Leif showed up at my house wearing a steel breastplate and a broad grin. “I have not lived this long to let a few witches stake me tonight,” he said, leaning casually against his Jaguar. He was wearing one of those old-fashioned white linen shirts with enormous poufy sleeves underneath his breastplate. He didn’t go full Renaissance, however, and complement this with breeches and a codpiece. Instead, he wore a black pair of Levi’s and some Doc Martens with a surplus of buckles. “You have one other vulnerability, I think,” I said. “And we need to address it.” His grin disappeared. “They have
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