Next I prepared to make a far tougher call: to Margaret Levine. If Leah and Sandford were serious about this custody suit, they'd have to contact her. I should have thought of this yesterday, but my knee-jerk reaction had been not to tell the Elders.

I was still dialing when Savannah emerged from her room, cordless phone in hand.

"You called Adam?" she said.

"No, I called Robert. And how'd you know that?"

"Redial."

"Why are you checking the redial?"

"Did you tell Adam about Leah? I bet he'd like another shot at her. Oh, and how about Elena and Clay? They'd come too, if you asked. Well, Clay wouldn't. Not if you asked. But Elena would come, and he'd follow." She thumped down beside me on the sofa. "If we got everyone together again, you guys could kick ass, like back at the compound. Remember?"

I remembered. What I remember most was the smell. The overwhelming stench of death. Corpse upon corpse, littering the floors. Although I'd killed no one, I'd participated. I'd agreed it was necessary, that every human who had been involved in kidnapping supernatural had to die, to guarantee that our secrets would not leave those walls. That didn't mean I didn't still jolt awake at least once a month, bathed in sweat, smelling death.

"For now, let's see if we can handle this ourselves," I said.

"You haven't told the Elders yet, have you?"

"I will. It's just-"

"Don't. They'll only screw things up. You're right. We can handle this. All we need to do is find Leah. Then we can kill her."

Savannah said this with a nonchalance that took my breath away. Before I could respond, the doorbell rang.

It was the Elders. All three of them, standing on my porch, their expressions ranging from vapid confusion (Margaret) to worried concern (Therese) to barely contained fury (Victoria).

Margaret Levine, Therese Moss, and Victoria Alden had been the Coven Elders for as long as I could remember. They'd been my mother's friends and, as such, part of my life. I remember, even as recently as last summer, seeing the four of them sitting down together for their regular Wednesday Elders meeting, and thinking what a disparate group they made.

Therese fit the image Gabriel Sandford ascribed to witches, right down to the blue rinse and polyester stretch pants. The stereotypical grandmother with a wide lap and a purse that held enough supplies to see her through a three-day siege. Savannah's aunt Margaret was, at sixty-eight, the youngest of the Elders. A beauty in her youth, Margaret was still strikingly attractive, but, unfortunately, fulfilled another stereotype, that of the dimwitted beauty. And Victoria Alden? She was the model twenty-first-century senior, an impeccably groomed, energetic woman, who wore suits to church and khakis on the golf course, and sniffed at lessactive seniors, as if any physical or mental impairment they suffered was due to self-neglect.

Once I'd undone the perimeter and locking spells and opened the door, Victoria barreled past and strode into the living room, not bothering to remove her shoes. That was a bad sign. Rules of Coven etiquette-which bore a disquieting resemblance to those by Emily Post, circa 1950-dictated that one always removed one's shoes at the door, as a courtesy to the housekeeper. Walking in with your shoes on treaded the border of insult. Fortunately, Therese and Margaret did take off their orthopedic slip-ons, so I knew the situation wasn't critical.

"We need to talk," Victoria said.

"Would you like some tea first?" I said. "I should have fresh muffins, too, if Savannah hasn't finished them."

"We aren't here to eat, Paige," Victoria said from the living room.

"Tea, then?"

"No."

Turning down baked goods was damning enough, but to refuse a hot beverage? Almost unheard of in the annals of Coven history.

"How could you have kept this from us?" Victoria said as I joined them in the living room. "A custody battle is bad enough. A legal custody battle. But-"

"It's not a legal custody battle," Savannah said, slipping around the corner. "Taking custody means kidnapping, like breaking in at midnight and dragging me away kicking and screaming. That kind of custody battle."

Victoria turned to me. "What is she talking about?"

"Savannah? How about you take your aunt downstairs and show her your artwork."

"No."

"Savannah, please. We have to talk."

"So? It's about my life, isn't it?"

"See?" Victoria turned to Therese and Margaret, and waved a hand at Savannah and me. "This is the problem. The girl has no respect for Paige."

"The girl has a name," I said.

"Don't interrupt. You aren't ready for this, Paige. I said so right from the start. We should never have let you take her. You're too young and she's too-"

"We are fine," I said, teeth gritted so hard they hurt.

"Wanna see my art, Aunt Maggie?" Savannah asked. "My teacher says I have real talent. Come see." She bounced off, wearing a "good-girl" grin that looked as painful as my clenched teeth.

"Come on, Aunt Maggie," Savannah called back, her voice a high-pitched singsong. "I'll show you my cartoons."

"No!" I yelled after her as Margaret followed. "The oils, please. The oils."

Somehow I doubted Margaret would see the humor in Savannah's dark cartoons. They'd probably give the Elder a heart attack. Just what I needed.