We attempted to smooth out the crinkles in the old Polaroid. I wondered if Bishop had swallowed the thing, or if it had been shoved down his throat. Either way, we couldn’t make head or tail out of the image. It looked like it might’ve been taken at night. Somewhere with trees in the background. Hard to be sure, though. It would take some time and patience, but Lon said he could scan it and find out more. He had a few professional Photoshop plug-ins that would help restore the image.

Until then, we needed to figure out what we were going to do next. Because if we weren’t looking for Bishop anymore, just who the hell were we tracking?

The day after the cannery incident, we still didn’t know. Discussing the situation with Dare gave us no further insight. While Lon worked to decipher the image on the old Polaroid, we waited for Dare to discuss the Bishop development with his “people” and get back to us. Until we could all agree on what to do next, life went on. Lon still had a kid with a knack he shouldn’t have, and none of us knew how or why. So we drove to Jupe’s school, just shy of noon, to take him out of class and bring him to someone who might have some answers.

Dr. Spendlove’s office was across town, on the other side of the Village, in a quaint two-story Tudor with stucco walls and decorative half-timbered wood detailing. Bold orange and yellow chrysanthemums were planted in green window boxes below narrow leaded-glass panes. His practice was quietly announced in medieval lettering on the sign that swung from a protruding iron rod next to the door: RED SKY WELLNESS CENTER—COUNSELING, THERAPY, PSYCHIATRIC CONSULTATION. Carved into the cornerstones above the door was the same interlocking circle Nox symbol that’s printed on Tambuku’s sign—indicating that the business was demon-friendly.

Inside, what was once a home had been converted into a business. A desk near the door greeted patients for the three doctors who shared a practice here. After Lon filled out several forms and checked Jupe in, we sat together in one of two waiting rooms decorated with Colonial American artwork, much of it featuring subtly haloed Earthbounds. I looked around at the other people waiting: not a single human in the entire office. A few people glanced up at my silver halo, as demons always did, but soon returned to their magazines and mobile phones, unconcerned.

Jupe, nervous and fidgety, was swept away to the second floor. The doctor kept him up there for almost forty-five minutes, and when he returned with one of the center’s assistants, he was all smiles.

“Dr. Spendlove will see you now to complete Jupiter’s file,” the blond assistant said to Lon with a polite smile.

“Why don’t you do your homework while we’re seeing the doctor?” I suggested to Jupe, gathering up my purse to follow Lon. Maybe I really could live up to the whole “positive female role model” thing his teacher was talking about.

“On it.” He formed his hand into a gun shape, pointed at me—“Pow!”—then snapped open a gossip magazine and slouched into the lavender waiting chair.

Dr. Spendlove’s upstairs office was spacious. More Early American artwork hung on the navy blue walls, along with several painted vases, tools, and a small collection of wooden tobacco pipes in glass cases. A few chairs were grouped together on one side of the room, but no psychiatric fainting couch, to my disappointment.

The doctor stood up from behind a large desk that sat between two narrow stained-glass windows on the far wall. “Lon Butler, how wonderful to see you. Come in, come in,” he said enthusiastically, waving us inside. The assistant softly closed the door behind us. “It’s been ten years? Is that what we were saying on the phone earlier? Goodness.”

Dressed in a black corduroy blazer, Dr. Spendlove was a trim man sporting a gray mustache twirled into points at the corners. He wore his silver hair pulled into a short, tight braid at the base of his neck. His deep blue halo nearly matched the wall color.

“Guess I’ve been busy,” Lon replied, shaking his hand.

The psychiatrist turned to me, smiled, and offered his hand. “Lawrence Spendlove.”

“Arcadia Bell.”

“Lon mentioned you on the phone. So wonderful to meet you. Please, sit.”

Lon and I settled into two chairs in front of the desk as Dr. Spendlove unabashedly stared above my head. “I’m sure you get asked this all the time,” he said, “but would you mind telling me about your halo? It’s quite intriguing.”

Lon rushed to speak. “Cady, wait. Dr. Spendlove is—”

“I’m not demon. I’m a magician,” I blurted out over Lon’s words, fast as a snakebite.

“O-oh,” Dr. Spendlove cooed with excitement. “Fascinating.”

“He’s a truth sayer,” Lon finished. “I forgot.”

“Oh, God,” I moaned. I’d heard of that knack but had never been on the receiving end. “You can force the truth out of people?”

“Not ‘force’ exactly. My patients just open up a little more for me. Don’t feel uncomfortable. I promise not to ask anything about your sex life,” he said good-humoredly.

That was the least of my worries. “You . . . forgot?” I murmured to Lon. Dear God. I was going to murder him when we got out of there.

“Please don’t push her about her background,” Lon said.

The doctor raised his hands in surrender. “Not here to judge. But I am interested in your halo. Can we talk in generalities about it? Knack free. Cross my heart. It’s just that I don’t meet many magicians. Certainly none with halos.”