didn’t show their faces.”

She hadn’t had anything other than lemonade on the lake shore last evening. Her voice was...