The Rockbridge Municipal Airport is a small affair—hardly big enough for a midsized aircraft to safely land—and generally used only for small, privately-owned planes. The Walkers arrive slightly ahead of us, having driven with the reckless speed of folk who know their local roads like the backs of their hands. I pull my truck alongside Maria's station-wagon and Jack's old Dodge and cut the engine with a sigh.

Beside me, Sam sits with a little frown bending the sweet bow of his lips, and Carlos has been obnoxiously jiggling his leg the whole drive. We're all a bit on edge, but Carlos seems especially frayed.

I realize that, of all of us, he's the most vulnerable. The Walkers are a tight-knit clan, and Sam and I are bound on some level I can't even explain, but Carlos is something of a loose thread. If he has other friends, or any family besides Toni, he hasn't spoken of them.

"Hey," I say, reaching past Sam to touch his shoulder, "whatever happens, we've got your back, Carlos. Don't worry."

He turns with a startled look, and then smiles crookedly. "Thanks, man. You're a good guy."

Giving his shoulder a final squeeze, I turn away, popping my door open with another sigh.

People keep telling me that—well, Sam and Carlos do, at least. Maybe one of these days I'll believe it. Hell, maybe someday it'll even be true.

As the three of us join the Walkers where they stand near the end of the runway, the low hum of a distant engine reaches us on the air. A moment later, a small plane comes into view over the valley's eastern edge, coming in on a gradual descent. As it approaches, I recognize it as a little Cessna 185, and watch with admiration as the pilot brings it down for a perfect landing, slowing and then taxiing to a halt in a designated spot.

Finally, the cockpit opens, and the pilot helps Toni to the ground and hands her a pair of small duffle bags. She slings one over each shoulder, gives the pilot a friendly salute, and then turns and walks towards us. She wears faded jeans over brown work-boots, a white tank-top and a long-sleeved, black and white checked shirt tied around her waist.

She looks a few pounds thinner than the last time we saw her, the well-defined muscles in her shoulders and arms standing out with lean definition under her light-brown skin, and as she approaches I see dark circles under her eyes and a line of worry etched between her full brows. If I'd had any doubts that her worry for Carlos was genuine, I don't doubt it now. She's clearly had a rough few weeks.

Carlos steps forward to greet her as she approaches, hands at his sides and a nervous tension in the straight line of his back. She walks right up to him without glancing to either side, without sparing the rest of us a look, and stops less than an arm's length from him, fixing him with an intense stare. For a moment no one breathes, and then she smacks her hand across his face, the slap landing with a solid crack.

I hear Sam gasp and start to step forward, but I set my hand on his shoulder and shake my head. My intuition says Toni has a lot of feelings to get through, and anger was just what came out first. I'm proven right when a second later she drops her bags and launches herself into Carlos's arms, squeezing so tight I can almost hear his ribs crack.

"You stupid little son-of-a-bitch," she sobs. "How could you leave me like that? Do you know how worried I've been? I thought you were dead or something! I thought you were fucking dead by the side of the road somewhere, you little cunt."

"Auntie..."

Carlos pats her back and returns her embrace, choked by emotions of his own.

"Why, Carlito? Why'd you do that?" Toni asks, releasing him and grabbing his face between her hands, rubbing the red spot on his cheek where her palm had struck him.

"You know why, Tía," Carlos answers quietly, reaching up to gently grasp her wrists and draw her hands away from his face. "You used me. You used me to do something bad. You made me hurt somebody who didn't deserve to be hurt, and you treated me like one of your weapons—or a tool. I couldn't let you do that to me anymore. And I'll tell you right now—I'll give you another chance, because I love you and I miss you, Auntie, but if you try something like that again...I'm gone for good."

Toni meets his eyes without blinking, though her own eyes are bright with tears, and nods. "I understand, Carlito. I know what I did was wrong. I'm sorry, and I'm here to make it right, if I can."

With that, she steps away from him and finally looks at the rest of us, scanning the faces of the Walkers and finally letting her gaze come to rest on me and Sam. She approaches, and Sam shrinks closer to my side; though, between us, I think that he is likely the more dangerous—if he wished to be.

"I owe you an apology," she says, without preamble. Her style is forceful and direct, and in that, at least, I like her. "I'm sorry for trying to kill you, Mr. Foley, and for trying to steal your demon. It was wrong of me."

I'm about to protest that Sam isn't 'my' demon, but I stop myself in time. For one thing, the Walkers don't know Toni is talking about Sam, and for another, I sense him go still at my side, as if that's exactly what he expects me to say, and he's bracing for a blow.

"Apology accepted," I say instead, letting her choice of words go unchallenged.

It's not that she's wrong, after all; but if Sam is my demon, then I'm equally his man. The way she said it makes him sound like something that can be bartered or exchanged—bought and sold; a commodity of her trade.

