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“So you would trade all your ideals for the people you care about?” she asked.

“I’m not sure I have any ideals anymore.”

“You’re still Christian, aren’t you?”

“My religion isn’t an ideal. Ideals are abstract things that you can’t touch or see. My religion isn’t abstract, it’s very ‘stract,’ very real.”

“You can’t see God,” she said. “You can’t hold Him in your hand.”

“How many angels can dance on the head of a pin, huh?”

She smiled. “Something like that.”

“I’ve held a cross while it flared so bright it blinded me until all the world was just white fire. I’ve seen a copy of the Talmud go up in flames in a vampire’s hands, and even after the book had burned to ash, the vampire kept burning until it died. I’ve stood in the presence of a demon and recited holy script, and the demon could not touch me.” I shook my head. “Religion isn’t an abstract thing, Dr. Lillian, it is a living, breathing, growing, organic thing.”

“Organic sounds more Wiccan than Christian,” she said.

I shrugged. “I’ve been studying with a psychic and some of her Wiccan friends for about a year, hard not to soak some of it up.”

“Doesn’t studying Wicca put you in an awkward position?”

“You mean because I’m a monotheist?”

She nodded.

“I have God-given abilities and not enough training to control those abilities. Most denominations of the church frown on psychics, let alone someone who raises the dead. I need training, so I’ve found people to train me. The fact that they’re not Christian I see as a failing of the church, not a failing of theirs.”

“There are Christian witches,” she said.

“I’ve met some of them. They all seem to be zealots, as if they have to be more Christian than anyone else to prove that they’re good enough to be Christian at all. I don’t like zealots.”

“Neither do I,” she said.

We looked at each other in the darkened kitchen. She raised her coffee mug. I’d given her the one with a tiny knight and a large dragon that said, “No guts, no glory.”

Lillian said, “Down with zealots.”

I raised my own mug in the air. It was the baby penguin mug, still a favorite. “Down with zealots.”

We drank. She set her mug on the coaster and said, “Do I have your permission to try the drugs on Gregory?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then nodded. “If he agrees, do it.”

She pushed back from the table and stood. “I’ll get everything ready.”

I nodded, but stayed sitting. I was praying when I felt someone come into the room. Without opening my eyes, I knew it was Micah.

He waited until I raised my head, opened my eyes. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.

“I’m finished,” I said.

He nodded and gave that smile of his that was part amusement, part sorrow, and part something else. “You were praying?” He made it a question.

“Yes.”

Some trick of the light made his eyes gleam in the dark, like there was a spark of hidden fire down deep in their green gold depths. The illusion lost his eyes and most of his face to shadow and darkness. Only that shimmering gleam remained, as if the color dancing in his eyes was more real than the rest of him.

Without seeing his face, I knew he was upset. I could feel it like a tension down my spine. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I can’t remember the last time I prayed.”

I shrugged. “A lot of people don’t pray.”

“Why does it surprise me that you do?” he asked.

I shrugged again.

He took a step forward, and the light fell upon his face and that odd, mixed smile of his.

“I have to go.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“What makes you think anything’s wrong?”

“Tension level between you and your cats. What’s up, Micah?”

He pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, rubbing, as if he were tired. He blinked those jewel-like eyes at me. “A pard emergency. We’ve got one member that couldn’t come tonight, and she’s got herself in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Violet is our version of your Nathaniel, the least dominant of us.” He left it at that, as if it explained everything. It did, and it didn’t.

“And?” I said.

“And I have to go help her.”

“I don’t like secrets,