Demons of Good and Evil by Kim Harrison

            “Then you saw them safe in a circle that would hold a demon,” I said, tensing. Yeah, they were his kids, but I had handled it. “Mark is not a barista. He’s a self-made entrepreneur who worked with Dali for over six months. You don’t think he picked up a few things? And it wasn’t Walter, it was Parker. I was wrong. The mage wants the ring back. Either he figured out how to turn it, or he thinks I will. I took care of it, and I’m going to meet up with the girls at the cider mill in about an hour.” Damn it all to the Turn and back. Is Constance right?

            “Then why are you at the hospital?” he said, and I took a slow breath.

            “Because I want to talk to Walter,” I said again. “He knows both the invocation phrase for that stupid ring and who the mage is.”

            “You left Ray and Lucy with a demon incapable of doing magic?”

            My jaw clenched. My God. Are we having our first fight? “Hey!” I said loudly, my shoes pounding the hard floor. Either he was going to trust my judgment, or we were done. A pang of fear hit me. “Al loves them more than he loves himself, and if he offered to take them, then he can keep them safe even if the moon should fall down. Jenks is with them.” I hesitated. “They are probably safer away from me,” I added, hating myself, my world, everything.

            Trent’s silence hung there, making me wonder why he had ever agreed to let me watch the girls in the first place.

            “David is meeting me here,” I said when the silence became too hard to bear. I had reached C wing. The corridor had become smaller and the people more numerous, and I lowered my voice. “This is my best, safest chance to find out who the mage is.”

            Trent still hadn’t said anything, and I stopped before the elevators, not wanting to lose signal. The residue of powerful medicinal spells was making my skin tingle, and I was uncomfortable. “I was wrong about how important the ring was. Trent, I am so sorry,” I finally said.

            “This isn’t just about the ring . . .” Trent began, and a misplaced anger flared.

            “Look,” I said, immediately wishing I’d used another word. “Walter is here. I am here. I’m going to talk to him. The girls are fine.”

            “You left them with Al. Rachel, this was supposed to be your time with them.”

            Jaw tight, I stared down the busy hallway. “I’m in the elevator,” I lied as the one across from me opened to let two people out. “I think I’m losing you.”

            I hung up, anger and guilt rising from his last words. “They will be safe with Al,” I whispered as I stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the fifth floor. Arms over my middle, I slumped into a corner. My mother had put her entire career on hold while she raised first Robbie and then me while my birth father had let his best friend step in and play dad. I knew Takata regretted his choice—even as his guilt and regret had been the dross that he spun into music gold. Ray and Lucy weren’t my children, and yet I felt as if I was standing in the same place.

            I was the only one in the elevator, and I pushed from the wall when it dinged. Maybe me playing mother wasn’t a good idea. I was so self-absorbed that I couldn’t even remember if Jenks’s cat was a boy or girl.

            Frustrated, I walked past the unattended nurses’ desk, counting down the room numbers. It was easy to see where I was going; there was a FIB officer stationed outside his door. “I’m going in,” I said as I scuffed to a halt, a hand on a hip and begging for trouble. “Rachel Morgan.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” The officer opened the door. “Detective Glenn said you were coming. He’ll be here shortly. He left to escort Mr. Hue up.”

            Alone with Walter? Nice. “Thanks.” I stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind me.

            But my misplaced anger only grew as I saw Walter on one of those ugly, narrow beds, one hand cuffed to a bedrail, the other sporting a pulse monitor. The window looked out onto a courtyard, and I set my bag on a chair to close the blinds. His eyes were shut, but he was awake; his pulse had quickened when I had entered the room.

            Thick bandages covered his head, and his already close-cut hair had been shaved off. A medical-grade pain amulet was taped to his upper chest, the holographic label showing through the thin, lightly patterned hospital gown. I’d be ripping that off shortly—the amulet, not the gown—and I took his patient tablet from the wall. “Hey, Walter,” I said as I halted at the end of his bed. “Acknowledge that I’m here, or I will shove you onto the floor.”