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I told him about the sleep paralysis and the nightmare that followed. I watched pain move through him, as if he’d been taken back to a memory he’d wanted to forget. “Yeah, I figured it would be,” he said. “That wasn’t just cacao leaving you, Marlowe.”

“Intent?”

“Intent.”

“Like a hex, or something?”

“Something like that.”

“And the thing at the foot of my bed? The tall one with the smoke hands? Was that intent too? It felt like I was…” I swallowed. “Like I was spitting out something Aurora put inside me. I felt it leave.”

The candlelight flickered. Damian’s gaze moved to the bar, then back to me.

“That’s exactly what happened. The thing at the foot of your bed was him, letting you know he’d noticed.” He turned his wine glass a quarter-turn without drinking. “Something promised to him got up from the table. He came to look at what he’d lost.”

“That’s the most terrifying thing that ever happened,” I said flatly. “If I’d known that at the time I would have had a heart attack. And the dream? The whole tuxedo and eels thing?”

“The same visit, with a different face.” He looked at me. “But he didn’t touch you, and that’s what matters. He can loom and sulk all he wants. What he lost that night, he can’t take back the same way. It has to be given.”

I changed the subject, because the thought of it was putting me off my wine.

“You said there’s someone you want me to meet,” I said.

He glanced at the bar. The bartender was serving patrons on the other side. “I told you my mother was adopted at birth.”

Our server arrived with the wine and a trio of plates. We paused, leaning back as the table was filled.

When she was out of earshot, he continued: “I tracked down my grandmother recently, on my mother’s side. I found her through records at the courthouse and a little digging. It took me a while, but I found her.”

I forgot about the crashing surf and fog and the candlelight and listened closer.

“She lives not far from here, back in the redwoods, north of Trinidad. You’d never find her unless she wanted you to.”

“And you think she can help you? How?”

He exhaled, as if what came next couldn’t really be explained. “They adopted my mother because she was born with a caul. She’s extremely intuitive. They covet women like her.”

My brows wanted to knit together.

“Okay?”

“It turns out she gets that from my grandmother. My maternal line is full of, well…” He glanced at the bar again.

“Witches?”

“Women who are gifted,” he said. “My grandmother knew I’d find her before I did. She wasn’t remotely surprised when I turned up on her doorstep. She already had a pot of tea on the table.”

I smiled at the image in my head: Damian, drinking tea with an elderly hedge witch. “Foxgrave.”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to meet her?”

“Yes, and I think she’ll want to meet you. She’s the only person, other than you, I’ve told about any of this.” He glanced, carefully, at the bartender again. “It’s better if she explains exactly how we fight it.”

“We?”

“If you’re willing.”