Date: 2022-11-28 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Mystery; Urban Fantasy
Description: Anyone who knows her wouldn't be surprised to learn that Jilly sees the world through a prism of faerie tales. It was years before I came to understand that she wasn't just being whimsical when she talked so easily about hobs and brownies and various kinds of faerie creatures. They were real. Faerieland, otherworlds, and all the denizens and creatures you might imagine to live there. It was all real. And so were ghosts. I remember when I first realized this. I felt like my head was going to explode. Juniper should have known better after her last foray into the otherworld. But when she's asked
Publisher: Triskell Press

Juniper Wiles and the Ghost Girls

Charles de Lint

Anyone who knows her wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Jilly sees the world through a prism of faerie tales. It was years before I came to understand that she wasn’t just being whimsical when she talked so easily about hobs and brownies and various kinds of faerie creatures.

They were real.

Faerieland, otherworlds, and all the denizens and creatures you might imagine to live there.

It was all real.

And so were ghosts.

I remember when I first realized this. I felt like my head was going to explode.

Juniper should have known better after her last foray into the otherworld. But when she’s asked to look into a mysterious box full of poltergeists she ends up making a promise to seven teenage ghosts that puts here directly in the crosshairs of a blood witch’s deadly ire.

TRISKELL PRESS

P.O. Box 9480

Ottawa, ON

Canada K1G 3V2
www.charlesdelint.com

Copyright © 2022 Charles de Lint

“Newford Spook Squad” was first published in Hellboy: Odder Jobs, edited by Christopher Golden (Dark Horse Comics, 2004). Copyright (c) 2004 by Charles de Lint. Hellboy characters created by Mike Mignola and used by permission.

Cover design by Raven.

eISBN 978-1-989741-05-4

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

dedicated
to the memory
of our loyal pup

Johnny Cash,
and to the memory
of our dear friend

Andrew Vachss
who loved his own four-legged friends
as much as we do him

Introduction

It was a pleasant surprise for me as a writer to discover that so many of you enjoyed reading the first Juniper Wiles book as much as I did writing it.

I’m not a big series writer in the traditional sense of following one character for book after book but I’ve spent a lot of time in Juniper’s company over the past few years, writing the books, rewriting them, editing them, and I have yet to grow tired of her. Even when I’m working on something else I find Juniper popping in to say hello.

There are three more Juniper novels completed in draft form, each of them a little longer than the one before. There’s also a mostly unrelated book about dogs and dragons but I’m not sure when I’ll get any of them ready to be published since MaryAnn hasn’t been able to work on them.

But that’s for the future.

Juniper Wiles, set some fifteen years after the end of Widdershins (2006), was a play on a TV series. Juniper Wiles and the Ghost Girls takes on that venerable subgenre of wizardish schools/colleges/universities even if most of the action doesn’t take place inside ivy-clad stone walls.

And as usual with my books, while there are threads that weave from one story to another, it can be read on its own, a story unto itself with its own beginning and conclusion.

Ottawa, Spring 2022

Contents

1. Friday

2. Saturday

3. Sunday

4. Monday

5. Tuesday

6. Tuesday: Joe

7. Wednesday

8. Wednesday: Joe

9. Wednesday

10. Thursday

11. Friday

12. Two weeks later

Bonus story

13. Newford Spook Squad

Mailing list

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by Charles de Lint

You get what anyone gets…you get a lifetime.

—Neil Gaiman

1

Friday

“Oh, come on,” the big cop says. He looks away from me and fixes a hard gaze on Christy. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Kidding you—how?” Christy asks.

“You think I don’t know who she is?”

I decide to sit quietly in my chair and stay out of it. I warned Christy it was a bad idea to come down here. Let him deal with it. I look around the office while I listen to them.

The office belongs to Captain Sam Cray—the guy arguing with Christy—who also happens to head up the Newford Police Department’s Paranormal Investigations Task Force, for which Christy does consultations from time to time. It’s in a sub-basement of police headquarters. I didn’t know they even had a lower level like this. Cray’s office is a mix of messy files strewn about and state-of-the-art computer gear. The desk is oak and battered, the chairs old and wooden too. The one I’m sitting in squeaks whenever I move. One wall has a huge detailed map of the city. Another holds a cork board with a bewildering amount of paper and photos pinned to it. The one behind Cray’s desk is bare except for the dented metal filing cabinet pushed up against it. The last one is all glass, including the door we came in.

“Phara told me you have a problem with a ghost,” Christy says. “Juniper communicates with ghosts—it’s her thing.”

Cray looks in my direction then back at Christy. “She’s an actress. I have nieces. They’ve watched the show on Netflix and for a while it was all they could talk about.”

I correct him in my head. I was an actor. Yes, I did three seasons of Nora Constantine, the teen detective. But that’s not my gig anymore. I’m not a ghost whisperer either. Christy’s right that I’ve communicated with a few ghosts, but it’s not my thing.

Christy’s tenacious, I’ll give him that. “The show’s been over for years,” he says to Cray. “That’s not who she is anymore.”

Cray crosses his arms. “So who is she now?”

It’s interesting how they seem to have completely forgotten that I’m here. I could probably get up and walk out and they’d never notice, except I can’t quite remember every twist and turn of the corridors that got us here so I’d end up hopelessly lost.

“She’s a resource that you, apparently, aren’t interested in using,” Christy says, crossing his own arms.

I suppress a laugh just wishing I could watch these two have a go in the ring.

“This isn’t community theatre,” Cray tells him. “We do serious police work. How’s it going to look when it comes out we’ve got an actress who played being a detective as a consultant?”

“You mean as opposed to…oh, say…a voudoun priestess and some fortune tellers?”

“I thought they were your friends.”

“That’s not the point.”

Squeak goes my chair as I stand up. I swing my backpack onto my shoulder. They both turn in my direction, possibly a little surprised to see that I’m still here.

“This is a waste of my time,” I say. “I could have been down at O’Shaunessy’s getting a decent workout instead of listening to the pair of you, and that’s where I’m going now if someone will show me the way out.”

“What do you do at O’Shaunessy’s?” Cray asks.

I arch an eyebrow in his direction. “Why, good sir, I stand around and emote, as any good actor would do.”

“No, seriously.”

“Seriously, how’s it any of your business?”

“It’s just, that’s my gym,” he says. “Of course, I work out in the back.”

O’Shaunessy’s is set up so that the front of the building caters to the spandex and yoga pants crowd. The back is an old-school boxing club. They attract two entirely different crowds and there’s not a whole lot of love lost between them. Trust Cray to assume I’m with the Pilates crowd in front.

“Bully for you,” I say. “Pearse must just love arguing with you.”

“You know Pearse?”

“It’s his gym—why wouldn’t I? But he’s also my boxing coach.”

Something changes in his eyes. They’re still leery—I think this guy is probably always wound a little tight—but they’re not as belligerent anymore.

“Well, shit,” he says. “You must be the real deal if he’s working with you.”

I can’t resist an eye roll. “The way out?” I say, motioning toward the corridor.

He lifts his hands. “Hang on. Maybe I was being a little…um…”

“Bit of an asshole?” I fill in for him.

He looks down and almost smiles. “Okay, I deserve that.” He looks back up and studies me for a moment, then leans forward, hands on his thighs. “You really talk to ghosts?”

“Only if it’s in the script.”

Now it’s his turn for an eye roll. “Look, I said I was sorry about the actress cracks.”

“Actually, you didn’t.”

He holds my gaze. Off to the side I can see Christy grinning.

“Well, I meant to,” Cray says. “I mean, I’m sorry, okay?”

“Apology accepted. Now how do I get out of this place?”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t you have any give in you?”

“Depends on how much more of my time you plan to waste.” I can’t resist making a show of looking around the grubby room. “Honestly—do you think my being here is a good fit?”

Cray doesn’t look away from me. I just meet his gaze, letting the silence drag out. He breaks first.

“Christy?” he says. “A little help here?”

“Maybe it would be more constructive,” Christy says, “if you told us what your ghost problem is, so we can proceed from there.”

Cray nods and motions toward my seat. “Just hear me out?” he asks.

I put my backpack down, return to my squeaky chair and sit, back straight, hands folded on my lap. He offers a small smile at my pretense of being demure, just the corner of his mouth lifting for a moment, then he puts his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers. His gaze flicks to Christy.

“You know we don’t usually look into hauntings,” he says.

Christy nods, but I have to ask, “Why’s that?”

“Ghosts aren’t really a problem,” Cray says. “Not in the overall scheme of things. If you’re able to see them they can be annoying, but they can’t physically harm you.”

“So why the exception?”

Another sigh. “Politics. A friend of the mayor’s wife has a problem, the mayor calls the police commissioner—you know how it goes.”

I don’t, exactly, but it sounds about the way I imagine things work.

“This ghost turned out to be a little more serious,” Cray goes on. “It was a poltergeist, but the house had none of the usual suspects.”

“Meaning no adolescents,” Christy says.

Cray nods. “We brought Phara in to consult and she narrowed the problem down to an ornately carved box that the owners had picked up at an auction a couple of weeks earlier. It was part of a lot they were bidding on.”

“Phara Tourreau being the aforementioned priestess,” Christy puts in.

I look at Cray. “So you’re okay with a voodoo priestess but not a former actor?”

“Voudoun,” Christy corrects me at the same time as Cray says, “Can’t we let that go?”

I wave a hand for him to carry on.

“As soon as we took the box out of their house, the disturbances stopped. Phara says the box is definitely haunted by more than one spirit, but she can’t communicate with them.”

“Where’s the box now?” I ask.

“Downstairs,” Cray says. “For safety reasons, we’ve got it locked up in one of the containment cells.”

There’s a downstairs to offices that are already in a sub-basement?

“You’ve got cells that can hold a ghost?” I find myself saying. “How does that even work?”

“I don’t know the science. I just know it does. They’re hand-me-downs from the feds. They hold spirits, vampires, pretty much any kind of a monster we can fit in one.”

“And you’ve got them locked up in the same building we’re in?”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Cray assures me.

“What happens to them?”

Cray shoots Christy a glance and I can tell he’s trying to figure out just how much he can share with me. He studies me for a long moment, then makes up his mind. “It depends on what they are and their threat level,” he finally says. “If they’re only dangerous in an environment with people, they’re relocated. If they’re something like a vampire that’s already dead, or some other kind of monster, they’re terminated. Then there’s the grey area—like the werewolf we’re holding at the moment. He’s human most of the time, so we can’t terminate him, and relocation’s not an answer since he won’t necessarily survive in a foreign environment.”

This is troubling on any number of levels. To start with, one of Christy’s housemates is a woman named Mona who has a werewolf for a boyfriend, and Lyle’s one of the nicest guys I know. The idea of him being locked up in here makes me queasy and more than a little pissed off. Then there’s the whole question of…

“When you use the term ‘relocation,’ ” I say, “what exactly do you mean?”

Cray looks uneasy. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Joe takes them to an uninhabited world,” Christy says.

I nod. Joe’s another friend of the Stanton Street crowd that I met through Jilly. I went into the otherworld with him a few months ago—something I’d just as soon not repeat. No, let me clarify: I’d love to go back, but not to one where a horde of monsters is trying to kill me because that wasn’t, you know, fun.

“You know about the otherworld?” Cray says.

I don’t really want to commit too much. “I have a little experience.”

He leans back in his chair. “Aren’t you just full of surprises.”

I shrug. How are you supposed to answer a comment like that?

Cray straightens in his chair.

“So do you want to see the box?” he asks.

Not particularly. But that’s why Christy brought me here.

“Sure,” I tell him. “Lead on.”

We take an elevator that, as advertised, takes us down another level, though it feels like more than one floor. The door opens on a black-haired woman sitting behind a desk, a long corridor behind her. She stands up, her dark gaze resting briefly on Christy, then myself. Her bearing exudes an air of competence.

She smiles at Cray. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, dressed in a black T-shirt and baggy black cargo pants. She’s not quite pretty, not quite plain. Given the dark cast to her complexion, I suspect she might be Latina or Middle Eastern.

An unholstered Glock lies on the desk, her right hand resting close by. Also on the desk is an open laptop and a short stack of file folders. The corridor behind her stretches out, lined with glass-fronted cells, maybe ten on each side.

“This is Agent Namome,” Cray says, then proceeds to introduce the two of us to her. “We take turns down here,” he goes on. “It lets us get a lot of paperwork done.”

“The chief wants paperwork on these kinds of cases?” Christy asks.

“No. But we do.” He turns to Namome. “We’re just going to have a look at the box.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” she says, sitting back down. She closes her laptop, puts it and the file folders into a drawer of her desk, then locks it and pockets the key. She stands up again and holsters her gun. At my puzzled look she says, “We never leave firearms unattended. Besides that, the last time we opened that cell we had crap flying around everywhere.”

“Seriously?”

She nods and extends her hand. “Call me Assi.”

She accompanies us as Cray leads the way down the corridor. The cells have metal walls, ceilings and floors, each with a toilet and a metal bed. There are no discernible doors, unless the glass wall at the front of each unit is a door that opens and closes using the keypad by each cell.

It’s probably not actual glass, I think, but I resist the urge to rap one with my knuckles as we go by to find out what it’s made of.

Halfway down, we pass an occupied cell. I can’t make out who or what the figure is lying on the bed. They’re facing the wall with a blanket over their head. I assume that’s the werewolf. I feel a little sick inside.

We keep walking until we reach a cell at the end of the corridor. It holds the same built-in bed as the other cells and a small government-issue table with a carved wooden box about the size of a shoebox on it.

“What’s inside it?” I ask, peering at the box.

“We don’t know,” Cray says. “We can’t figure out how to open it and Phara recommended we don’t try to force our way in.”

I nod sagely, like I know all about this kind of thing. I keep looking, then let out a sudden involuntary gasp.

They all turn to look at me.

“You don’t see them?” I say. “The ghosts of six—no seven—teenage girls in there with the box.”

Cray and Assi turn from me to the cell then back again. I can see them struggling to take in what I’ve just told them.

“What do they look like?” Christy asks.

“Like teenage girls.”

Christy clears his throat and gives a patient nod. “And anything else? Something to distinguish them?”

“Well, they’re all dressed from different eras. The one in the front is a blonde cheerleader type with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, pleated blue skirt, white bobby socks and sneakers, and a white sweater with a big blue R on it.”

“Blue and white are the colours of Redding High,” Cray says.

I nod. “I remember. But this girl looks like she’s from the fifties or early sixties. There’s another decked out from the disco era. And a punk with a red Mohawk. One in overalls, looks like she just stepped off the farm. One that probably listened to way too much Nirvana—she’s in jeans and a checked flannel shirt. One wearing a blouse and skirt, looks like a science or math nerd.” I step a little closer to the glass. “The last one’s sitting on the floor in the corner with her back to me. She’s in jeans and a white T-shirt. They all look about sixteen or seventeen.”

The girls inside the cell have become aware that I can see them. They’re all looking in my direction except for the one in the corner. The punk suddenly lunges at me, both fists hitting the glass with a dull thud that makes it shake. I jump back, startled.

I’m not alone. My companions start as well, but only from the sound of the girl hitting the glass or whatever that clear substance is, because it doesn’t sound like glass.

“What the hell?” Assi says.

“The punk just hit the glass,” I say.

“But we heard it.” Assi looks at Cray. “You heard it, right? I thought ghosts couldn’t affect the physical realm.”

“That’s usually the case,” Christy says, then asks me, “What are they doing now?”

“The punk’s got the side of her face pressed against the glass, mouth open, looks like she’s yelling. The others are standing close and they’re all staring at me except for the girl in the corner. They know I can see them.”

“Can we get audio from in there?” Christy asks.

Assi touches a key on the keypad and we can now hear a faint hiss but nothing else.

“The punk is still shouting,” I say, “but I don’t hear anything.”

The punk finally gives up. She hits the glass once more—making everybody start again except for me because I could see it coming—then goes off to sulk on the bed. The rest of them have already lost interest, all except for the cheerleader. She’s watching me with a mournful look. She comes up to the glass and says something, then touches her ears and shakes her head.

“Can I talk to them?” I ask.

Assi touches another key.

“Are you asking if I can hear you?” I say to the cheerleader.

She nods her head.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

She gives me a resigned look.

“But I’m going to figure out a way,” I add as she starts to turn away.

She pauses, then sketches a cross on her chest and points upward.

I nod. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

She smiles and her whole face lights up. I get a little pain in my heart for what she’s going through. It only intensifies when she lays her hand on her chest, obviously thanking me.

“I won’t let you down,” I tell her.

Then I have to walk away, making a point to not look in the cell holding the werewolf. The others follow me back to Assi’s desk.

“The girls are all muted,” I tell them. “I need to figure out a way to communicate with them.”

“You’ve run into this kind of thing before?” Cray asks.

I start to tell him that I’m almost as clueless about ghosts as he is, but I realize that’s not something he wants to hear. Nor would Christy appreciate me saying it either, seeing how he sponsored me coming here in the first place.

“No,” I tell him. “But I’ll figure it out.”

I have to. I promised Blondie I would. Something horrible happened to all seven of those girls and, until I can communicate with them, we’ll never know what it was or how to help them—or how to stop it from ever happening to anyone else.

“We should go,” I tell Christy.

He nods.

“I know we got off on the wrong foot,” Cray says, “but I really appreciate your stepping up like this.”

I want to say, I’m doing it for the girls, not you, but all I tell him is, “Bygones.”

I wait until I’m alone with Christy outside of police headquarters before I give him a light jab in the tricep.

“Ow. What was that for?”

“For getting me involved in this.”

“I had no idea what kind of ghost this would be. When Phara told me about it she just said there was an angry spirit.”

“Try seven.”

“Okay, seven.”

“Who were probably murdered,” I continue, “possibly by a serial killer, or why would they all be so connected to that box? I’ll bet the killer took mementoes from his victims and stored them in it.” The very idea makes me feel a little sick again.

“I’m sorry, Juniper,” Christy says. “I honestly had no idea it would be so upsetting.”

“It’s not just that. It’s the whole—the whole thing going on in there. That could be Lyle locked up in one of those cells.”

“I know. And you can’t ever let on to Cray that Lyle’s a werewolf.”

“Why not? Lyle’s not dangerous. So why is that other one locked up?”

“Because some of them are dangerous. Some are like rabid dogs and Cray’s got a personal vendetta against them because one of them killed his girlfriend.”

“Oh, no.”

“There are seriously bad things out there,” Christy says. “You already know that. It’s not all sweet faeries and mischievous hobs. And while the Spook Squad’s not an ideal solution, at this point in time it’s the best defence we’ve got.”

“And Joe works for them?”

“Not exactly. But he has transported some creatures to worlds where they can thrive and do nobody any harm. It’s more like he works with them when it suits him.”

“I hate that this place exists.”

“Me, too. But I hate it more when innocent people are hurt or killed.”

“I guess.”

“Are you coming back to the house?” he asks.

Jilly’s dog-sitting Sonora at the moment and I was planning to do some painting with her this afternoon.

“You go ahead,” I tell him. “I have an errand to run first.”

Once upon a time, as Jilly would say, I was the red-haired teen detective Nora Constantine you could find once a week on your TV screen, now available as a Blu-ray, download, or from a streaming service. But as Sam Cray rightly pointed out, it’s only a TV show and I was just an actor playing a role. It doesn’t mean that I have any actual experience, or even inclination, for investigating crimes.

After the series ended I did some guest spots on various TV shows, as well as some best forgotten movies. As time went on I grew disenchanted with the roles being offered to me and the increasingly empty life that had become mine, until it got to the point where I felt trapped living in L.A.

So I came back home to Newford to reinvent myself. I had the luxury of not having to work for a living because of residuals from the show, but the trouble was, I didn’t know what route that reinvention would take.

Until I renewed my acquaintance with Jilly.

She rekindled my love for making art, but more importantly, she showed me how to have purpose in my life.

I know Jilly’s relentless good cheer can annoy some people, but for the ones who assume she’s fake, they’re just plain wrong. Jilly’s good nature is genuine, and she’s a happy person who does her bit to make the world a better place.

Jilly goes out of her way to help people. I don’t know where she finds the spare hours, but she volunteers on a regular basis at the local retirement home, the soup kitchen, the animal shelter, as well as the Katharine Mully Memorial Arts Court—a drop-in center for street kids that she and some friends set up to give disadvantaged youth a creative outlet. The center provides art supplies, studio space, instruments, recording facilities, computer stations, a dance studio—whatever a kid needs. They offer instruction if it’s wanted. Otherwise they leave the kids alone to follow their muses.

When I was young I took a workshop there led by Jilly and I fell in love with art. So coming back to Newford, the Arts Court was the first place I went and, wouldn’t you know it, Jilly was there teaching another workshop for a new generation of young artists. Oddly, in those intervening years she hadn’t aged like one might expect. It’s a combination of genetic luck and perhaps a bit of magic thrown into the mix.

That day after she finished the workshop we sat for a couple of hours in the court’s café catching up. She then insisted that I come back to her place for supper, at which point I was introduced to Bramleyhaugh, the big rambling house on Stanton Street that she shares with her husband Geordie and a gaggle of creative people. It’s more an artists’ community than a commune like the one my brother Tam and I grew up in.

Jilly and I hit it off—well, pretty much everybody hits it off with Jilly, but something really clicked with us.

I didn’t have any close friends when I moved back to Newford, but I never got the chance to feel lonely. Jilly drew me into an instant circle of friends and acquaintances. I began painting with her and Sophie in the Grumbling Greenhouse Studio, a refurbished greenhouse behind the main house. Inspired by Jilly’s volunteerism, like many of the Stanton Street regulars, I started doing some volunteer work as well.

Aside from those volunteer hours and my workouts at O’Shaunessy’s, I can often be found at Bramleyhaugh making art, hanging out, listening to impromptu jams, having deep conversations, or just getting caught up in some bit of tomfoolery, usually instigated by Jilly.

What I found on Stanton Street is my tribe. Jilly calls it a family of choice, but I grew up luckier than many. Tam and I didn’t come from a horrible family like she did. Our parents gave us a fantastic childhood. On our commune we were homeschooled with other kids and all of us were encouraged to dream big. When our parents finally went off on a short vacation, the train they were on derailed and we lost them both, which was heartbreaking.

Grandma took us in with her here in Newford, and she was kind and loving, but of course it was never the same. Life sucks sometimes but we survived. Grandma even left us the old family home where Tam and I still live today.

If one is going to live in a city, Newford’s a pretty good choice. Between its clubs and cafés, the music and art scenes, it ticks every box. But there’s more to it than that, and Jilly’s art expresses it perfectly.

Anyone who knows her wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Jilly sees the world through a prism of faerie tales. It was years before I came to understand that she wasn’t just being whimsical when she talked so easily about hobs and brownies and various kinds of faerie creatures.

They were real.

Faerieland, otherworlds, and all the denizens and creatures you might imagine to live there.

It was all real.

And so were ghosts.

I remember when I first realized this. I felt like my head was going to explode.

“God, is everything supernatural here?” I asked Jilly.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” she said. “Newford’s a magical city—of course it’s full of magic. It’s no different than going to Paris. Are you going to be surprised to find so many French people living there?”

It was after my first encounter with a ghost that Jilly decided we had a calling, that we should become detectives like my character on Nora Constantine. Happily, she gave up on the idea of a detective agency—“Coppercorn and Wiles, Private Investigations”—but not before she had Mona design a logo and mock up a business card for us.

But even without an official presence in the phone book or on the web we began to get the occasional appeal from apparitions and spirits and things that go bump in the night. Maybe it’s because Jilly tends to attract the otherworldly—Joe says she’s got a shine that draws them to her. More likely it’s because, unlike Jilly, I can readily see and interact with the ghosts. Apparently this isn’t something most people can do. It only started happening to me recently—who knows why. Yay me.

Honestly, I don’t need this in my life. But being with Jilly has taught me to lend a helping hand whenever I’m able. So how can I turn my back on those who happen to be physically challenged in the sense that they don’t even have a physical body?

Mostly we’ve helped ghosts pass on messages—not always well received, I might add—like where some lost object is, the hiding place of their true and final will, maybe some stash of jewels or money, or something that only has meaning to them. Twice we’ve been tasked to reveal where bodies have ended up. One was a lost hiker, the other a suicide, which pretty much broke my heart. I suppose we did provide closure for friends and family but it still feels awful to be the messenger.

I’ve come to learn a few things:

The dead aren’t a cheerful lot and their messages from beyond the grave usually reflect that in one way or another. Like a pebble dropped into still water, the ripples of their unhappiness spread if you let them.

And the dead always have an agenda.

After leaving Christy I head over to The Bone Circus Gallery, which is owned by a couple of Jilly’s friends, Eliza and Sarah. Eliza is the artist. She has a studio out back of the store. The commercial space is divided between the gallery and shelves of art supplies. I’m in the latter area crouched down to look at a lower shelf when a scruffy, dark-haired boy approaches me. He’s not homeless scruffy so much as hipster scruffy, but he has nice eyes so I don’t hold his hipster tendencies against him. He sits on his haunches so our gazes are level.

“I need you to find my sister,” he says without any preamble.

“I don’t do missing persons,” I tell him.

Jilly’s hopes aside, I’m not really interested in doing any kind of investigative work. Nora Constantine was only a character. But more and more, the fiction of Nora and my own real life have had the unhappy habit of banging up against each other. And the disturbing thing is, I’m actually getting used to strangers coming up to me asking some variation on this question. It’s usually either a fan or a ghost. This fellow isn’t a ghost, but he doesn’t look like someone that would care for the show, so I’m a little baffled.

“I know that, but she’s Daisy Fairweather,” he says, as though I’m supposed to know who he’s talking about.

“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t know that name.”

He rolls his eyes, like I’m being obtuse. “You know,” he says. “From The Kingsmoor Chronicles—the books by Colin Bishop.”

Wait a minute, I think. He wants me to find his fictional sister? That means he’s fictional too.

Sorry, he’s an Eadar. That’s what Jilly says we’re supposed to call them. And though they might have started out as fictional, if they get enough attention they can become as real as you or me.

I straighten up, which makes him stand as well. I study his face, but I’m not getting anything. Of course I’ve heard of the Kingsmoor books, but I’ve not actually read them. I haven’t seen the movie either. I just know they’re about some secret wizard college—kind of like Harry Potter, I guess, except for older kids.

“And that would make you…?” I ask.

“Duncan.”

“Well, Duncan,” I tell him. “First of all, I already have something I’m working on. And second, I call bullshit. I’ve already played this game and the last thing I want is to get caught up in another fictional world. You do know you’re an Eadar, right?”

For a moment his mouth drops open, then he frowns. “No one told me you would be this rude.”

I lean in a little closer. “Do tell,” I say. “Who told you about me? Because, you see, I’ve already gone down this rabbit hole and there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to put myself through it again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Who steered you to me?”

“The shadow girl,” he says, as though that explains everything.

“The say who?”

“The shadow girl. She lives on the other side.”

“That sounds ominous. The other side of what?”

Duncan leans toward my ear. “There are more worlds than this one we stand in,” he says, his voice lowering in tone and making him sound like he’s about to start a lecture.

I draw back. “Oh, please. I know all about the otherworld.”

“You do?”

I ignore that. I don’t need to explain anything to him. He, on the other hand…

“So who is this shadow girl?” I ask. “What does she look like? Where does a person find her?”

“She’s small and skinny and has red hair like you, but hers is a messy bird’s nest of tangles.”

Of course she does. I’m cursed with hair so determinedly straight it won’t hold a perm for a minute.

“And you met her, how?” I ask.

“In a coffee shop.”

“Here or in an otherworld?”

“Here. It was at The Beanery.”

“And she just said you should look up Juniper Wiles and she’ll fix you up.”

“No. But she said you had experience helping people like me, and it wouldn’t hurt to ask for your help.”

“Hmm.”

I study him some more, but I still can’t get a good read on him.

“What makes you think your sister’s in danger?” I ask.

“I don’t know that she is. I’m just worried because she’s been gone for over a month. She never goes away for that long without telling me first.”

“And you think she can’t get along on her own? You know what’s best for her?”

He shakes his head. “She knows what’s best for me. I kind of count on her guidance.”

I know I shouldn’t get involved in this, but I can’t seem to help myself.

“I really am caught up in the middle of something else,” I tell him. “Why don’t you leave me your number—um, you do have a phone, right?”

I have no idea if wizards, fictional or otherwise, use tech.

“Who doesn’t have a phone?” he says.

I take out mine. “So what’s the number?”

“Here,” he says.

He does some twisty thing with his fingers and a blue spark jumps from his hand into my phone. I snatch back my hand.

“If you fried my phone—” I start.

“Relax. I just put in my contact.”

I open my phone app, scroll down to F and there it is, just like he said it would be.

“So you can use magic,” I say.

He looks at me as though I’m thick in the head. “I am a wizard.”

“Right. Which begs the question, why don’t you use your magic to find Daisy?”

“You don’t think I’ve been trying? I’ve also left teddy messages and texts.”

“Teddy?”

“You know, short for the tedious. It’s what we call the non-magical.”

“Isn’t that endearing,” I say, crossing my arms.

Which only gets me a confused look. Eadar take quick offence to being called fictional, but he’s obviously clueless when the shoe’s on the other foot.

“It’s like she just vanished,” he goes on, “and I’m afraid something bad has happened to her.”

I bend down and grab the tube of burnt umber I was looking at before this conversation started. I’m probably going to regret agreeing to this but, unlike some of the ghosts I’ve run into these past few months, he’s only slightly annoying and maybe his sister really is in trouble. I know how I’d feel if Tam went missing. And being Eadar, as the Fairweathers are, they can’t exactly go to the police for help.

“I’ll do some research to see if I can help,” I tell him as I stand up. “But no promises.”

“You’ll let me know either way?”

“Sure.”

I watch him walk out of the store before I go to the counter and ring the bell so Eliza can come and take the sale.

When I open the front door of Bramleyhaugh my bull terrier Sonora comes skidding down the long hall from the kitchen to greet me. Hard on her heels is Bobo, Jilly’s tiny dog, a wiry mix of toy poodle and some kind of terrier. I kneel on the floor, dividing my love between the pair of them.

“We’re in here,” Jilly calls from the kitchen.

I disengage from the dogs and follow her voice to where she’s sitting at the kitchen table with Sophie. As soon as I drop my backpack on the floor and settle into a chair Sonora glues herself to my leg, panting happily.

“You look like you could use a cup of tea,” Sophie says.

“What I could use is a shot of whiskey.”

Jilly cocks an eyebrow. “I think Geordie’s got some Jameson’s up in the music room.”

“Much as I’d like it, I doubt it would be a good idea. But thanks for the offer.”

“Tea it is then,” Sophie says, rising.

She grabs a mug from the cupboard, fills it from the teapot in the middle of the table, and sets it in front of me. The scent of lemongrass wafts up in the steam.

“I take it your visit to the Spook Squad didn’t go well?” Jilly says. “We’ve already had Christy come home a while ago and head directly to his office.”

“Looking peeved,” Sophie adds.

Jilly considers that. “No, more like he was frustrated.”

Sophie nods in agreement.

“Maybe it’s because I punched him,” I say. “Oh, only in the tricep, not hard,” I add as two pairs of eyes widen in my direction.

I consider this morning’s visit. “It’s a horrible place that I wish I’d never seen.”

Sophie raises an eyebrow. “His tricep?”

“No, Spook Squad headquarters.”

“Geordie’s convinced me never to go,” Jilly offers.

“I wish I’d seen him before I let his brother talk me into it.”

“How bad is it?” Sophie asks.

“They’ve got this sub-sub-basement full of specially designed cells magical people can’t get out of. At the moment there’s a werewolf in one and the ghosts of seven mute teenage girls in another.”

They both look as horrified as I feel.

“The first thing I could think of was Lyle,” I say. “What if it were him in there?”

“But he’s not a werewolf,” Sophie says.

I shoot an accusatory look in Jilly’s direction. She returns a clear-eyed gaze that’s not even remotely contrite.

“Sophie’s right,” she says. “He’s a cousin, like Joe. A shapeshifter. I just call him a werewolf to get a rise out of him, and it’s become a habit.”

I sigh, knowing I’ll never get a handle on this stuff. “So what’s the difference?” I ask.

“A werewolf is ruled by the moon. He doesn’t have any choice—he just becomes a wolf, or sometimes a hybrid like you see in the movies. When they’re young they can be completely out of control and dangerous. A cousin, on the other hand, can shift whenever he wants and he’s still himself in his animal form.”

“Although,” Sophie adds, “Joe says that werewolves are actually cousins who’ve convinced themselves that they’re werewolves.”

“Oh,” I say, raising my cup to my lips. “That clears up everything.”

Jilly laughs and clinks cups with me. “I still think,” she says, “that somewhere out there is an otherworld where werewolves are real. I mean, don’t Joe and Christiana say that anything we can imagine is out there somewhere?”

“I don’t know if they do or don’t exist,” I say. “It was still horrible. Whatever was in that cell just looked like a guy. He had his back to us but I could tell he wasn’t a monster.”

“But he could be terribly dangerous when he changes,” Jilly says.

I frown at her.

Jilly nods sympathetically. “It doesn’t mean I agree.” Her shoulders droop a little. “I didn’t know they were doing that.”

We’re all quiet for a moment, then Sophie says, “You said something about ghosts?”

The topic of ghosts won’t lift our hearts or eliminate the plight of that being in the cell, but at least it’s another subject. I tell them about the fifties cheerleader and her companions, then carry on to my encounter with Duncan Fairweather in The Bone Circus Gallery.

“You’ve had a busy morning,” Sophie says.

“I regret ever leaving my house.”

Jilly shakes her head. “Don’t say that. These people need our help.”

She turns to Sophie. “Did you ever read those Kingsmoor books?”

“No,” Sophie says, “but Wendy will know them.”

“Considering how it worked out the last time,” I say, “I can’t say I’m too thrilled about getting involved with another fictional problem.”

“We won’t let it come to that,” Jilly assures me. “And the polite term for fictionals is Eadar.”

“I know. I just wish this shadow girl wasn’t handing my name around. I really don’t need Eadar added to the ghosts. I wonder who she is.”

“It’s probably Christiana,” Jilly says. “You know—Geordie’s sister,” she adds at my blank look.

I shake my head. “But why would she—”

“Because she’s Christy’s shadow,” Sophie says.

“She doesn’t like us calling her that,” Jilly says, wagging her finger at Sophie.

Sophie nods. “You’re right—my bad.”

Jilly turns to me. “Christiana would be sympathetic to someone like Duncan, considering her own origins.”

I know the story. Supposedly, Christiana was made up of all the bits of Christy that he cast off when he was seven. When he threw away those parts of himself they became Christiana, a seven-year-old girl as real as you or me who decided to call herself Christiana—a mash-up of Christy's name and that of his first-grade school crush, Anna. Since then, they've each become their own individual person.

What does it say about my life these days when none of that surprises me? And although I’ve heard all of this before, it never really takes. I’ve met Christiana and she seems like an ordinary person to me.

“I guess I’ll have to talk to her about it,” I say. “But right now we need to focus on those mute girls.”

Jilly nods. “It would help if we could identify them—see if there’s any connection between them.”

“Maybe if Juniper describes them to you,” Sophie says to her, “you could use your police sketch artist skills to work up images that the police could use to ID them. If the girls went missing or were murdered, there’d have to be photographs of them on file.”

“That’s a good idea,” Jilly says. “We could give it a try.”

“Except what if—” I begin, then I shake my head. “No, it’s a crazy idea.”

“You do realize who you’re talking to,” Sophie says. “We do crazy all the time—especially Jilly.”

Jilly’s brow furrows. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“What’s your idea?” Sophie asks me, reaching over to give Jilly an affectionate pat on the back.

I take another sip of tea. “Well, Jilly’s always saying everything has a spirit, right? So what if we brought a pad of paper and a pencil to the girls’ cell and burned them? Would that create a ghost pad and pencil that the girls could write on to communicate with me?”

Neither of them says anything for a long moment.

I sigh. “I told you it was crazy.”

Jilly holds up a hand. “I’m not dismissing it. I’m just trying to consider the logistics. Do you ever see the ghosts of objects or buildings—anything like that?”

I shake my head. “Not so far. Or at least not that I’m aware of. I don’t even know who’s a ghost and who isn’t, unless they let me know or I realize that no one else can see them.”

Jilly’s listening to me, but I can see thoughts whirring through her head at the same time. She taps a finger on the table as she thinks.

“Okay,” she says. “So the pad and pencil would have to be imbued with…I’m not sure what. Intent of some sort, I’m guessing. Sentience. But if we give them any kind of life, setting fire to them would actually kill them. I’m not comfortable with that.”

“Totally ditto,” I say.

“Maybe an Ouija board?” Sophie says.

Jilly nods. “That is an excellent idea.”

A little chill runs up my spine. “Aren’t they supposed to be dangerous?” I say.

“In what sense?” Jilly asks. “You’ve said that whenever you want a ghost to leave all you have to do is touch them and they just dissipate.”

“So far.”

“Except, to send a message on the board,” Sophie says, “doesn’t the spirit have to possess you? What if you can’t get them out of you when you’re done?”

I really don’t like the sound of that.

“We could ask Meran Kelledy,” Jilly says.

“I thought you told me she’s a faerie.”

“She is. But she also knows everything there is to know about pretty much any enchantment.”

My phone pings, telling me I have a text. I take a look.

“That’s Nick,” I say. “I’m supposed to go over for dinner and a movie at his place tonight.”

Jilly wiggles her eyebrows in what she thinks is a suggestive manner.

“Oh, grow up,” I tell her. “I’ll let him know I can’t make it.”

“You should go,” Jilly says. “We have to wait for Wendy on the Kingsmoor business, and I can go see Meran.”

I want to see Nick, but I’d also like to see Meran. She and her husband live a few houses farther down Stanton Street. I hardly ever get to see her and she’s so intriguing.

Jilly reads the indecision on my face.

“We’re a team, remember?” she says. “It’s not Wiles, Private Investigations, but Coppercorn and Wiles. You’ve done enough today. I can handle this.”

“I thought we’d decided that we’re not private investigators.”

Jilly smiles and waves off my argument.

“You kind of are,” Sophie says. “All you need is the license.”

“All we need is to have our heads examined. You should have seen Detective Cray’s face when he saw that the help Christy was bringing in was an actor who’d only played the part of a detective.”

“And yet,” Jilly says, “in a few minutes of observation you were able to get further than they did for however long they’ve been working the case.”

I laugh. “Okay, I give up, partner.”

Jilly smiles. “If only you meant that.”

“Why are you so determined for us to be detectives?” I ask.

“Part-time detectives,” she corrects me. “It’s on my bucket list. Along with being a faerie godmother and opening a school to teach girls how to be properly wayward.”

All I can do is shake my head. I stand up and swing my backpack to my shoulder, calling Sonora in from the living room where she and Bobo retreated after the excitement of my arrival died down. Let’s face it, a couch is always softer than the floor.

“I’m going to the gym,” I say as she wiggles at my side. I reach down and give her a cuddle. “Onward, my queen.”

Pearse O’Shaunessy is in his office when I get to the gym. Sonora darts around his desk, then sits expectantly while he rummages in a drawer for the treat she’s expecting. I drop my backpack on the floor and slouch in a chair in front of the desk.

