We pulled into Scottsdale a little after six. The place was still baking — the thermometer on the dashboard indicated it was a hundred and three degrees outside — and I stared moodily out the window as we wound our way along wide streets planted with cactus in the dividers. Palm trees loomed overhead. Everything was extremely manicured, very neat. Not the sort of place you’d expect to find the head of the local witch clan, but then again, I was coming to realize that perhaps the bohemian McAllisters weren’t the norm in the witching world.
Connor took out his phone and made a brief call, saying we’d be there in about five more minutes. “She’s expecting us.”
Of course she was. I wondered what she might have to say about Connor’s and my latest display of power. “Are we going to tell her?”
