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Quincey had saved her life then, at no small risk to his own, but talking about it had seemed awkward to both of them, so they stopped. So, okay - nothing says we have to bring up that stuff .
    The sound of a phone ringing buzzed in Libby's ear. At the fifth ring, there was a click.
    "Howdy. You have reached Quincey Morris Investigations. If you've got this number, then you know what I do. If you want me to do it for you, then wait for the beep and leave a detailed message. I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Y'all take care, now."
    A few seconds later, a brief tone sounded. Libby tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. It wasn't Quincey's fault that he wasn't around when she was feeling needy.
    "Hey, Tex, it's me. Nothing urgent - I just called to see how you were doing. Give me a call sometime, when you have a chance. And stay the hell out of Idaho. Bye."
    As she closed her phone, Libby wondered if that last thing she'd said had been a tad untactful. Quincey'd had a brush with Hell in Idaho, and still carried a burn scar on his neck to prove it. She knew it still bothered him - and not just physically. Truth be told, it bothered Libby as well, but she never spoke about it to him.
    Until now - and in an answering machine message, to boot. Way to go, Libby.
    She shook her head, put the phone down, and walked over to one of her condo's large windows. She stared down at the traffic without really seeing it.
    There were a couple of nice bars within a few blocks from here - quiet, respectable places where she could nurse a drink and probably get picked up, if she wished.
    No, bad idea. Libby had gone that route a few times over the years, with men and women both, and each encounter had left her feeling empty and depressed.
    Being somebody's fucktoy for an evening isn't an uplifting experience - even when it's mutual.
    Anyway, if it was simply a matter of being horny, Libby had a Hitachi Magic Wand (the world's best vibrator, whose name gave her no end of amusement) and a good imagination. But she was saving that for bedtime. Nothing like three or four good, hard, guilt-free orgasms to help a girl sleep soundly.
    Walking slowly through the living room, hands in the deep pockets of her bathrobe, Libby glanced at her plasma-screen TV. She had the best cable package available in the city, but she had done some surfing a little while ago, and found herself agreeing with the country song lyric that went 'a hundred fifty channels, and not a damn thing on.'
    As she padded through the kitchen, her glance fell on the refrigerator. There was a full bottle of Grey Goose in the freezer, she remembered. Some ice-cold vodka might taste pretty good about now.
    Too good, most likely. There was some alcoholism in Libby's family, and although she lived a mostly temperate life - to practice magic effectively, you have to - she was still wary of developing bad habits. Even witches weren't immune to the weaknesses of mankind. Drinking when you were alone and bored was the first step down a path that Libby had no wish to travel. She kept moving.
    Well, there was always the Internet, thank Goddess. Libby went into the bedroom, sat at her desk, and logged on.
    Like most Internet users, Libby knew where to find free porn on the Web, but most of that stuff bored her now. When you've seen one porn site (well, okay, a couple of hundred) you'd pretty much seen it all.
    She went to a few news sites and scanned the day's headlines. The world, it seemed, was still going to Hell in a handbasket. Only the rate of travel seemed to vary.
    Then she watched movie trailers for a while. Libby liked the little 'coming attractions' featurettes, even for movies she would never be inclined to see. She admired the artistry involved in taking two hours of Hollywood crap and, in just two minutes, making it look like something that might actually be worth spending eight bucks on.
    After viewing all the new trailers that interested her, Libby decided to see if