She nods and starts to turn towards the Walkers, but I clear my throat and angle my head slightly towards Sam. She's not done apologizing yet.

Frowning, she turns back and gives Sam her attention, regarding him with reluctant curiosity. "You're not what I expected you to be," she says. "I'm sorry for what I did."

As apologies go, I've heard better, and wonder whether Sam will let the lackluster attempt pass, or demand something better.

He lets it go, and I do the same to my breath, not having realized until then that I was holding it.

"Help us figure out what's going on here, and how to stop it—if you can—and that will be apology enough," he says.

She gives him a small smile, the hard lines of her face softening a little, and nods.

Next, she greets the Walkers, who give her a wary welcome and fill her in on more of the details of recent events. She listens without interrupting, giving nothing of her thoughts away. I realize that I'm hopeful we can count her as a friend, because I sure don't want her as an enemy.

When the tale is told and we're all on the same page, more or less, we set out across the tarmac for the far edge of the airport and the wild, rough land beyond. Jack and Elliot lead the way, finding a series of game trails that take us in a meandering but easy course to the site of the burned car.

The scene looks much as it did the last time we were here—which, I realize with a little shock, was only the day before. It feels like a long time ago.

Toni walks forward to examine the wreck without hesitation, sniffing the air, bending to scratch at the ground, kicking the twisted lumps of ruined metal that was once Inez's prized Sunliner.

She kneels and scratches at the charred paint with a blunt nail.

"It was yellow and black, you say?" she asks, tilting her head and squinting at Inez, who nods. "Well...I can tell you one thing," Toni goes on, pushing herself to her feet. "Whoever did this is one fucked-up piece of shit. No one who wasn't would do something like this to such a beautiful car."

"No shit," Inez laughs. "I rebuilt that baby from scratch."

"You did?" Toni asks

"Sure," Inez returns. "No reason a woman can't work on her own car."

"You're preaching to the choir, sister," Toni laughs, "and talking to a mechanic."

Several of the Walkers brighten with interest at this, and as much as I love some good cylinder-based talk, I hasten to refocus our attention on the problem at hand.

"Can you tell what happened here?" I ask. "What kind of ritual was performed?"

"What makes you think it was a ritual?" Toni asks keenly.

I hesitate, but Sam steps up before I can decide what or how much to divulge.

"I got an impression, the first time we were here," he says. "This symbol..."

He kneels and scratches it in the blackened dirt with his forefinger—an oblong oval, taller than it is wide, with a horizontal bar through the middle.

"Hmm." Toni studies it with an intense, but not surprised, expression. "It's 'theta,'" she says, "a letter of the Greek alphabet. It has a few meanings, one of which is 'death.' From what I can tell, this is a death-summoning—a ritual that calls death, or a death-god, to a targeted individual. Ancient magic. Lots of variations across cultures," she goes on, leaning into the frame of the car and sweeping her fingers through the ash.

"Usually there's some sort of anchor, though. Something that marks the targets, so the death-magic can find them. We need to find it and destroy it before some poor fool picks it up. Whoever touches it becomes bound to the spell, marked as a target, and the magic won't give up until they're dead."

A sick feeling slithers its way up from my gut.

"What does it look like, this anchor thing?" I ask.

Toni shrugs, still leaning into the car. "I don't know. Usually something small. In some circles a sachet is traditional, in others, a bone of some kind. Pebbles, stones—doesn't really matter, as long as it's small enough for the victim to carry around."

"Would this work?" I ask, pulling the little black marble from my pocket with an effort. It's almost like another will is fighting mine, urging me to keep it hidden.

Toni turns and her eyes go wide.

"Yeah...that would work. Where did you find it?" she asks, with a tone that suggests she's hoping I'll say something like, 'a gift-shop in Florida,' or 'I won it in a round of strip poker.'

Instead, I can only nod towards the car. "In there. Among the bones."

"And uh...how do you feel about it?" she asks. "You wanna let me hold it for a while?"

"Not really," I admit, and then realize that I've already slipped it back in my pocket without even knowing what I'd done.

"Well, I'm not gonna lie," Toni says, staring at me with a frown. "You're probably already fucked. But at least we'll have a good chance at catching this bastard in the act."

I hear Sam's little fierce-kitten growl and feel his hand reach for and close around mine. Glancing down at him, I see that his skin has darkened several shades and is now distinctly more gold than ivory.

I catch his attention and shake my head, and he slowly turns pale once more.

Toni's right.

I am in deep shit, and I am already, undeniably, fucked.

But I'm not worried. 

Sam says he's a demon—that he's the literal spawn of some unknown hell—and maybe that's the truth.

As far as I'm concerned, though, I've got a goddamned angel on my side.

What earthly magic can stand against that?