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She had to pull the files on every case that stood a good chance of being solved, and pass them out. Better not forget to check her planner, either. Somehow she had to make room for a fitting.
    But as she removed files, her mind wasn’t on weddings, or on what Lauren would do with the Meyers case. She was trying to decide if she was being set up.
    She tapped one finger on the folders she’d pulled, unhappy with her thoughts. She’d always thought Captain Randall was a fair man as well as a good cop. Dammit, she trusted him. Some of that trust came from their history, true. He’d been a brand-new detective, and kind; she’d been eight years old, and traumatized. But he’d earned her respect as an adult, too.
    Still, Grandmother always said that the canard about death and taxes left out another inevitability: politics. Two people will fight, play cards, or make love. Three, and someone’s going to start playing the angles.
    If this case blew up on her, she’d be left with one huge failure on her record . . . and a handful of cold cases. No recent successes.
    Lily’s finger tapped a little faster. Was that why she hadn’t told Randall about Karonski? She didn’t tell him every time she ran across someone with a Gift or a touch of the Blood, true. But he’d want to know about an FBI agent who was a practicing witch.
    She didn’t want to tell him. Was that instinct or hurt feelings?
    The captain was going out on a limb, making his newest detective lead on a case this big. It made sense for him to limit the damages. If she solved it, everyone looked good. If she screwed up, or if the case dragged on too long and someone had to be sacrificed to the media sharks . . . well, she could see that it might seem best to risk a fledgling rather than someone with fifteen or more years on the force. It might be easy to risk losing a woman . . . a Chinese woman.
    Or maybe she’d turned paranoid.
    She grimaced and dealt with the simplest problem on her list, opening her planner. Brief study confirmed her suspicions: no time was good for fittings. She supposed she’d have to give up a meal. Probably wouldn’t be the only one she missed with this investigation.
    But not tomorrow. Tomorrow she was having lunch with Rule Turner. Today, she’d eat on her way to check with her “contacts in the paranormal community.”
    She turned to her computer and sent a quick E-mail to her mother. Then she picked up the phone and called Grandmother.
     
     
    TWELVE years ago, Grandmother had shocked the family by moving out of the Chinese neighborhood where she’d lived since coming to the U.S. as a war bride. Her home sat on the five acres she’d kept out of a larger tract she’d bought over forty years ago, long before the city grew out this far. She’d had it built to her specifications, and she’d paid cash.
    The house didn’t exactly blend with its neighbors. It was a square stone building gabled with a lilting roofline more suited to the snows of northern China than the heat of southern California. The windows in the exterior walls were high, horizontal slits, giving it the look of a fortress wearing a fancy hat. There was no driveway. Grandmother didn’t like driveways. She wasn’t crazy about cars, either, though she owned one. The aging second cousin who lived with her was allowed to pilot it occasionally.
    Lily parked in the street and headed up the wandering gravel path to the bright red door flanked by snarling stone lions. She rang the bell.
    “Lily. So good to see you.” Age had softened the square of Li Qin’s face and blurred the angular body into something more androgynous than feminine. Her voice was her one beauty—low and soft and clear as bells. “Come in. Your grandmother is in the garden.”
    “Thank you. You’re looking well.” Something about the older woman’s gentle courtesy always made Lily feel clumsy, as if she might accidentally bruise some tender petal with a hasty word. Which didn’t make much