I’m never sure exactly what it is that Pearse does back here. There’s always a laptop open on the desk, its screen casting a glow on Pearse’s grizzled features, and stacks of paperwork piled everywhere. But he rarely seems to actually be doing anything.

“No treat for me?” I ask after Sonora’s snapped up hers.

“Being in my presence is your present,” he says.

We both laugh at the corny old cliché.

O’Shaunessy’s is an old-style boxing club here in the back of the building where we are. Lots of old wood, spotlights, a boxing ring in the center of the room with areas for weights, heavy and light bags, and cardio along the walls. There’s a changing area, showers and bathrooms at the back, and then Pearse’s office.

Out front is the Nautilus equipment, Pilates and yoga classes, and whatever else happens to be trendy in fitness at any given moment. The two parts of the gym might as well be on different planets.

“I thought you’d be in this morning,” Pearse says.

“So did I, but Christy convinced me to help out the police with a ghost problem they have. You know a Captain Cray, right?”

Pearse nods. “Sure, he’s in charge of the Spook Squad—excuse me—the Newford Paranormal Investigations Task Force.”

“So what’s your take on him?”

“He’s honest, a little old school, but he’s obviously open to trying things differently if it gets the job done, or he wouldn’t be in charge of the task force.” He smiles. “I remember when he first got assigned he was convinced he’d seriously pissed off somebody in the brass, but I hear he’s settled in well. Were you able to help him out?”

“I’m working on it. I can see the ghosts where he can’t, but they’re mute. Jilly and I are trying to figure out a way to communicate with them.”

“Have you tried American Sign Language?”

“No. I never thought of that. Maybe I’ll have to learn it and then teach it to the ghosts if we can’t come up with something else.”

Pearse shakes his head. “You lead an interesting life.”

“Yeah, like the old Chinese curse. Do you have time for me to do a little sparring? I really feel like hitting something.”

“What have I said about venting emotions?”

I roll my eyes. “That boxing is a science and an art, not a place to blow off steam.”

I pause and bat my eyelashes at him. “But it’s such an effective way to get rid of your frustrations.”

He shakes his head then cracks his knuckles. “We’ll see how effective it is. Make sure to wear your helmet. I might get in a few head shots just to prove my point.”

Pearse has been training me for a while. He’s in his early sixties now, but he’s still fit and can out-box anybody in the gym. He doesn’t get why I don’t want to compete, but he likes me—and he loves Sonora—so he puts up with me.

“I agree—it’s an art,” I tell him. “But sometimes I just want to hit things to relieve tension.”

He smiles. “Just go get changed.”

Later, when we’re sitting on a bench along the wall near the heavy bags, my head’s still ringing, even with the helmet for protection and the bulky practice gloves we’re using. Pearse encouraged me to work out my frustrations, then proceeded to show me, once again, why they’re a liability in the ring.

Sonora paced around the ring while we sparred, unhappy as she always is when two people she likes are having a go at each other. A couple of guys on the weights watched, but nobody laughed when I didn’t land a single punch. Pearse could kick their asses too and they know it.

“So how do you find detective work?” Pearse asks.

I’m about to say that I don’t do detective work—sleuthing, as Jilly likes to call it with a gleam in her eye—but I realize that’s exactly what we’ve been doing with some of the ghosts we’ve been helping. God help me, next I’ll be referring to it as cases, the way Jilly does.

“Mostly it’s pretty tedious,” I tell him. “A lot of legwork, a lot of questions, which most of the time don’t take you anywhere useful.”

He nods. “My old man was a cop, back in the old country. He used to love reading all those hardboiled mysteries, but he’d have a laugh over them while he was doing it—all those chases and fisticuffs and shoot-’em-ups. He used to say that police work was ninety-nine percent boredom and one percent excitement, and he could do without that one percent.”

“I’d have to agree with him,” I say, “but the funny thing is, there’s something satisfying about working through the puzzles or finding the thing that nobody else can, or at least hasn’t yet, though I’d never tell Jilly that.”

“Why not?”

I shrug. “These days, it’s mostly to tease her. I wasn’t as interested at first, but it gets a little addictive and there’s no end of people who can use a helping hand.”

“By people, you mean ghosts?”

I think of Duncan, but I nod. “If people aren’t able to see or hear you, it’s hard to get help.”

“Why do you think you can see them?”

“I’ve no idea. Genetics, I guess.”

“I had an aunt who claimed she could hear the banshee,” Pearse says, “but I’ve never even seen a leprechaun.”

“Then why are you so accepting of it all? Outside of the Bramleyhaugh regulars, I can’t imagine having this conversation with many people.”

“I suppose I’ve just met too many people who’ve had unusual experiences. After a while it seems dumb not to accept it.” He puts his head back, working a crick out of his neck, before asking, “How do you turn it off?”

“Turn what off?”

“Seeing ghosts. They must come up to you all the time.”

“Not really. And unless they approach me I don’t even know they’re ghosts. They just look like regular people.”

“So they’re not walking around with gaping bullet holes or carrying their heads under their arms.”

I pull a face. “Now, that would be creepy. Most of the ones that have come to me didn’t have a violent death. They’re just trying to tidy up some loose ends before they go on.”

“Makes you wonder,” he says.

“About what?”

“You know. The teachings of the Church. Heaven and hell. All that stuff.”

“I try not to think about it too much. Reality already feels like a nebulous concept as it is.”

“So you’re a pragmatic ghost whisperer,” he says. “You get the job done and move on.”

I think about those mute girls locked up in their cell.

“I wish it were always that easy,” I say.

I’ve been seeing Nick for a few months now and I really like him. The trouble is, I don’t love him. Which, at this stage in our relationship, shouldn’t be a real problem except that lately he’s started talking about commitment, and maybe moving in together, and that’s not the page I’m on at all.

I don’t want to move in to Nick’s place or get a place together. And I don’t want him moving in with me, which would be the logical thing to do if we were to take the next step. But I like living with my brother in the house where we spent our teen years. I like that there’s room to bang around in. Growing up on a commune as we did, we really appreciate our space. It’s an easy, comfortable arrangement.

For the same reason, I’ve never taken up Jilly’s suggestion that I move into Bramleyhaugh. I like all those people. There’s plenty of space—honestly, sometimes it seems like there’s more space than is logically possible—and it would be perfectly acceptable to grab some down time in one’s own room.

But I’ve noticed that they do a lot of things together—in twos and threes, if not all of them.

It seems like way too much pressure to me.

I like padding downstairs in pyjamas and slippers in the morning, making a coffee and sitting on the back steps while Sonora does her inventory of the backyard, knowing all the time that I won’t have to make any conversation with anybody because the only person in the house is Tam and he won’t be up for hours. The world seems to belong just to Sonora and me.

The bigger problem with Nick and his growing feelings is that, even when he doesn’t bring them up, I’m anticipating that he will. And yes, I know how counterproductive not living in the moment is, but I can’t get my brain to shut up so it’s a real problem for me.

I should just call it quits, but I’m a bit of a coward—I hate making people feel bad. And so long as he doesn’t focus on defining and redefining our relationship, we have a lot of fun. He makes me laugh and the sex is good. I don’t know why I can’t fully reciprocate his feelings. The problem, I know, is with me, but nobody is ever consoled hearing that old cliché.

Today all’s well when I arrive at his bookstore and we walk back to his place. He doesn’t cook, so we stop at The Light of India, one of my favourite restaurants, for take-out and everything’s good. The conversation is light, the food delicious. We have red wine, bringing the bottle and our glasses to the sofa when the meal is done. Sonora sleeps contentedly in Nick’s reading chair after basically inhaling the dinner I brought for her.

There are books everywhere. Bookcases in the living room, in the bedroom, lining the halls. Which, I suppose, isn’t surprising for a guy who manages a used bookstore, but I’ve never seen so many bookcases stuffed to overfull, except for half the rooms in Bramleyhaugh.

I love reading, but I don’t keep many of the books I do read, a fact that Nick found astonishing when it first came up. It’s not that we don’t have books back at our house. They’re just mostly cookbooks, Tam’s tune books, reference books, art books. Very little fiction.

But I understand the appeal—more so since I’ve come to know Saskia better. She kind of lives in a digital world, so books, original art, and vinyl records are special artifacts to her—tangible versions of what passes by fleetingly in their digital formats. She loves the fact that she can actually hold a book in her hands, run her finger against the texture of a painting. That there’s a whole process to listening to analog music, a ritual almost—taking the record from its sleeve to the turntable, dusting it, making sure the needle is clean, raising the arm then lowering it onto the grooves—before the music can actually play.

“Do you ever miss acting?” Nick asks as we scroll through the various movies and shows available for screening.

“A little. But I don’t regret walking away. I really needed to escape everything that goes on around it—all the things that don’t have anything to do with the actual job itself.”

He nods. “Did you ever consider the stage?”

“I’ve done a few plays, but not for a long time.” I think about that for a moment before I add, “I don’t think I’m really cut out for any kind of art that involves a collaborative process. Solo is my new thing, whether it’s good or bad, and these days it’s still mostly bad. I like the fact that I’m the only one responsible for what I paint.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short.”

I wave off the flattery. “I’m just lucky that my earlier acting work lets me indulge in painting for myself without having to worry about making ends meet. And so long as I stick to a budget I should be able to do it for a while. What about you? Do you ever think of opening your own store?”

“Not really. I like working at Burns’ Books and my uncle says he’ll leave it to me, though I’m in no hurry to have that happen. It does disappoint my parents, especially my mother. She was really hoping for a doctor or a lawyer.”

I laugh. “That’s still a thing?”

“It is in her mind.”

We finally pick a movie. Nick puts his arm around my shoulders and I snuggle against him as we watch pretend people go through their scripted crises. I find myself wondering if, somewhere in the otherworlds, there’s a place where their lives are still going on without scripts. If they live messy lives there, without tidy endings.

Nick’s disappointed that I can’t stay the night, but I explain that I have a busy day tomorrow. He wants to walk me home, but finally accepts that I’ve got Sonora to protect me. I don’t bother adding that with my training—martial arts and weapon training in L.A., boxing with Pearse—I feel confident that I can keep myself safe all on my own.

It’s a nice autumn night, cool enough for my hoodie, but not cold. There’s a quarter moon riding high above the rooftops in a clear sky. Leaves crunch underfoot and we have the sidewalks to ourselves.

I don’t start rethinking my decision to go home alone until we’re taking a shortcut through the little park behind St. Paul’s Cathedral. A footpath leads through the grass and trees, with lampposts set at regular intervals. I begin to get the sense that we’re not alone. Sonora grumbles low in her chest like something’s making her nervous, which of course puts me on edge. I know you’re supposed to stride confidently like you know where you’re going, but my pace falters. The hairs prickle on the back of my neck and I start looking around.

A waft of summer comes to me from behind. It’s so odd, the warm air like a breath carrying the scent of flowers and grass. I turn to find a figure standing on the path in the shadows between two pools of lamplight.

“Hey,” the figure says and I relax because I recognize her voice. “Do you have a moment?”

It’s Christiana—Geordie and Christy’s sister. Christy’s shadow.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you anyway.”

“I know. Jilly told me.” She reaches a hand out to me. “Come back to my place and we can talk over a nice mug of tea.”

“I…”

I don’t really have the time, I want to say, but then I shrug. Sleep’s overrated anyway.

I go to shake her hand, which seems oddly formal but I’m following her lead. As soon as her fingers close around mine she takes one of those sideways steps like Joe does, and we’re somewhere else. St. Paul’s and its little park disappears and we’re standing in, well, pretty much the oddest place I’ve ever been.

Imagine a small open-concept house with no roof or walls. Instead, all the furniture is in a little meadow encircled by majestic oak trees. Thick Oriental carpets cover the ground making rooms. Turkish lamps hang from tree limbs above the entire dwelling, revealing a carved wooden bed topped with a sumptuous white comforter and several Moroccan pillows. Next, a sitting room holds a couple of overstuffed easy chairs, a table between them and a Tiffany floor lamp behind, as well as two small bookcases filled with books and artful objects. Adjoined is the kitchen with a thick, live-edge wooden counter, a large enamel sink, a pine harvest table with three rustic chairs, and a beautiful stove and fridge—plugged into what, I don’t know. A mix of copper and cast iron pots and pans hang from the lower limbs of the trees.

The overall impression is one of utter enchantment.

“Where…where are we?” I say.

Christiana waves an arm expansively, encompassing the odd little meadow dwelling.

“This is my place,” she says. “It’s where I live.”

“Are we in Faerieland?”

She laughs. “Hardly. We’re in the otherworld—or at least a tiny corner of it that I’ve made my own.”

I let Sonora’s leash drop and she begins the happy job of sniffing and exploring.

“Don’t pee anywhere,” I tell her, eyeing the gorgeous carpets.

“Yeah,” Christiana says. “She can always pee out there,” she says, motioning beyond the carpet’s edge where a moonlit meadow disappears into darkness. “And the bathroom’s through there,” she adds, pointing in between a pair of trees.

I can’t get over this place.

“What do you do when it rains?” I ask.

“It never rains. The weather’s always like this. Nothing changes except day into night.”

“How’s that possible?”

She smiles. “You still have to ask that question? The quick answer is magic. Grab a seat. Do you want coffee, tea, a beer, something stronger?”

“Tea, thanks.”

I walk over to one of the chairs. The carpet has a cushiony feel underfoot. The chair envelops me like an old friend as I watch my hostess put a gleaming copper kettle on the stove.

Of course the burner lights right up.

Magic.

Sonora settles at my feet and we watch Christiana busy herself in the kitchen area of her enchanted home until she finally brings a tray over and sets it on the table between the two chairs. It holds a teapot, two mugs, a bowl of water, and a plate of cookies. She picks up the teapot and fills a mug for each of us. The bowl she sets on the carpet for Sonora.

“The tea’s herbal,” she says, “and caffeine free, so it shouldn’t keep you up.”

“Except to pee.”

She smiles. “There is that. The cookies have gluten, but no sugar. They’re sweetened with maple syrup.”

“It all looks lovely.”

Sonora gets up to have some water then stares hopefully at the cookies. Christiana lifts an equally hopeful eyebrow in my direction.

“Sure,” I say. “Why not. But only one.”

The cookie disappears in a single bite.

“Earlier,” I go on, “you said that magic was the short answer for how this place came to be. What’s the long answer?”

“Intent,” she says. “Which sounds just as short, but grows in complexity the more you try to explain it. Have you ever heard of the Eadar?”

I nod. “Actually, I’ve met a few. Jilly says they’re beings created out of imagination, who exist only so long as someone believes in them.”

“Exactly. And this little home I’ve carved out of the otherworld is like that. It exists so long as I believe in it. It was created with my solitary intent rather than the collective belief of a group of people, but its physics, such as they are, are the same.

“This living area you see doesn’t require a lot of intention on my part because I live here and I always expect it to be here. Outside of this ring of trees I’ve pushed the boundaries farther—I think there’s maybe fifteen to twenty acres of woodland and meadow out there—but it requires regular attention or it just starts to fade away. I make a point of walking in one direction or another every day to keep it from disappearing, but I don’t always manage to get out there.”

I can’t get much of a read on the woods or meadow because it’s dark, but I’ve no doubt they’re as magical as anything you might see in a Charles Vess painting.

“You should get a dog,” I tell Christiana. “Then you’d have no choice but to walk there.”

“I suppose I could. Or you could take Sonora there. I keep meaning to tell Jilly to come here with Bobo if she wants a change from their usual streets and parks.”

I sigh. “It must be like having your own little nature preserve.”

She smiles. “Exactly. It’s what faerie call the wild and the green—land not tainted with the cities and roads of mankind.”

She waves a graceful arm toward the darkness. “Unlike my home, those wooded acres have weather and seasons and wildlife. I’m serious about you using it. There are all sorts of winding trails but you won’t get lost.”

“I’m not like you or Joe,” I tell her. “I can’t just step from one world to the other.”

“I can make a door for you at your house—one that you can open with the intention of finding yourself here, at the meadow’s edge. And that is exactly what will be waiting for you when you open it.”

“Really? That would be so cool.”

“It would help me, too.”

I think back to what she said earlier.

“So does everything ever made have a version of itself living in the otherworld?”

“Yes and no,” she says. “Everything has the opportunity to have a life over here, from your most beloved book characters to something you might have doodled on a napkin in a bar. I heard you took a trip to Crescent Beach, so you must understand what I mean.”

I nod, thinking of my friend Allison who played Gabi in the TV show. Except in the parallel Crescent Beach that Christiana’s mentioning, Gabi actually exists as an Eadar—as does Nora Constantine, who still looks like me but is also her own person. I know. It’s strange.

“But they only last if enough people care about them,” Christiana goes on. “If people really care, they can live for a long, long time. Some even become immortal. But most Eadar fade when they outlive their popularity.”

“That’s got to be weird. You have to wonder how many of them are aware of what they are.”

“Most of them. That’s what makes it so sad. Especially for the ones who have a short time to live.”

She takes a sip of her tea.

“You said you wanted to talk to me,” she goes on, “but perhaps I should first tell you why I came looking for you, because I think they’re two sides of the same coin. I want to apologize for sending Duncan Fairweather your way. I’d thought that you and Jilly were actively looking for people to help until Jilly told me differently earlier this evening.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I tell her. “I’m not sure…”

I sigh and start again. “It’s complicated. I haven’t embraced this whole solving mysteries and sleuthing business the way Jilly has. The ghosts are weird enough, but these fictional people—I mean, Eadar—the last time I got involved with that it was way more intense than I’d ever care to take on again.”

She fixes me with a quizzical look, so I give her a quick rundown on what happened in the Crescent Beach world, the otherworld reflection of the hometown of the character I played on the Nora Constantine show. I still have bad dreams about Charlie Midnight and his gang of monsters even though I know they’re all dead now.

And I had a major hand in that outcome.

“I had no idea,” she says when I’m done. “I knew you’d gone and come back, but none of the details.”

“How could you?” I say. “And I’m not saying that Duncan’s sister is missing for the same reason that Nora was. I don’t know anything about the Kingsmoor books. But even though I don’t regret stepping in to help that last time, I’d rather not repeat it.”

“I get that,” she says. “I won’t send anybody else your way.”

I sigh. “I don’t even know if that’s what I’m saying. What if somebody really needs help and I’m the only one who can provide it? Duncan and Daisy only exist as story characters in my world. They can’t exactly turn to the police.”

“So what are you saying?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know why ghosts come to me at all.”

“That’s easy,” Christiana says. “They know you can see them.”

“But I don’t even realize they’re ghosts unless they tell me.”

Christiana nods. “But they do. And if they need help, who better to ask than someone who can acknowledge their existence? Most people can’t see them. Even more important, you can actually converse with them.”

“And yet I can’t understand the ghosts at the police station.”

“Which would be normal for most people, but apparently not for you.”

“Why is any of this happening to me?”

She shrugs. “Why do we both have red hair but you’re tall and I’m not? Why—considering all she went through as a kid—is Jilly so cheerful and always ready to lend a hand when others who’ve undergone a similar experience never recover? It’s how we’re each wired.”

“Great. It’s kind of a lousy superpower to have suddenly acquired.”

“Not to the ghosts who seek your help.”

I finish my tea.

“This has been good,” I say. “I’m glad you invited me over, but it’s late and I should try to get some sleep. I still need to figure out how to help my mute ghost girls.”

Christiana stands up. “I can help you with that. Hang on.”

She walks over to the dresser by the bed. While she pulls open a drawer I wonder what it would be like to sleep in a poofy bed with oak leaves murmuring above my head. When she returns she lays a small black lace glove on the arm of my chair.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“It’s called a ghost glove and it’s used to communicate with ghosts. When you wear it, a ghost can possess your hand and write responses to questions you might ask—presupposing that the ghost is literate and knows the same language as you.”

“You’re kidding.”

She puts a hand on my wrist. “But it’s dangerous to use. You have to really trust the ghost because, while the glove is designed to only let the ghost possess your hand, it also opens a portal that could allow the ghost to possess you completely.”

Possession. What a superpower, I think. I feel a little queasy. Why does everything have to come with such a price?

I pick the glove up gingerly and look it over. It’s beautiful, like any delicate vintage lace, until I inspect its pattern more carefully and realize it actually forms runic symbols.

“Also,” Christiana goes on, “You can’t use it for too long because it’s powered by your own life force. How much depends on what the ghost takes.”

Oh, this keeps getting better. Not.

“How do you regulate it?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I got it at the goblin market—not the one here, but the one in Mabon—and it didn’t come with instructions. I’m only telling you things I’ve learned about it from talking to other people.”

The idea of a goblin market barely registers, except for the fact that I’d love to go to one.

“This might work,” I say, turning the glove over in my hands. “The cheerleader ghost seems pretty benevolent and since she went to Redding High—I’m guessing from her outfit—she must be able to communicate in English.” I lay the glove back down on the arm of the chair. “Thanks.”

“Maybe you should save your thanks until we see if it actually works and you don’t get hurt.”

I shake my head. “No, regardless. I really appreciate your helping me out, though I have to admit that I can’t quite figure out why you’re being so kind to me.”

“I trust Jilly implicitly,” Christiana says, “and there aren’t many people I can say that about. Jilly feels the same about you, so that makes you special in my estimation. I also admire that the two of you have been doing this without any consideration of personal gain.”

I roll my eyes. “Like we could spend ghost dollars if we ever got them.”

Christiana laughs, but she’s serious when she adds, “Accept the compliment.”

“I… Okay. Thanks.”

Christiana smiles. “That wasn’t so hard was it?”

She picks up the glove and hands it to me once more. “Now let me get you two back to your place.”

I put the glove in my pocket, then hold tight to Sonora with one hand as Christiana takes the other. I haven’t done this a lot so it’s still exhilarating to take a single step and be somewhere entirely different from where you started. This time we’re just down the street from my house.

“I knew you lived on Evenmere Avenue,” Christiana says, “but I wasn’t sure of the street number.”

Like she has to apologize after whisking us blocks from where she met us earlier in the time it would take to snap your fingers.

“This is perfect,” I tell her. “I’m just down the street.”

“Before I go,” she says. “Do you want me to set up that door to my little dream of the wild and the green? It won’t take long.”

“Are you kidding? Sure.”

Turns out the longest part is deciding where I want the door to be. We settle on the linen closet just down the hall from my bedroom. I’m not quite sure what Christiana does, but when she opens the door, instead of seeing shelves of sheets and towels I see moonlit fields dotted with trees. Sonora steps up, nose quivering, but Christiana closes the door before she can enter.

“Now you try it,” Christiana says. “Remember, if you expect to see linens, that’s what you’ll see. But if you expect to see my wild acre, that’s what will appear to you instead.”

I can’t help being curious, so I think of the linen closet first when I open the door. The shelves are all there, just like they’re supposed to be. Then I try again, expecting to find Christiana’s world. I hear a little gasp when I see a gorgeous moonlit meadow and realize I made the sound. A soft breeze wafts into the hall.

“This is so cool. Thanks for the glove—” I pat my pocket where I placed it. “But especially thanks for this. I’m going to get Jilly to come over in the morning so we can explore it with the dogs.”

Christiana smiles. “You’ll be doing me a favour.”

She comes closer and gives me a kiss on the cheek, pats Sonora, then steps through the door.

“Don’t be a stranger,” I hear as I watch her walk away across the field, tousled hair glinting in the moonlight. That’s my linen closet, but now it’s also a door to an otherworld.

Beside me Sonora is quivering with anticipation until I close the door. She gives me a mournful look.

“Tomorrow,” I tell her. “We’ll go tomorrow with Jilly and Bobo. I promise.”

I go to the bathroom to wash up. When I come back into the hall again she’s still sitting in front of the door.

2

Saturday

Much to Sonora’s disappointment, we don’t go through the linen closet door the next morning. Instead, after breakfast we walk over to Bramleyhaugh to find Geordie, Wendy and Jilly around the big wooden kitchen table drinking coffee. The remains of their breakfast has been pushed into the center of the table. Wendy is seated, a stack of books beside her. The three of them are poring over a map in one of the books when I come in, escorted by the dogs. Bobo’s always the first greeter.

“You have the best life,” Wendy says after a chorus of “Good mornings” all around. “First you get to go to Crescent Beach and now you’ve met Duncan Fairweather. You’ll probably get to go to Kingsmoor College and meet Master Mage Stoddard and all the staff.” Her eyes get a little dreamy. “And maybe even Oliver Tye.”

I settle into a chair as do Geordie and Jilly. Geordie pushes a mug and the coffee pot over to me.

“I have no idea who any of those people are,” I say as I pour myself some coffee.

“Oliver Tye,” Jilly says, “is the hapless hero.”

“Only in the first book. By the end of the series he’s a Master Mage.”

Jilly lets out a large theatrical sigh. “Great. Spoil it for us.”

Wendy puts a hand to her mouth. “But you said you wanted me to tell you about it.”

“Ignore her,” Geordie says. “She’s just playing the fool.”

Jilly looks put upon but laughter dances in her eyes.

“Just tell me,” I say, “is Duncan a good guy or a villain?”

“A little of both,” Wendy says. “You start out hating him and his twin sister Daisy in the first book, but then it turns out they have the best of reasons for tormenting Oliver when he first arrives at the college. They believe that their parents were killed by Arden Tye, a rogue Master Mage who also happens to be Oliver’s uncle.”

“And did he?” Jilly asks.

Wendy turns to her. “Did he what?”

“Kill their parents?”

“Well, yes, but Oliver had nothing to do with it. They don’t become friends until the end of the third book when Oliver risks his life for the Fairweathers and kills his uncle in a wizard’s duel.”

I try to look interested, but it’s hard to get excited about wizard stories when you know the real world has all sorts of magic in it. I mean, I have a door in my house that leads to an otherworld. How does a book compare to that? Still, there are some things I need to know.

“How do Duncan and Daisy get along?” I ask.

“They’re really close—I guess both from being twins and orphans. The only family they have is each other. Daisy’s the dominant one, but they’re both opinionated.”

“Did she ever pull a disappearing act in the books?”

“She disguised herself as a boy at the end of the fourth book and spends the first half of the last book infiltrating a gang of boys-only hedge mages. Rumour has it the Big Bad who’s been trying to kill Oliver through the whole series started out as a hedge mage, so Daisy’s trying to find out the truth behind it all.”

I think about that for a moment.

“Are there pictures of them in the books?” I ask. “And I guess I’d like to see pictures of them from the movie as well.”

Wendy turns to the stack of books beside her and pulls out a slim oversized volume called The Fantastic Art of the Kingsmoor Chronicles. She flips through until she finds a full-page picture of the actors who played the twins. The guy in the picture doesn’t look at all like the Duncan I met.

Before I can comment on that she flips through one of the novels until she comes to a pen-and-ink drawing of the pair. The guy in this picture looks much more like Duncan, and I say as much.

“Well, if belief is important,” Wendy says, “the books are way more popular than the movie was. It kind of tanked.” She taps the illustrated novel. “This is a special limited edition of the first novel, which came out after the series finished. So far, they’ve done the first three books, but I don’t have the other two. The art’s by Jaden Storm.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” I say. “Is that even a real name?”

“I don’t know. We could look him up.”

I look to Jilly, but she shakes her head. She doesn’t know him either.

“We could ask Saskia about other work he’s done,” Wendy says. “All I know is that the Magers—the diehard readers—went gaga over his versions of the characters. When you go to the fan pages they’re almost all illustrated with scans of his art instead of pictures from the movie.”

“I wonder if Duncan has a picture of his sister,” I say.

I take out my phone, go to my contact for him and send him a text.

“What are you thinking?” Jilly says.

“I’m not sure yet. But we can’t go looking for someone if we don’t even know what they look like.”

Jilly nods.

“But,” I go on, “if she disguised herself as a boy once, maybe she’s done it again.”

“Good point.”

“The big question is why’s she gone AWOL. If we can figure that out, we can probably figure out where she is.”

My phone pings. There’s a response from Duncan with an image attached. I hold my phone up near the illustration in the book and we all lean in closer to compare the two.

“That’s pretty close,” Geordie says.

“So these Eadar are based on the books rather than the movies,” Jilly says.

I’m about to agree when there’s a knock on the front door. Geordie gets up to answer it, but I have a funny feeling so I hurry after him, reaching him just as he opens the door.

And there’s Duncan standing on the porch.

“What are you doing here?” I say. “And how did you even know I was here?”

“I followed the trail of the text I sent,” he says, “but I can’t seem to come in. Who did your wizardwork?”

Jilly, Wendy and the dogs are now crowded up behind Geordie and me. Oddly, the dogs aren’t barking. They just sit and stare at him.

“Our what?” I say.

Duncan waves a hand that doesn’t seem to indicate anything specific. “I’ve never seen protective wards like this,” he says. “They’re fascinating.” He pauses. “And very effective.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “Why are you here?”

“Well, you didn’t answer my question. The one in my text.”

I frown. “Yes, we’re looking into what happened to your sister. No, we don’t have anything to pass along.”

“Maybe he should just come—” Jilly begins, but I cut her off.

“No. You heard him. He can’t come in because of protective wards. Have they ever stopped anybody from coming in before?”

I look from Geordie to Jilly and Wendy.

“Well, no,” Jilly says.

“So maybe there’s a reason why they’re keeping him out.”

“Don’t be rude,” Duncan says.

“Careful’s not rude,” I tell him. “We’ll contact you if we have any news or other questions.”

He holds up his hands, palms out. For a second I think he’s going to throw some spell at us.

But all he says is, “Fine,” and stalks off the porch.

We stand in the doorway watching him go. When he reaches the end of the walk he abruptly vanishes.

“Actually,” Jilly says. “It was a little rude. He’s our client.”

I sigh at her use of the word until I remember my conversation with Christiana last night. I decide to take the high road. I resist the urge to protest that we’re not real detectives so, ipso facto, we can’t have clients.

I take a deep breath. “I just think,” I say, “it’s telling that whatever’s protecting the house didn’t want to let him in.”

“It was a good call,” Geordie says. “We don’t know anything about him.”

We all turn to Wendy.

“Don’t look at me,” she says.

“But you’ve read the books,” I say. “Is he dangerous?”

“Well, he’s not as powerful as Oliver, but nobody in the books is.”

“That’s not answering the question.”

“I know. It’s just—it was kind of cool to see him standing there on the doorstep when I’ve only ever read about him.”

Geordie laughs and ushers me out of the way so he can close the door.

“Let’s find out a little more about him,” I say as we head back to the kitchen, “before we start inviting him into our lives. Anyway, we have ghost girls to deal with first.”

When we’re all sitting around the table again I pull out the lace glove and tell them about my conversation with Christiana last night.

“Seriously?” Jilly says, pretty much bouncing in her seat. “We can take the dogs there whenever we want?”

I hold up a finger and wait for her gaze to track to it.

“Yes, we can,” I say, “but could we maybe focus on the glove? Do you think I should try it?”

“Not by yourself,” Jilly says.

The others nod in agreement.

“There’s only one glove,” I say. “Only one person can wear it.”

“This is true,” Jilly says. “But I can still be with you when you use it. There’s no way I’m letting you go off into danger on your own again, thank you very much. Once was enough.”

“I wasn’t alone. I had Gabi and Joe and his crew.”

“So when do you want to try it out?” Jilly asks, staring at the glove with a mixture of awe and curiosity.

I glance at Geordie and he gives me a helpless shrug. I know what he’s feeling. It doesn’t matter how much you want to protect Jilly, she’s just going to run with whatever she’s decided to do.

“Today,” I tell Jilly. “But first I promised Sonora a walk in Christiana’s wild acres.”

Jilly goes from serious to giddy in an instant. “I can’t believe we can go there whenever we want. I can’t wait to see it.”

“You and Sonora both.”

“Are you guys coming?” I ask Geordie and Wendy.

Christiana said that the more people who believed in her wild acre the more real it would be so I figure, since they’re also her friends, it should be okay for them to tag along.

Jilly is ridiculous when we’re standing in front of the door to my linen closet. Like a kid in a candy store, she keeps having me open and close the door.

Shelves of linen.

Wild acres.

Shelves of linen.

“Enough,” Geordie says. “You’re driving the poor dogs crazy.”

I open the door again onto the wild acres and the dogs go racing out. We follow at a slower pace. As soon as we’re across, I tie a pillowcase I brought to the nearest tree to serve as a marker. We can still see the inside of the hall in my house through a door-shaped rectangle in the air, but I worry about not finding the right spot if it should close before we get back.

“Remember when you refused to believe in magic?” Jilly says to Geordie.

He smiles. “Ah, those were the days.”

I give him a surprised look.

“I’m kidding,” he says. “But it did make life less complicated.”

“The complications were always there,” Jilly says. “We just didn’t see them back then.”

“You didn’t believe either?” I say.

Geordie and Wendy laugh.

“No, I always believed in once upon a time,” Jilly says. “Even when half the time I thought it was all in my head. What I had trouble with was the happily ever after.”

Geordie puts his arm around her shoulders. “But we’ve got that figured out now.”

Jilly lifts her head for a kiss.

“Jeez, get a room,” Wendy says.

“A room, a room!” Jilly cries and spins away from Geordie. “We’re in Christiana’s backyard. How cool is this?” She turns to me. “Where’s her house?”

“It’s not a house. It’s more like the furnishings you’d expect to see in a house, except they’re in a meadow surrounded by oak trees. And to be honest I have no idea where it is. I wouldn’t barge in without an invitation anyway.”

Jilly’s so gleeful at the moment that she can’t muster any disappointment. “I’ll just have to finagle an invitation to come over,” she says.

The dogs are in heaven. They keep disappearing into the thick grass of the meadow, popping back to make sure we’re still around, then plunging back in. We’re following a path that winds its way through groves of trees and meadows. It’s wide enough that we can walk two abreast.

I understand Jilly’s good humour. We’re all smiling and in high spirits. It’s like there’s something in the air that lifts our hearts. It smells so pure, filled with the natural scents of the earth and green growing things. There’s no city noise, just birdsong and the hum of insects. I can’t imagine mixing the right colour to match the perfect blue of the sky overhead. Squirrels scold us from the trees.

“So who do you think put protection wards on our house?” Jilly says after we’ve been walking awhile.

“The professor must have,” Geordie says.

“Or Christy,” Wendy says.

Geordie shakes his head. “Christy doesn’t know magic. Wait—did Christy learn how to use magic?”

“He’s your brother,” Jilly says. “You’ll just have to ask him.”

“Maybe it was Joe,” I offer. That seems most likely. He’s protective of all the Stanton Street regulars, but especially of Jilly.

“I think it was Goon,” Jilly says.

Geordie and Wendy both nod in agreement.

“The professor’s housekeeper?” I ask.

“Olaf Gooneskara, actually,” Wendy says. She pauses for a moment before adding, “And a goblin.”

“Goblin-like,” Jilly corrects her. “He was actually a skookin. In fact he was the king of the skookin.”

I lean over and give Jilly a little shoulder pat. “You’re putting me on, right?”

She puts a hand on her heart. “Swear to God. He was the grumpiest creature you’d ever meet. Sophie and I named the studio after him—he’s the grumbling part. I don’t think he ever twigged to it.” She grins merrily as though she got away with something.

“Dream on,” Geordie says. “I doubt anything ever got by Goon.”

“So did he move to Mabon with the professor?” I ask.

“No, he fell in love,” Wendy says.

“It was terribly romantic,” Jilly adds. “She was a dentist’s assistant, originally from the hill country outside of Tyson, and he was the self-exiled king of an underground kingdom. The last the professor heard from him was that they were living in Tasmania.” She takes a few more paces, then adds, “I have to admit, I still miss his grumpiness.”

The pine and cedar have given way to stands of oak, birch and chestnut. At one point, we have to ford a stream by way of a strategic array of stepping stones.

“I wonder what the edge of Christiana’s wild acres will look like,” Geordie says. “Will there be a sudden, mysterious, impenetrable mist, or will we just come to a big drop off?”

“I hope it’s clearly marked,” Jilly says. “I wouldn’t want Bobo to—”

“Shh!” Wendy says and points ahead.

We all stop and stare in wonder. Ahead of us, the woods open into another meadow and standing in the middle of the tall grass and wildflowers is an enormous stag. His antlers are at least fourteen points, and almost as wide as his length. His deep brown gaze settles on us, but he doesn’t seem alarmed. A moment later, three does come soft-stepping out into the meadow to join him.

I worry that the dogs will bark their fool heads off and run toward the deer, but they join us on the path and seem as caught up in the magic of the moment as we are.

I don’t know how long we all stand there gazing, but finally the stag blows a soft huff of air and walks off to the far tree line, his harem following close behind.

We all look at each other with silly smiles plastered on our faces.

“That was…that was amazing,” Wendy says.

We all nod in agreement.

“I’ve never seen a stag in the wild before,” Geordie says. “It’s always just does.”

We continue along the path, but the dogs head into the meadow to snuffle around where the deer were standing. Jilly calls them right back. “Deer poop,” she explains at my puzzled look. “I don’t feel like giving dogs a bath, and boy would they need it if they decided to have a roll-around.”

We’ve walked for another ten minutes or so when I spy something white fluttering from a low branch hanging down beside the path ahead of us. I realize it’s my pillowcase.

“We must have walked in a big circle,” Wendy says.

Geordie nods. “Except where’s our doorway back?”

I walk past the the pillowcase. Looking at the path from this new perspective, the rectangle appears, and through it, a view of my hallway—which seems very bizarre, all things considered. How often do you see a doorway in the middle of a woodland path?

“We should bring a picnic lunch the next time,” Jilly says as we troop back into my house.

I’m the last one through. Jilly puts a hand on my arm as I close the door.

“Just one more time,” she says.

I know exactly what she wants. I open and close the door a few times for her.

Shelves of linen.

Wild acres.

Shelves of linen.

Jilly’s eyes are shining with delight when we finally go downstairs.

Tam’s having a late breakfast when we come into the kitchen. He looks so confused at our appearance that I can’t help but laugh.

“Where the hell did you all come from?” he says.

“From Faerieland!” Jilly cries.

Her voice goes up in pitch, which makes Bobo so excited that he starts to bark. The domino effect sets Sonora off. It takes a few moments to calm the sudden chaos.

“Didn’t you know you have a magic door upstairs?” Jilly says when it’s quietened down.

Tam shoots me a suspicious look like this is some game and we’re having him on. Rather than try to explain, Jilly and I take him back up to the linen closet. He’s very quiet when we come back down to join the others.

Geordie puts a hand on his shoulder. “It gets easier,” he tells Tam. “Especially if you don’t try to find a logical explanation.”

“Right.”

I raise my eyebrows at Jilly. “Ghost girls,” I say.

She nods. “Yes, all play and no work makes for a frivolous existence.”

“Should I even ask?” Tam says.

Wendy laughs. “Probably not.”

She and Geordie head for Stanton Street while Jilly and I go in the opposite direction, leaving Tam standing in the kitchen, a slightly stunned expression on his face.

I didn’t think we should bring the dogs with us to the police station, but Jilly waved off my argument with a “They’re part of our team so they’ll just have to get used to it.” I don’t know about this supposed team she claims we have, which now apparently includes the dogs as well, but Jilly can be obstinate about where Bobo can and can’t go.

Detective Cray isn’t one bit happy about the dogs. He’s not happy with Jilly being there either. And he’s really unhappy when he hears we intend to go inside the cell to communicate with the ghosts.

