I nodded, gathered up all the bravery I could manage, because I was putting all my trust in a man I’d seen exactly twice in my life. “Okay,” I finally said, looking back at him, hoping I was doing the right thing. “We’ll try it your way. At least tell me your name?”

His expression softened. “I’m Liam Quinn.”

I swallowed, nodded, waited to be sure my voice wouldn’t shake. “I’m Claire Connolly. This is my place.”

Liam nodded. “Then turn on the lights, Claire Connolly, and let’s get this over with.”

•   •   •

I’d been sweaty at the party, but that was nothing compared to the cold sweat that slicked down my back when two Containment agents walked into my shop in gray fatigues and boots, guns and batons strapped to their belts.

I’d turned down the lights and moved behind the counter. Liam leaned casually against it, flipping through the day’s Times-Picayune. There wasn’t much to it these days—more a community bulletin than newspaper, a few sheets of thin, handmade paper run on a hand-cranked letterpress. They were delivered to the store every week or so, less often if the printer ran out of ink.

“Gentlemen,” Liam said, folding the paper and standing straight when they walked in. The simple act of repositioning his body showed off his physical power. It would be an advantage against wraiths, probably a necessity, given his job. “Took you long enough.”

One of the agents, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and eyes and a gleaming bald head, moved in front of the others. I’d seen him in the shop before. Phelps was his name.

Phelps glanced at me, then Liam. “Quinn. What are you doing here?”

“Same thing as you, I imagine. Chasing monsters.”

The second agent nodded. “You saw them?”

“We both did,” Liam said.

Phelps looked at me. “You’re Claire Connolly, right?”

My heart thudded in my chest and ears so loudly it seemed impossible they didn’t hear it. I wanted to answer the question, but was afraid to open my mouth, afraid of what I might accidentally say, or what they’d be able to glean from anything I did say.

Liam glanced back at me. “Wake up, Claire,” he said, then looked apologetically at Containment. “Sorry. The wraiths freaked her out.”

Phelps looked instantly sympathetic. “First time seeing one?”

“Second time, actually.” A few months ago, I’d seen Containment agents capturing a wraith outside the door, binding it in what had looked like an old-fashioned straitjacket.

My voice sounded rough, so I cleared it, made myself fake nonchalance. “But it’s still freaky. And yeah, I’m Claire. I’ve seen you in here before.”

He nodded. “You get that pasta MRE I like.”

I grimaced, knowing which one he meant. “Ugh. That so-called pasta is not good.”

“It’s not great, but it’s better than the blue cheese meat loaf. Why would they put blue cheese in meat loaf? Sorry. I’m getting off track.” He pulled a small black disc from his pocket, put it on the counter. “I’ll need to get your statements about what happened. Do you mind if I record them?”

Stay calm, I demanded, and shrugged. “No. Although I don’t know how helpful I can be.”

“We just need to hear what you saw. It’s procedure.” He touched the glossy surface, which flashed green.

“Agent Phelps, investigating Sector Twenty-seven combatant attack.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that they thought of wraiths—humans who’d succumbed to the magical infection—as just another type of combatant, just another evil Paranormal. That wasn’t the whole story, but it backed up what Quinn had said about PCC.