“I had a visit today, from our resident demon.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” All business, Quinn reached for her tape recorder. “Where, when, how?”

“In the cemetery, shortly after I left here this morning.”

“What time was that?” Quinn looked at Cybil. “Around ten, right? So between ten and ten thirty?” she asked Gage.

“Close enough. I didn’t check my watch.”

“What form did it take?”

“My mother’s.”

Immediately, Quinn went from brisk to sympathetic. “Oh, Gage, I’m sorry.”

“Has it ever done that before?” Cybil asked. “Appeared in a form of someone you know?”

“New trick. That’s why it had me conned for a minute. Anyway, it looked like her, like I remember her. Or, actually, I don’t remember her that well. It looked like pictures I’ve seen of her.”

The picture, he thought, his father had kept on the table beside his bed.

“She-it-was young,” he continued. “Younger than me, and wearing one of those summer dresses.”

He sat now, drinking his cooling coffee as he related the event, and the conversation nearly word for word.

“You punched it?” Quinn demanded.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Saying nothing, Cybil rose, crossed to him, held out her hand for his. She examined his, back, palm, fingers. “Healed. I’d wondered about that. If you’d heal completely if it was able to wound you directly.”

“I didn’t say it wounded me.”

“Of course it did. You punched your fist into the belly of the beast, literally. What kinds of wounds were there?”

“Burns, punctures. Fucker bit me. Fights like a girl.”

She cocked her head, appreciating his grin. “I’m a girl, and I don’t bite… in a fight. How long did it take to heal?”