I don’t bother arguing since I figure it will only make him dig in his heels. Somehow Jilly manages to follow my lead and stays quiet. That she can hold back her usual self is something to behold, but she sits there looking like innocence personified.

We wear him down with our silence until he finally mutters something under his breath and leads us to the elevator.

There’s a new detective at the desk when we come out of the elevator. He introduces himself as Chad Waller. He’s a big man like Cray, but seems to have a natural good humour which Cray lacks. Like Detective Namome, he locks all his paperwork away when he hears why we’ve come.

“So you talk to ghosts, do you?” he says to me.

“When they’ve got voices.”

I’m wearing the black lace glove, but neither detective remarks upon it. They probably think it’s some pretentious affectation, like I’d actually imitate Michael Jackson. As if.

Cray leads the way to the end of the hall where the ghost girls are locked up. Both Sonora and Bobo stop at the cell that held the werewolf yesterday. It’s empty now, but the dogs are fascinated, walking back and forth in front of it, smelling where the glass meets the floor.

I put my hand on the glass, then turn to Cray. “What happened to your other…guest?” I ask.

Cray turns to see where I’m looking, but he won’t meet my gaze.

“He got transferred,” he finally says.

“Is that a euphemism for he was killed, or that he was sent to an otherworld?”

Waller snickers and Cray shoots him a dirty look. He takes a step closer to me, using his height to try and intimidate me.

“Who told you we do things like that?” he asks.

I don’t back down. “You’re not answering my question.”

“I’m not here to answer questions,” he says and continues down the hall.

Jilly and I exchange glances. She sticks her tongue out at Cray’s back and I smile, but his attitude is beginning to piss me off.

The girls are all slouched against various walls in their cell as we walk toward them. They look up at our approach with disinterest—all except for the cheerleader. She bounces to her feet when she recognizes me. I lift a hand in greeting and she waves back.

“I take it you can still see them,” Cray says.

I don’t bother answering him. While I adjust the glove for the umpteenth time, Jilly tells the dogs to lie down and stay. They keep looking from her to the ghost girls, which tells me they can see them as well as I can. The other girls are watching me now, but only the cheerleader is on her feet. The dogs seem uneasy, especially Bobo, but Jilly waits them out. When they finally settle, she joins me in front of the glass.

“Any time,” I tell Cray.

I put my backpack down beside Sonora and take out a pencil and pad of paper.

“How’s that going to help?” Cray asks.

I shrug. “Are we going to do this?”

I sense a reluctance in Cray as he works the keyboard. The glass partition slides up into the ceiling, which I wasn’t quite expecting.

“That’d make a great patio door,” Jilly says.

I smile and we step inside.

I’ll admit a certain anxiety when the partition slides back down, sealing us in with the ghosts. They’re all standing up now—even the one that was ignoring me, face to the wall, when I was down here yesterday.

It’s hard to get a read on any of them except for the cheerleader. She seems so grateful that I’ve come back—that I’m actually trying to help—that her eyes are welling with tears. I stand by the table and explain how the glove works, then ask her to put her own hand on it.

The punk girl steps forward, reaching for it, but the cheerleader pushes her away. I make a mental note that they’re able to interact with each other.

“One at a time,” I say and point at the cheerleader. “You first. You seem to be the oldest.”

The cheerleader and the punk have a wordless staring match until the punk gives her the finger and turns away. The other girls have been watching with interest, but seem okay to just watch how this plays out.

The cheerleader reaches out and puts her hand on top of mine. As it slowly comes to rest, a cold numbness spreads through my fingers. In moments it has that awful dead feeling, as though I’ve slept on it. I can’t suppress a shiver.

“Are you okay?” Jilly asks.

“I’m fine.”

At least I hope I am. The creepiness of all of this is starting to rev up inside me and all I want to do is take off the glove. But I smile at the cheerleader and try not to let what I’m feeling show.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

She lifts my hand to pick up the pencil and I can’t begin to describe how eerie it is to see my hand moving without my controlling it. She writes on the pad.

Sandy Collins.

“Do you know who killed you?”

She shakes her head. I don’t know her name.

“What can you tell me?”

My hand writes, pencil scratching on the paper. I went to bed in my own house. When I woke up I was in some kind of barn. Tied up and hanging upside down from a rafter. I don’t know how I got there.

I lift my gaze from the page to look at her, horrified. Her face is expressionless, her eyes not seeing anything for a long moment.

“That’s so awful.”

She focuses back on me and nods.

She cut my throat, then she washed herself in my blood.

I can’t process this. Jilly is reading over my shoulder and I can feel her go very still. Sandy is still using my hand to write.

She stole my life. After I died she took my baby fingers and put them in her box.

It takes me a few moments before I can clear my throat.

“I’m so sorry for you,” I finally manage.

I watched her do it five more times. Every ten years she would bring another girl to that barn, except one year she brought two.

“What year was that?”

I don’t know. I lost count of time.

My hand pauses for a moment, then continues to write. She silenced us, then said the magic was in our youth, our blood, and the fingers she took, but now that essence was hers and it would keep her young forever. That was true. She never changed. She always looked the same age as she was when she killed me.

I look at the carved box on the table. “The—all your fingers —are here, in this box?”

She nods. Only our baby fingers.

She kept it with her, my hand continues to write, and we all had to tag along whenever she went anywhere. She burned our bodies, so all that’s left of us is in that box. She bound us to it.

I’m starting to feel really tired. A listlessness is creeping through me. I remember Christiana’s warning about draining my essence, but I can’t just leave this off here. I need to find out more.

“What happened to her?”

I don’t know. She went away where we couldn’t follow because she left the box behind.

“Do you know how to open it?”

Magic. She opened it with magic. Only magic can open it.

“When did she go away?”

I don’t know. It’s hard to hold on to time.

“Do you know the names of the other girls?”

She shakes her head. They’re like me. They don’t have voices. We can’t talk.

I stare down at the pad where she’s been writing all of this with my hand.

“You have a voice now,” I say. “I’m going to figure out a way to set you free.”

The punk girl comes forward. She gives Sandy a sudden shove away and grabs the glove with both hands. It’s like a huge shard of ice shoots up my arm and into my shoulder as she tries to take control of me. Not just my hand. All of me.

I want to call out but my throat is frozen. I can’t talk. I can’t even breathe.

It spreads down to my chest, up into my head. I hear a shouting in my ear. A girl’s voice. I can’t make out any words—only her fierce rage.

I want to fight her control of me, but I can’t muster the energy.

Spots are floating in front of my eyes and I realize I’m going away. I can tell a slender cord is all that holds me in my body, and it’s being cut away.

And suddenly it’s all gone. I find myself sprawled across the table, my face inches away from that horrible box. I realize the glove is no longer on my hand. I see Jilly holding it. She’s backed up against a wall, the pencil Sandy was using hovering in the air at face height. The table I’m leaning on starts to buck—held in place only by the bolts that attach it to the floor. Pages start ripping from the pad and whirl round inside the cell.

I push myself up and grab the pencil. It squirms in my grip but I hold onto it with both hands. I can see the punk girl staring at me, her lips pulled back in a snarl as we fight over the pencil, the torn pages whirling around. Then Sandy yanks the punk girl’s feet out from under her, breaking her concentration.

At some point Cray must have opened the glass partition. I can hear the dogs barking as he pulls Jilly out. Waller is beside me. I shake my head as he reaches for me and concentrate on grabbing the pages from the pad, focusing on the ones with writing on them. When he sees what I’m doing, he helps me grab the last few.

All through this Sandy is holding back the punk girl. As soon as we’ve got the last of the paper, I stagger out into the hallway. Waller’s right behind me as the partition slides back down.

“What the hell happened in there?” Cray demands.

I realize that I’ve sunk to the floor, a mess of paper clutched to my chest. “One of the girls went poltergeist on us,” I manage to say.

Waller has a bit more sensitivity. “Are you okay?” he asks me.

I shake out my hand. It’s all pins and needles now. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon or gone fifty rounds with a world champion. But I nod my head.

“I think so,” I say. “Jilly?”

“I’m fine. Hush,” she adds trying to calm the dogs. “No one’s in danger anymore.” Sonora nuzzles my neck and face but I’m too exhausted to comfort her.

“I think you saved my life,” I tell Jilly.

“What happened?”

“The punk girl tried to hijack my body. If you hadn’t gotten the glove off when you did…”

Jilly looks at the offending black lace in her hand.

“This probably wasn’t such a good idea,” she says.

“Except now we’ve got something to work with. Maybe we can help them.”

I’m not feeling much stronger, but at least the blood is returning to my hand.

I start putting the pages in order, which takes almost all the strength that I have. When I’ve got the pages right I look up at the others standing there.

Waller reaches down and helps me to my feet.

I look back into the cell. The punk girl races to the glass and pounds against it. It startles everybody else and sets the dogs to barking again. Sandy looks horrified, but I give her a slow thumbs up.

“What did you learn?” Cray asks. “We could only hear your side of the conversation and we couldn’t see what you were writing.”

I hand him the pages. When Cray reads the cheerleader’s name his face goes pale, then fills with barely contained anger.

“There must be a file on her in your records department,” I say. “We’re going to need to see it.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want you out of here. I don’t know what the hell game you’re playing, but your involvement in anything to do with this task force is off the table.”

He turns to Waller. “Get them out of here.”

Then he turns his back on us. He stares at the ghosts even though he can’t see them.

“What’s going on?” I say. “You’re the one who wanted our help.”

He doesn’t turn around. “And now I don’t. And if you’re not out of this building in five minutes, I’m going to find something to charge you with and throw you in one of these cells.”

“You’d better come along,” Waller says.

Once again, Jilly is uncharacteristically quiet. She gives me a nudge and I follow the detective back to the elevator.

“What happened back there?” I ask Waller when we’re riding up to the task force’s main office.

He gives me a sympathetic look. I can tell he’d like to explain, but his loyalties aren’t with us.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You heard the boss. If he wanted you to know, he’d tell you.”

“You know we’re going to figure this out anyway,” Jilly says.

He shakes his head. “Honestly, I’d just let it go. You don’t want Detective Cray as an enemy.”

“It’s too late for us to walk away,” I tell him. “I made those girls a promise and I plan to keep it.”

We reach our floor and the doors hiss open.

“Your funeral,” Waller says as Jilly and I step outside.

I think I catch a glimpse of Duncan outside the police station—across the street and down the block—but he disappears before I can be sure.

“Did you see that?” I ask Jilly.

“See what?”

“I thought I saw Duncan spying on us from down the street.”

Jilly frowns. “I guess he really wants us to go looking for his sister.”

“I suppose.”

Cray kept the papers with Sandy’s side of the conversation on them, but everything she told me is burned into my memory. We might not have the resources of the NPD to help us move ahead, but we don’t need it. We have the internet. And Saskia.

It’s slow going as we make our way back to Stanton Street. I end up having to lean on Jilly for the last few blocks because it seems like I can barely put one foot in front of the other. Sonora is pressed to my leg and whines the whole way.

Jilly settles me on the couch in the studio, then comes back a few moments later with tea and a sandwich. Sonora’s so focused on me that she doesn’t even try to mooch.

“You need to replenish your energy,” Jilly says.

“I don’t think I can eat or drink anything.”

“Humour me and try.”

I end up polishing it all off and feeling much better. Jilly drops the glove on the coffee table.

“That’s not something we’re trying again,” she says.

I agree with her, but privately I can’t make a promise that I won’t keep if I need to get more information from Sandy.

When Jilly sees I’m doing better she goes off to get Saskia, but comes back with Wendy instead. Wendy sets her laptop on the coffee table before sitting down beside me to give me a gentle hug, which is a little awkward with Sonora glued to my side.

“Saskia’s not around,” Jilly says, “so I thought we’d let Wendy put her skills to use and see what we can find out.”

Wendy nods and opens her laptop.

“So,” she says as she starts typing. “I guess I’ll enter Sandy Collins, 1950s, unsolved murder—”

“Better check for disappearances,” I say. “If a body was never recovered it wouldn’t necessarily be considered a homicide. Also, it might have been the early sixties.”

“And put in cheerleader,” Jilly adds.

Wendy nods and adds our suggestions.

“What do you think got into Cray?” I say as Wendy starts sifting through whatever hits her search has called up.

“Beats me. He was already working at being a hardass when we first got there, but that was completely out of line. He seemed to be mad at you, specifically.”

“I guess he thought I faked all that writing.”

Which reminds me that Cray has everything that Sandy wrote down for me.

“I need to make some notes,” I say.

Jilly pushes my backpack over to me from where it’s sitting on the floor beside the couch. I take out my laptop and quickly type in what I can remember, which is all the facts, if not Sandy’s exact language.

“I think I know what got the detective all worked up,” Wendy says. Her gaze is fixed on her screen. “Oh, jeez. Did you know he had a fiancée who also worked for the NPD? She was killed by wild dogs.”

“What?” I say.

“That’s tragic,” Jilly adds, “but I don’t see the connection to his behaviour today.”

“Oh, sorry,” Wendy says. “Come look.”

Jilly sits on the other side of her and we both lean in closer to see the screen.

“This is just a news story about how his fiancée got killed,” Wendy says. “It came up while I was double-checking something else I read on another page.” She goes to another of her browser’s open windows. “Here—see?”

There’s a lot of text on this page, but my eye’s immediately drawn to a small grainy picture of Sandy in her cheerleader outfit, hair tied back in a ponytail, a bright smile on her lips.

“She disappeared in the fall of 1962,” Wendy goes on. “No one ever found out what happened to her. She never resurfaced. A body was never recovered.”

“What is this site?” I ask.

“It’s a true crime blog that came up on my search. The guy who writes it focuses on unsolved crimes—murders, disappearances, bank heists. If you read the post he’s got on Sandy, you come up with the very interesting fact that she was Detective Cray’s aunt, on his mother’s side. That’s what got him interested in police work. He was just a kid when his aunt disappeared but—well, here. Read what he says.”

The way she vanished out of our lives has haunted me ever since. I know what that pain feels like. There’s a hole in your life and the questions never go away. My mission as a police officer is to make sure that no one else has to feel the sorrow my family feels.

“Okay,” Jilly says. “That doesn’t excuse him, but it does explain the stick up his ass.”

I nod. “He thinks I did a little research, then made out like I was talking to his aunt just to prove I’m on the level. What I don’t get is how a guy like him came to be in charge of a task force on the paranormal. It doesn’t even fit his mission.”

“No kidding,” Jilly says. “And it’s obvious we’re not going to get any help from him. We’ll have to figure this out on our own.”

I turn to Wendy. “Can you do an image search of missing teenagers in this area from, say, 1970 on?”

“Why that date?”

“Sandy said the woman who killed her repeated what she did every ten years.”

“Got it,” Wendy says. “But we’re not going to get many hits pre-internet.”

She gets the search going, then swaps computers with me so she can read what Sandy told us while I look at photos.

“God, there’s a lot of Native kids,” I say.

“What’s the ethnicity of the ghost girls?” Wendy asks.

“They’re all white,” I tell her as I keep scrolling.

But the girls on the screen aren’t. There are so many of them. Brown, black, white. How can there be so many missing girls?

“This is heartbreaking,” I say.

Jilly nods, her eyes hooded, the ready smile absent from her lips. It’s hard to tell what she’s thinking, but I know she was a missing girl, once upon a time. Or rather, an unwanted girl, which is probably a good enough reason to go missing.

But not like what happened with the ghost girls, butchered by some sick freak.

I’m just about to give up hope of finding any of them this way when a familiar angry face pops up, topped with a Mohawk. It’s the punk girl who tried to hijack my body. I click the link to find out her name was Debbie Owens, AKA MisRule. She disappeared in the fall of 1982.

By the time I get to the end of what the search has to offer, I have two more names.

Victoria Bell is the girl who looked like a science or math nerd. She disappeared in the fall of 2002.

Brooke Hardy is the one in flannel shirt and jeans who looked like she was into grunge. She disappeared in 1992. Also in the fall.

I copy all three pictures and send them to myself along with notes on their names and links to what I could find about them online. It’s amazing. The three of them went missing pre-internet but I found them because their families are still looking for them.

I might have passed by photos of the others simply because the photos don’t do them justice. Some people look really different when their faces aren’t animated.

I close Wendy’s computer and put it on the coffee table, then lean my head back.

“Tell us more about Kingsmoor,” I say to Wendy to get my mind off of what happened to the ghost girls. “Where is it supposed to be, according to the books? How does the magic work?”

“Well, the magic’s pretty complex—or at least learning it is. They have to be able to accurately place their position in regards to the celestial bodies and take into account everything around them whenever they want to work magic—ley lines, vortexes, any kind of energy source. They also have to memorize reams of incantations and intricate finger movements. That’s why it’s a college. The students start off with some promise and then spend three years absorbing all this stuff in excruciating detail until—if they pass—it comes as naturally to them as breathing.”

“Back up a minute,” I say. “What was that about finger movements?”

Wendy lifts her hands and makes her fingers do a weird, convoluted dance. Then she laughs.

“I figure it looks something like that from the descriptions in the books.”

“But the finger movements are an important part of the—what? Spell?”

Wendy nods. “The hedge mages say that the source of a mage’s power is in their little fingers and their heart’s blood.”

I look at Jilly and see her coming to the same conclusion as I have. The weirdness of synchronicity—how there’s no discernible connection between two things and yet it’s there—is mind-blowing.

“And if you took somebody’s blood and little fingers away from them?” I ask. “They wouldn’t be able to do magic anymore, right?”

“Well, no. They’d be dead.”

“But would a mage have anything to gain from stealing somebody else’s magic?”

“That’s exactly what Jerad Sloan—the Big Bad—was doing until Oliver stopped him.”

“When were these books written?” I ask.

“I think the first one came out in the late nineties—I’d have to check the exact date.”

“But long after the first girls went missing.”

Wendy puts a hand to her mouth. Now she gets it too.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Jilly says. “We’ve seen Duncan and he looks like he does in the illustrations from the books. The world he comes from exists because of the books and their big fan base.”

I nod. “But what if the magic described in the books is a real thing? What if it existed before the books, and the author found out about it and used it for his magic system?”

“And based Jerad Sloan on a real Big Bad,” Wendy says.

I look from her to Jilly. “Am I crazy? How can this be connected?”

“You did say you saw Duncan watching us when we left the police station.”

“So is he after the box of finger bones?” I turn to Wendy. “Would they have any power on their own?”

“I don’t know. Probably. Those bones are keeping the ghosts trapped.”

“Or,” I go on, “is he afraid that Daisy’s involved, either to gain power for herself, or maybe he thinks she’s going to be the next victim? Maybe she already is the next victim and that’s why she’s missing.”

“We need to see if we can find a connection between the girls,” Jilly says. “Maybe they have a specific blood type, some genetic marker. And maybe a connection between them can tell us who targeted them. The woman probably inserted herself into each of the girls’ lives before she grabbed them for her…ceremony.” She pulls a face, remembering what Sandy wrote.

I shake my head. “Sandy didn’t know the woman’s name.”

“Saskia will be able to figure this out a lot faster than we'll ever be able to,” Wendy says.

“I totally agree,” I say. “And it looks like we have to go to the Kingsmoor world.”

Wendy’s eyes light up and I add, “Yes, you should come, too. We’ll need a guide.”

“And do what there?” Jilly asks.

“Talk to Oliver Tye, for one thing. He already defeated one of these freaks. Maybe he’ll help us find and defeat the other.”

“Except he lost all his magic taking Jerad Sloan down,” Wendy says.

“Did he lose his tongue, too?” I ask. “Because otherwise he can still tell us things we don’t know.”

Wendy nods.

“The one thing we’re not doing,” I say, “is hitching a ride with Duncan Fairweather. If he’s playing us like it’s starting to seem he is, he could dump us over there and we’d never get home. I want to go in and out under our own steam.” I look to Jilly. “Do you think Joe would help us?”

“I can ask him.”

I take out my phone to check the time. “That’d be great.” I give Jilly a considering look. “Do you still think sleuthing’s fun?”

She shakes her head. “Right now? No, but it’s important.”

I think about that then give a slow nod.

“It’s almost dinnertime,” I say. “I’m going home. Shall we get back together tomorrow morning?”

Because I’m watching for it, I catch a few glimpses of Duncan as Sonora and I walk home. He thinks he’s being subtle, but there aren’t a lot of places to hide on our route, and skulking behind various shrubberies and along the sides of garages doesn’t really cut it. I’m tempted to call him out the next time I spot him, just to watch him jump, but I refrain.

Tam’s sitting on the steps playing a guitar when Sonora and I arrive. It’s amazing that he can do that in the middle of October, but so far we’ve had a really balmy fall. I sit on the step beside him while Sonora does a quick check of the garden and the oak out front before she sprawls on the grass.

“I guess we need to think of getting the coco matting on these stairs for winter,” I say.

Tam lays a hand across his guitar’s strings, stilling them.

“It’s just a linen closet,” he says. “I’ve been up there a half-dozen times today, but whenever I check, it’s just a linen closet.”

“It needs me to become a door to Christiana’s wild acres,” I tell him.

“Since when did you become magic?”

“I’m not. If someone gives you a key to a front door, does that automatically make you a locksmith?”

“Of course not.”

“This is the same thing, only the key’s in my head.”

“So…magic.”

“Yes, but it’s Christiana’s magic, not mine. Do you want to come see? I thought I’d walk Sonora there before dinner anyway.”

“Absolutely. It’s been driving me crazy all day.”

He gets up and goes to the front door. I call Sonora up onto the porch, then look up and down the street. No sign of Duncan. I wish I was magic so I could put one of those protective wards on our house. I don’t like the idea of him being able to come in whenever he wants.

Tam sets his guitar on the sofa and we head upstairs.

“Unbelievable,” he says when I open the door onto the wild acres. He sticks a hand in, waving it around, feeling the difference in the air. “I was so sure this was some kind of trick you and Jilly had cooked up.”

Sonora’s been waiting eagerly for permission to go through. As soon as I give her the hand signal she bolts into the tall grass. Tam and I follow at a normal pace. Standing on the path, Tam runs a hand across the tops of the grass and weeds. He bends down and scoops up some dirt, letting it sift back down through his fingers.

I wait for him, taking deep breaths of the pure air.

“Where does the path go?” Tam asks.

I shrug. “The last time we stayed on the main one and it brought us back to here.”

“So…”

“You choose a direction.”

He sets off taking the same route we did this morning.

Dusk was already creeping in when I got home to find Tam on the steps with his guitar. The days are growing shorter, fall turning to winter. Here, there’s still plenty of light and it feels more like spring on the verge of summer. So it seems Christiana’s version of changing seasons doesn’t quite jibe with Newford’s.

There’s a sudden kerfuffle in the grass and Sonora comes bounding out. She checks to see that we’re still here and then off she goes again.

“Are you going to show this to Nick?” Tam asks.

“Probably not.”

“Things aren’t going well?”

“They’re fine. He just likes me a lot more than I like him.” I smile at my brother. “Which should be a familiar sensation to you.”

He shrugs. “I try to tell them like it is, but they never believe me.”

He attracts girls and it’s no surprise to me. He’s a great musician. He’s good-looking and kind. But he’s always cared more for music than anything else—has ever since he first started to play. The girls consider him a project. That it’ll be different with them. It never is and they drift away.

“I’m not judging,” I tell him.

“You never do.”

We come to a spot where a smaller trail branches off to the right.

“Where does that go?” he asks.

“I have no idea.”

“But we won’t get lost?”

“I don’t think Christiana would let us.”

He doesn’t ask how she’d know, and I wouldn’t know how to answer, but I still feel it’s true because she assured me we’d be safe here.

The new trail winds through stands of birch, cedar and maple before it lets us out into a meadow with the most enormous apple tree I’ve ever seen. As impossible as it seems, it’s laden with fruit and blossoms at the same time. The scent is intoxicating. The apples big, red and gleaming.

“Maybe we’re in Eden,” Tam murmurs, “and that’s the Tree of Knowledge.”

“I don’t think so. But it is amazing.”

I hear a footstep behind us on the path and turn to find Christiana. Sonora immediately shows up to greet her, accepts a pat, and is gone again. That dog loves it here.

“Go ahead and have one,” Christiana says, nodding at the tree. “This isn’t Faerieland where if you eat or drink you’re trapped forever.” She smiles. “If it was you’re already doomed by having my tea and cookies last night.”

“Hey,” Tam says.

He smiles the way you do when you meet a friend, and I realize I shouldn’t be surprised that they know each other. Tam’s been playing with Geordie a lot since the summer and Christiana goes to most of her brother’s gigs.

“Hey, yourself. I liked that song you sang last week at The Black Fox.”

Tam mumbles something in reply, which means it was one he wrote. He’s terrible at accepting compliments on his songs.

I reach up, pluck an apple and bite into it. The flesh is both sweet and tart, the juice running down my chin, and I feel a sudden lift of spirits. I didn’t know how tired I still was until the apple gave me this little kick of energy.

“How did the glove work out?” Christiana asks me.

“That’s a long story.”

“Have you two had supper yet?”

I shake my head.

“Then we should go to my house and you can tell me all about it over a meal.”

I exchange a quick glance with Tam. Eye contact is all we need to read each other.

“That’d be great,” I say.

Tam can’t get over Christiana’s living arrangements. While Christiana and I fuss around in the kitchen area—me making a salad as she puts together a pizza from scratch—he walks around and around the living area trying to absorb the idea of these furnishings and her home in a woodland glade. He asks some of the same questions as I did—like, what does she do in inclement weather—and gets the same answers.

Sonora divides her time between watching him and checking to make sure neither Christiana nor I have some little treat for her. Christiana’s already taken out some leftover rice casserole for her to have when we’re eating.

Occasionally Tam drifts over to where we’re working on dinner and asks if he can help. Finally he settles on a kitchen chair and starts to talk music with Christiana. I’d be surprisedif her depth of knowledge matches his, except I don’t know her well, so almost anything she says or does could be surprising.

We start on the salad while we wait for the pizza and I tell them about my day while we eat. It takes a while. Sonora gets fed and the pizza’s on the table by the time I’m done.

Tam shakes his head. “Joon, you’re going to give me a heart attack—you know that, right? I’m too young to have a heart attack.”

“I’ve got it under control,” I tell him.

“Yeah, that’s why some ghost almost hijacked your body.”

“No, that’s why I had Jilly there to look out for me. We considered how that might happen, so we were prepared.”

Tam just shakes his head again.

“I have to admit,” Christiana says, “I’m feeling a little guilty for my part in this.”

I hold up a hand. “Stop right there. Nobody made me do this. I didn’t go into it with blinders on.”

“Why can’t you just take up skydiving or scaling skyscrapers?” Tam asks. “You know, something cozy and safe compared to fighting vampires and ghosts.”

“You’ve fought vampires?” Christiana says.

“Kind of—remember those Bloods I told you about?”

She nods.

“But I had Joe and a couple of his friends to help me, and they weren’t really vampires. I’m not sure what exactly they were.”

“Vampires,” Tam repeats.

“We’re getting off topic here.”

“No,” Tam says. “We’re totally on topic because now you’re planning to go off to some magic college world to fight wizards.”

“I’m not planning to fight anybody. I just want to find out how to free the ghosts of those girls and stop what happened to them from happening again.”

Tam turns to Christiana. “Are you her friend? Please tell her how crazy this is.”

“It’s dangerous,” Christiana says, nodding, “but it needs to be done. And if nobody else steps up, then we have to.”

“We?” I say.

Christiana gives me a brilliant smile. “I can help you get to Kingsmoor College. Joe’s not the only one who knows their way around the otherworld.”

“I don’t know why I bother,” Tam says, resting his chin on the cup of his palm.

I lay a hand on his arm. “I get it, Tam. I really do. I’d be worried sick if our roles were reversed. But I’m still doing this.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

I shake my head. “I train all the time. I’m familiar with a lot of different fighting styles and weapons. You’re not.”

“That was just in movies and the show.”

“That’s right. The training I did was for those roles. The roles were fake, the fights choreographed. But the training was real.”

“Did you train how to fight a wizard?”

“No. But like I said, I’m not going to fight. I’m going to get advice from a guy who’s gone up against a creature like this before. That’s all.”

“And I’ll be with her,” Christiana says.

“So you know how to fight wizards?”

She smiles. “No, but I know how to beat a quick retreat from one world into another. Speaking of which, I should go have a look at the backyard of Jilly’s house and decide the best place for a door to here.” She smiles. “I could key it to you as well as her, and then you could walk home from Bramleyhaugh through the wild acres instead of city streets.”

My heart does a little backflip. “I would love that.”

“Why can’t it be in their house like it is at ours?” Tam asks.

“There’s a protective ward on the Stanton Street house,” Christiana says. “My door wouldn’t work from it.”

“But Joe gets in and out,” I say.

She nods. “Joe’s special. And for all we know, he’s the one who put the ward on Jilly’s house in the first place. He’s very protective of her.”

I nod. “I think everybody is.”

“This is true,” Christiana says.

We both laugh because that’s something Jilly says all the time.

“We should probably get going,” I say.

Tam bounces to his feet. At first I think he’s that eager to leave, but instead he starts collecting the dishes from the table.

“Leave that,” Christiana tells him. “I’ll get them in the morning.”

“Do you think you could key my door so that Tam can use it, too?” I ask.

“Of course. I’ll walk you back and we can do it right away.” She glances at Tam. “Next time bring your guitar. I’d love to hear you play without some drunk shouting in the background.”

We both get up as well and I help Tam stack the remaining dishes in the sink, which doesn’t seem attached to anything, but water still comes out of its faucet and drains away somewhere.

“You’re going to have to explain the physics of this to me sometime,” Tam says.

“That’s easy. It’s magic.”

“Yes, but…” His voice trails off.

I bump his shoulder with my own. “You’re honestly better off not thinking about it too much. Whenever I do, it feels like my head’s going to explode.”

“That’s how I’m feeling right now.”

“Exactly. So stop thinking about it.”

“Come on,” Christiana says.

Night has fallen outside her magical home but there’s a moon so bright that it’s not hard to see the path. Sonora stays by my side for the walk back.

“See, how can there be a moon up there?” Tam says.

I make an exploding sound and mimic the debris flying everywhere with my hands.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I get it.”

“But I am curious about the seasons,” I say. “You said the wild acres have them, but it feels more like spring here than fall.”

“I set them to Australian time. That way, on the hottest summer days you can cool off with winter here. And you don’t get cabin fever because winter outside is summer here.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate access to all of this,” I tell her. “And thanks for letting me bring this one, too.” I tap Tam’s shoulder. “I should have asked first.”

She waves off my thanks. “Extra eyes make it easier for me to keep it all from disappearing through neglect. Here’s your door.”

There’s a faint rectangular outline marking it. I’d been wondering about finding it as soon as we left Christiana’s home, but I’ve discovered there’s something like a homing beacon in my head telling me where it is. I knew we were about to arrive before Christiana spoke.

We step through into the second floor hallway of our house with Christiana and she closes the door behind us.

“You have to believe it will lead you to the wild acres,” she tells Tam, “otherwise you’ll just find a linen closet.”

“Okay,” he says, but he sounds dubious.

“Believe,” Christiana tells him.

She steps up to him and kisses him on the lips.

“Now try it,” she says.

He does and there are the wild acres, glowing in the moonlight. A fresh breeze wafts into the hall and the moonlight illuminates his face.

He grins. “So the kiss was like the spell to make the magic work?”

Christiana laughs. “No, I just wanted to kiss you.”

Then she steps out into the wild acres and closes the door behind her. The hall plunges into darkness until I hit the wall switch.

“She is so into you,” I tell Tam.

“What? No she isn’t.”

“No, of course you’re right,” I tell him. “What could she possibly see in you?”

Then I walk down the hallway to my bedroom with Sonora, singing softly, “Tam and Christiana, sitting in a tree…”

“Don’t be so juvenile!” he calls after me.

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” I finish before I close my door on him.

3

Sunday

I’m up before Tam the next morning, which is par for the course. I remember getting up to pee in the middle of the night and hearing him playing his guitar softly downstairs, so I know that even though he didn’t have a gig last night he stayed up late.

I take Sonora outside to do her business. When we come back in I set down her breakfast and brew myself a coffee. I’m just settling down at the table with a nice full mug, my laptop open so that I can read the news, when the front doorbell chimes. Sighing, I close the laptop and head down the hall, Sonora right on my heels. There’s a rumble in her chest, not quite a growl, but she’s obviously picking up on my displeasure at having to start my day before I’ve had my first shot of caffeine.

I open the door to find Detective Cray on my porch. I don’t even want to know why he’s here. If I were a dog, I’d be growling too. I start to close the door in his face but he puts a foot in, stopping me.

“Wait,” he says. “I came here to apologize.”

I open the door again but only part way. “Fine. Apology accepted. Now go away.”

“Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot but—”

I cut him off. “No, you got off on the wrong foot. There was nothing wrong with my feet. Why are you even heading up this task force when you don’t believe in what you’re investigating?”

“I do believe in it.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“But just because some things are real, doesn’t mean everything has to be. I’ve been scammed before, but one of those girls is—”

“Your aunt. I know.”

“How do you know that?”

“There’s this little thing called the internet. We looked her up after we left you.”

“Right. Of course you would.”

“I know you think I’m making this all up, but until we got back to Jilly’s I never knew Sandy was your aunt. I’m sorry she was taken from you. That must have been awful. And I’m sorry your fiancée was killed.”

His eyes narrow but I ignore it.

“That’s two big tragedies in your life,” I go on. “I get that they’ve left you with a lot of emotional baggage. But it doesn’t give you permission to act like a jackass when somebody’s only trying to help. Remember, I didn’t come to you. Christy thought I could help.”

“I know. I’ve already said I apologize.”

“And you said the same thing two days ago but you came down heavy on me again yesterday. Man, I could barely even stand up I was so weak.”

He closes his eyes for a long moment then says quietly, “Can’t we put that behind us and just help the lost spirits of these girls?”

“I am going to help them. But I don’t think teaming up with a bipolar cop is in their or my best interest. I don’t trust you not to go off on me again.”

He rubs his face with his hand, then rakes his hair back.

“What can I do to make this better? We need you back at the precinct to get the names of the rest of those girls.”

“Unless you can roll back time, nothing.”

“Then you leave me no choice. I’m placing you under arrest for obstruction and bringing you back with me. One way or another, you’re coming with me to help those girls.”

I study him for a long moment, then nod.

“Fine. Can I put on some clothes before we go?”

I’m wearing deep rose sweat pants, a baggy T-shirt and big fuzzy slippers. “Or are you going to make me go out like this as more of your psychological warfare?”

“I wouldn’t—”

I don’t let him finish. “You know what? I don’t care. You can just shoot me in the back if you don’t want me to change.”

He has the audacity to trail me up the stairs but he doesn’t know my house or which room is mine. I walk past my bedroom to the linen closet. Opening the door, I shoo Sonora in ahead of me, then step in myself and close the door behind me.

I wish I could be there to see his face when he opens the door and discovers nothing but shelves of towels and linens.

I retrace the route we took from Christiana’s place last night and call her name as we get close by. After a few moments she steps out from between the oak trees and kneels to accept her greeting from Sonora.

“I wasn’t sure of the proper protocol about dropping by,” I say. “Is there a doorbell or a knocker?”

“Calling my name works. What brings you by so early?”

I explain about my visit from Detective Cray.

“That is uncalled for,” she says. “Do you want a coffee?”

“I’d love one.”

Sonora and I follow her between the trees. One moment we’re walking in grass, the next there’s carpet underfoot and we’re in her snug little glade.

“Do you think he was being sincere?” Christiana asks as she gets another mug and fills it for me from the carafe that’s warming on the stove.

“I’m sure he was. Just as he was sincere the time before that.”

I sit at the table with her and take the mug she offers me. “Thanks.”

“I wonder what his problem is,” Christiana says.

“I think he hates his job. He doesn’t want to accept that there’s more to the world than can be measured by science, but his job requires him to deal with precisely that. He’s the kind of guy who needs to be in control, which is good if you’re running a task force, but not so much if that task force is investigating the paranormal.”

“But he must have been face to face with all sorts of unexplained phenomena by this point.”

I nod. “So he grudgingly allows some phenomena into his worldview while denying the possibility of anything more.”

“Until he’s faced with something new that he can’t deny.”

“Exactly.”

Christiana’s lips purse as she thinks, “If it’s just names he’s looking for, why didn’t you give him the ones you found yesterday at Jilly’s?”

“I don’t trust what he’s going to do with them. What happened to that werewolf who was locked up the first time I was down there in his hi-tech dungeon? Cray told me he was transferred but what does that mean? For all I know it could be a euphemism for we took him out back and shot him in the head.”

“He’s probably not going to take your disappearance well,” she says.

“I know. I’ll have to call Christy when I get back home and have him tell Cray to back off.”

“And if Cray won’t?”

“Then I’ll have to see if Joe will help me dump him in some innocuous otherworld to cool his heels until I’ve had a chance to help the ghost girls.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Sure I would, if that’s the only way I can help them. I made a promise.”

“Duly noted. I can take you to Jilly’s right now if you like. We’ll go by the otherworld so Detective Cray will never see you.”

I pluck my T-shirt. “I’m not going over there in my pyjamas. I’ll give him a few more minutes if you don’t mind me hanging around, then I’ll go back and change.”

“Stay as long as you like.”

I’ve finished my coffee and Christiana pours me another. This is a woman who understands the importance of caffeine in the morning.

“So,” I say, keeping my voice casual, “are you interested in Tam? Romantically, I mean.”

She laughs. “Are you going to be the older sister watching out for him?”

“Tam and I try to keep out of each other’s romances. I was just curious.”

“Fair enough. I could be interested in him, but I’ve seen him with a lot of girls at various gigs over the years. Unlike them, I’m not prepared to joust for position with his music.”

“That’s a good way of putting it.”

“I think I’m happy enough to just be his friend. The only reason I kissed him last night was because he looked so cute—like a kid who’d just discovered that Santa Claus actually is real.”

Tam doesn’t look that happy when I enter the kitchen. “Where have you been?” he says. “I just had some big pissed off cop bust into my room demanding to know where you were.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t have a clue, and that if he didn’t get the hell out of our house I was going to call our lawyer and sue both him and his department.”

“I didn’t know we had a lawyer.”

“Shut up. Where were you?”

“He decided to arrest me because I wouldn’t accept the apology he came to deliver, so I went on the lam and hid out in the wild acres.”

Tam rolls his eyes. “Oh, well then. That makes perfect sense.”

“I thought it might.”

“You know, we used to have a peaceful life—” he begins, but breaks off when Christiana enters the room. “Oh, hey, Christiana,” he says. “Welcome to my nightmare.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “It’s not like I asked him to come harass me.”

“I know.” He shakes his head. “With the way things are going maybe we should get a lawyer on retainer.”

“While you ponder that, I’m going to get dressed.”

When I come back down they’re sitting with coffees in the dining room discussing music. Tam’s making some point about why Arcade Fire isn’t nearly as clever as people think they are, while Christiana sips her coffee, looking amused.

“The problem,” she says when he finishes, “is that it’s impossible to talk about art objectively. Make all the logical objective arguments you want, but if somebody likes something, they’ll still like it when you’re done explaining why they shouldn’t.”

She looks up at me. “Are you ready to go?”

