I stood in front of Lon, self-conscious and freezing and gasping for breath.

He made a low, frustrated noise as his face tightened into a scowl. Then he spun around and stomped away to the door. “Don’t summon Priya yourself,” he barked as he struggled to unlock the door with shaking hands. “If that got your mother’s attention, you don’t want her finding out Priya’s alive. Call Jupe, and get him to question Priya while he’s on the phone with you.”

And with that, he rushed out the door and slammed it hard behind him.

The awkwardness between us faded as the night bled into morning, but it was pretty easy to ignore something when you didn’t discuss it. And we didn’t. Not a single word. Which was fine by me. Because after hours of flipping through brittle pages of medieval woodcuts, I realized the likely cause of Lon’s brief carnal interest in me: my transmutated form must have brought back memories of Yvonne.

I’d seen her in her shifted state, right before I ripped out the spell that fueled it. She was easily the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on. God only knew how many times Lon had lusted over her when she was sporting horns. Plus, she was the mother of his child, so it was only natural that he still wanted her—and only natural that my serpentine form stirred up old feelings.

Maybe my supremely good ass helped. I liked to think so. But it was over and done, and as I sat across from him in a booth in the Redwood Diner at six a.m., belly filled with griddled breakfast, I was thankful it hadn’t created anything too weird between us. If I was going to struggle with it, better to do so alone, when he was well out of empathic earshot.

Besides, I had other things to worry about. Like how my pupils hadn’t returned to normal since I shifted last night. They were elliptical, slitlike snake eyes, and my blue irises were shot through with silver. My halo was also brighter than normal. A couple of hours ago, both of these problems were worse, so at least it was fading.

But still. Not good. I thought of Priya’s warning that the Moonchild would overpower the human part of me, which could strengthen my mother’s choke hold.

Lon wasn’t convinced. He thought maybe this was just a temporary side effect—that because my transmutation wasn’t aided by an artificial spell, as his was, maybe shifting back down just wasn’t ever going to be as clean as it was for him. We were both hopeful that the side effects would continue to fade, but for now, I was forced to hide my silvery irises by wearing sunglasses indoors, like a complete jackass.

“I don’t think I’ve ever put away that many pancakes before,” I said, slumping in my seat.

“I’m impressed,” he said, giving me a soft smile as he slid his empty plate over the scratched Formica tabletop. “Vitamins.” He nodded toward the three pills he’d foisted on me like some nagging parent—to aid in my continued recovery from the hospital stay, he insisted.

I took them with the pulpy dregs of my orange juice, then ran my finger through the puddle of cooling syrup on my plate and licked it. “If our waitress doesn’t show up soon, I might eat a few more.”

She was running late, apparently. And neither the cook nor the other waitress had heard the name Robert Wildeye. If our luck didn’t change soon, I didn’t know what we’d do. Walk around town holding up a sign like chauffeurs in airports?

I’d called Jupe after the whole naked, scaly modeling session. The kid sounded a little weird—I think he said “uh” a dozen times during the phone call—but he did what I asked and summoned my guardian. Upon being questioned, Priya informed us he hadn’t noticed my transmutation in the Æthyr. The tarp ward had worked. Whether my mother had noticed, though, Priya didn’t know. All he could tell was that she was still in the Æthyr, she was still on the run, and he was still tracking her.

Better there than here, I supposed.

The diner’s front door squeaked open. Lon and I both glanced at the woman striding into the restaurant. Middle-aged. Curly brown hair streaked with gray. A little plump and a whole lot in a rush. “Sorry I’m late, Carol,” she said, disappearing behind swinging doors for a couple of minutes before reappearing without her coat. Like the other waitress’s, her dress matched the avocado tile floor. She was still tying an apron around her waist when she approached our table with a pencil clamped between her teeth.

Her nametag read “June.” That was our gal. I guessed I hadn’t realized just how enthusiastic I was to finally see her, because I heard a loud crack and looked down to find that my fork had snapped in two, right in my hand. The tine side clanged against my plate as it fell.

“Oh, Jesus,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

June stuffed the pencil in her apron pocket and smiled. “Don’t be. Those things break in the dishwasher all the time. Customers complain that they can’t cut into a steak without bending the knives. The owner is too cheap to buy anything better.” She whisked up the broken fork pieces along with our plates, deftly cleaning up the table as she talked. “Carol said you two were asking for me?”

“Kid at the gas station said you might be able to help us,” Lon said.

“Joey or Henry?”

“Joey,” I lied smoothly. As good a name as any. I didn’t want to get into a Who’s Who of Golden Peak; the sun had risen, so it was now officially my bedtime, and the fake maple syrup was giving me heartburn. “We’re looking for a man named Robert Wildeye. He’s a private detective. Supposed to have an office in town, but we can’t find it.”