"You think?"

"I do. So why would you be sending Paige and Lucas a photo of what's-her-name, other than to scar our retinas –

Holy shit. Portia Kane. Paige said your friend went to L.A. to do PR work for some celebutante. It's Portia Kane, isn't it? And now she's dead and... Hey, is this a case? 'Cause if it is, I've got the weekend off, and I could – "

"It's not a council case. About the photo, it's actually the people in the background I'm interested in. There's a young woman and – "

"Uncle Josef! No, wait, that's Cousin Irving. I always get them confused. God, I haven't seen ol' Irving since... well, since the last Nast family reunion they didn't invite me to."

While it was true that sorcerers don't father girls, that didn't apply when they had a child with a witch, who only had daughters. So Thomas Nast's granddaughter was being raised by the son of his bitter rival, the Cortez Cabal CEO, the same son who'd devoted his life to fighting Cabal injustice, until recently when he began dividing his time between that and reluctantly helping prop up his father's sagging empire. And yes, that was all just as complicated as it sounded.

But for Thomas Nast and most of his clan, one thing wasn't complicated. Savannah was not his dead son's daughter.

No Cabal sorcerer would ever sleep with a witch. Well, except Lucas and... yes, it was complicated. Anyone who saw Savannah, though, with her distinctive big blue eyes, knew exactly who her daddy had been.

"So it's a Nast?"

"Yep, and I'm ninety percent sure it's Irving. That would be my dad's cousin, so my second-cousin or first cousin once removed or whatever. We should have a dossier on him. If you need more, I can put you in touch with Sean to answer any questions. Discreetly, of course. I wouldn't want to get him in trouble."

"We'll try to leave your brother out of it. Now, as for that dossier..."

"It's on the way..." Keys clicked in the background. ". . . now."

The man in the picture was definitely Irving Nast – it matched the one in his dossier down to a small mole by the corner of his eye. As for the rest of the dossier, it was... interesting.

Cabals are run by a central sorcerer family. If you are a member of that family, you're guaranteed an office on the executive level. In the case of Irving, that family connection seemed to be the only reason he got that office. He was VP of some division Hope had never heard of, in charge of a very small department.

According to the dossier, Irving didn't even warrant a bodyguard. Being the CEO's nephew and not getting a guard told the supernatural world you were so low on the totem pole you weren't worth kidnapping – you weren't privy to any secret intelligence and they wouldn't bother ransoming you back.

One reason a family member might rank so low was simple lack of ambition – you were content to coast along on your name, like Lucas's brother Carlos. But it looked as if Irving dreamed of more. The dossier included a string of

"independent ventures," where Irving had tried to get innovative and prove his worth... and instead had a run-in with Lucas or the council.

"He's a screw-up," Hope said as she finished reading aloud to Karl. "If this photo is Irving and his very young mistress, it might explain what happened. He's already on thin ice with the Cabal, so he came up with a plan to get the photo back."

"And fucked up royally."

"Yep. On the plus side, though, not rating a bodyguard means it would be easy to interrogate him, if it came to that."

Karl checked his watch. "He should be sleeping. We could – "

"I said 'if it came to that.' Kidnapping and questioning a Nast VP would get me into the kind of trouble even I don't enjoy. So don't tempt me." When he opened his mouth, she went on, "And don't say that you aren't bound by council rules. You're bound by Pack rules, as much as you like to pretend otherwise. Relations are strained enough between the Pack and the Cabals already. Jeremy doesn't need that kind of grief."

Hope navigated to MapQuest. "If we don't find leads by tomorrow night, we'll reconsider. In the meantime, I have a home address. It might be wise to swing by, get the lay of the land."

"And if he happens to be out for a late jog or walking his dog, he might be inclined to chat."

She smiled. "Exactly."

Irving Nast was not out walking his dog or running. He was, as far as they could tell, inside with his family – a wife and two preteen sons according to his dossier. Even Karl wouldn't suggest a home invasion when children were involved.

They circled the block, then parked a street over and walked back, playing strolling couple again as they got a closer look at the property and made a note of the vehicles and license plates, anything that might later help them nab Irving if a "chat" was required.

On the way back, they finally picked up dinner for Robyn. As Hope returned to the car, she nearly bumped into Karl, walking around from the building rear.

"They have a bathroom inside, you know," she said as he took the take-out bags.

He only gave her a look, the thought that he would ever piss behind a building clearly not warranting comment.

"What did you see?" she said.

He waved it off, but she could feel the fading chaos vibes still flowing from him.

"Karl?"

"I thought I was being watched. He ducked behind the building. I followed."

"And?" Hope prompted.

"Apparently, he didn't find the restaurant facilities to his liking."

"Ah. See, I was partly right. My psychic skills are improving. Some one was taking a leak back there."

He opened her door and waved her in, shaking his head.

ROBYN

Robyn lay on her side, staring at Hope's hair fanning over her pillow. It had been that hair, twelve years ago, that made her decide she would not like Hope Adams.

By that point, Robyn and her classmates had pretty much decided they weren't going to like any of the girls they'd been teamed up with for the fund-raiser. After all, they were private school brats, rich little snobs. The popular clique times ten.

Robyn and her friends didn't envy those girls their manicured nails and platinum credit cards. Perish the thought.