I nod. “I just hope neither Cray nor Duncan is skulking around out there.”

“We can go more directly and then it won’t matter.”

“You mean through the linen closet?”

She shakes her head, says., “Bye, Tam,” and offers me her hand. I clip Sonora’s leash to her collar and shoulder my backpack.

“Don’t wait up,” I tell Tam, then I take Christiana’s proffered hand. We take a step and suddenly the lawn behind the house on Stanton Street is under our feet.

Jilly’s beside herself when she hears about getting her own door to the wild acres. I’ve got to hand it to her: she tries really hard to focus on Cray showing up at my place this morning and Duncan stalking me on the way home. But the gleam in her eyes tells me all she wants to do is march about in the backyard looking for the perfect spot for a portal.

There’s no way we can proceed until that’s done, so I say, “But before we get into anything else, maybe we should get that door set up.”

Jilly makes a little squee sound, her eyes shut tight and a grin a mile wide on her face.

“But no lollygagging in making a decision,” I say, “because we do have things to do.”

“Absolutely!” Jilly says.

She’s out the door in a flash, not even bothering to bring a jacket or sweater against the chill out there. Geordie snags a shawl from the back of the couch and we all troop out after her. The dogs think it’s some great game. Bobo rushes from one side of the yard to the other, Sonora following a little more sedately in his wake.

I’m watching from near the door of the greenhouse when my phone pings to tell me I’ve got a text. I look at the screen to see it’s from Duncan, so I put the phone back in my pocket.

“You might consider,” I hear Christiana telling Jilly as I push away from the wall of the greenhouse to join them, “that you’ll want something a bit closer to the house. You don’t want to be pushing through snow up to your thighs just to get to it.”

“We could keep it shovelled.”

“Or,” Christiana says, “we could put it on the screen door of the greenhouse.”

“I thought you couldn’t because of the protective ward,” I say.

She nods. “That would be true, but the screen door appears to have been added after the wards were set.”

“That would be perfect,” Jilly says.

“And where do you want it to come out in the wild acres? Near Juniper’s door?”

Jilly looks at me before she agrees.

I’m surprised that she doesn’t want to go through as soon as Christiana has it set up, but all she does is test it for a bit, opening and closing it, before she turns to me again.“We should get up to date,” she says, “and figure out what we’re going to do next.”

“But first I need to talk to Christy,” I tell her.

Christy’s furious when he hears what happened. He starts to apologize to me all over again but I stop him before he can get too far.

“This is on Cray,” I tell him. “Not you. But I do need you to fix this or else…”

“Or else what?”

“I’ll need to find a way to put Cray on hold until this is over. I’ve already got Duncan stalking me. I can’t work on this with Cray doing the same, especially not when he can call in the whole NPD to be his eyes and ears.”

Christy studies me for a long moment. “You actually have a viable plan to get rid of Cray,” he finally says.

I shrug. “Try to make sure I don’t have to use it.”

He leaves the greenhouse—presumably to call Detective Cray—and the rest of us settle in to see where we stand.

Saskia hasn’t had any luck finding a connection between the four girls whose names we do have, and Wendy has no new insights into whether the woman who killed the ghost girls has any connection with the Kingsmoor world.

“So we need to go there and find out for ourselves,” I say, making Wendy’s eyes light up. “I’d like to talk to this Oliver Tye about how he dealt with his own monster.”

“So, say we manage to track him down,” Jilly says. “What makes you think he’ll talk to us about it?”

“He’s a guy. They usually like to talk about themselves. No offence,” I add for Geordie’s sake.

He waves it off.

“Joe said to call him when we’re ready to leave,” Jilly says.

“Or I could just take you,” Christiana offers. “I’m starting to feel as invested in all this as the rest of you.”

“So…road trip?” I say.

Before anyone can answer my phone pings another text.

“I swear,” I say as I pull it out of my pocket, “I’m going to block Duncan’s number.”

Except it’s not from Duncan. It’s from Nick. Just a nice little hi, how are you, I was thinking about you message. A kind thought from a good boyfriend, and I feel like a heel because I’m not feeling the love myself.

“What does he want?” Jilly asks.

“It wasn’t him,” I say and put my phone back in my pocket. I turn to Christiana. “Do you need anything from us to figure out how to get there?”

She nods. “Wendy, you’re the one who’s read all the Kingsmoor books, right? Can you bring me a copy of your favourite one?”

While Wendy goes up to her room Jilly fills a backpack with water bottles, apples and a banana bread that Geordie made this morning, which he insists she takes. Sophie offers to look after the dogs. I take out my phone and compose a noncommittal response to Nick’s text. Christiana watches us all, a quiet sense of Zen flowing from her.

I send my text and find Jilly sitting on the coffee table in front of me. “So, do we need to, you know, think about weapons?” she asks.

She knows what happened the last time I went into a fictional world and I think it’s so brave of her to still be ready to go to the Kingsmoor world today.

I shake my head in response to her question. “We’re just going to talk. We’ll find Oliver, have a chat and come back.”

Wendy and Christy both return to the greenhouse at the same time.

“Did you talk to Detective Cray?” Geordie asks him.

Christy nods. “And it didn’t go well. He’s furious with Juniper and now he’s pissed off at me too.”

“What did you say to him?” I ask.

“I told him I won’t be consulting for him anymore and that I’m going to talk to Pharma and the others about reconsidering their own relationship with his task force.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I kind of did,” Christy says. “He’s been getting steadily more heavy-handed and disrespectful over the past few months. It can’t go on like this. Unfortunately, he doesn’t see it like that. He told me that we’re resources and we’d better step up and do our jobs or he’ll bring us all in.”

“He can’t actually do that, can he?” Jilly says.

Christy sighs. “I don’t know how much discretion he’s been given to get the job done, but considering the kinds of things he has to deal with, I’m sure he’s got a certain amount of leeway. It’s probably included in his mandate that he can hold on to what he considers resources using reasonable measures—which I imagine could be stretched to include protective custody. Meaning he can make our lives miserable.”

“Well, crap,” Jilly says.

I echo that.

Christy nods. “So if you guys are still planning to go to Kingsmoor, you’d better go now because as we speak, he’s on his way here to bring me in to the precinct.”

“That’s not happening,” I say. “Jilly, call Joe.”

Joe shows up before the detective comes knocking on the door.

“Are you sure that’s how you want to play it?” he asks when I explain what I need from him. “If we do this, there’ll be no going back.”

“I know. The question is, are you okay with it? You’ve got your own relationship with him.”

Joe nods. “Which is deteriorating because he’s getting wound way too tight.”

“And we’ve got enough on our plate without whatever his deal is being part of the mix. He can play nice or get a time out.”

There’s something feral in the grin he gives me. It spreads to those eyes of his, which haven’t freaked me out for a while. “You’re a woman after my own heart,” he says.

We wait on the front steps, Joe, Christy and I. We’ve been there maybe five minutes when a black SUV pulls up to the curb. Cray is out almost before it’s stopped. The driver is Detective Waller. He comes around to the passenger side and leans there, his arms folded across his chest, while Cray comes stomping up the walkway.

“I don’t think he’s ready to talk,” Joe says under his breath.

“What about Waller?” I whisper.

“We can come back and get him.”

Cray stops at the bottom of the steps and assumes an alpha pose, hands on his hips, his eyes hard. I note the service pistol in its holster on his hip.

“What are you doing here?” he says to Joe.

Joe and I stand up. I let Joe get a step ahead of me. Of course Cray is way too invested in being the alpha to back off.

“I just dropped by for a little conversation with my friends,” Joe says.

He puts out his hand and Cray automatically reaches to shake. As soon as they make contact, I grab onto Joe’s free hand and he steps us all away.

Cray staggers, tipped off balance by the transition from our world to wherever we are. I seize the opportunity to dart forward and lift his gun from its holster, then quickly move away.

“Be right back,” Joe says.

Cray recovers quickly. His eyes narrow as he gauges the distance between us. I’m sure he sees from the way I’m holding his weapon that I know my way around handguns.

“You are in such deep shit,” he says.

“Shut up,” I tell him.

He takes a step forward.

“You’ll get a warning shot in the leg if you keep moving,” I say. “Nothing life threatening in normal circumstances, but out here?” I shrug. “That could be another story.”

He wants to have a go at me anyway.

“You don’t have the stones to pull that trigger,” he says.

“And you don’t know the first thing about me. In your head you’ve got me all figured out. Labelled and stuck in a box. But we’re not in your head, Detective Cray.”

Joe reappears with Waller in tow. I’ve been expecting it, so it doesn’t startle me the way it does Cray. The gun never wavers in my hand.

“He’ll be armed,” I tell Joe.

“Not anymore.”

I see him give Waller a gentle nudge so that the two detectives are now standing in front of us. Joe’s holding Waller’s service pistol casually down by his thigh. I know he’s fast enough to bring it up and get off a shot while my finger is still tightening on the trigger of the gun I’m holding. I hope the detectives don’t underestimate him because I don’t want this to escalate any further than it already has.

I glance at Joe and he shrugs, letting me know that it’s my show now that he got us here. He’s just backup.

I settle my gaze on Waller.

“What’s your play in this?” I ask him.

“Sam’s my boss. I do what he says.”

“Too bad,” I say. “That means your Spook Squad’s going to be short two men for the duration.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Cray says. “Hand over our weapons and get us back to Stanton Street. Stat.”

“Or what?” I ask.

He gives me a confused look.

“No, seriously,” I say. “Or what? You know those places that Joe drops the creatures that aren’t actually evil, but they’re still dangerous around ordinary people? This is like that. We’re leaving you here without your weapons. We’ll come back and talk about what happens next after we finish the job we would’ve done with your cooperation. Now we’re doing it anyway—without your annoying interference.”

I don’t know Cray well enough to know his tells, but from the little flicker in his eyes when I said we were leaving them here without weapons I know they’re still armed.

I couldn’t tell you what they’re carrying, or where, but Joe’s part dog with an excellent sense of smell, and weapons—particularly guns—have a very distinctive scent.

“What are they still carrying, Joe?”

“Waller’s got a .38 in an ankle holster, right leg. Cray’s got the same, except he’s also got a knife strapped to his left ankle.”

I make a little motion with the handgun. “Gentlemen?”

“Just try and disarm me,” Cray says. “When I get my hands on you—”

I don’t let my anxiety show, though it’s been revving on overdrive ever since we put this plan in motion.

“Remember what I said about a warning shot?” I say, keeping my voice level.

I think he’s still going to have a go at me regardless, except Waller says his name. Then Waller bends down and removes his gun, holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger while he lays it on the grass.

“Sam,” Waller says again.

There’s a long pause until Cray finally removes his own weapons using the same exaggerated care that Waller did.

“I’m serious,” Cray says. “This is far from over.”

“Hush,” I tell him. “We’re just leaving you here for a while to contemplate your mistakes. But keep up this crap and we’ll conveniently forget where we left you. Now, please back up.”

When they do, I move to the side so that Joe won’t be in my line of fire while he collects their other weapons.

Waller catches my attention.

“Obviously, you and Sam have some issue,” he says, “but do you mind filling me in on how you see it?”

“Sure,” I tell him. “Ever since I met him, Detective Cray has been dismissive and abusive toward me, which, honestly, I could not care less about because I don’t need his approval to live my life. But this morning he forced his way into my house—without a warrant—and when I wouldn’t return to the precinct to help him with what he expressly told me yesterday was none of my business, he said I was under arrest. Then, when Christy called him later in the morning to ask for an explanation, he told Christy that he was also under arrest and the two of you were coming to take him into custody.”

Waller looks from me to his boss. “Jesus, Sam.”

“They’re not following orders,” Cray says.

“That’s because they’re not your soldiers. They’re consultants—well, I guess she and Christy are. I don’t know what to call Joe.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cray says.

“Are you insane?”

“He might be,” I say, “though maybe it’s because one of the ghosts he didn’t believe in yesterday turns out to be his aunt who went missing when he was a kid.”

I see the look on Waller’s face. “Oh, did he forget to tell you that?”

Waller takes a couple of steps away from Cray. “What the hell’s going on here, Sam?”

Cray finally turns his hard stare away from me to look at the other detective. “Did you read what she said the ghost told her? Some sick freak tortured her, bled her out like she was livestock. Her disappearance has been eating at me my whole life. You think I’m going to turn my back on any resource that will let me find justice for my aunt?”

Waller shakes his head. “You’ve stepped over the line.” He turns to me. “Look, we can fix this. Bring us back and I promise we’ll make things right.”

“Sorry. I really don’t trust him. And I don’t know you well enough to make a judgment call on whether you can be trusted. I’ve got some leads to follow up on and I can’t be distracted by what you might do to my friends when I’m not around.”

“Jesus,” Waller says. “We’re cops. We’re on the same side.”

I point the muzzle of the gun at Cray. “Except he’s acting like a dirty cop. Or maybe he’s bipolar and off his meds.”

“I might add,” Joe says, speaking for the first time, “that if you ever hurt anyone under my protection, there’s no world that will keep you safe from me.”

“So there’s that,” I say. “But the easier solution is to take you two out of the equation so there’s no chance of anyone getting hurt in the first place.”

Cray’s turned to me again. “What’s the matter with you? I came over to your house. I apologized. I thought you were scamming me, saying my aunt was one of the ghosts. ”

“Yes, you apologized. And then you went all psycho on me, just like you did the previous time you apologized.”

He doesn’t even hear me, which doesn’t bode well for this conversation. It’s not about to go anywhere but downhill.

“I apologized,” he says, “and you refused when I asked for your help. After all these years there was finally something I could do to help her and you just turned your back on me and on her.”

“That’s just not true. Detective Waller, what did I tell you when you escorted me out of your offices?”

Waller gives Cray a guilty look. “That you’d made a promise to those ghosts and nothing we could do would stop you from fulfilling it.”

“Which I’ve been working on ever since. But I decide the best use I can be. The method I used to communicate with the ghosts proved to be too dangerous so we’ve been working on alternative lines of investigation.”

“You never said that.”

“You never gave me the chance—and now you’re not going to get it. The idea that my friends are going to be put in danger or even inconvenienced by your thuggish behaviour is unacceptable.”

“I never threatened your friends.”

“You harassed my brother. You came to the house on Stanton Street to arrest Christy.”

Cray wipes at his face with a big hand. “Jesus. I’m trying to find some justice for seven murdered girls.”

I pull out my phone and glance at the screen. There are no bars, which I expected, but the clock still works.

“We have to go,” I tell them. “Hopefully you won’t be here for too long.”

Cray starts forward, stops when he sees the gun unwavering in my grip.

“I’ll drop off some food and water later,” Joe tells them. “You try to jump me and I’ll leave you to starve.”

Cray looks like he’s going to explode while Waller just studies us, keeping his hands where we can see them.

“This isn’t over,” Cray tells us. “Not by a long shot. When I get out of here—”

I cut him off. “If you don’t shut up, there’s a good chance you’ll never get out of here.”

“I swear—” he begins but this time Waller cuts him off.

“Don’t,” he says. “You’re only making things worse.”

On that note, Joe steps us away. I expect to reappear on the front steps of the house on Stanton Street, maybe the backyard. Instead we’re standing on the street beside the Spook Squad’s SUV.

“Get in,” Joe says. “We need to leave this somewhere else.”

I think, he doesn’t need me to tag along to do that, but then I realize he probably wants to talk to me before we rejoin the others. I get in. A moment later he’s behind the wheel and we’re pulling away from the curb.

“What we just did,” he says. “That’s serious. The blowback on us isn’t going to be pretty. And the task force is going to be sniffing around, trying to figure out what happened to Cray and Waller.”

“I’m getting that now. I probably shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”

He grins, eyes on the road. “Nobody was twisting my arm.”

“But still…”

“I have to ask,” he says. “Did you think it through?”

I lean back against the headrest. “Yes and no. Mostly no, but bullies just piss me off.”

“I get that.”

“Normally, I’d roll with it—it’s just one a-hole, right, and he’s not going to stay in my life forever—but with Cray on me the way he was, we weren’t going to get anything done. Maybe he’ll let things slide when I help the ghost girls move on and bring him his aunt’s killer.”

I still find it a little weird thinking of Sandy as his aunt. Sam Cray’s a big, full-grown man while his aunt’s ghost is just a teenage cheerleader, a fifteen-year-old forever.

“Maybe,” Joe says. “But you know what would seal the deal? Bring him the head of this guy named Devin Nash.”

“Who’s he?”

“A few years back the brass decided that Cray’s task force needed a dedicated data entry guy so the detectives could concentrate on dealing with the weird and the wonderful while Nash updated their databases, which the detectives were trying to do in between cases. At that point there was still a mountain of information that needed to be digitized—old case files, research, new information that the detectives were still gathering.

He glances at me and I nod to show that I’m listening. “So what happened?” I ask.

“Nash used his clearance with the task force to hack into the NPD’s network.”

I give a low whistle. “That would give him access to a lot of sensitive material.”

Joe nods. He pulls over to the curb and I realize that we’re parked in front of police headquarters. Joe turns off the engine and frees his seat belt, then turns to face me, his back leaning against the door, one leg pulled up onto the seat.

“Except Nash wasn’t interested in that,” he says. “He wormed his way into the accounting department’s network and started siphoning off money. He managed to steal maybe a third of the NPD’s budget before somebody noticed what was going on and shut it down. But the money was already gone and so was Nash.”

“Did Cray get blamed?”

“Pretty much. He didn’t hire Nash, but the brass felt he should have realized what was going on and pulled the plug on Nash before things got to that state. It’s definitely a big black mark on his personal file.”

“Seems a bit harsh, especially if they’re that busy on cases.”

Joe just looks at me with those crazy eyes then winks. “This is Newford. What do you think?”

“Point taken.”

“Anyway,” he continues. “Pass the buck’s the name of the game in any hierarchy—why should the NPD be any different? But Cray took what Nash did personally. The guy had been part of their team. They’d worked together, went for beers after work, socialized like they were all best buddies, and all the while he was stabbing them in the back.”

“So if I bring Nash to Cray we’d be good?”

Joe nods. “I’d bet on it. But it’s a pretty impossible task. Nash never resurfaced, the trail’s a few years old, and nobody—not the NPD, the feds, nobody—has ever come up with a single lead.”

Joe straightens in his seat and opens his door.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s find a more secluded spot to step out of the world.”

When I join him on the pavement he sets off down the block.

“Can I ask you something?” I say as I fall into step beside him.

“Shoot.”

“What really happened to the werewolf the task force had locked up in their cells?”

Joe smiles. “First off, there’s no such thing as a werewolf. There’s only shape-changers who’ve bought into the mythology and think they’re werewolves. They change only during the full moon, and when they change they do terrible things because that’s what werewolves do in movies and books. But in reality they could change anytime, and when they’re in their animal form they don’t have to be savages.”

“What about a werewolf’s bite—the way it’s supposed to spread the curse?”

“I’ve never seen evidence of it. The thing is, a lot of people carry animal blood in their DNA. For most of them it’s weak and will never make a difference in their lives, except they might feel a connection to a particular kind of animal. But there are a rare few who just need a nudge to make that old blood stir in them. It usually happens in a moment of heightened emotion.”

“And being attacked by what they think is a werewolf would certainly qualify.”

“You got it. Cray thinks I dumped his werewolf in a place like we left him and Waller, where he can’t hurt anybody. But I took him to a place where there are people who can rewire the way he thinks.”

“And it’s successful?”

“Most of the time.”

“So I’m curious,” I say. “I know that you can take the shape of a crow or a dog as well as being human.”

“Cousins call humans five-fingered beings.”

“Well, that makes sense. Is it like that for all the cousins? Can they take multiple shapes?”

“I suppose it’s possible, depending on how many strains of animal blood they carry. Most only have the one animal shape but there are a few cousins who can take it further. They think that when we shift we should be able to access any shape we want if we hold that focus at the moment we’re shifting, but I’ve never seen it actually work in practice.

“Here,” he adds, pulling me into an alley.

A moment later we’re standing in the backyard of the house on Stanton Street.

Joe says he’s off to gather some things to leave with Cray and Waller: food, water, a tent, sleeping bags, a football they can toss around, some books to read. “It’ll be like a forced holiday,” he adds before he leaves. “Might take the edge off how pissed Cray is going to be when it’s over.”

Back in the house, those of us heading to Kingsmoor get ready. Christiana says she’s got a good take on where it is—something about following the psychic emanations from that book Wendy’s read too many times to count.

Jilly, Wendy and I have packed up what we think we’ll need, then we go out into the backyard. We take each other’s hands like links of a human chain and Christiana steps us away.

It takes her a few tries to reach our destination.

The first time, we end up on a mountaintop where a wind is blowing so strongly we feel like we’re all going to get blown away. Then it’s a bog, which is a relief from the blasting winds, except we all get soakers.

“Sorry,” Christiana says. “It’s not an exact science.”

But finally we find ourselves standing on the edge of a forest with a broad sweep of lawn spreading out in front of us. I’m thinking, I’d hate to be the one who has to mow this, when I lift my gaze to view an enormous structure in the distance. The ivy-covered stone building is like a combination of some English manor house and a German castle I had a poster of when I was a teenager. I don’t know enough about architecture to describe it properly, but there are towers, and gabled roofs, and what looks like a widow’s walk. Each of the upper story windows has a little balcony. A tall hedge surrounds the ground floor. Stately outbuildings, like miniature versions of the main structure, spread out on either side.

“Oh, wow,” Wendy says, eyes agog. “We’re really here!”

Christiana has the senses and reflexes of a cat, and mine are pretty good as well— heightened because I remember that this is a wizard’s college and that means, no matter how bucolic this scene might be, it can still be dangerous here. Which is why, of the four of us, only Christiana and I sense the two women behind us.

They don’t seem to suit each other’s company, nor the classic picnic on the grass behind them—a wicker hamper on a spread-out blanket. One is tall and thin, her hair black where it isn’t shaved at the sides. Her eyebrows have been shaved and then painted back on, and dark eyeshadow gives her racoon eyes. She’s dressed in those baggy pants where the crotch hangs to your knees and a tight sleeveless T-shirt, both garments black. The other woman is short and bulky, and looks like she just stepped out of a baseball game, her ball cap worn backwards over a mess of blonde curly hair. She’s wearing runners, loose capris and a jersey emblazoned with the name of a team I’ve never heard of—The Ransome Wolverines—but admittedly I haven’t heard of a lot of teams.

“Now what do we have here?” the tall one demands, giving us the once over.

“Is this Kingsmoor College?” Wendy asks dreamily.

“No, it’s Asshole University,” the short one says with a sneer.

Wendy’s smile falters and she shoots Christiana a hurt, questioning look.

“It’s Kingsmoor,” I say. I don’t know why I’m so certain—maybe it’s the short blonde’s attitude. “But I’m sure it’s got plenty of assholes.”

The blonde starts to take a step in my direction, but her companion puts a bony hand on her shoulder. “Easy there, tiger,” she says.

The blonde shakes off her grip and stalks away.

“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” the tall woman says. “Adria doesn’t much like people, especially teddies.”

“What a surprise,” I say.

The woman’s lip twitches with amusement. She holds out her hand. “I’m Euna Wentworth.”

“Juniper Wiles,” I say as I shake her hand, then introduce the others.

“You’re Euna Wentworth?” Wendy says.

One painted eyebrow arches. “Why does that surprise you?”

“You just…um…you’re not what I expected.”

“That sounds positively mysterious. What did you expect and how did you come by these expectations?”

The questions make Wendy more flustered.

“She’s a big reader of the books,” I explain.

“Ah.”

“You know about the books?”

Euna gives me a smile that tells me I amuse her—like laughing at someone rather than with them. “Of course,” she says. “Bishop never really describes me in his text, so there’s yet to be a satisfactory portrait in any of the illustrated versions of the book. And everything about the film was so dreadful, I think most people deliberately put it from their minds. But I don’t mind being a tabula rasa. It’s allowed me to decide for myself what I look like.”

You have to wonder about someone who absorbs the fiction upon which her own life is based—and yes, I’ve watched the dailies of my own TV show and read the Nora Constantine books, but they’re not about me. They’re only about a character I played. This is different. Not bad, not good. Just different.

But I can’t stop myself from asking, “So you know you started out as a fictional character?”

“Of course.” Her gaze goes to Christiana, then returns to me. “Anyone with what some might call a less than natural origin is aware of how they came to be. To pretend otherwise would be to delude oneself.”

“Well, you’re certainly memorable,” I say.

That gets me another haughty smile. “Look at you,” she says. “It appears your tongue can be flattering as well as sharp.”

I shrug. What are you supposed to say to something like that?

“Now, what brings you all here?” Euna asks. “Don’t tell me you hope to enroll in classes because none of you appear to have any natural leanings toward the magical arts. Though you—” she points to Christiana “—seem to have other abilities, and you—” now she points to Jilly “—have a very intriguing glow about you.”

“So Wendy and I don’t get gold stars?” I say. “I’m hurt.”

She’s either unaware of my sarcasm or chooses to ignore it. “Don’t be,” she says. “It’s simply the luck of genetics—or in my case, how the author imagined me.”

“We’re hoping to find Oliver Tye,” I say to get our conversation back on track.

“Of course you are. Our hero and saviour. I should warn you, he spent all his magic getting rid of Jerad Sloan. No more magical combat for him if you’re here looking for a champion.”

“We’re not. We just want to talk to him.”

She gives the picnic hamper and blanket a regretful look.

“Since I’ve no other commitments at the moment,” she says, “I can take you to him if you’d like.”

“I’m sorry about chasing off your friend,” I say.

“That’s all right. Adria’s team lost a big game today and she can be quite testy when that occurs.”

“What position does she play?”

That gets me a blank look.

“You know,” I say. “Pitcher, shortstop, outfielder?”

“Oh, you mean baseball. No, it’s nothing like that, although she does gravitate to its ridiculous fashion—or should I say, lack thereof?”

It takes everything I’ve got to zip my lip, given those pants she’s wearing.

“She plays krakenball,” Wendy says.

Euna points a finger at her. “Now you do get a gold star.”

I’m beginning to wish Adria had stuck around. She might have been a little pissy, but I’ll take straightforward any day over this woman’s exaggerated pretensions. To Euna, we’re just an amusing footnote to her day.

Or maybe I’m just cranky because my socks feel squishy inside my shoes from that bog we passed through.

“Krakenball’s played on a special court,” Wendy explains to us. “It’s got a central area with the goal net, and eight wide strips of squares run away from it in equidistant directions. There are four teams and—”

Jilly touches her arm. “Maybe later.”

“What? Oh, right.”

“So, Oliver Tye,” I say, returning my attention to Euna.

She nods. “Just let me tidy up.” She does some weird motions with the fingers of both hands, then pushes her palms toward the picnic hamper and blanket. I swear I’m not making this up. They leap into the air and spin into what looks like a miniature tornado, which falls in on itself. A little round container the size of a matchbook appears on the ground and the tornado disappears into it. Euna bends down. Snapping the lid shut, she picks it up, then gives us a forced smile and starts off across the lawn.

“Most days you can find Oliver in his office in the library,” she says as we hurry to keep up with her long stride. “The fingers may be emptied of magic, but his knowledge still fills his head.”

“He’s a resource now?” I ask.

“That’s one way to put it. He tutors the students—mostly first and second years.”

“I thought he went away with Dora Nowlin,” Wendy says, then adds to the rest of us, “That was his girlfriend in the last couple of books.”

“It would certainly make for a happy ending,” Euna says, “but the truth is, Dora decided a Master Mage without the ability to do magic was too much like a teddy with too much knowledge. She ended up advocating that he have his memories wiped and be sent back into the teddy world—even offered to do it herself, as I recall. But Master Mage Stoddard would brook none of that. Oliver was always his pet student. I think it broke his heart when Oliver lost everything to rescue the school from Sloan, though his protégé’s sacrifice also filled him with a rather insufferable pride.”

“You don’t seem very grateful,” I say.

“That’s the problem with great deeds of valour. They fade into the obscurity of history so quickly, and all you’re left with is the day-to-day banality of the participants.”

“You don’t like Oliver?”

“On the contrary, he’s a sweet and gentle man. But there’s talk of putting up a statue of him, and really, do we need to be reminded of how quickly we could lose all that we’ve worked for in our years of study here?”

Am I surprised at Euna’s self-centered attitude? Not really. It seems par for the course, considering what I’ve learned about her so far. But while her information is slanted, it’s proving useful.

I do feel a little sorry for Wendy, who seems to be getting more and more deflated every time Euna opens her mouth. Unfortunately, that can’t be helped. We need whatever intel we can pry from her.

Christiana is quiet, listening and observing in her own inscrutable way.

“What do you know about the Fairweather twins?” I ask Euna.

“What’s to know? They’ve graduated, so they’re Master Mages. They’ve become less interesting with each passing year. I believe it’s called ‘settling down,’ but I just find them boring.”

“Do you ever see Daisy around?”

She shakes her head. “Not for a while. But Duncan seems to have made it his life’s work driving everybody a little mad looking for her. If you ask me, I believe she finally realized that her life would improve if she just severed the almost Siamese-twin bond between them. If he were my brother, I would have turned him into a newt years ago.”

“Think he’d feel the same about her?”

“God, no. I doubt he can function without having her to tag along behind.”

“So she’s the—what? Alpha of the pair?”

Euna laughs. “If dormice or rabbits have that sort of hierarchy, then yes.”

We’re approaching the main building now. Closer up, the stone gargoyles along the rooflines come into focus, and the towers, which had seemed so narrow from a distance, are actually huge, rising up eight stories. The windows are all bevelled glass and ironwork.

The outer hedge turns out to be a complex maze that Euna leads us through with unerring efficiency. When we emerge the full majesty of the school rears up in front of us. We stare up at two massive wooden doors framed by huge stone blocks, ivy climbing over everything. The scale makes me feel a little small. I could be twice my height and still not have to duck to enter.

“So who’s the most powerful Master Mage?” I ask.

Euna considers that. “The logical answer would be Master Mage Stoddard—he’s the head of the school, isn’t he? But that does not take into account the hedge mages.”

“They’re more powerful than the magicians in your school?”

“Generally speaking, not in the least. After all, the only magic they can access they have to beg, borrow or steal. But for years rumours have been circulating of a woman among them named Nida Dill who is said to be so powerful she could pluck the stars from the sky and wear them as a necklace.”

Euna laughs and looks upward. “Oh, I realize the physical impossibility of that, but magic is the business of impossibility, so who knows? Maybe she could.”

She leads us forward again, aiming not for the oversized front doors but rather toward a smaller one, a little ways to the left, which I hadn’t noticed earlier. It opens from a large stone patio that has a fountain and is dotted with tables and chairs that are filled with students. She ushers us into a long hallway that opens into a cavernous entrance hall with marble floors, wood panelled walls, a high domed ceiling. Life-sized bronze statues line either side of the hall.

“This way,” Euna says, leading us onward.

We could walk five abreast and people would still have room to pass us comfortably. Lamp sconces and oil portraits of stern-faced men and women adorn the walls. Occasionally we walk by closed wooden doors, but Euna passes them without comment. Finally, we reach a large pair of open doors and we’re deposited in another cavernous space, the library. It’s not quite as big as the entrance hall, but in the middle its ceiling rises forever to an enormous glass dome, so I figure we must be in one of the towers.

Tall bookcases line the walls around the perimeter of the room, interspersed with occasional windows and built-in rooms with dark wood panelled doors. The middle space is dotted with tables, glass display cases filled with mysterious artifacts, and small islands of reading chairs. Here and there I see somebody bent over a book, but most of the tables and chairs are empty and no one pays attention to our entrance. From the center of the room I look up and see floor after floor of more library, but I can't see any way to access them.

“How do you get up to the other floors?” I ask Euna, pitching my voice low so as not to disturb anybody. I don’t want to irritate someone and have them turn me into a newt.

“Each floor contains the reference material for ever more advanced research,” Euna explains. “When you’re ready to study them, you’ll figure out a way to reach them. They say in the old days some clever students figured out how to animate the books they wanted so that they’d fly down into their hands, flapping their covers like so many awkward birds, but it’s no longer allowed. Apparently the air in here was filled with flocks of the damned things banging into each other, breaking their bindings and losing pages. Now you have to be able to levitate to the floor you wish to reach.”

I’d like to see that, but no one’s doing any flying around at the moment.

“Oliver’s office is over here,” Euna says and leads us across the library to an open door. She pauses at the door and calls inside. “Master Mage Tye, you have teddy visitors.” Then she smiles at us. “I’ll leave you to it then. Time I had a drink. It must be five o’clock somewhere.”

“Thanks, you’ve been very helpful,” I say, though what I’d really like to do is have a couple of rounds with her in Pearse’s boxing ring—just to show her how tedious I can be.

She waves a nonchalant hand in our general direction as she heads off.

The others are waiting on me so I take the lead into Oliver Tye’s office.

It’s like stepping into a private room of some turn-of-the-century gentlemen’s club. There’s the big stone hearth with a fire burning merrily in it. Facing it are a fat leather sofa long enough to hold four people comfortably, and a handful of leather club chairs. Like the exterior, the walls are panelled with a rich dark wood. The other side of the room holds a massive wooden desk with a wall of bookcases behind it.

Oliver Tye sits in the middle of the sofa. The long coffee table in front of him is covered with books, many of them open, and sheafs of paper. Oliver himself seems surprisingly nerdy, considering he’s supposed to be a brawny hero, but maybe that’s just how I pictured him from the stories people have been telling. He’s probably six feet standing, wiry with narrow shoulders. When he looks up, mild brown eyes study us from over the rim of his glasses.

On the far side of the sofa a large window overlooks the hedge maze and lawns. Standing by it is another man who turns to watch us enter, as dark haired as Oliver is fair, with blue eyes almost as startlingly intense as Jilly’s. He’s wearing a dark well-tailored suit, while Oliver is in blue jeans and a pale green hoodie, the sleeves pushed up, hood thrown back.

Oliver looks older than I thought he’d be. I expected a teenager, maybe somebody in his early twenties, but both men appear to be in their early thirties.

“You really are from the teddy world,” Oliver says, not bothering to stand up.

I’ve been doing so much talking since we got here that I wait for someone else to take the lead—mostly because I’m tired of being referred to as a tedious person from a tedious world—and a snarky comment sits on the tip of my tongue, dying to vent my displeasure.

Wendy’s not much use. She’s still all starstruck, but I suppose it’s not really her fault. She’s seeing Oliver and his world through a prism of all those books she’s read about him, and it must be setting her fangirl heart aflutter.

“Jilly?” I murmur through gritted teeth.

“You’re doing fine so far,” she tells me.

Christiana remains silent, surveying the room.

Great. It’s still on me.

“I’d be careful with your choice of adjectives, Oliver,” the man by the window says. “The lass in front might not know magecraft, but she looks like she wants to thrash you and I get the distinct impression she’d do a bang-up job of it.”

Beside Jilly, Christiana snickers.

“Sorry about that,” Oliver says. “I’m as much a teddy myself, so I’m not really one to talk.” He waves a hand to the chairs. “Please have a seat and tell me why you’ve come.”

The man by the window steps away.

“Yes, do sit,” he says. “Can I get you ladies some refreshment? A sherry? Or perhaps some coffee or tea? I’m Lionel, by the way, and you appear to already know who Oliver is.”

“A coffee would be nice,” I say.

My wet socks are driving me crazy. “Would it be rude to dry my socks and shoes by the fire? We had a little incident with a bog.”

“Juniper!” Wendy says, but the two men laugh.

“Allow me,” Lionel says.

He does that finger-twisting motion, pushes his palms toward us, and just like that, my socks and shoes are toasty dry.

“Thanks,” I say and settle into the chair directly across the table from Oliver.

After I introduce the others, Jilly and Wendy both say they’d like coffee as well.

“I think I’ll take you up on that sherry,” Christiana says.

Lionel breaks into a wide smile. “Perfect. I hate to drink alone. What about you, Oliver?”

“I’m good.”

I turn to Wendy when Lionel leaves the room.

“So is he in the books?” I ask.

Wendy shakes her head.

“You’re here because of those books?” Oliver asks. The tone of his voice seems to indicate that perhaps we are tedious after all.

“Indirectly,” I tell him. “We’re here to hopefully get some advice about a case.”

Oliver sits up and grins. “Wait. You’re detectives?”

“Just Juniper and me,” Jilly says before I can deny it. “Wendy’s our Kingsmoor expert and Christiana’s our ride.”

He looks a little confused by that last comment.

“She’s the one who got us here,” Jilly explains.

“What sort of case are you working on?” Oliver asks.

Lionel comes back just then, carrying a tray.

“They’re detectives,” Oliver tells him.

Lionel seems as delighted as Oliver. He gives us each a smile as he sets our drinks in front of us. Christiana he serves last and clinks his glass against hers.

“Here’s to detecting,” he says.

There’s cream and sugar on the tray and I help myself to both.

“They were just about to tell me about the case that brought them here,” Oliver says to his friend.

Lionel makes himself comfortable on the end of the sofa closest to where Christiana is sitting.

“Do tell,” he says.

So I do. I tell them about the ghost girls and how they died at the hands of the horrible woman. “We were wondering if Jerad Sloan had a similar M.O.,” I say, finishing up, “and if you have any advice as to how we can take their murderer down when we find her.”

“Modus operandi,” Lionel repeats, delight in his voice, the Latin rolling beautifully from his tongue.

“Sloan didn’t collect ghosts,” Oliver says. “At least, not that I was ever aware of. I wasn’t sure I even believed in ghosts until you told us your story.”

“But now you do—just like that?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me.”

“And you know that…how?”

“I may have used up all of my battle magic,” Oliver says, “but I’m still a Master Mage. I can read your aura.”

I stop myself from rolling my eyes—which was my first reaction—because in this world he probably can.

“Okay then,” I say.

“I thought you didn’t have any magic left,” Wendy says.

“I still have little bits and pieces. You could say I’m at the level of a first-year student here at Kingsmoor—full of promise but with little hope of graduating again. My wisps of magic are just enough to remind me of all I’ve lost.”

“Did Sloan collect finger bones and blood from his victims?”

Oliver nods. “It’s a dark form of battle magic, trophies of a sort, strengthening you while utterly decimating your enemy.”

“So how do you stop somebody like that?”

“It’s easier than you might think,” Oliver says. “You just have to give up the thing you care about the most.”

“You mean, like your life?”

He gives me a sad smile. “A life is surprisingly easy to give up if the stakes are high enough. No, it has to be something that you are bereft to live without. You exist in a grey world with a hole in your chest that can never be filled.”

“You gave up your magic,” I say.

“I did. What are you willing to give up?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what I care about the most. My brother. My dog. My friends.”

But now he shakes his head. “It has to come from inside of you,” he says. “Some intrinsic part that would define your innermost self.”

“I get it,” Jilly says. “I’m an artist, so for me it would be giving up my art.”

“As I did with my magic,” Oliver says.

Jilly gives a slow nod. “That would totally suck.”

Well, crap. I don’t have anything like that. I love doing art but I could probably live without it. I could probably live without a lot of the things inside me. It’s the things outside of me that I care about the most. My friends and Sonora. Tam. And any one of them is off the table and not up for discussion.

But I can worry about that later.

“Do you have any ideas as to how we can find this woman?” I ask.

“That’s easy enough as well. You follow the trail of her dead.” He gives me another one of those sad smiles of his. “Yes, I know. Easy can be the hardest road we travel.”

“The problem with following her dead,” I say, “is that we want to prevent any more. Since she’s killed already, she’ll probably do it again.”

Oliver looks to Lionel. “Can you do a divination?”

“Only if I have something that belongs to one of the girls.”

I sigh. “And there’s no place where, I don’t know, homicidal wizards might hang out?”

Oliver shakes his head.

“What about hedge mages?” Jilly asks. “Could one of them be trying to get more powerful?”

“It’s possible,” Oliver says. “But if these murders go back some seventy years, you’re looking for a very old hedge mage, and they don’t usually live that long.”

“Why’s that?”

“Spells backfire when you’re trying them out in a hit-or-miss fashion. Even a simple spell can be lethal if mishandled.”

“What about this Nida Dill that Euna told us about?” I ask.

Oliver and Lionel exchange glances.

“Nida Dill is a myth,” Oliver says, “spread by hedge mages to make people think that any one of them might be as powerful as the stories make her out to be.”

“In our world,” Jilly says, “Kingsmoor College isn’t even a myth—it’s fiction. Yet here we are.”

“You have a point. But if Nida Dill were real, she’d be more powerful than Sloan, and I barely survived my encounter with him.”

“And Oliver was our most powerful mage,” Lionel says.

They talk more about hedge mages—what lengths the non-magical will go to in order to acquire magic, what students from Kingsmoor do when they graduate—all of which is interesting but not helpful to our purpose.

Finally I address the other big question I have for Oliver. “You know the Fairweather twins, right?”

Oliver nods. “What do they have to do with anything?”

“Duncan wants me to find his sister, who’s gone missing.”

Lionel had seemed to lose interest in our conversation, but now he perks up. “You have two simultaneous cases?” he asks.

“Unless they’re part of the same one. What if the woman who killed the ghost girls has Daisy? What if Daisy is her?”

Oliver shakes his head. “She’s not old enough.”

“I suppose. Do you have any idea where she might go to hide from her brother?”

“Why would she do that?”

“Euna seems to think he’s pretty clingy.”

“I’d think that goes both ways,” Lionel says. “A little separation might do them both some good.”

“Except, he seems genuinely worried,” I say. “Plus he’s been following me around to make sure I’m actually working the case.”

“Maybe he has a crush on you.”

“Oh please. There’s nothing romantic about stalking a girl.”

Lionel nods. “Straightforward is always the best way to go in a relationship.”

We’re about done here, I decide. Especially if we’re going to start discussing my love life. But Lionel has a point. I need to step up and be more straightforward with Nick.

“Are you an instructor here as well?” I ask Lionel.

“Lionel’s my bodyguard,” Oliver says.

We all turn to look at the dark-haired man. “Don’t act so surprised,” Lionel says. “I can be fierce.”

“You left us alone in the room with Oliver,” I say.

“Did I?”

I feel confused, more so when Christiana chuckles. When I turn to her she points to a small globe sitting on the windowsill where Lionel was standing when we first came in. “Don’t let him yank your chain,” she says. “He was watching us through that when he left the room.”

Lionel smiles, positively charmed. “Where did you study?”

“Study what?”

“Magic.”

“I didn’t. Like Juniper said, I’m just their ride.” She stands up. “Speaking of which, are we ready to go?”

I nod and we all stand up as well.

“Thanks for your time,” I tell Oliver.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

“But you filled in a lot of the background for us.”

Wendy steps up to him, her hand extended.

“It was so nice to met you,” she says.

He ignores her hand and gives her a hug instead. When she steps away I can see the blush starting up her neck. Fangirl. But I don’t say anything.

We make the rest of our goodbyes.

“Do you know how to find your way back out?” Oliver asks.

“No need,” Christiana says.

She holds out her hands and we all form a human chain again.

“Come by any—” Oliver starts to say, but Christiana steps us away before he can finish and we’re in the backyard of the house on Stanton Street, happily minus a stopover in a bog.

I almost get bowled over by Sonora when I step into the greenhouse studio. Bobo runs in circles around us whining and yapping his fool head off until he’s had the chance to greet all of us individually. Mona and Saskia come out from the kitchen to greet us as well. From upstairs I can hear the faint sound of Geordie on his fiddle.

So after our visit to the magical Kingsmoor College it’s life as usual once more, which is a relief. Except the ghost girls’ murderer is still out there, Duncan’s probably staked out somewhere nearby, trying to spy on me, his sister’s still missing, and two of the NPD’s Spook Squad are in the otherworld having a time out. So…complicated.

My phone pings with a text at the same time that Mona says to me, “There was a Detective Rameriz by earlier wanting to talk to you. Apparently Detectives Cray and Waller were on their way here when they went missing. Their car was found parked in front of the police station, but there was a glitch in security cameras so they weren’t able to see who left it there.”

I look at my phone. It’s another text from Nick.

“Did Christy talk to her?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “He’s been out all afternoon. Detective Rameriz wants one of you to call her as soon as you can.”

“Thanks.”

“What are you going to tell her?” Jilly asks.

“Nothing.” I put my phone in my pocket. “I’m going to take Sonora for a walk in the wild acres. Want to come?”

Jilly nods.

“You can walk me home,” Christiana says.

“Remember how to do this?” I ask Jilly as we approach the back door of the greenhouse.

She grins. “Just expect the wild acres to be there.”

And when she opens the screen door, there they are. The dogs rush out ahead of us. We say our goodbyes and follow along behind them.

“You know what I don’t have?” I say.

The other two shake their heads.

“Joe’s phone number.”

“Why do you want that?” Jilly asks.

I hate to lie, so all I say is, “It seems like a good number to have.”

“This is true. Here, give me your phone.”

I pass it over then turn to Christiana. “Stop me if this is out of line, but how would you feel about making one more door into here?”

“Where would it be?”

“Someplace near the animal shelter. Then we could take some of those dogs for a run in here.”

They both smile at the idea.

“Absolutely,” Christiana says.

When I get home I hear Tam practicing so I make dinner for us. We chat and joke over the meal and everything feels normal. Tam offers to clean up, so I go out and sit on the back porch to let Sonora sniff around, marking her property. She’s at the back near the remains of the vegetable garden—all we’ve got left is kale at this point of the year—and suddenly lifts her head, but I already heard what caught her attention. A moment later Duncan comes sauntering from around the side of the house as I half expected he would.

He eyes Sonora with a bit of nervousness. “Okay if I sit down?”

“Suit yourself.”

“Where’ve you been?” he asks as he sits on the steps beside me.

“Why are you asking me what you already know? I’m surprised you didn’t show up—or has your skulking gotten so much better that I just didn’t notice you?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to go back to Kingsmoor without Daisy. Half the people there think she’s hiding from me because I’m supposedly such a pain, while the other half think I did something to her.”

“Is either true?”

“Would I have hired you if it was?”

“Hard to say. Especially since you haven’t mentioned payment once.”

“What are your rates?”

“Too high for you.”

“So that’s it?”

I whack him on his shoulder with an open hand. “Don’t be an idiot. I said I’d help. I’m just trying to plan my next move.”

“Did you learn anything in Kingsmoor?”

“Not really. What do you know about Nida Dill?”

He shrugs. “She’s not real. She’s just some fantasy of the hedge mages—” He stops and looks at me. “Wait. Are you saying she’s real?”

“I’ve no idea. She just sounds powerful enough to be a suspect if she is.”

“You mean for those ghosts you’re trying to help.”

I nod.

“You think it’s a mage that killed them?”

“Again, no idea. But since she was stealing their blood, voices and little fingers, it’s beginning to seem like a possibility.”

I study him to gauge his reaction, but it looks like news to him and the idea seems to make him a little queasy.

“There are any number of creatures that feed on humans,” he says after a moment.

“Do they look human themselves?”

“Some can—if they’re wearing a glamour.”

“Of course they can.”

I call Sonora over to me and stand up.

“I’ve still got some work to do this evening,” I tell him.

He gets the hint. “But you’ll call if you get any news?”

“Do we have to go over this every time? Yes. I’ll call. Now go.”

He does, but I don’t go inside. I take out my phone and thumb in Jilly’s number.

It picks up on the second ring and Jilly says, “Bobo Coppercorn’s residence. How may I direct your call?”

I laugh. “Is Saskia around?”

“Hey, Juniper. I think she’s upstairs. Do you want me to go get her?”

“No. I’m just going to send you that picture of Daisy Fairweather. Could you ask Saskia to do her internet magic with it and see if she can track the girl down? Tell her to look for boys with the same features, as well as girls.”

“We should have thought of this before.”

“I know.”

“I’ll get on it,” she says.

“Thanks.”

My next call is to Joe.

“What’s up?” he answers.

“It’s Juniper. Am I catching you at a bad time?”

“Depends what you call a bad time.”

“Oh. Sorry. I can call back later.”

“Kidding. What do you need?”

“I hate to always be asking you for things but I need another favour.”

“Juniper, girl,” he drawls, “your favours are always entertaining. Just tell me when and where.”

“Can you get in and out of those cells in Cray’s hidden jail?”

“Yeah. You going back to see the ghost girls?”

“I need to get the rest of the names, but I doubt anybody there will let me in. Plus I need a spotter if it gets out of hand, and I don’t want to put Jilly in that position again.”

“I can do that. When do you want to go?”

“Late. Maybe after midnight?”

“Pick you up at one?”

“Perfect.”

After I finish that call I have one more to make, but I chicken out and just send Nick a text instead, telling him that it’s been a crazy day and I’m going to bed early.

And then I go inside and do just that. It’s only nine. It’s probably a good idea to catch a few hours sleep before I meet up with Joe.

4

Monday

At five to one I’m sitting in the swing in the backyard. Tam’s not thrilled that I’m traipsing off again into what he perceives as unnecessary danger, but he’s somewhat mollified when he learns that Joe will be with me and agrees to look after Sonora. He also insists that I bring my Taser, so I’ve got that clipped to my belt and poking into my side.

“You’re early,” Joe says. The sudden sound of his voice startles me. It takes some looking around until I finally spot him standing so still he blends into the shadow the house casts across the lawn.

“So are you,” I say.

“Did you know you’ve got somebody camped out in the cedar hedge between your place and your neighbour?”

I sigh. “Duncan Fairweather.”

“Want me to move him somewhere?”

“No, he’s harmless.” At least I think—hope—he is. “Let’s just go.”

“So just to be clear,” Joe says. “We’re going into the holding cell with the ghosts of the girls, and you’ve got a glove that will let you communicate with them.”

I nod.

“And if one of them gets frisky and tries to hijack you, I just have to remove the glove.”

“That’s about it.”

“How will I know it’s happening?”

“You’ll know.”

“Okay.”

He offers me his hand. I grab hold and he steps us away from my backyard right into the ghost girls’ cell.

“Do we have to worry about surveillance cameras?” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “They don’t work around me.”

“Handy.”

The girls were all sitting on the floor, leaning against various parts of the walls. Sandy’s the first to jump up. She’s happy to see me but there’s worry in her eyes.

“Everything’s cool,” I tell her before I address them all.

“I need a few more names,” I say. “You saw how this works. I put on the glove and you possess my hand to write out the answers.”

As I talk, I take a couple of sheets of paper from my pocket and a pencil. I smooth the paper out on the table.

“If you try to do more, like MisRule did the last time, the session’s over and you’ve just made it that much harder for me to help you.”

MisRule glares at me, but I ignore her.

“You’re up first,” I say, pointing to the girl in jeans and a white T-shirt.

At first I think she’s going to refuse. On my last visit here she spent most of the time with her back to me, staring at the wall. She’s the only one still sitting, but tonight at least she’s looking at me. I put on the glove that Christiana gave me and pick up the pencil.

“Let’s go,” I say.

She gets up and joins me at the table. Putting out a hesitant hand she makes the connection with the glove. I see her eyes go wide with surprise at the same time that my hand goes numb.

“Just write your name and address,” I say. “And anything you can remember about your attacker.”

Joe’s leaning with his back against the plexiglass door, arms folded across his chest. I can tell he intrigues the girls, but I don’t explain who he is or why he’s here. I’m pretty sure he can’t see the girls, but he still seems to be aware of them.

The ghost with her hand on mine holds my gaze for a long moment before she finally lowers her eyes to the paper. My hand begins to write out a name—Caitlin Burns—and an address I recognize as being over in the Beaches. I never saw her, is the last thing Caitlin’s ghost writes with my hand and then she steps away, pulling her fingers out of mine.

I immediately get that pins and needles feeling in my hand and feel a little light-headed. I close my eyes and take a couple of steadying breaths, letting the table hold my weight.

“You okay?” Joe asks.

I nod and point to the girl who looks like she’s from the disco era.

“You’re up next,” I say.

The girl who looks like she’s all dressed up for a dance at her school is Patti Green, and she’s from the burbs—Woodlawn Acres, to be exact, which I didn’t even know were that old. So maybe she was going to a Halloween party or just goofing in her mother’s clothes.

When she disengages, I need a longer break. I can’t figure out why this is so draining. Sandy possessed my hand for a lot longer. It was tiring, but it wasn’t until the punk girl tried to hijack me that I felt any debilitating weakness.

“You’ve got two more names,” Joe says. “Maybe we should come back for the others.”

I see the concern in his eyes, but I shake my head.

“I only need one more.”

I look at the girls and point at them as I call out their names.

“Victoria Bell.” The nerdy girl with the glasses nods.

“Brooke Hardy.” The one rocking the grunge look gives me a thumbs up.

“Debbie Owens,” I say, pointing to the punk. She shakes her head.

“Sorry,” I tell her. “I meant MisRule.” She gives me a nod, her eyes saying, whoop-dee-doo, aren’t you just so smart.

I straighten up and point to the girl in overalls. “You’re the only one I don’t have a name for, so come on over.”

Sandy steps in between us, the worry in Joe’s eyes mirrored in her own.

“Let me do this,” I tell her. “Just the one last name, then I’ll go get some rest.”

Sandy sighs and steps out of the way so the last girl can use my hand. She writes Della Boyd, RR #2, Tyson.

“What about the woman who took you?” I ask. “Can you remember anything about her?”

She was evil.

I want to say, yeah, I get that, but it doesn’t help. Except who am I to make her go through it again? I’ve got all their names now. We’ll work with that.

When she disengages her fingers from mine I stagger and catch myself by leaning on the table. It’s so weird. I can’t feel the hand with the glove on it. There’s not even the weird pins and needles prickling.

As soon as I lose my balance, Joe is beside me. He puts a steadying arm around my ribcage, keeping me from dissolving into a puddle on the floor. Sandy hovers nearby, frustrated that she can’t help.

“I’m good,” I tell them except the words come out in a slur.

I try to pull off the glove, but I don’t have the strength to do even that. Joe sees me fumbling with it and peels it from my hand. He picks up the paper the girls were writing on and lifts me in his arms like I don’t weigh a thing.

I pass out as he steps us away.

I don’t know where I am when I finally swim up out of a sucking hole of black mud. At least that’s how it feels as I become conscious again. I try to sit up, but the best I can do is loll my head to the side. The view of a ceiling changes into a living room I don’t recognize. I’ve apparently been transformed into a huge wet noodle and laid out on somebody’s couch.

My surroundings are a busy amalgam of thrift shop finds—mismatched furniture and knickknacks that manage to harmonize as much as they clash. A beautiful, highly-detailed bronze of a mermaid shares an end table with an Elvis bobblehead and a line of Star Wars Pez dispensers. A garish circus poster is flanked by a luminous oil painting of the British countryside on the left and a black velvet painting of a puppy with oversized eyes on the right.

It’s a riot of colour and shapes, and it’s making me dizzy as my gaze lands on one object, then another. Finally I close my eyes and lie there quietly until I hear footsteps, soft on the carpeted floor. I open my eyes to find Cassie Washington, Joe’s wife, squatting on her haunches, her head level with mine, and now my surroundings make sense. This is exactly the kind of place I’d expect Cassie to have because, with her madcap fashion sense and big personality, she’s the original free spirit.

“Did anybody get the license plate of the truck that hit me?” I ask.

She gives me the full force of her smile. It’s like bathing in sunshine. “You want to try sitting up?” she asks.

“I already tried getting up. It didn’t take.”

She smiles again. Leaning forward, she slips an arm under my shoulders and shifts me into a sitting position. She gets a pillow behind me and there I am, propped up, hardly dizzy at all. I feel inordinately proud of myself, which is ridiculous since I didn’t even sit up on my own.

“Where’s Joe?” I ask.

Cassie gives a vague wave of her hand. “Around—you know Joe—but he said he wouldn’t be long.” She turns to a tray that I didn’t see her carry in and plucks a mug from it. “I’ve brewed up some tea that should make you feel better.”

I accept the mug from her. It smells heavenly.

“What’s in it?” I ask.

“Mojo.”

I pause, the mug almost at my lips. “Mojo?”

“You need it, girl. Did nobody ever tell you that you don’t go feeding your life spirit to every ghost that comes around with its hand out?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Drink,” she orders.

I do. I can’t figure out the taste any more than I could the smell. The most I can say is there might be something citrus in there, maybe a hint of anise. And Cassie’s magic, I guess—the mojo. That doesn’t smell or taste like anything, but I can feel it go down my throat and into my stomach like a swirling cloud of miniature fireflies. From there it spreads throughout my body. My dizziness is gone. As is the heaviness of my limbs. I drink the rest of it and she takes the mug from me when I’m done.

“Better?” she asks.

“A thousand percent. Thanks so much.”

She nods. She’s sitting crosslegged on the floor now, her multicoloured robe spread around her like rainbow snowdrifts.

“But seriously,” she says. “Artifacts like that glove Christiana gave you are dangerous. Any ghost gets a taste of your energy and they’re just going to want it all.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but it wasn’t like that. The ghost girls who spoke through me today were pretty passive, and I spent more time with Sandy—another of them—yesterday than I did with all three of them combined tonight.”

“No ill effects yesterday?”

I shake my head. “Not until one of them tried to hijack my body and she didn’t come close to me tonight.”

“Hmm.”

I wait but she doesn’t elaborate.

“What are you thinking?” I finally ask.

Cassie shrugs. “I had a good look at that glove while you were resting. I’ve never seen that complex a weave of spells and charms in such a delicate object before. Do you know where Christiana got it?”

“She said something about a goblin market.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“It does?”

“Goblin markets aren’t like a regular marketplace where craftspeople bring goods that they’ve made themselves. They’re more like a flea market where you can find any old thing. So yes, this is a glove that allows you to communicate with ghosts, but it probably does any number of other things, which only its maker fully understands. The seller doesn’t, the buyer doesn’t.”

“So, bottom line, I need to stop using it.”

She nods. “I wouldn’t push my luck.”

I consider that helpless drained feeling that swept over me back at the precinct. “I’ll give it back to Christiana,” I say.

“Good.” She reaches into a pocket of her robe and pulls out a small silk rectangle, sort of like a wallet, which she hands over to me. “I took the liberty of wrapping a minor protective spell around it that should have faded by the time you see Christiana.”

The tea’s made me feel much better, but it also makes me have to pee. At least I can walk well enough to get to the washroom.

When I get back, Joe’s sitting on the floor beside Cassie. He rises to his feet and studies me for a moment.

“How’re you doing?” he asks.

“Better—thanks to you and Cassie.”

“Are you ready to go home?”

I’m not sure what time it is, but I’m eager to see Sonora and get a start on the new list of names I have. Whatever Cassie put in that brew is amazing. I’m already feeling revved up and ready to go.

“Absolutely,” I tell Joe.

I thank Cassie again and give her a hug. Then Joe whisks me back to my house.

“You need anything else, you’ve got my number,” Joe says.

He steps away before I can reply.

I take a look around the backyard then climb the porch steps and go inside. Sonora’s waiting for me in the kitchen. I take her back outside to have a pee, then I set up my computer in the dining room and pull out the list of new names. It’s just before six in the morning—too early to go traipsing off to Stanton Street. But I can still get a start on things here.

I start at the bottom of the list and enter Della Boyd’s name into the search window of my browser.

An hour later I don’t have much to add to the information the three ghost girls gave me. I have to assume their disappearances were all pre-internet and that no one’s actively keeping their memories alive as they were with the other girls I researched. I should’ve asked them all when they died. Some detective I am.

Finally, I close my laptop. Maybe Saskia will have better luck.

I put on some coffee and start an omelet, chopping up whatever vegetables I can find in the fridge before I finally add the beaten egg and milk mixture. I feed Sonora, then sit down to eat as well. I don’t usually eat a big meal in the morning, but today I finish the whole of the omelet and four pieces of toast.

My brain is still busily whirring away at the puzzles of the ghost girls—and Daisy—as I take a shower and grab some fresh clothes to wear. I opt for practical because I have no idea where I’ll find myself. Sturdy walking shoes, jeans, shirt, fleece vest. Downstairs I leave a note for Tam assuring him that I’m still safe. I slip my laptop in my backpack, shoulder it and grab a jacket and a wool cap before I return to the second floor.

Sonora starts to get very interested as we approach the door to the linen closet.

“Yes,” I tell her. “We’ve got our very own route through the wild acres to walk to Jilly’s.”

She pushes past my legs as soon as the door opens. I follow. Closing the door behind me I take a deep breath of the impossibly clean air.

I so owe Christiana for this.

Sonora and I take the long walk around, following the path until it finally deposits us at the door that will take us to the greenhouse studio’s screen door.

Sophie’s the only one around when we step into the greenhouse. She’s standing at her easel, wearing earbuds and completely focused on her work. I suppose when I open the door there’s some change in the pressure of the air in the room, or maybe she hears me above her music. She lifts her head and gives me a friendly nod, but immediately returns to her painting.

I’m used to the focus she and Jilly bring to their art, so I’m not fazed. Sometimes I figure the reason I don’t improve as much as I’d like with my own art is that I can’t seem to bring the same singular attention to it that they can with theirs.

It’s too early still to go knocking on bedroom doors, so I set my backpack on the floor and sit down on the couch. Sonora jumps up beside me and lies there, staring at Sophie, her muzzle resting between her outstretched forepaws.

I made a mental list while I was in the wild acres and take the time now to write it down on a pad. It’s not long. Basically, I need to find out what, if anything, Saskia has discovered about the ghost girls and whether she’s had any luck catching Daisy’s face on a security or traffic camera. And then we have to research the new names I got last night.

I lean back and rest my hand on Sonora’s back, idly scratching her between the ears.

I guess I drift off because the next thing I know I wake up to find Jilly sitting on the coffee table in front of me bumping my knee with hers. “When did you get here?” she asks.

“I’m not sure. Maybe around eight?”

“You could have woken me.”

I shrug.

She turns the paper with my list around so she can read it. “You have the names of the last three girls?”

“If I said I couldn’t sleep last night, so I went over to the precinct with Joe…”

She smiles and cuts me off. “I’d say you were bullshitting.”

“We did go late, and the reason I didn’t come get you is that Joe and I are already in deep with Cray’s people. If we’d gotten caught, it would have just been one more reason for Cray to be pissed off with us. I didn’t see any reason to put you in his sights as well.”

I expect some form of protest but all she does is nod and say, “That makes sense.”

“It does?”

“Just because we’re a team doesn’t mean we have to do everything together. We should always play to our strengths. In this case, your ghost-whispering skills. Maybe we should put that on the card if we ever get a business card.”

“Please don’t,” I say. “And how would there even be room for that on a card once we’ve added all the names of the people who are helping to make this work? Just from yesterday, we’d have to add Wendy, Saskia, Joe and Christiana.”

“So no ghost whispering reference,” Jilly says. “Got it.”

“Did Saskia have any luck finding Daisy or making connections between the ghost girls?”

“Not before I went to bed,” she says. “We should go up and ask her.” She taps a finger on my list and adds, “Maybe these new names will help.”

She starts to get up, but I raise my hand, stopping her. Those sapphire eyes of hers find my gaze and hold it.

“Is this who we’re going to be now?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Detectives. Investigators. Ghost whisperers.”

“What you’re really asking,” she says, “is this all we’re going to be.”

I think about that and nod. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“We can stop,” she says. “After we help the ghost girls and Daisy, we can just stop.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. Actually, I’ve kind of accepted that this is going to be part of my life now. We’re helping people who can’t be helped by anybody else—how is that not important? : It’s just that... remember how Oliver told us that in order to defeat Jerad Sloan he had to give up what meant the most to him, which was his magic?”

“I remember.”

“And then you said, if it happened to you it would be your art.”

“What’s your point?” she asks, her voice gentle.

“I don’t have one thing like that. I never had anything like that and I’m a little scared of my life becoming something that’s just an echo of a role I played for three years on a TV show. I never actually was an intrepid teenage detective and, even when I played one, it was the writers who made me seem clever and smart and capable.”

“Except you’ve proved to be all those things ever since you met Ethan Law’s ghost in a coffee shop and we started doing this. But—” She holds up her hand to stop me from interrupting. “—I totally understand how it can seem like it’s taking over and how it feels overwhelming.”

She cups her two hands over my knees and gives them a little squeeze. “If we’re going to keep doing it, we have to make sure we ground ourselves with other things. And be there for each other.” She smiles. “Okay, now you can talk.”

I don’t know what it is about Jilly but I’ve noticed over the years that sometimes all you have to be is in close proximity to her and you start to feel better. I’m not sure I even registered everything she was saying, but I feel lighter than I did before she started to talk.

So all I do is lean over and give her a hug.

“Thanks,” I say.

I stand up and pull her to her feet, which causes Sonora to grumble and wakes up Bobo who was asleep beside the coffee table.

“Let’s go see Saskia,” I say.

“The problem,” Saskia says, “is that while I can access the feeds on security and traffic cameras I have no way of actually showing you the images.”

We’re sitting in her lovely room with all of its open space. There’s always a Zen sense of calm in here, like we’re cocooned inside one of those perfect little poems of hers.

“But you found something,” I say.

She nods. “You were right about her disguising herself as a boy. It’s definitely Daisy I’ve found, except…” She pauses and laces her fingers together.

“Except what?” Jilly asks.

“I’m not sure it’s a disguise,” Saskia says. “I think she’s identifying as a boy.”

“Where is she?” I ask. “I mean, he.”

“Right now I don’t know. But he seems to be spending his evenings on Gracie Street.”

Which is where the LGBTQ community hangs out. They’ve claimed a couple of blocks of clubs, bars and cafés for their own, where they won’t be harassed like they might be in some other parts of the city.

“I’ve got an idea how we can find him,” I say, “but first I need to get rid of Duncan.”

“He’s still following you around?” Jilly asks.

“I haven’t seen him yet today, but he seems to have some weird, magical GPS aimed at me, so he’s always showing up. It’s gotten annoying.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Send him on a wild goose chase while I go talk to Edward.”

If anyone can give me leads on where to look for Daisy, it’s my friend Edward, a transgender boy who was Ethan Law’s boyfriend.

Jilly nods. “Sounds like a plan. Say hi for me. Meanwhile, we’ll keep searching out connections between the ghost girls.”

I leave them to it and go outside to the backyard with Sonora. I start to take out my phone, but instead I just call out Duncan’s name. A low warning grumble rises in Sonora’s chest when he comes around the corner of the house. I tell her to settle.

“I need you to do something for me,” I tell Duncan without any preamble.

“Does it have to do with finding Daisy?”

“It has everything to do with it. I need you to go to the library in Kingsmoor and find out about cloaking spells.”

“You don’t think I’ve already looked into that?”

“If you did, you haven’t looked hard enough,” I tell him. “You keep showing up like a bad penny in my life. If you can’t find Daisy, she’s got some hardcore cloaking mojo, or something else you don’t even know about.”

“I told you how I feel about going back to Kingsmoor.”

I nod. “So be like Oliver—man up and grow a pair. People judge or talk trash, ignore them. Go to the library and find us some top floor info on how to crack a cloaking spell. Oliver still seems to like you. You could ask him to help.”

“He lost his magic.”

“So you’re judging now? He didn’t lose his brain or his knowledge, did he? Seriously, how hard did you even think about any of this before you came to me? You should be using every resource you can lay your hands on. The Kingsmoor College library and Oliver Tye are excellent places to start.”

“Okay. You’re right. I’ll do it.”

“Good. And while you’re in the library, do me the favour of also digging a little bit into what’s there on Nida Dill and this whole business of mages stealing magic from one another.”

“For your ghost girls.”

“Maybe, I don’t know. I won’t know until I’ve got more information.”

“This could take me all day,” he says.

“And you’re so busy otherwise?”

“But—”

“Look, this is actively helping to find your sister—unlike you pretending to not be following me around town, which is the opposite of useful.”

“Okay. I said I’d do it.”

“Don’t come back without something useful,” I tell him.

He gives me a sour look then simply vanishes.

I clip Sonora’s lead to her collar. “Ready for a walk?”

She looks up at me, head cocked.

“Yeah, I know,” I tell her. “You’re always ready.”

I go around to the front of the house and set off for Edward’s apartment.

“Nora,” Edward says when he opens the door. He looks surprised. I probably should have called first.

“It’s Juniper, actually.”

“Right. That’s what I meant. What are you doing here?”

“I was hoping you could help me with a problem.”

He smiles. “I find that unlikely, but come on in. Hey, pup,” he adds and gives Sonora a pat as she follows me in.

It’s been several weeks since I last saw Edward, but he’s looking better than I remember. I started dropping by on a regular basis after Ethan died, just to make sure he was doing okay. Eventually I helped him close down Ethan’s office and sell off all the Nora Constantine memorabilia Ethan had collected. We made enough from that to allow Edward to live for about a year without needing to get a job, which was a good thing because he was a mess at the time.

“You’re looking really good,” I tell him as we settle into chairs in the living room.

“I’m feeling good.” He pauses, then adds. “I’ve started seeing a therapist. She’s been explaining all my options, and for the first time in a long time I’m starting to feel hopeful about my future. I feel like I might actually have a future.”

Our chairs are close enough that I can reach over and give his hand a squeeze.

“You don’t know how happy that makes me,” I tell him. “If you need help with anything, promise me you’ll ask. I know hormone therapy’s expensive. If you’re ready to start, we can put our heads together to figure out a way to make it work.”

“Why are you so nice to me?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Most people who aren’t trans think I’m a freak, especially since I identify as a gay man.”

We’ve talked about this before, how some people just don’t get that inside his skin he’s a guy who likes guys. You’re a girl, they tell him. So you’re attracted to guys. Why make everything so complicated?

The answer’s simple: because society still makes it hard to just be yourself.

“I’ve never thought of you as anyone but Edward,” I tell him.

“I know. There used to be times when that was the thread I hung on to to get from one day to the next.”

“But you’ve got a community now, right? You told me you’re hanging around with people who get you.”

He nods. “It’s been good.”

“I’m glad.”

“But you didn’t come over to talk about me. What’s this favour you wanted to ask me?”

I take out my phone and show him the picture of Daisy Fairweather. “I need to find this person,” I say.

Edward hesitates. I can tell right away that he knows him, or at least he’s seen him around. But he doesn’t want to say anything, not even to me because we both know horror stories of people who’ve had to escape lives where they weren’t accepted. But as soon as the person leaves, their persecutors want them back so they can fix them. Or punish them. Usually both.

Edward went through that. His family kept him locked up in their house because he wouldn’t recant his “delusion,” as they put it. And when he escaped they hired a private investigator. Ethan put an end to that—I’m not sure how—but so far, even after Ethan’s death, Edward’s still being left alone.

“He doesn’t look like this anymore,” I say, “but I don’t have a more recent picture. I also don’t know what name he’s using. All I want is to talk to him.”

“Who’s looking for him?”

“His brother Duncan.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But even though he’s got me looking, I’m not telling him anything.” I tap my phone. “Like I said, I need to talk to this person.”

Edward hasn’t looked at the picture again since his first glance. He hasn’t looked at me, either, his gaze going everywhere in the room except for meeting mine. Finally he looks at me. “Maybe he just wants to be left alone,” he says.

“I get that. I didn’t even know he was trans when I started searching for him. But if he wants to be free to make a new life, I need something that will convince Duncan to stop looking for him.”

“You promise you won’t give him up, even if you don’t like what he has to say?”

“Are you kidding me?” I say. “Of course I promise. Nobody gets forced to do anything they don’t want on my watch.”

Edward sighs. His gaze flicks to the picture then back to me.

“Maybe I know him,” he finally says. “He could be this guy named Davey Fayre.”

Davey Fayre, Daisy Fairweather. Makes sense. People often use the same initials, or names that are close to their own, when they’re coming up with a new identity.

“Could you set up a meeting with him for me?” I ask. “His choice of when and where. Public or private. I’ll come alone, except for Sonora. He can bring as many people as he likes.”

“I know what it’s like to have to hide from people,” Edward says.

“I know you do.”

“If I trust you with this…”

“I won’t let you down, Edward.”

He thinks about it for a moment longer, then finally nods. “Let me make a call,” he says.

We meet at The Beanery, a café down in the old factory district by the canal. It’s more like a warehouse than a coffee bar, all open concept with lots of woodwork: pine floors, rustic rafters and support beams. Instead of general lighting there are only pockets of light cast by low hanging overheads, illuminating tables where groups of people sit in earnest conversation, drinking lattés and espressos. Kind of like a singles bar without the action.

Edward waits on a bench outside with Sonora while I go in. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. I scan the tables and can’t find Daisy Fairweather, but I spot Davey Fayre without much trouble. His hair is cut stylishly short and he’s dressed for comfort: bootcut jeans, a loose, short-sleeved white cotton shirt, black high-tops.

He was pretty as a girl so I expected the same now that he’s a man, but he’s done something that’s roughed all the smooth lines, making him handsome and not effeminate. He’s also either flat-chested or that loose shirt is doing a good job of hiding his curves. He’s probably wearing a chest binder underneath.

I walk over to his table and wait for him to invite me to sit. He looks me over very much the way a guy would and smiles as he waves me to a free chair.

“At least you’re cute,” he says.

I think I do a good job of not showing my irritation at the remark and take the offered chair. He leans forward and sniffs the air before settling back in his chair.

“You’ve got my brother’s smell on you,” he says.

“I beg your pardon?”

He waves a hand. “Oh, I don’t mean that you’ve been screwing him. He’s just marked you with a tracking spell so he always knows where you are.”

“I figured it was something like that. That’s why I sent him off to the library in Kingsmoor for the day.”

Davey smiles. “Did you now?”

“Can you get rid of the spell? I think it’s on my phone.”

I take out my phone and lay it on the table between us. He wrinkles his nose.

“Look,” I say. “I didn’t meet with you to give you up to him. Also, he’s turned into a pest, always showing up bugging me about you. So getting rid of this tracker would help us both.”

He shakes his head. “I could, but he’d know I’d done it, which would only lead him here. And then he’d know why he can’t find me.”

“Because you’ve embraced who you really are, and his spells can’t recognize it.”

That gets me another smile, then he cocks his head. “You seem pretty comfortable with the idea of magic,” he says, “for someone who clearly doesn’t have any herself.”

I don’t bother to respond to that. Instead I say, “Will you stick around while I call a cab? I’m going to send my phone back to my friend’s place. Her house is warded and Duncan can’t get in, but if my phone’s there he’ll think I’m there too.”

He nods. “Good idea.”

I walk to the door and call Jilly to tell her what I’m doing. Next I ask Edward if he minds taking my phone and Sonora to Stanton Street, then I call a cab. I thank Edward and give him money for the fare, then return to Davey’s table.

“I thought you might be gone,” I say when I’m back in my seat.

“I said I’d talk to you, so I might as well do it now since you’ll only track me down again if I take off.” He looks at me and smiles. “You’re pretty good at your job. How did you figure out that the she you were looking for was actually a he?”

“I had a friend monitor traffic and security cameras until you showed up on one. You don’t look the same, but close enough to follow up on. Once I was pretty sure it was you, I decided to approach you through Edward because I didn’t want to spook you.”

“I don’t spook easily.”

“And I really do want to talk.”

He nods. “By talk, I assume you want to ask me questions.”

“You can answer them or not. Duncan asked me to find you, but I figured if you didn’t want him to, you had a good reason. I was curious about what it was, but mostly, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Because?”

I shrug. “Because I’m like that. A friend of mine taught me that we can’t really change the whole world, but we can make the parts we’re in better. Her theory is that what we do locally will eventually have a ripple effect in the larger scale of things.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then we’ve still made a small piece of it better.”

“You have a wise friend.”

“You have no idea—especially when you consider how bad her life once was, but that’s a whole other story.”

“So what are you planning to tell Duncan?”

“It depends on what you want me to tell him. You’re clearly not in any danger, so if you still don’t want him to be able to find you, I’ll just tell him that you’re okay and need some space.”

He shakes his head. “Not enough. He won’t let it go.”

“I’ll try to be persuasive.”

He smiles and looks down at his coffee. It’s almost empty.

“Do you want a refill on that?” I ask.

“God, no. It’ll just make me have to pee and I’d rather wait until I get back to where I’m staying to do that. Public restrooms are a problem for me. I don’t feel comfortable going into the women’s, and it can get unpleasant when I use the men’s. But thanks.”

He falls silent then. Resting his elbows on the table, he props his chin on his hands and studies me for a long moment. “So you want to know my story,” he says. “Why I’m hiding from my brother.”

“If you feel like telling me, and I think you do or why did you agree to meet me here?”

“Maybe I do. But first I want something from you. Your story.”

“I don’t have much of a story.”

He leans back in his chair again and wags a finger at me. “Uh-uh. Tit for tat. And everybody has a story. Each of us is a whole mess of stories, all of which get tangled up with those of other people when we spend time with them. I’ll get you started. Tell me how you ended up chasing missing persons for a living.”

“I don’t do it for a living.”

Davey chuckles. “See? Already this is an interesting story. So why do you do it?”

I think, I don’t know anything about this guy so why explain my life to him? Except isn’t that exactly what I’m expecting of him?

“Stop me when you get bored,” I say, then I answer his question, starting with how I met Ethan Law’s ghost in the Half Kaffe Café.

I skim over a few things—mostly stories that belong to other people like Joe and Christiana. So when I talk about going to the Crescent Beach world, I don’t mention how I got there. It’s the same with where I got the black lace glove that let me talk to Sandy and the other ghost girls.

It still takes a while.

At one point in my narrative I notice that Edward is back, sitting a few tables over from us with a tough-looking person who has too much of an androgynous look for me to be able discern a gender. I’m going to call him a guy until I know better. Edward’s companion has short-cropped blonde hair and angular features, and he’s wearing a black leather jacket, T-shirt and scruffy jeans tucked into motorcycle boots. I’d noticed him earlier but hadn’t realized he was Davey’s backup—in case things went off—until now when I see Edward sitting with him.

The pair aren’t close enough to eavesdrop, but they’re close enough to keep a watchful eye on the proceedings.

“So basically you’ve become Nora Constantine,” Davey says when I’m done.

“I’m as much Nora Constantine as you’re Daisy Fairweather. The difference is, I only played that role for three years, while you’ve been playing yours for most of your life.”

“You know what I mean,” he says. “You resisted the role for as long as you could, but now you’ve finally embraced it and find that you’re actually pretty good at it.”

I give him a reluctant nod. “I suppose.”

He smiles. “Which does make us alike because the same thing’s happened to me. I knew I was a boy from as soon as I could think for myself—earlier, probably, but at that point it just seemed I only wanted to do everything my brother did. I was a tomboy, and I was attracted to girls, but I knew I wasn’t gay. And that’s what drives Duncan crazy. He keeps telling me it’s obvious I’m a girl, so if I like girls I should just embrace being a lesbian and stop trying to make it about something else.”

“So he’s not supportive.”

“Oh, he thinks he is, but at the same time he tells me I’m going to regret transitioning. I tell him I was born into the wrong body, and he argues that it can’t be wrong if that’s how I was born. It’s pointless arguing with him. I’m done with that. Now I just want to make the change.”

“But it’s a long process.”

He nods.

“And you need to surround yourself with strong support while you’re going through it.”

He nods again. “I was so lucky to get to know the LGBTQ community here. I don’t know how I’d manage without them—especially Matt. That’s him sitting over there with Edward.”

“So here’s my question,” I say. “You’re a mage—a pretty good one, by all accounts. Why do you need surgery? Can’t you magic yourself the body you want?”

“Don’t think I haven’t tried. It’s the reason I went to Kingsmoor in the first place. There are spells to change you into a goose or a wolf or any kind of animal you can think of. There are glamours that let you appear to look like something you’re not. There are even spells that can shrink you down to the size of a mouse. But none of them last, and there’s nothing in that whole damned library about a sex change. I have to do it the teddy way.”

“You know that’s a condescending term, right?”

He shrugs. “You know what I mean.”

“Did you try asking any of the master mages for help?”

“God, no. The whole school’s so stuffy. It’s like they’re still living in Victorian times. I can’t imagine the reaction I would have gotten. They’d probably have thrown me out, especially when it became obvious that I was studying to learn that and only that, and not to partake in the sanctified pursuit of the magical arts.”

He says those last few words with bitterness, as though he’s quoting a recruitment pamphlet. Maybe he is.

“Maybe you should start thinking outside the box,” I say. “Have you considered bringing your problem to a shape-changer or a faerie court?”

He looks at me as though I’ve grown a second head.

“What?” I say.

“First,” he says, “I’m not sure either exists, and second, why the hell would they want to help me if they did?”

“They exist,” I tell him. “And they’d probably help you if I asked them to. I just don’t know if they can do it.”

He leans across the table. “Look, I know you mean well, and maybe you’ve met some people who seem like they’re storybook characters come to life, but magic doesn’t work like that.” He snaps his fingers. “The reason it takes so long to become a Master Mage is that you have to memorize thousands of different elements, from the position of the stars and planets at the exact time you’re casting your spell, to specialized ingredients, and literally hundreds of finger positions and movements.”

I hold his gaze for a long moment before I say, “To me, you’re a storybook character come to life.”

He opens his mouth to protest then slowly closes it.

“All this stuff you had to learn,” I go on, “you had to learn because that’s how Colin Bishop set up his magical system when he was writing the books. So that’s how magic works in Kingsmoor. Obviously it also works here because I’ve seen Duncan appear and disappear, and he put that tracking spell on my phone. But Kingsmoor’s magical systems are not the be-all and end-all of enchantment.”

He’s lost some of his skepticism so I press on. “What you call the teddy world is actually just a part of more worlds than you can probably imagine. If anything’s tedious, it’s probably Kingsmoor College and the people who attend it, because the little I’ve seen of either does not impress me.” I pause. “Though maybe I won’t include Oliver and Lionel because they actually seem pretty nice.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but finally he sighs. “For a non-magical person,” he says, “you know an awful lot about magic.”

“I don’t really. I just rely on friends who can tell me what I need to know, when I need to know it.”

Davey slowly nods his head. “I’ve been an asshole.”

“Not entirely, but kind of.”

He smiles. “But that doesn’t mean I have to stay that way. Can I say I’m sorry and we’ll start again?”

“Of course. I’m not trying to score points here. I just want to get this business between you and your brother off my plate so I can concentrate on helping my ghost girls.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Seriously. If you could talk to your friends, I’d really appreciate it. And maybe I can help you with your problem with the ghost girls.”

“Really? What do you know?”

“Nothing just yet. But I can look into it.”

“Do you think the killer could be a Kingsmoor type of mage?” I ask.

“The business with finger bones and blood points toward some sort of connection.”

“What about Nida Dill?” I ask. “Could it be a hedge mage like her?”

Davey does a quick check of the café. I get the sense it’s involuntary.

“You shouldn’t throw her name around like that,” he says when his gaze comes back to me. “They say if you speak about her too much you’ll draw her attention, and that’s not a good thing.”

“So you think she’s real? I’m not getting much of a consensus on that from people I’ve spoken to.”

“I don’t know. Look, unlike some of the others at Kingsmoor, I’ve spent time with hedge mages. None of them will use her name. If you do, they find a way to leave your company as soon as they can. So draw your own conclusions. I know what mine are.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know. Back in Kingsmoor nobody seemed to have those concerns.”

Davey takes out a pen and scrawls a phone number on the back of a coaster. The ink runs a little where it’s wet, but not enough to make the number illegible.

“You can reach me at this number,” he says.

I pocket the coaster. At the other table, first Matt, then Edward, get up from their chairs. I missed the signal but it’s obvious that my conversation with Davey is over. Except he doesn’t get up immediately. “You’ll help me,” he says, “and I’ll help you.”

I nod. “Except I’d help you anyway.”

He studies me for a moment. “I think that’s true. The last thing I need to know is, what about Duncan?”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“For him to leave me alone. For him to stop trying to find me. I’ll talk to him when all of…this…is done.”

“I’ll try to make him understand. But if he doesn’t, he won’t find you through me.”

Davey stands up and offers me his hand. I reach up to shake it, but he pulls me to my feet.

“I like you, Juniper,” he says. “If anyone had to find me, I’m glad it was you.”

He gives my fingers a squeeze and lets go.

“I look forward to the next time,” he adds.

I don’t know if it’s magic or his natural charisma, but I find myself drawn to him. He’s just so damn charming. Plus I think he’s flirting with me.

“It’s been…interesting,” I say.

He chuckles. “Yes, it has.”

I stand there by the table as the three of them walk away. I give them time to leave before I head for the door myself.

Naturally, Wendy focuses on the last part of the conversation with Davey when I get back to Stanton Street and relate how things went. We’re sitting around the kitchen table—Wendy, Jilly, Geordie and myself.

“Do you really think he was flirting with you?” Wendy asks.

“God, I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Speaking of relationships,” Jilly says, “potential and otherwise, your phone’s been pinging all afternoon.”

At the moment, my phone’s sitting on the table beside the teapot. As if on cue it pings again. I look at the screen and see it’s a text from Nick. I was planning to take Sonora for a walk in the wild acres on the way home. Now I decide to swing by the bookstore instead.

“So what do we do about Duncan?” Jilly asks.

“I’ll try to talk to him,” I guess. “And if he doesn’t want to listen—”

Jilly grins and does a little air jab. “You’ll offer him a good sparring round over at the club.”

“Oh, if only it was that easy to knock some sense into a person.”

“Maybe the detectives need some company,” Wendy says.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Or we could look into solving the problem,” Geordie says.

I turn to him. “Do you think Joe can help with something like this? He did say that some of the cousins can choose how they look, but I expect you have to be a cousin for that to work.”

“Probably,” he says. “But I was thinking of the other option you brought up.”

“You want to ask Mother Crone,” Jilly says.

“Not ask,” Geordie says. “You don’t ask faerie for a favour. But I could take a run by the mall and mention the problem. Odds are, she’ll offer to help.”

“The mall?” I say.

“Mother Crone’s a faerie queen who has a court in the Woodforest Plaza Mall,” Jilly tells me as though that explains everything.

“Amy and I drop by once a month or so and play music for their revels,” adds Geordie.

I look from one to the other. “In a mall.”

“Well, kind of,” Geordie says. “It’s like Christiana’s house, in that it’s set sort of sidewise to the mall. You have to know it’s there to see it. And she’s a seer, not a queen.”

“She also used to be sweet on our Geordie,” Jilly says, batting her eyelashes. “She probably still is, if she has any taste at all.”

Geordie rolls his eyes.

“Can I come when you go see her?” I ask. “I’ve never been to a faerie court.”

“Ah…”

“Let me translate,” Jilly says. “What Geordie’s not saying, because he’s so polite, is that he’d be nervous to have you there because you tend to say whatever comes to mind—and faerie can take offence at the smallest slight.”

I give Geordie a stern look. “Now I’m offended.”

“Ah…”

Wendy and Jilly laugh.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Jilly tells him. “Juniper can be the very essence of politeness if she sets her mind to it.”

I lay a hand upon my heart. “Swear to God.”

“I wasn’t thinking any such thing,” Geordie says. “Well, not a lot. It’s more that I don’t want you to be turned into a mouse or a mole because you’re not always, um, restrained in matters of conversation.”

He’s looking so serious he almost has me believing him. But Jilly and Wendy are still giggling, and finally he has to join in.

“Right. Make fun of the girl who knows nothing about faeries.”

“You won’t get turned into anything,” Geordie says, “but you really do need to be careful what you say. Don’t make any promises, don’t offer to do any favours and don’t accept any gifts until you’re sure there are no strings attached. Stick to those basics and you should be okay.”

“I’ll take that as a yes to my coming with you.”

Geordie nods.

“When are you planning to go?”

“We can drop by after midnight—that’ll give the mall maintenance people a chance to clean up and be out of our way. The security guards on duty are pretty lax. They only do their rounds every four hours.”

“Does this mean we’re breaking in?”

“Why do you look so pleased at the idea?” he wants to know.

“She’s been watching YouTube videos,” Jilly says, “and wants to get some lock-picking practice in.”

It’s nice to sit and goof around for a change, but finally I have to leave for Burns Books. I make plans to meet back up here with Geordie around eleven-thirty.

Nick’s part-time staffer Annie is behind the counter when Sonora and I enter the shop. She looks different, and it takes me a moment to realize that she’s swapped her usual horn rims for contacts.

“Hey, Juniper,” she says.

She calls Sonora around to her side of the counter and gives her a biscuit from the jar they keep on hand for shoppers with dogs.

“Is Nick keeping you busy?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “He’s back in his office.”

“Thanks.”

I don’t realize I’m actually going to break up with him until I clear a stack of books from his spare chair and sit down. Sonora doesn’t settle the way she usually does in here. Instead she sits by my chair and leans a little against my leg. I like to think she’s offering me moral support.

The office is its usual controlled chaos, which means Nick knows where everything is but anybody else just sees a mess. Like the bookstore itself, there are bookshelves everywhere, crammed with books. More tottering stacks are on the floor, Nick’s desk, really, anywhere there’s room.

Nick smiles. “You must have had a busy day.”

Which is a passive-aggressive way of saying, why didn’t you return my texts? Or is that just me being snarky to make what I’m about to do easier on me?

“I’ve been here, there and everywhere today,” I tell him.

“Just so long as you’re not avoiding me,” he says with a laugh.

“Yeah, about that…”

I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts.

“You’re a great guy,” I say, “and I appreciate that you’re interested in a committed relationship, but I just don’t feel the same way. We’ve had fun, but now you keep bringing up the idea of moving in together and I start to get anxious before I see you because I’m always afraid that conversation’s going to come up again.”

“You’re not ready.”

His voice is flat and I’m too much of a chicken to meet his gaze.

“I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready.” I finally look up and there’s the hurt in his eyes that I didn’t want to see. “I get that we’re of an age when most people start thinking about settling down and raising a family, but that’s not me. I like how my life is right now. I like what I’m doing.”

He looks genuinely puzzled as he repeats, “What you’re doing.”

“You know. Volunteering with Jilly. Helping ghosts and, well, other people.”

“Ghosts aren’t people. They’re dead.”

“But they once were people. And if they’re still hanging around they have real, genuine concerns that are holding them back from wherever it is we go in the end.”

“Of course. You’re right.” He rubs his face. “But why do you have to be the one helping them?”

“Because I can see and hear them.”

We fall silent. He has a clock on the wall—it’s an old vinyl single that someone turned into a timepiece. It ticks away the moments we’re sitting here, not saying anything to each other.

“So you want to break up,” he says finally.

I could tell him we can still be friends, but what I really want is some space. Right now I don’t want to feel any pressure to be with him, or to have to anticipate being with him.

But I don’t say any of that. I only nod.

“I hate springing it on you like this,” I say.

“Right.”

I can’t tell what he’s feeling—is he hurt, is he angry?—but his face is closed up, giving away nothing. But really, whatever he’s feeling will not make a difference as to how this plays out. No matter what either of us says, he’s going to feel hurt and I’m going to feel guilty.

“You deserve better,” I say. “You deserve to be with someone who feels as strongly about you as you do about her.”

“But that’s not you.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Did you ever love me?”

“I liked you a lot. But I didn’t want to live with you and have your babies.”

“I never said…” His voice trails off when I give him a look that calls him on what he’s about to say.

“Okay, maybe I did.”

“And it’s perfectly natural and normal. But it’s not for me. Not now.”

And not with him, but I don’t need to be mean about this. It’s already hard enough as it is.

I stand up and Sonora scrambles to her feet beside me. “I should go,” I tell him.

He just sits there behind his desk. “I’m going to miss you,” he says.

“I’m going to miss you, too,” I reply.

It’s not entirely a lie. Before he started pressing me for a bigger commitment, I really enjoyed being with him. Just not anymore.

But there’s nothing left to say, so I leave, Sonora trailing behind me. I wave goodbye to Annie where normally I’d stop and chat a bit with her. I’m not sure when or if I’ll see her again.

What I do know is I need to find a new secondhand bookstore. Maybe I’ll try Turtle Moon, that place Wendy’s been recommending.

It had to be done, but I can’t help feeling depressed as I take Sonora home. I’m always teasing Tam about how he can’t settle on a girl, but really, I’m no better. Maybe I should have tried harder to make it work, except isn’t there supposed to be a spark in the first place to motivate that work? A bigger spark than just liking somebody? If I’m going to make the kind of commitment Nick wanted, it would have to be with somebody that I couldn’t live without, and I’ve never met that person.

We’re cutting through the park behind St. Paul’s Cathedral again when I see the figure blocking my path twenty yards or so ahead. Dusk is just creeping over the city—it’s that moment just before the streetlights go on, when you can still see everything around you, just not the details.

I know it’s a woman, but she’s too tall to be Christiana. She’s dressed in a black leather duster and is easily taller than six feet, skinny with a mane of crazy tangled hair. Just looking at her, all the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and stand up. Sonora growls at my side, low and threatening.

It’s obvious she’s waiting for me to approach. I consider taking off, but with those long legs she’d catch me in no time. Besides, I don’t run from trouble, if that’s what this is.

I stop eight or so feet away from her. Sonora strains at her leash until I pull her back to me. I decide to just wait on the woman and not say anything.

What feels like a couple of minutes tick by.

“You’ve been asking after me,” she finally says. “Here I am. Now what are you going to do with me?”

Great. This is just what I need. A tall helping of crazy.

“Lady,” I tell her, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Suit yourself,” she says. “I thought I’d give you a chance to explain yourself before I deal with you. Who knows? I might have been lenient. But I don’t hold with being talked about—especially not by some teddy girl.”

“So you’re from Kingsmoor.”

“As if. They would be lucky to have someone of my calibre.”

And then I know who she is. “You’re Nida Dill.”

“Who else would I be?”

“How would I know? So far as I was concerned, you were just some random crazy person giving me a hard time.”

I think I hear a giggle when I say that, but when I look around there’s nobody around except a man with a golden doodle just entering the far end of the park.

“You think I’m some random crazy person?” Nida Hill says, her voice dark with anger.

“I said I thought you were,” I tell her, adding to myself, but now I know it. “What’s your problem, anyway?”

“You should not be concerning yourself in my affairs.”

“I won’t, so long as you’re not a serial killer who’s been killing young girls over the past seventy years to steal their voices, blood and little fingers.”

Yeah, I know. Don’t poke the crazy woman with a stick. Maybe I shouldn’t go with Geordie tonight. Who knows what’ll come out of my mouth? But Nida Dill’s starting to tick me off.

“You think I’ve been killing girls?”

It’s finally dark enough for the streetlights to come on. There’s one in between us that throws enough light for me to see the tight set of the woman’s features.

“Why not?” I ask. “Is that such a stretch to put on someone who threatens she’s going to deal with me—just because I’ve been asking around about her?”

“When I kill someone,” she says, “it’s to make a point, and hiding that fact doesn’t bring my point home now, does it?”

“Except I’m not some defenceless teenage girl.”

“When I’m done with you, you won’t be anything.”

She starts to do that Kingsmoor magic with her fingers. I’m about to step forward to take the offensive before she can throw some spell at me when someone drops from the tree above us. Let me clarify that. It’s a girl and she doesn’t so much drop as hang upside down from a branch.

She’s pixie-featured and grinning, her vine-like hair pulled back into a thick Rasta ponytail that dangles upside down from the back of her head. I won’t say she’s made of twigs and leaves and vines, but I won’t say she’s not, either. Her skin’s the mottled colour of a forest, all greens and browns. When she drops to the ground between Nida Hill and me, I realize she comes up to about my waist, a skinny little gamine in baggy red skater’s shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt and a purple bandana tied loosely at her neck. Her feet are bare on the pavement and the idea of that makes me shiver because it’s brisk tonight.

Kids, I think for a moment. They’ll wear shorts and short sleeves into the first snowfall, and runners all the season long. Except, whatever she is, I know she’s no kid.

“Juniper Wiles,” the little figure says, “is under the protection of Mother Crone, and therefore under the protection of Tatiana McGree, the Queen of all the local Seelie Courts. Harm her at your peril.”

“Step out of the way, child,” Nida Dill tells her.

I want to say the same thing because she’s blocking my chance to get in a couple of shots at Nida Dill before she casts her spell.

The girl only laughs.

“Aren’t you the funny one,” she tells Nida Dill, “considering I’m your elder by a thousand years, give or take a hundred. But who’s counting? I’m not counting.” She lifts her own hands, but in place of her fingers she suddenly has knives which she clicks against each other. “And if you don’t stand down, I’ll have to cut off all those precious long fingers of yours and then where will you be?”

Nida Dill stares at her with the same disbelief I’m feeling, but her hands fall to her side.

The clicking sound of the girl’s knives stops and suddenly all she’s doing is wiggling her fingers. She waves a hand. “Now why don’t you run along, you silly old mage, and let your betters have a civilized conversation.”

Nida Dill doesn’t move. Her eyes have narrowed as she studies the girl. “Who is Mother Crone?” she says.

“Another one of your betters—and much better than either Juniper or me, as well. Now really, run along.” She dismisses Nida Dill with another wave. “Hup-hup, now.”

“Wait a minute,” I say. They both turn to me.

I look at Nida Dill. “I still want to know: did you kill those girls?”

“What girls?”

I name the girls one by one, all seven. Their names seem to hang in the air as they leave my lips.

Nida Dill shakes her head. “How were they killed?”

I tell her, and the weight of that knowledge hangs even heavier in the air.

Nida Dill frowns.

The faerie girl’s face is a mask, but her eyes are dark with anger. I know it’s not directed at me.

“You’re looking for a hedge mage,” Nida Dill says. “And no, I don’t know who it might be. But I would ask around the Round Ways—where the hedge mages squat.”

“The what? I don’t know any place in town with that name.”

“That’s because they’re not in this teddy world. They’re in the real world, where I come from.

“There’s a city outside of Kingsmoor College?”

“Are you stupid? There’s a whole world of which Kingsmoor is only the smallest part.”

The faerie girl giggles. “Isn’t that cute. She thinks she’s real.”

Nida Dill glowers at her.

“Wait,” I say. “So in the books when people come from the tedious—the teddy—world, they’re not coming from here?”

“What books?” Nida Dill asks.

Oh boy.

“Go away,” the faerie girl tells her. “Go away before I ask Mother Crone to remove your name from the stories and you cease to exist.”

Nida Dill shakes her head. “I don’t know what magics you have, but no one tells me what to do. I will come and go as I please.”

The faerie girl gives her a sweet smile. “Then please decide to go away.”

Nida Dill points at me. “This isn’t over.”

The faerie girl sighs. She lifts her hands and all her fingers are knives again. “It’s so over,” she says. “I’ve already told you she’s under the protection of the faerie courts. From this moment on, if you even consider hurting her, her kith or her kin, the next person to reprimand you won’t be as cheerful as me. You’ll wake to find a gruagagh at the foot of your bed and you’ll finally understand the meaning of magic and what it can do.”

“Faerie courts, gruagaghs—these are faerie tales.”

“In your world, perhaps. But not in the rest of creation.”

Nida Dill is about to respond when the faerie girl suddenly becomes ten times her size. Her finger knives are now finger swords and she looms over Nida Dill.

“You’re being tedious,” the faerie girl says, “and even in what you call the teddy world, we don’t like tedious.”

The swords clank against each other and ring out like the weapons of some giant. Nida Dill holds her gaze for a long moment before she nods.

“Fine,” she says. But she has to get the last word in.

She points at me and adds, “Stop asking about me.” Then she turns and stalks off.

I have to admit, I expected her to simply disappear like Duncan or Joe does, but the faerie girl and I stand there and watch until she’s out of our sight and the clack of her boots on the pavement fades. When I turn to my curious companion she’s just a faerie girl again.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Me? Oh, I’m just Hazel.”

She goes down on one knee and beckons Sonora to come to her. As soon as Sonora pads up to her, Hazel coos and ruffles her short fur.

“You said Mother Crone sent you?” I say.

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t. But she knew that you and Geordie were coming by tonight so I thought I’d have a look and see what you’re like.” Her eyebrows go up and wiggle comically. “And it’s a good thing I did, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I’m not sure I could have gotten to Nida Dill before she cast her spell and I’m just as happy I didn’t have to find out. Violence doesn’t solve anything.

“So Geordie already got word to…um, Mother Crone?”

Hazel shakes her head.

“Then how does she know about us coming by?”

“Because she’s a seer, silly!”

“And you—are you a seer, too?”

“No, I’m just me. But I’m very good at being me. I know I’ve had a lifetime to practice but it can still be a tricksy thing sometimes, don’t you think?”

She skips over to a nearby bench. Sonora follows, her extendable leash allowing her the freedom. I hesitate a moment before I join them.

“So you make a pretty girl,” Hazel says. “Why do you want to be a boy?”

It takes me a moment to realize what she’s saying.

“So Mother Crone knows that, as well? Does she know everything?”

Hazel laughs. “Where would the fun be in that?”

“The change isn’t for me,” I say. “It’s for someone I know—two someones, if it’s at all possible.”

Hazel lolls back on the bench. “Sometimes I think anything’s possible.”

“Like you having knives for fingers and growing into a giant?”

That makes her laugh. “Oh, that wasn’t for real. That was just a glamour. They’re useful sometimes and they’re fun to do.”

She suddenly turns into some kind of green gobliny creature and I scramble to the other end of the bench. She thinks that’s hysterical.

“Sorry,” she says as she changes back into herself, but I can tell by the merry lights in her eyes she isn’t, not one bit.

I look down at Sonora who didn’t seem startled at all.

“My dog didn’t seem to have noticed you changing,” I say.

“That’s because she’s so very smart.” She pats Sonora. “Isn’t she just?”

“So you can make yourself look like anything? Unless a person’s smart like my dog?”

She ticks items off on the fingers of one hand. “I’ve been a goose and a boy and a cricket and a bogan and a pony.” When she runs out of fingers she throws her hands in the air. “I’ve been too many things to name them all.” She starts to hum a tune then gives me a sudden expectant look. “What instrument do you play?”

I shake my head. “None at all. My brother Tam’s the musician in our family.”

“You’ll have to bring him tonight.”

“Maybe another time.”

Hazel pouts.

“Just think how much better it’ll be,” I say, “when you’ve had the time to anticipate hearing him.”

“I don’t really like waiting for things. And that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Why can’t something be just as good right now?”

I wonder if I’m going to regret this but I say, “I’m on my way home now. You can come along and have supper with us. Maybe Tam will play a couple of songs for you while it’s cooking.”

She claps her hands. “Yes, please! What are we having? Can we have pizza? Or pho? Or those little dumplings with the soup inside?”

“I don’t know how to make any of those things.”

“Can you make pancakes? Pancakes are the best thing to have for dinner.”

“I can make pancakes,” I tell her.

She jumps to her feet and then pulls me to mine. She’s stronger than she looks.

“I can’t believe we’re having pancakes,” she says as we start walking. “Will there be syrup? And fruit? And little marshmallows and ice cream?”

“We’ll see.”

“Do you hear that?” she says to Sonora. “We’ll see! We’ll see doesn’t mean no. It means a maybe that’s leaning toward yes!”

I’m kind of looking forward to seeing Tam deal with her irrepressible energy.

5

Tuesday

After dinner Hazel says she needs a ride back to the mall, so she tags along to the house on Stanton Street. I consider asking how she got here in the first place but decide not to open that floodgate. She’s as delighted with the linen closet door as Jilly was, making me open and close it a half-dozen times before she’ll finally step through into the wild acres.

As I close the door behind us Sonora makes a happy woof and darts off into the trees. She comes trotting back, tail high, with Christiana walking at her side. Geordie’s sister has a wide smile of welcome for me that falters when she sees who my companion is.

“Oh dear,” Hazel says, twisting a loose strand of her hair. “You still hate me.”

“I never hated you. I don’t even hate Mother Crone. But I don’t trust any of you.”

I look from one to the other. Christiana’s proven to be a friend while Hazel certainly saved my butt earlier in the evening so I don’t want to have to choose between them.

“Is there a problem?” I ask. “Because Sonora obviously likes both of you so neither of you can actually be bad.”

“But what about you?” Hazel asks me. “Do you like us both?”

“Of course I do.”

She spins around to face Christiana, her arms spread wide.

“Then we should all be friends forever and ever!” she cries, launching herself into a gleeful cartwheel.

I’m watching Christiana’s face. I relax when I see her lip twitch as she tries not to smile.

“What are you guys up to?” she asks me.

I tell her about the idea I had of helping Daisy Fairweather become Davey Fayre by way of magic. I also tell her how Hazel and I met. Then I ask her why Hazel thought Christiana hated her.

“Mother Crone laid an enchantment on Geordie that made him keep going back to her court.”

“That was a thousand years ago!” Hazel protests.

“More like ten.”

Hazel sighs. “Human time is so confusing.

“But Mother Crone and I had a talk about it,” Christiana goes on, “and she set him free. I’ll be honest—I’m still not happy about it. And no doubt Mother Crone’s still ticked off at me because Geordie went off and married Jilly, so she lost her boy toy.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Hazel says.

Christiana gives her a look.

“Well, not entirely,” Hazel adds. “She was protecting him.”

“He still goes back there,” I say. “Once or twice a month, apparently.”

Christiana nods. “I know. But now it’s of his own free will.”

I pull out my phone to check the time. “We should get going.” Then I realize that Duncan will be able to follow me if I’ve got it on me.

“Can you keep this for me?” I ask.

Christiana accepts the phone. “Tell me more about this—”

I know what she’s going to say, so I cut her off. “Let’s just call her the drama queen,” I say. “Speaking her name appears to get her attention.”

“That’s because names are magic,” Hazel says.

“Let me know if you see her again,” Christiana tells me. “I know people who can make her see the error of her ways.”

“Powerful, magical people?” Hazel asks.

She smiles. “I know all kinds of people.” She holds up my phone. “I’ll leave this just inside the door to your place. That way Duncan will think you’re still at home.”

“Thanks.”

It’s a quarter to twelve by the time Hazel, Sonora and I step out of the wild acres and onto the back porch of the greenhouse. I open the door and let Sonora race in. When I turn to let Hazel go by me she just stands on the porch.

“I can’t come in,” she says. “There’s a ward.”

I hear the click of nails on wood as Bobo races from the kitchen to greet Sonora and then me. He stops dead when he sees Hazel and stares at her with big eyes. A moment later Geordie and Jilly follow him into the greenhouse.

“You never told me you had a magicked house,” Hazel says.

Geordie smiles. “You never asked. What are you doing here?”

“She’s hoping to hitch a ride to the mall,” I say. “Can she come in?”

Geordie glances at Jilly.

“Of course,” she says. She pauses when Hazel makes no move. “I give you permission to come in. Let’s go back to the kitchen. I was just making cookies.”

“Do they have marshmallows on them?” Hazel asks as she skips into the greenhouse. “Or tasty bits of bacon? Or maybe both, with some onion and chocolate sprinkles?”

“Those are all good ideas but these are plain oatmeal.”

“We had pancakes for dinner,” Hazel tells her as we all troop into the kitchen, “and I met Tam who could play back every tune I hummed to him and he never made a mistake.”

“He’s a good musician,” Geordie says.

“I know! But Juniper wouldn’t let him come with us.”

Jilly laughs. “Oh, she’s rude like that.”

“She is! But not as rude as Ni—”

I cut her off. “Uh-uh. Remember what I told Christiana. We’re just going to call her the drama queen.”

“Who? Christiana?” Geordie asks.

I shake my head. Over tea and cookies I tell them about what happened earlier in the evening.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Jilly says. “And when I say ‘we’ I mean you because you’re the one who keeps ending up in these dangerous situations.”

I shake my head. “Except I can’t not do it. I promised the ghost girls, just as I gave my word to Duncan and Davey.”

“Okay, fine. But after this, no more.”

Geordie’s sitting back, watching our exchange. He knows Jilly as well as I do. If she has the chance to help someone, she would never turn them away. But right now she’s in protective mode and there’s no point in arguing over it.

“We’ll see,” I say. “But that reminds me—is Wendy around?”

“No, she went to a poetry slam.”

“Could you ask her if she knows anything about what lies beyond the grounds of Kingsmoor College? Specifically, a part of some large town or city that has an area in it called the Round Ways. Apparently, if the drama queen is to be believed, that’s where the hedge mages hang out.”

“And we’re interested in hedge mages because?” Jilly asks.

“I’m pretty sure a hedge mage killed the ghost girls.”

The kettle whistles from the stove and Jilly bounces up to get it before anyone else can. She drops a couple of teabags in the teapot, then fills it with the boiling water.

“Saskia has some news,” she says as she brings the teapot to the table. “She went to the library and spent the afternoon going through old newspaper clippings.”

“She didn’t have to do that.”

“Are you kidding? She loves analog researching. Anyway, she discovered that there was a pattern to the girls’ disappearances. The first one, Sandy, went missing in Newford, but Della Boyd, who came next, was taken in Tyson. The disappearances went back and forth between the two cities over the decades.”

“So there’d be twenty years between the disappearances in each place,” Geordie says, “which would make it less likely for them to be linked.”

“Exactly.”

“And now,” I say, “we’re two years into the decade between the last disappearance and the next one to come.”

Jilly nods. “So we have eight years to find her.”

I shake my head. “We’re taking her down long before those eight years are up.”

Geordie gets mugs and the milk from the fridge and sets them on the table.

“Let me pour!” Hazel insists.

She can barely reach across the table to get the pot until she thinks of kneeling on her chair.

The Riddell brothers share ownership of a 1992 Chevy Beauville Passenger Wagon—and no, I’m not a car geek. But I made the mistake of admiring the red-and-white van the first time I saw it parked in the Stanton Street house’s garage, and Geordie immediately launched into its history—the name, how it was first produced in 1970 and the design hadn’t changed in all those years, which is why it has the vintage mid-century look.

Anyway, that’s the ride we take to the mall. Hazel finds a station playing hip hop and then proceeds to chatter away over the music for the whole trip. I have to admit, I tune her out, but Geordie seems well equipped to deal with her flood of commentary.

There’s so little traffic at this time of night we make the drive in record time. Geordie drives into the service lane behind the mall and pulls up at a docking bay, about halfway down the length of the long building.

Up on the docking bay there’s a young woman, maybe twenty, sitting in a lawn chair under a light reading a book. She closes the book and studies us as Geordie turns off the engine. Her eyes are dark, her waist-length hair a messy storm of braids and loose curls decorated with multi-coloured barrettes, feathers, ribbons, tiny bones and other found objects. She’s barefoot like Hazel, and dressed in black yoga pants and a red tank top. Her figure isn’t full, but she’s curvy enough that you sure wouldn’t mistake her for a boy. She’s also drop-dead gorgeous.

As soon as I step out of the Chevy, Hazel grabs my hand and pulls me over to face her barefoot friend.

“This is my new friend Juniper,” she tells the woman, looking up, eyes bright. “Isn’t she pretty? She can see and talk to ghosts. I had to rescue her from a horrible woman who thought she was a gruagagh.”

The woman smiles down at us. “Did you, now?”

“I did. I used a fierce glamour and she went scurrying away. I told her Juniper’s under my protection, so that means she’s under the protection of the Seelie Court, right?”

“Juniper,” the woman says as though she’s testing my name.

“Hippie parents,” I explain. “My brother got stuck with Tamarack.”

“Do you accept our protection?” the woman asks.

“I…”

I’m not sure how to answer so I look to Geordie for guidance. He nods.

“Juniper,” he says, “meet Mother Crone.”

I blink in confusion. “Wait a minute. You’re Mother Crone?”

With a name like that I was expecting some old old woman, probably bent over a cane with long grey hair and a roadmap of wrinkles.

“That’s my speaking name,” Mother Crone says. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I…yes.” I almost say thank you but I catch myself in time.

She gives me a smile that sends a sensation of warmth from the soles of my feet to the tip of every single hair on my head. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow until she turns her attention to Geordie.

“Jilly sent these along,” he says, going up a short set of stairs along the side and handing over a paper bag full of oatmeal cookies.

“You’ll have to thank her for me,” Mother Crone says, accepting the gift. She looks at his other hand. “No fiddle tonight?”

He shrugs. “I just thought we could sit around and enjoy the night.”

“We certainly can. It’s a beautiful night Anann has given us. Pull up a chair.” She waves toward some other folded lawn chairs leaning against the wall inside the dock’s big sliding door. Hazel bounds up the stairs and brings them over to where Mother Crone is sitting, opening each before she gets another. She motions me to come up and join them.

“So you talk to ghosts,” Mother Crone says to me when we’re all settled.

I nod. “I’ve no idea why. I don’t even know that they are ghosts half the time until I realize that I’m the only one who can see them.”

“That’s a rare gift for a mortal.”

“I guess it is.”

“I can imagine a time when I might well need to have a conversation with a ghost,” she says. “Perhaps you could translate for me?”

Again I glance at Geordie, waiting for his nod before agreeing that, yes, I’d be happy to help.

Mother Crone smiles. “I’d say you were a good neighbour, but since Hazel has offered you the protection of our court, that makes you kith, and friends are always happy to help each other out, aren’t they?”

I nod. “That’s the way it should work, Mother Crone.”

That beatific smile of hers washes its warmth over me again. “When you are here in our court,” she says, “you may call me Galfreya. But I ask you to protect my name from the rest of the world.”

“Absolutely.”

“Who wants a beer?” she asks.

“Not me,” Geordie tells her. “I’m driving.”

“I think I’ll pass, too,” I say. “I need a clear head with all that’s going on in my life these days.”

“Then tea?”

“That would be lovely,” Geordie says, and I nod in agreement.

Hazel bounces to her feet and disappears through a smaller door beside the large sliding door that I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“So you’re a seer,” I say. “How does that work? Do you know everything that’s going to happen before it does?”

Her laugh is like a tinkle of muted bells. “Hardly. Take tonight. The probability that Geordie would bring you around to visit was high, but he could have come on his own. Or the two of you could have come tomorrow night, or earlier today. It’s not an exact science. But when you’ve lived with the gift for as along as I have, you get skilled at sifting through the probabilities.

“The future isn’t set in stone. If it were I think I’d go mad knowing everything that was going to happen before it did.”

I think about how she referred to my being able to talk to ghosts as a gift.

“I wonder how it gets decided,” I say, “that some people get a gift while others don’t.”

Galfreya shrugs. “Some say that everything comes from the Grace. Others say it’s happenstance—the luck of the draw.”

“Do you ever find it a burden?”

“I do. As I’m sure you do as well. But our gifts are such that people only come to us when they’re in need, and who are we to deny them help? I suppose one could, but it would be a churlish thing to do.”

Galfreya might be the queen of a faerie court, but sitting on the docking bay with her, Geordie and Hazel feels like sitting in the backyard of the house on Stanton Street. Comfortable. Peaceful. Even Hazel has settled down.

From our vantage point we can see a strip of woodland on the other side of the service road. I know there’s a housing development somewhere back there, but at this time of night it feels like we’re looking at the edge of Christiana’s wild acres, with nothing but forest marching off into the distance.

We sit and sip the tea that Hazel brings us and absorb the night around us. Conversation is spare. At some point the idea of helping Davey and Edward comes up and I’m not even sure who first broaches the subject. It might even have been Galfreya, tapping into her precognitive abilities.

“We have someone in the court who can help them,” Galfreya says. “Our healer, Ollie Thistledown, has done it before—or at least something similar—helping faeries change into a more permanent new form when wearing a glamour simply isn’t enough. It would work for your friends, though I have to warn you it’s a painful process.”

I think of the five years or so the process can take in the human world. The cost of the procedures. The need of Davey and Edward to physically be who they know they really are inside.

“They’re already in pain,” I say. “The idea of a little more won’t dissuade them—not with the promise of what waits at the end. When can I bring them by?”

“Why not now?”

Why not? I think. I borrow Geordie’s phone and call Davey.

“Are you serious?” he says when I explain why I’m calling.

“Totally. Can you and Edward find your way here? We’re halfway down the service lane behind the mall. If you’re taking a cab, have the driver let you out in the parking lot and walk around back. We’re easy to find. Just look for the red-and-white Chevy Beauville Passenger Wagon parked in front of one of the loading bays.”

“The what?”

I laugh. “The red-and-white van. You can’t miss it.”

“We’ll get there as soon as we can.” He pauses, then adds. “I can’t believe this is actually happening. Thank you so much, Juniper.”

I give Geordie his phone back when Davey hangs up.

“We should have a story while we wait,” Hazel says.

Galfreya nods and we all look at one another. The pool of yellow glow cast by the light above Galfreya’s head reminds me of campfire light flickering and pressing out against the surrounding darkness.

“I’ve got one,” I say.

I’ve no idea what makes me speak up like that, but with everyone looking at me I feel as though I’ve committed myself, so I tell the story about how this whole detective business started for Jilly and me. Geordie knows that history but he doesn’t seem to mind hearing it again. It’s all new for Hazel and Galfreya.

It’s barely a half hour before Davey and Edward show up. They’re in an old Volvo so rusted it seems held together only by its remaining paint. But the engine sounds good, purring softly as the car pulls up. The androgynous Matt from the coffee shop is behind the wheel. He parks beside Geordie’s van and turns off the engine. When Davey and Edward get out he stays in the car. They come up the stairs to join us and we make introductions.

I explained to Davey on the phone that the transition process will likely involve some pain, but I had no real details. Galfreya doesn’t mention it, nor does she ask if they’re sure about their decision. Instead, she stands up and greets the pair of them with an odd formality.

“I’ll take you inside,” she tells them, then adds to Geordie and me, “There’s no real reason for you to stick around. This is going to take a while.”

“Will you guys be okay?” I ask.

Edward seems a little nervous, but Davey gives me a big grin.

“Okay,” I say. “See you on the other side.”

Before we go our separate ways, Galfreya tells me to be careful.

I smile. “Why? Have you seen something?”

She doesn’t smile back. “That’s just it,” she says. “I can’t see ahead when I look at you. All I see is a mist that seems to be made up of ghostly mathematical formulae connected in bewildering patterns.”

“Is that bad?”

“I have no idea. That’s why I said be careful.”

Then she leads Davey and Edward away through the smaller door. Hazel comes and gives us each a quick hug, then hurries after them.

“That wasn’t at all worrisome,” I say.

“If it was something bad,” Geordie says, “I’m sure she’d know.”

“I guess.”

I walk over to the Volvo to tell Matt that if he’s waiting for Davey and Edward to be finished, he’s going to be here awhile. I have to talk through his closed window since he doesn’t roll it down. When I’m done he gives me a brusque nod then looks away. Whatever. I’ve seen guys like him at the club. Most are all muscle and no brains.

There’s still no traffic. We’re a couple of hours away from the morning rush so we make just as good time getting back to the house on Stanton Street. Jilly’s already in bed by the time Geordie backs the wagon into the garage. The long day’s catching up with me so when we go inside I just collect Sonora and thank Geordie for the ride and his help with Galfreya. Then he goes upstairs to bed and I go to the back door of the greenhouse studio to take the shortcut home.

Once we’re in the house I find my phone where Christiana said she’d leave it. “What do you think, girl?” I ask Sonora as I stick it in my pocket. “Are you ready for bed?”

She’s been lolling around all evening at Jilly’s, but she’s still dragging her feet now. It’s been a busy day and she didn’t get her full beauty rest, which, in her case, is something like twenty-two hours out of the day’s twenty-four. I’m dragging my feet as well and my own brain’s feeling foggy, but it’s nothing a good sleep and a workout at O’Shaunessy’s in the morning won’t cure.

We go through the portal that will lead us to the linen closet and into my house, ushering Sonora through ahead of me.

If I was more alert I probably would have sensed something as we step into the hall. But I’m not.

Sonora does. Her head snaps up, but it’s already too late.

I have time to look down the hall, where I see Nida Dill standing by the door of my bedroom. Her fingers are contorted, her hands surrounded by a nimbus of yellow-green light. She throws that light at me. When it strikes it’s like I’ve just been slammed by a truck. All the air goes out of me and I start to fall. The world goes black before I even hit the floor.

I wake up to darkness, and by that I mean there’s not a whisper or crack of light anywhere to relieve the utter dark. It’s dry and dusty and I feel like I have cobwebs on my face. I’m lying on my back on a hard surface. I lift my hands and they encounter a barrier of rough wood about a foot above my head. I move a hand to one side and there’s another wooden barrier, again about a foot away. I explore the other direction. My arm stretches to full length before my fingertips graze another barrier. It’s only when I bring my hand back to me that I dislodge something that moves with a hollow rattle.

Don’t panic, I tell myself. Don’t panic.

But I know what made that sound. I know where I am. I want to be wrong. But what else can it be?

I remember my phone and tug it out of my pocket. When I turn it on, even its pale light seems overly bright. I shine it in the direction where the sound came from.

Bones.

“Fuck,” I say.

I’m in a coffin with somebody’s bones and mouldering clothes.

Don’t panic.

It’s all I can do to not completely lose it. Claustrophobia rears up inside me. My pulse jumps into triple time.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I edge away from the skeletal remains until I’m pushed up against the side of the coffin as far as I can go. My shaking hands drop my phone but the light from its screen is still on, so it’s easy to find. My hand is trembling so much as I pick it up that I almost drop it again.

Don’t panic.

Right. Except I’ve been buried alive and no one knows I’m here, and if I ever get out I’m going to kill Nida Dill.

I bang a fist on the wood above me and turn my head as the air fills with falling dust. I cough, rub at my eyes with my free hand.

“Fuck!”

“Language,” a voice I don’t know says.

I turn to see an older woman lying on top of the bones, head propped up on one elbow. She’s got her hair pulled back in a bun and she’s wearing a long skirt and a blouse with about twenty tiny buttons up the front. Her features are severe, but her eyes are friendly enough. She reminds me of the stereotypical old school librarian—back before the influx of wild child librarians put the whole spinster image to rest.

“Is this your grave?” I ask.

“No. This would be the final resting place of Donald Lee Hale, Esquire.”

“Your husband?”

“Again, no, although he certainly would have been, were it not for that floozy Essie Holmes stepping up and lifting her skirts for him.”

“Right. But now you and he are finally together.”

This is good. I can feel my pulse calming. I’m still freaking out, but a conversation—even with a ghost—helps center me. Find your core, my sensei back in L.A. used to tell me before I moved back to Newford and switched from martial arts to boxing.

The ghost likes my observation, taking it at face value.

“An astute observation, young woman,” she says. “We are indeed together with, I might add, no need for additional company to intrude upon our love nest.”

Okay, and that’s not creepy.

“I’d love to leave you two lovebirds on your own,” I tell her, “except I’m kind of stuck here. Speaking of which, do you know where here is?”

“As I have already explained, this is Master Hale’s grave.”

“You did tell me that. I’m just wondering what part of the city it’s in. And what city, for that matter.”

“I’m sure I don’t follow you.”

Breathe, I tell myself.

“In which graveyard is he interred?” I ask.

“This one.”

I can see this is going to dissolve into a “who’s on first” dialogue that I don’t have time for.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“I am Miss Cynthia Norton.”

There’s a thing that happens when I touch ghosts. It didn’t happen in the cell with the ghost girls because of whatever it is that keeps them trapped in there. But out here in the real world?

“I need you to go away now, Miss Norton,” I say.

I reach out. As soon as my hand touches the space her phantom body occupies, she fades away.

As soon as she’s gone I call Joe.

“I’m in a bit of a jam,” I say when he picks up.

“Where are you? What do you need?”

“First, can you go by my house and make sure that Tam and Sonora are okay?”

“I’m on my way. Keep talking. What’s going on?”

I give the abbreviated version of Nida Dill showing up behind St. Paul’s, Hazel scaring her off, then Dill reappearing in the hallway of my house and blasting me into some old grave, I don’t know where.

“You said you have a gift for finding things, right?” I say as I finish up. “Can you find me?’

“Yeah, but it might take a little time. I need a starting place before I can track you. Maybe I can pick up a scent at your house.”

But I have another thought.

“Duncan Fairweather has a tracking spell on my phone,” I say. “I’ll call him and have him meet you at my place.”

“Do it.”

When I call Duncan he thinks I have news of his sister, and I do, but nothing I’m ready to share. Instead I tell him what I want him to do.

“I don’t need your friend to come along,” he says. “I can find you.”

“If you want me to keep helping you, you’ll do as I ask.”

“He’ll slow me down.”

“Yeah, the last thing Joe will do is slow you down—trust me on this. Can you please just go to my house and meet him.”

I know he wants to keep talking but I need to conserve the battery on my phone. I tell him as much and cut the connection once he agrees to meet Joe.

Another call to Joe and then I let my phone’s screen go dark. That deep black descends on me again, leaving me alone in the coffin with only the bones of Cynthia Norton’s crush to keep me company.

I almost wish I hadn’t sent Cynthia away. I could probably call her back to me but I don’t want to waste my phone’s juice to see her, nor do I want to talk to her disembodied voice.

So I lie there in the dark. And I wait.

And I imagine what I’ll do to Nida Dill when I get out of here. Not if but when. I have to believe that or the panic and claustrophobia are going to come roaring back.

My throat is so dry but I’m doing okay, staying level and not freaking out until I start to wonder how long the air in here is going to last.

6

Tuesday: Joe

There are crazy lights flickering in Joe’s eyes when he steps out of the otherworld and into the hallway on the second floor of Juniper’s house. He was hoping this Nida Dill would still be here, but all he finds is the stink of her magic and Sonora lying on the carpet. The dog lifts her head and whines when she sees Joe, but can’t seem to get her legs to work enough to push herself up onto all four paws.

Joe’s nose works, twitching as he sifts the air for scents. He’s still working the air as he kneels beside Sonora, his fingers gentle as he probes for injuries.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

He isn’t sure the same thing can be said about the woman who did this—not when he gets through with her.

He keeps trying to make sense of what happened here, but he can’t pull a clean scent out of the miasma of weird magic that still hangs thick in the air. It smells like math and the stars and the lines you could draw to connect them, which makes no sense.

But it knocked down Sonora and took Juniper away.

He leaves Sonora’s side long enough to check a couple of doors to rooms that lead off from the hallway. When he finds Tam asleep in one of them he goes back for the dog and carries her inside. Tam stirs when Joe lays Sonora on the bed, then sits up suddenly, trying to make out who’s in the room with him.

“It’s me,” Joe says. “Joe. Juniper called me.”

Tam turns on his bedside light and the glare blinds Joe for a moment. By the time his eyes adjust Tam’s sitting up, his own gaze on Sonora.

“What’s the matter with her?” he asks. “And where’s Juniper?”

“Someone was in your house throwing around big weird magic. It took Juniper away and knocked Sonora for a bit of a loop, but she should be okay.”

“What do you mean, someone took Juniper away?”

“Just like it sounds. I need to find her. Can you look after Sonora? If she doesn’t start to improve, give Jilly a call. She’ll know what to do.”

“Sure, but—”

Joe doesn’t hear the rest because he’s already stepped away. When he comes back from the otherworld he’s in the shadows that run deep alongside Juniper and Tam’s house. Evenmere Avenue is quiet, though he can hear the odd vehicle go by on Battersfield down the block.

He’s just about to call Juniper again when he sees a figure standing under the oak in the front yard. Interesting. It wasn’t there a moment ago and he hadn’t heard anybody approach. Joe slips in and out of the otherworld, reappearing right behind the figure.

“Are you Duncan?” he asks.

The newcomer jumps and almost falls in his hurry to turn around. Joe grabs his arm, steadying him.

“Easy there,” he says.

“You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Is your name Duncan?”

“Yes. And you must be—”

“Juniper says you’ve got some kind of stalker spell attached to her phone. Take me to her.”

“It’s not like that. I—”

“Don’t care. Just take me to her. You can do that, right?”

“Sure.”

“So do it.”

Duncan meets Joe’s gaze with its crazy lights and swallows thickly.

“Right,” he says. “Grab my shoulder.”

As soon as Joe does, Duncan lifts his hands and makes a series of complex motions with his fingers while whispering something under his breath. Whatever he says is in a language Joe doesn’t recognize. Just as he doesn’t recognize the graveyard they’re now standing in. He lets go of Duncan’s shoulder.

“Which grave?” he asks.

Duncan points to the ground under their feet.

“You’re sure she’s down there?”

“No, but I’m sure her phone is.”

“Good enough.”

He takes out his own phone and punches in Juniper’s number. They hear a faint ring from somewhere underground before she answers.

“Hello?”

“Hang in there,” Joe says. “We’re up top and working on getting you out. How’s your air?”

“Okay, I think. But how long can it last?”

“Slow breaths,” Joe tells her. “Try to keep them shallow. We’ll get you out.”

“I know you will.”

Joe smiles. He likes the quiet assurance in her voice, where most people would be panicking.

“How are Tam and Sonora?” Juniper asks.

“Everybody’s good. Sonora got a little shook up by the spell that hit you, but Tam’s looking after her. Now you stay chill. I’m going to hang up now so that I can focus on getting you out. Just remember we’re here, right above you—okay? You need to talk just call me back.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says.

Joe cuts the connection and puts his phone away. He turns to his companion.

“Stay here,” he says.

“Where are you going?” Duncan asks.

“To round up a couple of shovels. There must be a groundskeeper’s shed somewhere around here.”

“I’ve got a spell that can bring things out of the earth,” Duncan says. “I learned it in case I ever went treasure hunting.”

Joe just looks at him.

“I can bring her out without us having to dig down to her,” Duncan explains.

“I got that. But we’re talking a human being here, not some pirate’s treasure chest. People don’t breathe dirt. Can you do this without killing her?”

“I know the situation. Trust me—I’ve got this.”

Joe doesn’t know Duncan and he’s not sure he trusts him. Duncan’s scent carries an echo of the same weird magic stink that had been hanging in the hallway of Juniper’s house when he got there earlier.

He holds Duncan’s gaze and touches a finger to the side of his own nose.

“I’ve got your scent,” he tells Duncan.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you fuck this up, there’s not anywhere in all the worlds where you can hide from me.”

“Jesus. We’re all on the same side here.”

Joe nods. “If you say so.” He takes out his phone again. “Tell me when you’re about to actually start moving her,” he adds.

Duncan just stands there, staring at him.

“What’s the hold up?” Joe demands.

“I—nothing.”

Duncan shakes out his hands, rubs the pads of his fingers on his thumbs—loosening them up, Joe supposes. Duncan shakes out his hands again. He shoots Joe a nervous look then starts to move his fingers in a complex pattern. He stops and swallows, shakes out his hands for a third time.

“Can you do this or not?” Joe asks.

“You’re making me nervous so I’m finding it hard to focus.”

Joe nods. “You know what? You’re right and I apologize. Juniper’s running out of air because some freak magician put her six feet under the ground in a coffin, but hey, let’s just take a moment and relax.”

“I get it, okay?”

The crazy light in Joe’s eyes softens for a moment.

“Go ahead, kid,” he says. “You’ve got this, remember?”

Duncan starts again with the complex finger patterns and the whispering. Sweat pops out on his brow but he keeps at it. The air begins to crackle like an electric charge is building up and Joe gets a whiff of that weird magic thickening in his nostrils. Finally Duncan spreads his arms wide and gives Joe a nod.

Juniper answers his call immediately.

“Hold your breath and close your eyes,” Joe says. “You’re going to feel movement but don’t let it freak you out.” He keeps the connection open. “The floor’s yours,” he tells Duncan.

Duncan squats. He places his hands close to the ground then stands up, his muscles straining as though he’s lifting something heavy.

Joe’s seen a lot of strange things in this world and in others, but even he gets a little chill up his spine as the top of an old wooden coffin rises out of the ground—no, passes through the ground without disturbing even a single blade of grass until it’s all the way out and Duncan lets it settle on the lawn.

“Keep holding your breath,” Joe says into the phone.

He punches a hole in a corner of the coffin. Getting a grip on the lid he rips it off. He doesn’t notice how Duncan’s gaze gets wide at his casual show of strength. He’s only got eyes for Juniper.

She’s lying there in the coffin, phone clutched in her hand, eyes shut tight. Almost spooning her is the mouldering skeletal remains of the coffin’s original occupant.

“I wasn’t expecting the whole coffin,” Joe says to Duncan, “but good job, kid.”

7

Wednesday

I open my eyes when Joe pulls the lid from the coffin to find myself looking up into a starry sky that’s starting to brighten with the coming dawn. A moment later Joe’s backlit shape blocks the view.

He reaches down. When I take his hands he lifts me out, then steadies me when my legs start to buckle.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

I let him support me while I drag some fresh air into my lungs. Duncan’s standing a couple of feet away. After a few moments I pull back from Joe, center myself and wait until I regain my equilibrium and my legs stop feeling like they’re made of jelly.

“Thanks,” I say. “Seriously. Both of you. That is not an experience I would recommend to anyone.”

“Let’s get you home,” Joe says.

I shake my head. “No. I’ve got to finish this.”

Duncan looks puzzled but I can tell Joe knows exactly what I mean. “Maybe we should regroup first,” he says. “Make a plan.”

“I’ve got a plan. Give me a little space and don’t interfere.”

Joe holds my gaze for a moment, then nods.

“Come on,” he tells Duncan. “Let’s back off a little.”

“Why?” Duncan wants to know. “We should—”

“Do what Juniper asked,” Joe says, “and give her some space.”

I wait until they’re about fifteen yards away. Then I lift my head and yell, “Hey, Nida Dill. I’m using your name whether you like it or not. Can you hear me?”

There’s no response but I know from what she told me earlier that she’s tuned in to any mention of herself.

“Nida Dill. I’m going to draw a picture of you and paste it all over the internet. I’m going to turn you into a mockery, and you’ll go so viral it’ll be impossible to find anybody who doesn’t know how ugly you are.”

Still no response. The sky’s lightening more. I realize the morning birdsong has gone still in the graveyard.

I grin. “Nida Dill,” I say. “Third time’s the charm, right? Come out, come out, you cowardly bitch.”

She materializes a few feet away from me. I guess if one uses magic all the time it’s easy to forget there’s other kinds of dangerous.

“You stupid little—”

I don’t let her finish. I don’t give her time to even think about using her damn finger magic. I take two quick steps and sucker punch her—a hard strike to the solar plexus with my full weight behind it. As she buckles I grab her head and smash her face into my rising knee.

And down she goes. Gasping for air, choking on the blood pouring from her busted nose into her mouth.

I grab a handful of hair and drag her across the grass to the closest headstone. This one has a nice little ridge at the base to hold vases of flowers. I take one of her hands and flop it onto the stone. She’s so disoriented she doesn’t have a clue what I’m doing until I drive the heel of my shoe down on her fingers.

I’m sure that broke at least a couple, but I lift my foot and bring it down again anyway.

She cried out when I first crushed her fingers—this weird, wet mewling sound—but at the second blow she howls, spewing blood and phlegm. She’s hurting so bad she has no fight in her.

I don’t feel sorry. Being buried alive kind of makes a person lose their natural empathy for their tormentor’s pain. But I’m not doing this for revenge. I’m doing it to stay safe, stopping her from using her fingers to weave a spell.

She cradles her injured hand against her chest but I yank her good hand onto the ledge and repeat the process.

Only then do I step back.

“Joe?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Can you take us someplace with a nice high cliff and no people around?”

“What do you have in mind?” he asks.

“I need to ask her some questions and I need a place where I can give her the incentive to answer them.”

“I’ve got just the spot,” he tells me.

I grab hold of Nida Dill’s hair again as Joe and Duncan join me at the headstone.

“You don’t have to come,” I tell Duncan.

He swallows thickly. “I need to see this through.”

I have no idea why he feels that way, but when Joe steps me away dragging my prisoner with us, Duncan follows along.

Joe brings us to a high craggy limestone outcrop that looks out on an ocean of pine and spruce spreading away for as far as the eye can see. The air’s bright and fresh. After my time underground in the coffin, it feels like actual sustenance.

I drag Nida Dill by the hair to a precipice. It’s clear she’s still hurting from my beating because there’s no fight in her. A hundred feet below is a jumble of rocks. I hoist her up to the edge, grab the front of her shirt with both hands, then let gravity pull the top half of her body downward. She scrabbles for a grip on me, but her broken fingers won’t let her hold on. She glares at me from her bloodied face.

“I’ve got three questions for you,” I say. “Answer any one of them wrong and I let go.”

She spits, but I turn my head in time so the gross mix of snot, blood and saliva only hits the side of my neck.

“Fine,” I say. “Then I’ll just let you go.”

I release one hand and she begins to sway back even farther.

“No!” she says. “I’ll answer your questions.”

I use both hands again to hold her from falling.

“Is this really necessary?” Duncan asks.

I don’t take my eyes off Nida Dill. “Let’s see. Did she bury me alive? Yes, she did. But worse, she hurt my dog.”

“How is that worse?”

“Because dogs are innocent and they depend on us to take care of them.”

“People are supposed to take care of each other, too.”

“Yes they are.”

And I hope he remembers that when I introduce him to his new brother. But in the meantime…

I glance over my shoulder. “Look, you asked to come along,” I tell him. “If you’re feeling uncomfortable, go take a walk.”

I turn back to Nida Dill without waiting for a response.

“Okay then,” I say to her. “First question. Did you kill those girls?”

She frowns. “No. I don’t know anything about them.” She sounds like she has a cold.

“Truth,” Joe says.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” I tell her. “My friend here’s kind of a lie detector. He can smell it when you stray from the truth. “Second question. Do you know who is responsible?”

“No.”

“Lie,” Joe says. I start to let one hand go from her shirt.

“No, no,” she says, gasping. “I’m not lying. I don’t know who might have done it but I have a suspicion.”

I glance a Joe and he shrugs, meaning he can’t tell now. I go back to my two-handed hold. “What’s your suspicion?” I ask her.

“I told you to go to the Round Ways—where the hedge mages squat.”

“That’s right. And when you couldn’t attack me there, you came into my home and ambushed me in the hall, hurting my dog while you were at it.”

“Why are you so wound up about some stupid—”

I cut her off. “This is a waste of time. Let’s see if you can fly.” I let go with my left hand.

“Wait! I’ll give you a name.” She draws a ragged breath. “A woman showed up in the Ways a couple of years ago. It was obvious she had power but no one could figure out how she got it because she was a teddy without an ounce of real mage’s blood.”

“Fascinating. What’s her name and what makes you think she’s the one I’m looking for?”

Nida glances around before continuing. “She called herself Loretta Jones. I only think it could be her because she wore a necklace of delicate finger bones.”

I knew it was a long shot, but my heart sinks. Loretta Jones can’t be my killer because the girls’ stolen finger bones are in a wooden box in a locked cell at the Spook Squad’s headquarters.

I look to Joe. “Truth,” he says. “Or at least she believes it’s true.”

“Last question. If a mage puts a locking spell on a box, how can you get into it?”

“You can’t. Only the mage can open it again, unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you bathe the box in the blood of the mage who spelled it shut.”

I don’t need Joe’s confirmation that she’s telling the truth. It’s too bizarre to be a lie.

I pull her back from the precipice and let her fall awkwardly to the ground.

For a long moment I stare out at the endless waves of pine trees below, then I sigh and turn to look at Joe.

“Didn’t get what you needed?”

I shake my head. “Whoever killed the ghost girls put their finger bones in that damned box Cray’s got stashed away.”

“Maybe she only put part of them in there,” Joe says.

“Then why are the ghost girls haunting it? Why aren’t they haunting their actual killer? I mean, if she’s wearing their finger bones.”

“She must have put a spell on them or the box,” Duncan says, “that keeps them in close proximity.”

I’d almost forgotten he was with us.

“Why would she even bother?” I ask.

Nobody’s got an answer for that. Maybe Loretta Jones will when I track her down. And I will track her down because she’s the only the lead I’ve got left unless Saskia’s found something.

I point to Nida Dill with my chin.

“What are we going to do with her?” I say. “If we let her go she’ll come after me once her hands heal up.”

“I won’t,” Nida Dill says. “I promise.” She’s managed to shift into a sitting position, holding her broken hands close to her chest.

“Lie,” Joe says.

I didn’t need Joe’s assessment to know her intentions, but I nod, acknowledging his judgment.

Joe rubs his chin. “We could put her in one of Cray’s cells. It holds everything else, why not a magician?”

“That’s just putting the burden on him and his people. This is my problem, so I need to clean it up.”

“I’ve got a bunch of those pocket prison worlds,” Joe says. “Like the one where we’ve got Cray and Waller.”

“And when her hands heal? She’ll hocus-pocus her way out and come after me again.”

“I really won’t,” Nadia Dill says. “Let me go and you’ll never see me again.”

“Yeah,” I say, “because you’ll hit me from behind.”

“I promise I—”

“Oh please, shut up before I toss you over that ledge,” I tell her.

“Hang on,” Joe says. “You said Hazel chased her off the first time she confronted you behind St. Paul’s, right?”

I nod.

“And then she put you under her protection.”

“Under Mother Crone’s,” I say.

“Which means you’re under the protection of Tatiana McGree. So let’s take her to Seelie Court and let the faeries deal with her.”

Duncan starts to chuckle, then looks at our faces. “Wait—you’re not serious, are you?”

“You’re a magician,” I say, “and you don’t know anything about faeries?”

“They’re not real.”

“Neither are you.”

I look at his pained expression and realize what I’ve just said. “I’m sorry. What I meant was, faerie aren’t real in your Kingsmoor world any more than you’re, you know…”

Crap, this isn’t sounding any better.

“I know what you meant,” Duncan says. “My world exists because Colin Bishop wrote a bunch of books that people loved so much the world he described came into being.”

I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant. Whatever your origin, you are real now. But so are faeries.”

He looks dubious—I’m not sure if it’s because he thinks I don’t believe he’s a real person, or because he still can’t accept that faeries are real.

I decide it doesn’t matter. First we need to figure out how to deal with Nida Dill.

“Bringing her to the faeries,” I say to Joe, “isn’t that still getting somebody else to clean up my mess?”

He shakes his head. “Not when you’re under their protection.” He smiles. “You know, you’re one of the very few under the protection of both faerie and cousins.”

“The others being the Stanton Street regulars?” I say.

Joe nods. “If you’re in with Jilly, you’re in with us.”

“Cousins?” Duncan asks.

Joe turns to him. “Meaning people like me—the original inhabitants of this land.”

“Shape-shifters,” I say, trying to be helpful.

Joe nods. “When the tribes of the five-fingered beings came to our lands they called us the animal people. But we just call each other cousins.”

Duncan studies him for a long moment. I wait for him to say he doesn’t believe in animal people either, but he surprises me.

“Looks like there are some serious gaps in the curriculum of Kingsmoor College,” he says.

Joe grins and his eyes hold a flicker of those crazy lights. “Think how boring life would be,” he says, “if we had nothing new to learn.”

“Do you know how to find the Seelie Court?” I ask.

Joe nods. “But we’re not going there. We’ll go see Mother Crone since you’re under the protection of her court. She also tolerates cousins a lot better than Tatiana’s people.”

“You don’t get along?”

He makes a seesaw motion with his hand.

“Should I ask?” I say.

“Long story,” he says. “From before your time and even before mine.”

He walks over to Nida Dill, who shrinks back from him. He grabs her arm and holds out his hand to me. I take his hand, then Duncan’s, and he steps us away.

The old Volvo is still parked by the loading bay. I peer in through the window and see Davey’s friend Matt fast asleep in the front seat. When I look down the service lane I see a half-dozen vehicles, mostly delivery trucks, parked at various bays. I wonder if we’re cutting this too close because the mall’s going to be opening soon and we still have to contact the faeries inside. But as I look up at the loading dock I see Galfreya there reading a book in her lawn chair much like she was earlier. She doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see us when she lifts her head from her book.

That’s because she’s a seer, I tell myself. I make a mental note only to refer to her as Mother Crone in front of the others.

Something stirs under her chair, and what I took to be a bundle of twigs and cloth resolves itself into Hazel. She yawns and stretches before she looks in our direction. She points at Nida Dill.

“That’s the evil gruagagh,” she says.

I glance at Duncan but realize that while Galfreya and Hazel might look a little odd, they don’t particularly match people’s general idea of what faeries are supposed to look like so this isn’t proving anything to him.

“So I see,” Galfreya says. She turns her attention to Joe. “Hello, Animandeg. Or do you prefer being called Bones?”

“Joe’s fine.”

Galfreya smiles. “Yes, he is, isn’t he?”

Joe laughs, those wild lights sparkling in his eyes.

Galfreya lets her smile wash over me and I can feel it push away the last vestiges of my experience in Donald Hale’s grave. Her gaze moves on.

“You’ll be Duncan,” she says. “Your brother’s inside. He’ll be happy to see you.”

“I don’t have a brother,” Duncan says, but Galfreya’s attention has already moved on.

“And this is the wretched creature who had the temerity to set herself against our court.”

“This has all been a terrible misunderstanding,” Nida Dill says.

“I’m sure it has. You seem somewhat worse for wear, or is it your custom to go about with a blood-smeared face and broken fingers?”

Galfreya glances in Joe’s direction, but he shakes his head.

“That was me,” I say. “Her kind of magic uses complex finger patterns to work her spells, so I had to use a bit of force to make sure she couldn’t throw another one at me. She might also be able to do something with just her voice, but she hasn’t tried it yet.”

“I’m glad you brought her to me,” Galfreya says. “To deliberately attack someone under the protection of this court can’t be ignored.”

Nida Dill tries to look humble but she can’t pull it off. “I’m truly sorry,” she begins. “I didn’t know she was—”

Hazel cuts her off. “Lies, lies! I told her my ownself.”

“I know you did,” Galfreya tells her.

Her attention turns to Joe. “But I’m surprised you didn’t deal with this yourself.”

“We thought about it,” Joe says. “We talked about throwing her off a mountain, or I could have just cut her throat, but we thought maybe you’d have a more humane punishment.”

I don’t see the change happen, but the sweet-faced Galfreya I’ve known suddenly seems taller and sterner. Dark lights gleam in her eyes.

“Because faerie are known to be so gentle and kind,” she says. She speaks as quietly as ever, but there’s steel in her tone.

“I don’t know about that,” Joe says. His own voice stays mild, as though he doesn’t notice the change. “We need Juniper to be safe, but she was uncomfortable with the option of killing the woman outright. We thought maybe you could turn her into a toad or something so that she can’t hurt anybody else but she’ll still be alive.”

Hazel claps her hands. “Oh, wouldn’t that be fun! And then we could hunt her, up dale and down.”

“As to that misunderstanding,” Joe continues, his gaze on Nida Dill. “She put Juniper in a coffin, six feet under. We managed to pull her out, but I don’t exactly trust she won’t come back on Juniper once those fingers heal.”

The darkness washes away from Galfreya. “I’m sure a glamour might be appropriate,” she says. “But let me think on it first. Until then, could you ask Edgan to join us?”

Hazel darts away through the small door beside the big sliding one. A few moments later she reappears accompanied by a truly weird little man who seems to be made of an equal mixture of twigs and vines, wires and circuitry. In the middle of his chest is an iPhone, which seems to be an actual part of him rather than something decorative.

“You called for me, Mistress?” he asks.

“Would you do me the favour of putting this somewhere safe until I decide how to deal with it?”

She points to Nida Dill, who tries to shrink into the ground at his approach.

“You can come easy or you can come hard,” Edgan says.

He stands in front of her, hands clasped together, waiting for her response. Nida Dill slowly gets to her feet. She shoots me a look of utter hate.

“That’s not going to help you plead your case,” I tell her.

She doesn’t respond. Instead she lets Edgan usher her inside.

“You’ve made me feel a little safer about the people under my protection,” I say to Galfreya so that she’ll know I appreciate what she’s doing instead of just saying thank you.

She waves a hand. “You are part of our court and would do no less for us. But the hour grows late—or early, depending on your perspective. It’s time we were in our beds and you were away.

“Hazel, would you see if their friends are ready to leave?”

Hazel goes back inside once again. When she returns she has Davey and Edward in tow.

The changes in them are subtle. Their hips are narrower, shoulders a little broader. They have Adam’s apples. They’re young men now instead of women, but otherwise they remain unchanged.

The pair of them are grinning from ear to ear.

“I found your sister,” I say to Duncan. “But it would have been easier if I’d known I was looking for a boy instead of a girl.”

Duncan won’t look at me. He stares at Davey, dark clouds forming in his eyes. His fingers twitch at his side and I think he’s about to throw some spell—at Davey, or me, I don’t know. Instead he vanishes.

“So that went well,” Joe says with a sigh.

My shoulders sag. Duncan’s reaction wasn’t what I was hoping for or even expecting.

Davey and Edward each hug Galfreya then come down the stairs and do the same with me.

“He’ll come around,” I say into Davey’s ear.

He draws back to look at me. “I really hope so,” he says, “but I’m not counting on it. The problem is, we’re each as stubborn as the other.”

“But you have to be who you are.”

He nods. “And for that, I have you to thank.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Right.”

“Juniper, do you need a ride?” Edward calls as he reaches the car door.

Matt is awake now, looking a little confused about everything he missed while he was sleeping. But he looks at Edward, then Davey, and grins. He even gives me a smile. I guess I went from untrustworthy to okay.

“I’ll take you home,” Joe tells me.

“Thanks.”

Davey gives my shoulder another squeeze before heading over to join his friends. We watch the Volvo back out of its parking spot then follow its passage down the service road until it rounds the corner of the building.

I trot up the stairs to say goodbye to Galfreya and Hazel. “I need to check that my dog’s okay,” I tell them, “and get about a week’s worth of sleep. But I’ll come back to visit.”

“I know,” Galfreya says.

Seers, I think. Behind me Joe chuckles.

“Take this,” Galfreya adds, handing me a plastic water bottle. Inside is a thick green liquid. “Drink it when you get up. It’ll help get rid of the cobwebs in your head.”

I hesitate for a moment then think, screw it.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “For everything.”

She leans forward and gives me a kiss on the middle of my brow.

Joe takes me right back to the upstairs hallway in my house.

“I know you’re not done,” he says.

“Honestly, all I’m planning to do is sleep.”

“But after that you’re going to look into this Loretta Jones that Dill told you about.”

“I have to. The ghost girls are still trapped and we can’t leave Cray and Waller on ice forever.”

“Just call me before you do anything.”

“Absolutely. But now I need sleep. Then I’ll go to Stanton Street and see what Saskia’s found.”

Joe’s about to say something else but just then a wobbly Sonora comes out of Tam’s bedroom. Her tail wags madly but she stumbles as she tries to reach me.

I don’t even see Joe leave as I rush over and gather her in my arms. I stand up and look into Tam’s room to see he’s slept right through my return. I’m not surprised. Sometimes I think he could sleep through an earthquake.

I carry Sonora to my own room and set her on the bed while I strip off my filthy clothing. I’d love a shower but I’m too tired to do anything but crawl under the covers. Sonora wriggles happily against me. I look at the bottle that Galfreya gave me. It’s the last thing I see before I fall asleep.

I wake up around nine, which means I only got the idea of sleep, not any actual rest. I’d stay in bed but there’s too much to do today. I force myself to sit up. Sonora raises her head from the other side of the bed. She stands and shakes herself without losing her balance. When she jumps down and marches to the door I’m sure that she’s back to normal—no thanks to Nida Dill.

I swing my legs to the floor and see the bottle of green liquid on my night table. My head’s full of cobwebs and every limb feels like it has a weight attached to it.

Drink this in the morning.

My fuzzy brain tries to work out why. Because…

Oh yeah.

It’ll help you get rid of the cobwebs in your head.

I unscrew the top and raise the bottle to my lips. I’m anticipating something horrible like a bitter cough or cold medicine, so before I can change my mind I drink it down. It looked so thick in the bottle, but it goes down my throat like water—or something even thinner, if there is such a thing.

The effect is immediate. A soft glow starts up in my stomach and then spreads through my body. It’s like drinking in the warmth of Galfreya’s smile when she turns its full wattage on you. Now I need to get clean on the outside too.

By the time I’ve finished my shower and dressed I feel like I can take on anything the world might throw at me. Galfreya should be mass producing this. She’d make a fortune.

I peek in on Tam but he’s still asleep so Sonora and I go downstairs. I get the coffee brewing, then we head out to the backyard. I half expect to find Duncan out there ready to harangue me about his sister, but Sonora does her business and we come back inside without incident.

Sonora has her breakfast, I sip my coffee. I consider waking Tam before heading off, but end up just leaving him a note. Sonora and I are about to go through the linen closet door when I decide to go back to my bedroom. I grab my Taser and clip it to my belt.

Much as I dislike guns I’d bring one of those, too, if I had one. No mage is ever going to stick me in another coffin.

Once we enter the wild acres Sonora’s tail starts wagging madly and off she trots. I look in the direction she’s heading and am surprised to see Christiana sitting on a park bench midway between the portal to my house and the one that leads to Stanton Street. The bench wasn’t there before, but it makes a lovely new addition with its curlicued cast iron ends and wide wooden slats.

I watch Christiana reward Sonora with all the affection a good dog deserves, and feel another flood of relief that Sonora appears to have fully healed after yesterday’s trouble.

As I approach, the wonderful aroma of coffee from Christiana’s travel mug teases my nose. I drank mine this morning, but when she reaches down beside her and produces another mug for me, I’m delighted to accept.

“Thanks,” I say. “I could get used to this.”

She shrugs. “I was playing around with some improvements and figured you’d be along soon.”

“Mmm, this is delicious. The bench is pretty sweet too.”

She smiles. “How was your evening?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t ask.”

Her eyebrows go up.

“Seriously. But if you really want to know, come along with me to Jilly’s so I only have to tell my story once.”

“Now I’m completely intrigued,” she says.

She stands and we walk in companionable silence over to the Stanton Street door, Sonora at our heels.

Jilly’s painting in the greenhouse study when we arrive. As soon as she sees us she puts down her palette and brushes and rushes over to give me a big hug. The sudden movement has Bobo jump down from the couch where he was sleeping. He runs around barking, which sets Sonora off as well. It takes a few moments for everything to calm down.

“What was that for?” I ask as Jilly gives me yet another hug.

“Joe was by earlier.”

“And he told you everything.”

Jilly shakes her head. “No, only the bare bones. It must have been so awful.”

“I’ve had more fun times.”

I can see Christiana’s dying of curiosity so I herd them both into the kitchen where I can hear Saskia and Wendy talking. Geordie’s there too. He raises his mug to me.

“Hail the conquering hero,” he says.

I think of the way I took Nida Dill down so hard and fast, then put her on the edge of a cliff and threatened to drop her off unless she talked. With a little distance between now and that moment, I’m not particularly proud of what I did. I’m not saying I wouldn’t do it again—I would. But it’s not something to brag about.

“I’m no hero,” I say.

“Details, please,” Wendy says, “and then we’ll decide.”

I roll my eyes.

“What did Joe tell you?” I ask.

“Just that Nida Dill ambushed you and buried you alive, and then you beat the crap out of her and gave her to the faeries.”

I close my eyes for a moment. I can actually hear Joe’s voice as he told it to them. To the point, with no wasted words.

“My god,” Christiana says and squeezes my shoulder.

I know we won’t be able to move ahead until I give them a blow by blow of everything that happened, so I launch into a quick recap.

When I’m done, everybody looks so damn serious sitting around the kitchen table.

“You can’t be thinking of going after this Loretta Jones now,” Jilly says.

“She’s our only lead.”

I turn to Saskia. “Does her name sound familiar from the research you’ve been doing?”

“No, but I’ll have a look now.”

Normally when someone says that, they pull out a laptop or tablet and have at it, but Saskia’s eyes just get a far off look as though she’s dreaming about something else.

“Do you know anything about these Round Ways?” I ask Wendy. “Are they in the books?”

She nods. “That’s where Daisy goes when she’s trying to infiltrate the hedge mages. But there’s not a whole lot of detail about where they actually are.”

“Is Kingsmoor College an actual little mini world on its own?” I ask. “As in, is there a wider world beyond its grounds?”

“It’s like Hogwarts or Brakebills,” Wendy says. “You kind of have to get to it sideways. Bishop never says what the nearest city is called. It could be any big city and people are forever arguing about it on the Kingsmoor forums. There’s good arguments for New York, London, Chicago—all sorts of places.”

“So there is an actual city close to the college.”

“So it seems from the books.”

“Then that’s where I’ll start. Maybe Davey can help guide me around.”

“I’m still trying to get my head around Daisy becoming Davey,” Wendy says.

I have no problem with it myself, but I’m neither Duncan nor an avid reader of the series. I never even met him as Daisy.

“I still say this is too dangerous,” Jilly says, looking at me. “I don’t care if Loretta Jones is our only lead. You’re lucky to be alive after your encounter with Nida Dill. The last thing you need is to go chasing after another powerful mage.”

“You didn’t make a promise to the ghost girls. But I did.”

She sighs. “I know.”

“Don’t worry,” Christiana says. “I’ll go with her.”

“Oh, but I didn’t say I’m not going with her as well,” Jilly pipes up. “I’m just saying it isn’t a good idea. For her. Well, for any of us, but especially for her after the Nida Dill affair.”

“I’m sitting right here, guys, and nobody’s coming with me except for Joe.”

I point to Jilly. “You’re our ideas gal. Wendy and Saskia are research and tech support. Joe and I are the field operatives. We’re the only ones who have actual training in this type of thing.”

I use that explanation only because I know Jilly will like it. It’s the kind of terminology that appeals to her and will hopefully distract her from tagging along.

Jilly grins and uses her two index fingers to point around at our little group. “We do make a good team, don’t we?” she says.

“Where does that leave me?” Christiana asks.

“Routes and restoration,” I try. It’s pretty much on the money.

The truth is, I don’t want any of them to come with me into what we all imagine will be a dangerous situation.

Saskia’s eyes focus once more and she turns to me. “That name—Loretta Jones,” she says. “It doesn’t come up in any of the reports about the missing girls. But I found a guidance counsellor quoted in an article around the time of the 2002 disappearance, and a math teacher from another piece that came out after the girl went missing in 2012.”

“I don’t get the connection.”

My confusion is mirrored around the table.

“Oh, right,” Saskia says. “The counsellor’s name was Elena Brown and the math teacher was Monique Wilson. They were quoted separately in each of those articles, and their names are different, but both women look an awful lot like one another. Let me show you. Can I borrow your computer, Wendy?”

“Sure.” Wendy slides her laptop across the table.

Saskia busies herself on the keyboard for a couple of moments then turns the screen around so that we can all see.

In her head and shoulders photo, guidance counsellor Elena Brown has short blonde hair. She appears to be dressed conservatively judging by her buttoned up blouse. Monique Wilson has long dark hair and glasses. She looks like she’s wearing a lab coat, which doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. Do math teachers wear lab coats?

Regardless, they could be sisters.

“They look the same age,” Jilly says.

Saskia nods. “Though there’s a decade between.”

“Can you send those photos to my phone?” I ask.

Saskia’s fingers dance on the keyboard.

“Done,” she says at the same time as my phone pings.

“I’ll go back to the library,” Wendy says, “and see if I can find any newspaper articles with other women that look like them.”

I stand up. “Do you mind if I leave Sonora with you?”

Wendy responds by saying, “Dibs on walking Sonora.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Thanks.”

“I don’t like you going off looking for this mage woman,” Jilly tells me again.

“It’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s just a reconnaissance mission. I don’t plan to confront her until we figure out the safest way to bring her in.”

This seems enough to satisfy Jilly, which is a relief. None of them are cut out for this sort of thing so I want to do this solo. Although—I reconsider as Christiana stands up—I don’t really know her capabilities. She isn’t like Joe, one of the cousins who are always faster and stronger than the rest of us, but she does have an otherworldly origin. She probably has more tricks up her sleeve than being able to move between worlds.

“Do you think you can remember the way back to Kingsmoor?” I ask her.

She smiles. “Absolutely.”

“Let me call Davey and see if he’ll meet us there.”

“What about Joe?” Geordie asks. “I thought he was going with you.”

“I’ll let him know what we’re doing and he can decide. He’s kind of our big gun and I’d like to keep him in reserve for when we’ve actually made a plan.”

I give Sonora a pat and tell her to be a good girl, then get Christiana to take us away before anyone decides that they really have to come along.

This time Christiana brings us to the flagstoned area on the side of the college instead of at the far end of the field where we arrived the last time we came. We startle a few of the students seated at the various benches and tables, but after a quick curious look they go right back to whatever they were doing before we appeared.

Magical college, I think. People step out of thin air? No problem. They must get things like this happening around here all the time.

We find a free bench to sit on while I call Davey and Joe.

“Crap,” I say as I look at my phone.

“What is it?”

“No service.”

I should have thought of that before we left. It’d be a bit much to expect my mobile provider to cover a whole other world.

“Here, use mine,” Christiana says.

I look at the screen on her phone and she has an optimum connection.

Christiana laughs at my puzzled look. “There’s a place in Mabon that fixed me up. I don’t understand the physics of it, but when you travel around as much as I do, you like to make sure you’re connected.”

“I totally need to go there,” I say as I use her phone to call Davey.

He assures me he’s glad to help out. I’m grateful because having a local guide will make things so much easier. While we wait for him to join us I call Joe.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“At Kingsmoor College with Christiana.”

“Ask her to meet me at Jilly’s. You stay put.”

“You mean right now?”

He doesn’t say anything so I tell her what he said.

She steps away. A moment later she’s back with Joe. He looks around at what he can see of the campus before he turns his attention to me.

“You were supposed to call me,” he says.

I hold up Christiana’s phone. “Which I was doing.”

“I meant before you did anything. These magicians play for keeps—or have you already forgotten what Dill did to you?”

“I appreciate your looking out for me,” I tell him, “but we’re really just going to have a look around.”

He nods. “And last night you were just in the upstairs hallway of your own house.”

“Point,” I say. “But I can’t live my life scared to do things because something dangerous might be just around the corner.”

Joe shakes his head and rests on his haunches in front of the bench. “Your problem,” he says, “is you’re too much like me.”

Christiana chuckles.

“Sure, laugh it up,” he tells her.

“I’m not laughing at you,” she says. “I’m just surprised it took you so long to figure it out. Juniper might not be a cousin, but she’s a stubborn old soul chasing after truth and justice. Like you.”

“Only not as resilient.”

“Which is why I’m here for backup,” Christiana says.

Joe nods. He bumps his fist lightly against my knee and stands up.

“Be safe,” he says. “Call if you need anything.”

“I will. Thanks, Joe.”

“When you go to this Round Ways place,” he says to Christiana, “you might want to take her in between.”

“Good idea.”

He nods, then steps away.

“In between?” I ask Christiana.

“It’s the space between this world and the otherworld. Most of the time it’s as thin as a veil, but in some places it can be a few acres deep. If you don’t know better you could mistake the between for the otherworld itself. But what’s really interesting is that you can stand in the between and look into either world without being seen yourself.”

“Like you’re invisible?”

“More like you’re a step sideways from them,” she says.

“Good to know.”

I happen to be looking in the right direction when Davey suddenly appears twenty or so yards away. I smile at the little swagger in his walk and the reaction of the female students.

“Check him out,” I say.

Christiana does just that. “Mother Crone did a good job,” she says. “I’d never have taken him for someone born in a different skin.”

He catches sight of me and lifts a hand. I beckon him over and make the introductions. He’s not lascivious about it, but he totally gives Christiana a once-over before he sits down between us. He stretches out his legs and looks around at the students who are earnestly pretending they’re not checking him out.

He smiles. “They can’t figure out who I am. They know I’m a Fairweather, but I’m obviously not Duncan or Daisy, so they’re all trying to work out the connection.”

“The little things that amuse us,” Christiana says.

“Walk in my shoes,” he says. “But you’re right. Amusing as their reaction is, we have other work to do.” He wipes his hands against each other, removing nonexistent dirt.

“So,” he says. “Loretta Jones might not be using her own name—most people don’t in the Round Ways. It’s too bad we don’t have some sort of a description.”

“I’ve got better,” I say and show him the photos on my phone.

“Can you send those to me?”

I shake my head. “My phone doesn’t work here.” That makes me wonder. “Wait, yours does?”

“Not the one I use in the teddy world. I’ve got two phones with the same number. Which one rings depends on which world I’m in.”

“I so need a magical upgrade.”

He smiles.

“What’s the plan once we get there?” Christiana asks.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he says. “You know, I lived in that area for a while.”

“Learning hedge magic,” I say.

He nods.

“And to get a line on Jerad Sloan,” I add.

“That too,” he says. “The point is, I know a lot of people down there and—no offence—but I’ll probably have a better rapport if you two aren’t tagging along.”

I’m about to protest but Christiana says, “That’s fine. We’ll be nearby but not anywhere we’ll be spotted.” She has more faith in my ability to skulk around than I do, but I don’t argue.

I hand Davey my phone. “You can use this for show and tell.”

“My big selling card,” he says, “is going to be the fact that I’m a man now rather than the woman who lived there before, dressed like a man. I’ll make out that it’s something I figured out on my own because nothing attracts hedge mages like somebody with power and spells they don’t have.”

He stands up.

“Remember,” I say as Christiana and I join him. “We’re just scouting around.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not looking for trouble.”

He leads us around the side of the main building before heading across a treed lawn to a tall hedge marking the outer boundary of the college grounds. I try to play it cool and not stare at the kids that we pass, but it’s hard. A couple are juggling balls of light back and forth between them. When one drops it bursts apart in a silent explosion of light like miniature fireworks. There’s a girl under a tree reading a book that’s floating in the air, pages turning when she makes a small motion with her finger. Two boys are at a table animating little figures they’ve made out of twigs and leaves.

It goes on and on.

“Have you considered what you’ll say when you’re asked why you’re looking for Jones?” Christiana asks Davey.

He shrugs. “I could say I’ve heard she has a good anti-aging spell and I want to make a trade with some spells I’ve got.”

“That’s too close to why we’re really looking for her. It’s going to set off alarms.”

“Okay,” he says. “How about I just say she’s beautiful so I want to check her out in person, maybe party with her?”

I roll my eyes but Christiana laughs.

“Sure,” she says. “Why not? She should at least be flattered if word gets back to her.”

We reach the far side of the lawn while dodging a bunch of magical frisbees kids are using as drones to dive-bomb each other. One comes perilously close to Christiana’s head and she bats it away with lightning reflexes. The frisbee goes careening off to crash on the lawn.

“Hey!” the kid yells at her.

I don’t know what else he was about to say because Christiana turns and gives him such a hard stare that he ducks his head and quickly turns away.

And now there’s something else I can add to the little I know about her. She can be a hard case when provoked.

Ahead of us Davey pushes through the cedars. The hedge is deeper than I expect and it’s a few moments before we come out on the other side, arriving in a dingy alley that wouldn’t be out of place in some of the seedier parts of Newford. We also seem to have lost most of the day, having left the sunny lawn of Kingsmoor College behind for a city at dusk. We have the alley to ourselves, but it still gives off a sense of despair beyond the gloomy light and the refuse scattered along its length.

“Let me go ahead,” Davey says. “Give me a half a block or so before you come out, and try not to look like you’re following me.”

“Don’t worry,” Christiana tells him. “Nobody’s going to see us.”

I wish I felt as confident, but as soon as he starts off for the mouth of the alleyway Christiana takes my hand and steps us into the between that she and Joe talked about. It’s an even odder sensation than the transition between Kingsmoor College and this city because we’re in a rural setting, much like the wild acres, except we can also see the alley.

“Come on,” Christiana says, pulling me forward. “We don’t want to lose sight of him.”

Davey isn’t walking quickly so we soon catch up to him.

“He really can’t see us?” I ask.

I could probably reach out and tap him on the shoulder.

“Nobody can see us,” she says. “Careful of that tree.”

That’s the other thing—the two different elements of the city world and the between don’t quite match up, so we have to pay attention to where we’re walking at the same time as keeping track of Davey.

The storefronts we pass are boarded up and covered in graffiti. A lot of it appears to be formulae and scripts in various languages rather than the typical gang signs and tags back home.

Davey comes to an empty lot that’s obviously a dumping ground for all sorts of junk—rusted appliances, old tires, even a couple of cars stripped down to their frames. Weeds stand tall wherever they’ve gotten a foothold. A metal drum in the middle of the lot has been cut in half and there’s a fire burning in it. A handful of people are sitting around it on inverted pails and chairs in various states of disrepair.

They all look up when Davey approaches. It’s not until he gets into the light from the fire that somebody recognizes him. A girl with a shaved head and a face full of piercings stands up. “Holy crap,” the girl says. “Is that you, Davey?”

“Hey, Kristen.”

“Don’t you hey Kristen me. Shit, look at you.”

She steps close and reaches between his legs to grab his package.

Davey pushes her hand away with a laugh. “Hands off the merchandise,” he says.

Kristen just shakes her head. “You really did it.” She turns to her companions. “He’s the real deal—all boy-toy and yummy.”

A guy with a thin little beard studies Davey with interest.

“How’d you do it?” he asks.

Davey shrugs. “Worked my ass off until I figured it out.”

The talk veers to where they’ve picked up various spells, and gossip about people I don’t know and don’t care about.

“You know,” I say to Christiana. “I’ve noticed a thing about mages. They tend to rely on their magic. I’m sure that’s why I was able to get the drop on Nida Dill the second time I confronted her. She didn’t have her magic locked and loaded so I was able to take her down before she got the chance to work up a spell.”

She nods, listening to me but her attention stays on the people around the fire.

“You’re probably right,” she says. “But I wouldn’t count on it as a given. The way I understand it, a lot of the people using this kind of magic will work up spells beforehand that they can hold at the ready. All they need is a word or gesture to finish it.”

“Yeah?”

She nods again. “It’s not like cousin or faerie magic.”

“Cousins do magic?”

“Not all of them, but I’ve seen some weird things beyond the fact that they can instantly change from one shape to another.” She turns to look at me. “Did you ever notice how they can wear their animal skin but when they change back to people they’re wearing their clothes again? How does that even work?”

“I haven’t really seen anybody change. The only cousins I know is Joe and a couple of his friends.”

The talk around the campfire has fallen to a lull, which allows Davey to bring up Loretta Jones.

“Lemme see?” Kristen says holding out her hand for my phone.

She looks at the picture then shows it to another girl sitting beside her. This girl’s so white it looks like she’s never seen the sun but she’s got an impressive set of dreads.

“That looks like the bitch who took over the tower.”

Her friend nods. “That was, like, what? Two years ago?”

“I remember that,” somebody else says. “She tossed out everybody who was squatting there and set up a ward so nobody can get back in.”

“Amos says he can get in.”

“Amos is full of shit,” Kristen says. She takes another look at the pictures on the phone, swiping back and forth between them. “She doesn’t look exactly like this, though, with that vintage vibe going on. Weird.”

The girl beside her nods. “Yeah, I’ve seen her on the street from time to time. Colby says she’s got the inside of the building fixed up like a palace.”

“How the hell would Colby know?” the guy with the beard says.

“Why are you looking for her?” the girl with the dreads asks.

Davey shrugs. “Friend of mine says she knows how to throw a serious party. I thought I’d check it out.”

“You don’t want to party with her,” Kristen says as she hands my phone back to Davey.

“Why’s that?”

“Because she’s a bitch.”

Everybody laughs.

“Seriously,” Kristen goes on. She licks her lips. “If you want to party, party with us.”

The dreadlocked girl nods. “And can you fix me up so that I have a dick as well as my lady parts?”

Christiana approaches Davey as they continue to joke around. It’s weird how nobody can see her but there she is, standing almost at his shoulder.

“I think we’ve gotten all we’re going to get from them,” she tells me.

She grabs Davey by the arm and hauls him into the between. Around the metal drum everybody’s on their feet, looking around, their voices raised in surprise at his sudden disappearance.

“Fuck me. Did you see that?”

“What the hell?”

“How’d he do that?”

“I didn’t see a portal. He just freaking vanished.”

Davey isn’t particularly pleased. He shakes off Christiana’s grip. “Why’d you do that?” he says.

“Because we’re done here. It’s time to go.”

“You couldn’t have waited a few moments? How am I supposed to explain the way I just disappeared if I have to come back here?”

Christiana holds his gaze. “If you want to hang out with those losers, be my guest.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Do you know where this tower is?” I ask.

Davey is probably grateful I’ve given him an excuse to break eye contact with Christiana in a way that doesn’t make him lose face. Of course he can’t show it. Boys. Really, does it have to be all about the posturing?

“Yeah,” he says.

He turns his attention to where the hedge mages are still staring around themselves trying to figure out where he’s gone. “Where are we anyway?” he asks.

“In a part of the otherworld.”

He walks up to Kristen and stares into her face. She’s unaware of his presence.

“I didn’t know it worked like this,” he says.

Christiana shrugs as if to say there’s a lot he doesn’t know.

“Why don’t we go have a look at this tower?” I say.

“Sure. But we won’t be able to get in because of the wards.”

“Not even from here?” I ask Christiana.

She shakes her head. “Remember how it is at Jilly’s place?”

I nod. “But we can peek in from the otherworld, right?”

“We can only see the ground floor—and only if there’s an open window. If there are curtains, or Jones is hanging around on another level, we won’t be able to see much of anything.” She gives Davey a considering look. “Unless you can fly?”

“I’m trying to get better at it but I was never good at levitation. That’s more Duncan’s thing. I’m pretty wobbly in the air.”

“Just show us where it is,” I say. “We’ll find out what we can see when we get there.”

He sets off and we fall into step on either side.

“You did good back there,” I say. “Thanks for your help.”

“She’s right,” Christiana adds.

Davey straightens up, puts his shoulders back. Christiana and I exchange smiles that he doesn’t notice.

When they were talking about a tower back at the fire I have to admit I pictured…well, a tower. Free-standing, with maybe some ramparts on top. Made of old stone, vines creeping up the side. When Davey finally stops and points across the street I realize they were just talking about an old apartment building. It’s seven stories tall, the ground floor windows boarded up.

We walk up to it in the between. Above a sheet of plywood covering the front door is a stone slab with the words “The Warrington Towers” etched into it.

“How’s one building plural?” I wonder aloud.

Christiana chuckles.

We make a circuit of the building but aside from the top floor all the windows are covered with sheets of wood. Interestingly, there’s no graffiti, even on the bottom floor. The building looks vacant except for lights that glow on its top story.

“Somebody’s home,” Christiana says.

It’s frustrating to be this close and unable to do anything. We can’t even confirm that Loretta Jones is actually up there.

“I wish I could fly,” I say.

“I’d give it a try,” Davey says, “but that’s a long drop if I lose focus.” He sighs. “And I always lose focus.”

“Should we see if Duncan will help?” Christiana asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t think he’s talking to me at the moment.”

“Or me,” Davey adds.

“So what now?” Christiana asks me. “Do you want to regroup with the others and see if we can figure something out?”

I study the building hoping for a brainstorm, but nothing comes.

“No,” I say. “Let’s call Joe. He knows cousins that can fly. Maybe one of them will be willing to help. Come to think of it, he’s half crow himself. Maybe he’ll just fly up there for us.”

Davey gives me a puzzled look but I don’t feel like getting into it.

“Here,” Christiana says, handing me her phone.

When I get Joe on the line I explain our dilemma. I barely finish before he’s standing in front of us.

I’m so used to people popping in and out of nowhere that his sudden appearance barely registers, but Davey takes a startled step back. Joe nods in his direction then turns his attention on the building. “How strong are the wards?” he asks.

Davey shrugs. “Hard to tell without testing them.”

“And testing them’s as good as knocking on the front door, announcing we’re here.”

“Pretty much,” Davey agrees.

Joe rubs his chin, thinking. “How do mage wards work?” he finally asks. “Do they cover the building from every angle?”

Davey nods. “She would have the periphery of the building on alert for any attempt to break the ward.”

“The entire thing?”

I follow his line of thought right away.

“You’re thinking we could enter from below,” I say. “Through the basement.”

Christiana laughs without any humour. “Sure, that’ll be easy. All we have to do is dig a tunnel alongside the foundation walls. There are probably some front loaders just lying around waiting for us to borrow.”

When she puts it like that it sounds like a ridiculous proposition.

But Joe doesn’t seem to be fazed. “Back when we were getting Juniper free,” he says, “I thought we were going to have to dig her out. Except Duncan did this thing where he moved her up through the ground to the surface.”

He turns to Davey.

“Why are you looking at me?” Davey asks.

“Can you do the same thing? Phase us through the ground here in the otherworld so that we can cross over into the basement?”

He shakes his head. “Duncan has always been good at working the big physical spells but my professors said I have some kind of block inhibiting me. So basically I’m more of a theoretical kind of mage.”

“So theorize.”

Davey shakes his head. “The magic of hedge mages and Kingsmoor graduates isn’t that kind of magic. You need to be powerful to work a spell like that. We’re talking someone like Oliver or Nida Dill.”

“But I saw Duncan do it,” Joe says. “He brought that coffin right out of the ground without disturbing a single bit of dirt.”

“So maybe he can do this. I know I can’t. You could ask him.”

“I’m asking you to ask him. I hardly know him.”

“He’s not talking to me,” Davey says.

Joe looks at me. “He’s not talking to me either,” I say.

“What am I missing here?” Joe says.

“Davey used to be Duncan’s sister Daisy,” Christiana says. “Juniper got Mother Crone to do a gender correction on him.”

“So now Davey is who he’s supposed to be,” Joe says. “So what?”

Christiana shrugs. “I guess Duncan preferred having a sister.”

“This is kind of a long shot anyway, isn’t it?” I say. “Nida Dill told us that Jones wears a necklace of finger bones, but our killer keeps them in a box. It doesn’t match up.”

“Do you know how many fingers are in that box?” Joe says.

“No, but that still doesn’t mean she’s the one.”

He nods. “But she’s our only lead. She showed up here two years after the last girl was killed. She’s got the same fixation on kids’ finger bones. And she’s not born to magic but now she’s got plenty to spare. She knows something. If she doesn’t, she still sounds like someone who needs to be put down.”

“Or at least out of business,” I say.

I’m still holding Christiana’s phone. I think of the ghost girls, especially Cray’s aunt Sandy who’s been trapped for seventy years.

“Maybe he’ll answer because he won’t recognize the number,” I say as I dial Duncan’s number.

It rings a few times. I imagine Duncan looking at his call display trying to figure out who’s calling him. He’ll either not answer or curiosity will get the better of him. I’m betting that mages are like cats and, sure enough, curiosity wins out.

“Don’t hang up,” I say when he answers. “Joe asked me to call you because we need your help.”

There’s a long silence.

“Help with what?” Duncan finally asks.

“It’d be easier if we showed you. Tell me where you are and Joe will go get you.”

“Why should I help you?”

“You’re not helping me. You’re helping the ghost girls.”

There’s another silence.

“I’m still pissed off at you,” he says before he tells me where he is.

Duncan won’t look at Davey when Joe brings him back. Most of the time he keeps his back to his brother while Joe and I explain in more detail what we want to do.

“So when you say you want to talk to Loretta Jones,” he says to me when we’re done, “does that mean you’re going to take her to that mountaintop and torture her like you did Nida Dill?”

“You’re actually feeling sorry for her?” I say. “The woman buried me alive.”

“But maybe she was just teaching you a lesson or something. Maybe she was planning to come back to get you after a while.”

“You think it was a prank?”

He shrugs. “What if it was?”

“And that makes it okay?”

“Do you mean more okay than breaking all her fingers and tipping her backwards off a cliff?”

I step right up into his face. “Seriously? You’re going there?”

I think the reason I’m feeling so angry toward him is that I’m already carrying a bit of guilt for coming down on her as hard as I did. And what makes me feel worse is knowing that if the circumstances were the same, I’d do it again. So what kind of a person does that make me?

I step back from him. “Somebody take him away before I throw him off a cliff.”

“This is classic Duncan,” Davey says with a snicker.

Duncan turns to glare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll never admit you don’t know something or can’t do something. Instead you just go on the offensive and piss everybody off.”

“That’s rich, coming from the girl who runs away from her problems.”

“I am not a girl. I have never been a girl.”

Duncan makes a dismissive motion with his hand. If I were Davey I’d smack him, but Davey takes the higher ground.

“Anyway,” Duncan says, “I’m not saying I can’t do this. I’m just not sure I want to.”

Davey rolls his eyes. “You are so full of crap. Just say it. You don’t have that kind of power.”

“It’s not a matter of power,” Duncan tells his brother. “It’s a matter of finesse. Think of erosion—the water doesn’t have to be a torrent. Just a trickle can carve a channel in a rock.”

“Except we don’t have millennia to sit around and wait for your tiny trickle of magic to do its job.”

Duncan heaves a sigh. “You know that was only an example. Maybe this will be easier for your tiny brain to understand: you’ve heard the concept of a butterfly’s wings causing massive weather patterns on the other side of the world from where it is?”

Davey slaps a palm on his own jaw. “Oh, please.”

“Well, they’re definitely siblings,” Christiana says.

Both shoot her a dirty look.

“Joe,” I say. “Can you please take them away? We’ll figure another way to do this.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Duncan asks, as though I’ve just delivered an insult to his prowess.

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll ask Mother Crone’s healer to fix Nida Dill’s hands and get her to do it. If she hasn’t already been turned into a newt or something.”

“You think we could trust her?” Joe says.

I shrug. “Why not? She knows what we’ll do to her if she comes after us again.”

“Are you insane?” Duncan says.

I give him an innocent look. “Aren’t you the one that thought she was probably just teaching me a lesson and wouldn’t leave me to die in that putrid coffin?”

“I said maybe she wouldn’t, but we’re well past that now. Give her the opportunity to use magic again and she’ll come after all of us. And your little finger-breaking trick won’t work next time because she’ll be expecting it.”

“Well, you’re certainly not going to help us.”

“Because he can’t,” Davey says, sticking his tongue out.

Duncan stabs a finger at his brother. “I moved a coffin filled with a pile of bones and Juniper through the earth.”

“So show us,” Davey says.

“Except,” Christiana puts in, “we should have some kind of plan in mind for what to do if we get inside. Duncan’s right. Surprise isn’t going to work because she’s on the top floor and by the time we confront her she’ll have had plenty of opportunity to get her mojo locked, loaded, and ready to throw at us.”

Joe nods in agreement. “We’ll have to split up as soon as we get inside so that one of us can get the drop on her. She can’t deal with all of us at once.”

“You know what would work?” Davey says. “Fireworks.”

We all give him a blank look except for Duncan.

“How’s that?” Christiana asks.

“Our kind of magic requires focus and concentration, even when we have a spell locked and loaded, as you put it. Having fireworks going off in the halls and stairways would certainly throw off her concentration.”

Duncan nods. “That’s actually a good idea,” he says despite obvious reluctance to give his brother credit. “Plus she’ll think it’s a magical attack.”

“Fireworks,” Joe says. “Coming up.”

He steps away then returns a few moments later, arms laden. He sets down his load. On top of a backpack, which I assume is full of fireworks, are a pair of SWAT protective vests. He hands one to me, the other to Christiana.

I sigh as I put it on. “I thought I was done with this kind of thing.”

“Then you’re going to dislike this even more,” Joe says.

He pulls a pair of auto Glocks out of the backpack, which is indeed full of fireworks, and gives me one. I take it unhappily, check the load and then chamber a round.

“Do you know how to use this?” he asks Christiana. He gives it to her when she nods.

“What about you?” I ask Joe. “Where’s your vest and pistol?”

“I’m going old school,” he says. “Wearing my red dog skin,” he adds at my blank look.

“Show-off,” Christiana says.

Joe grins at her, then turns serious. “Remember, if we want to appease Cray we’ll need to keep her incapacitated, but alive.”

I nod. “All we have to do is make sure she can’t use her hands.” I think for a moment and add, “And probably gag her.”

“What about us?” Davey asks Joe.

Joe looks at me instead of answering Davey.

“Duncan’s going to get us inside,” I say, “and you’ve done enough. We don’t expect you to risk your life.”

“So I don’t get any say in it?” Davey says. “Some freak teddy mage is killing girls and you just assume I don’t want to help bring her in?”

“Do you know how to use a gun?” Joe asks.

Davey shakes his head. “And I’m not much use when it comes to battle magic either. But I’m really good at warding off battle magic. I’ll have your backs in there.”

Joe nods. “Sounds good. I’ll go get another vest.”

“Weren’t you listening?” Davey says. “I’m really good at warding off battle magic. I don’t need a vest. If I did, there’d be no point in me coming along.”

Joe turns to Duncan. “Then I guess you’re up, kid. Do you need anything special from us?”

“It’ll be better for me if you’re in close contact with one another,” Duncan says.

He directs us to stand back-to-back with one another, close enough that we’re in contact. Our hands are free so Christiana and I have our Glocks out. Davey is to my left, Christiana on my right. Behind me, Joe is wearing the backpack on his chest.

Once we’re positioned how he wants us, Duncan starts on his spell. His fingers are making strange shapes while he mutters under his breath. I don’t recognize the language. I find myself getting a little nauseous when I look at the way his fingers move. But it’s like when someone tells you not to think about something. As soon as they do, that’s all you can think about. I keep looking away but my gaze inevitably returns to Duncan’s hands.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this again,” I mutter under my breath.

But Christiana hears me.

“So do you do this a lot?” she asks. “I thought your assault on Crescent Beach was a one-off.”

I’m grateful for the distraction. I turn my head toward hers which means I’m not looking at Duncan’s movements. My stomach settles down.

“You mean, launching an assault in SWAT gear with gun in hand?” I say. “More often than I’d like. This is only the second time but it’s already two times too many.”

“I have to admit that when you told me about Crescent Beach it wasn’t quite how I pictured you up until then.”

“It’s not really me. But the scary thing is, I’m good at it. I feel sick after, but in the moment my game face comes on and I’m frighteningly focused.”

“Please stop talking,” Duncan says.

Christiana smiles at me. “At least he said please.”

I stifle a giggle. I should be scared—and somewhere in the rational part of my mind I guess I am—but mostly I’m just vibrating with energy and ready to go. Which is what usually happens when I’ve got a challenge in front of me.

“I’m serious,” Duncan says. “This is tricky and I can’t be distracted.”

“Great,” Davey says. “Because of your incompetence we’re going to end up a few feet under the ground where we’ll die choking on dirt.”

“Shut up!” Duncan tells us. “All of you.”

Joe clears his throat. It’s like being back in school with that one teacher who can shut the whole class down with one hard stare. We all mutter sorries.

“Carry on, kid,” Joe says.

I think about what Davey said when Duncan goes back to working his magic. If this goes sideways, it’s only Davey and me who’ll be in trouble. Duncan will be here in the between, and Joe can do his world hop to any place he’s already been. I can’t be certain Christiana’s as accomplished as Joe, but I’m pretty sure that if things go wrong, at least they will be able to shift themselves out of trouble.

For some reason I find that comforting.

Movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I turn my head to see Duncan standing with his hands upraised. When he starts to bring them down it’s like he’s hauling some invisible thing through the air with great effort. Then, as the four of us begin to sink into the earth, I realize it’s us he’s moving.

“Oh, fuck me,” Davey says in a small voice.

I know just how he’s feeling.

Duncan’s spell has made us intangible. I don’t pretend to even begin to understand the physics of it. All I know is that we’re lowering into the earth and I’m pretty sure I’m about to puke.

By the time we’re up to our waists I’ve got an army of panic goblins racing around in my head. I want to break away from the others but what if our connection is all that’s keeping me intangible? The ground level’s about to swallow my chest now.

Before I lose it completely, I close my eyes and practice my breathing.

With my eyes closed I have no idea how far we’ve been swallowed by the earth. Surprisingly, not knowing allows me to relax. Instead of being panicked I feel like I’m submersed in a sensory deprivation tank, minus the liquid. It’s all kind of Zen. I could be anywhere or nowhere at all, but it’s not a concern. All that’s important is that my breathing keeps me centered.

But then I start worrying about the fact that I’m intangible. The what-ifs pile up. At the top of the pile is the fear that Duncan will get us inside but we’ll remain intangible. We’ll be ghosts. The gang of panic goblins grabs that worry and runs with it.

I desperately want to open my eyes but I just as desperately don’t want to see only dirt in front of them.

How long has Duncan been working his spell anyway?

The last time, when he lifted the coffin out with me in it, it all went pretty quickly. I don’t even remember this eerie sensation of being intangible.

That routs the goblins for a moment because if Duncan pulled that off there’s no reason he can’t do the same right now.

I should open my eyes because we’re probably already in the basement. Except, even intangible, I can still feel the weight of the earth above and all around us. No, not so much a weight as the sheer presence of the earth, wrapped around us in a far more intimate embrace than being buried in a coffin.

I feel like puking again.

Will my puke be intangible?

Breathe, I tell myself. Brain, shut up. Lungs, do your thing.

Except how can I breathe when I’m intangible?

And then I realize that, intangible as I am, I can’t feel Davey and Christiana on either side of me. I can’t feel anything. Not my hands or feet, the Glock I’m holding. Nothing. For all I know I’m drifting away through the earth, all on my own. No ties to anything, nothing to hold on to, no way back.

That works the panic goblins into a frenzy.

I’m not sure I can get back from the idea that I’ve been cut adrift. It’s too big, like staring oblivion in the face. They say nobody can hear you scream in space, but I’m pretty sure they can’t hear you when you’re underground either, making less impact than an earthworm as you drift deeper and deeper—

And then all of a sudden I can feel my body again. I feel the welcome contact with Davey and Christiana. We all stagger against each other as the ground becomes solid underfoot. I suck in a big breath and open my eyes.

I blink in the sudden light and realize there’s a woman standing maybe ten feet away from me. It’s like confronting Nida Dill in the hallway outside my linen closet all over again. I just have the time to register the woman’s presence. I don’t even get the chance to lift my gun before whatever it is she’s throwing slams into me.

Imagine getting punched on every square inch of your body at the same time and you’ll get an idea what the impact feels like. Not just body and limb and head blows, but armpits, between my fingers and toes—all the places you don’t normally get hit. The Glock drops from my numbed fingers. My eyes tear up. I feel blood running from my nose.

I’d have collapsed where I stood, but another part of her spell has me suspended a couple of feet above the floor. Limbs hanging like a rag doll. I can move ever so slightly, but it’s like swimming through jelly.

My panic goblins now have a whole new crisis to freak out about.

I force them back into their little caves and hollows. I steady my breathing to try to clear my head and the ringing in my ears.

I glare at my attacker. She looks like the woman in the phone pictures except her hair is as red as my own and she’s dressed in a maroon sweatsuit with yellow piping. It seems kind of ironic to be taken down by a magician with questionable fashion sense. And I really hate the necklace of finger bones hanging from her neck, stark against the blood-like colour of her sweatshirt.

Slowly I manage to turn my head to look at my companions. Loretta Jones has captured us and we’re all suspended in the same helpless position. I note that Christiana’s Glock is also lying on the floor, close but so damn far out of reach.

Then I realize something.

Where’s Joe?

“I’m really, really good at warding off battle magic,” Christiana says, mimicking Davey’s voice.

It sounds strange, not just because of the rather spot-on impersonation she pulls off, but also because whatever’s holding us aloft makes her voice sound wavy like I’m hearing a recording played back at a low bit rate.

“I am,” Davey says. “But she’s better at casting than I am at warding.”

“Of course I am,” Loretta Jones says. “You might have magic in your blood but all your spells are pathetic echoes of the ones from my world.”

“Is that why you came here?” I ask. “Because you get more bang for your buck when you torture somebody in this world?” I want to keep her talking to buy time for whatever Joe’s trying to set up.

If Joe even made it through with us.

If he’s not floating underground.

But Jones isn’t interested in expounding on her ambitions like some villain in a B-movie.

“I’m asking the questions here,” she says. “I have three of them. And there are three of you. Every time you refuse to answer, or answer with what I will know is a lie, one of you dies.”

“What if only one of us knows the answers and you kill them?” I say. “Then you don’t get anything.”

She shrugs. “And the three of you will be dead. So I suggest if that is the case, speak up before someone dies.”

I have an eerie déjà vu of holding Nida Dill over the edge of a cliff. I guess karma really is a bitch.

“You should go,” I tell Christiana because I know that she can shift out of here to safety.

She shakes her head, moving slowly under the spell that’s holding us all up dangling here in the air.

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Jones says. “I sensed a fourth person with you just as I cast my spell. Who was it and where did they go?”

“Is that one or two questions?” I ask.

She moves the fingers of one hand and something clamps around my throat making it impossible to breathe. I want to grab at my throat but I know there’s nothing I can do about what’s cut off my breathing. The goblins stir in their dark little holes but I force myself to ignore them and hold the woman’s gaze.

She finally makes another movement and I suck in air.

“I know your kind,” she says. “Quick with the smart-ass remarks. People have probably led you to believe it’s cute or whimsical when all they really want is to slap your face.”

She waits for me to comment but I keep my mouth shut.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock,” she says. “Time’s running out. Tell me who was with you and where they’ve gone, or the first of you dies.”

8

Wednesday: Joe

Joe knows something is wrong as soon as Duncan’s spell crosses them over from the earth under the foundation of the building into the basement itself. He’s got physical contact with the others so it should be no problem shifting them all back to the lawn. But something drags at his connection with the others, something like what was waiting for him in Juniper’s second floor hallway—the confusing stink of math and the stars and the lines you could draw to connect them to each other.

When he appears on the lawn outside the building the only person there is Duncan.

The others got left behind.

Joe’s nostrils are filled with the stench of this weird magic. He’s not sure if it’s from the big spell that Duncan managed to pull off or from whatever awaited them in the basement.

The kid’s sitting in the grass, obviously worn out, but he jumps to his feet when he sees Joe. “What happened?” he asks. “Where are the others?”

Joe holds up a hand for quiet. He closes his eyes and tries to lock on to what he saw in the basement before he stepped away.

The woman was there, waiting for them. Red-haired today and dressed in sweats. Throwing some kind of spell.

He fixes everything he saw in the basement into his memory. Where everybody was situated, the position of the stairs going up, the big old-fashioned oil furnace, the wall of tools along a work bench, a stack of boxes with a bicycle leaning against them. Everything.

“She was waiting for us,” he finally says, opening his eyes.

“Who? Loretta Jones?”

Joe nods. “How the hell could she have known we were coming?”

“The ward could have extended across the floor. More likely she has an alarm set up for when someone figures out a way past her wards and invades her protected space. She’d know as soon as you appeared in the basement.”

“I suppose. She got down awfully fast—if she even was on the top floor in the first place.”

“Mages have transportation spells,” Duncan says. “If they’re ones we use, they’re ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

“That makes sense.”

“What happened to the others?”

“She threw some kind of spell at us.”

“And you got away.”

Joe hears the suspicion in the kid’s voice. He can’t blame him.

“I thought I was bringing them with me,” he says.

“Why didn’t the spell work on you?”

“Magic doesn’t take with cousins the same way it does with five-fingered beings.”

Duncan gives him a puzzled look until Joe raises a hand and spreads his fingers.

“You mean humans,” Duncan says.

“That’s what you call yourselves. Cousins wear more than one skin and, for most of us, our animal side doesn’t have hands. The—let’s call it magic that allows us to switch shapes—comes from our animal blood and that same blood makes your spells slide around on us before they can take hold.”

“Okay, right. I meant no disrespect. It’s just—that’s my sister trapped in there.”

Joe cocks his head and frowns.

“My…um, family,” Duncan corrects himself.

“And my friends,” Joe says.

“So what do we do?”

“I don’t know, but we need to do it fast. Anybody that hits as hard and fast as Jones did, without even checking to see who they are and what they want, isn’t going to keep them alive for long.”

If they’re not already dead, Joe thinks.

“It’s up to you and me, kid,” he says. “I’ve been inside now so I can get us back into that basement. But this woman’s got serious mojo. We need a plan or our own big ass magic to take her down. How are you on that battle magic Davey was talking about?”

“I’m crap. Just like she—he—is. Why do you think we had to let Oliver fight our battles for us?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t care. I figure we’ve got sixty seconds to make our move. After that it’s not going to be a rescue mission. It’ll just be about payback.”

Duncan nods. “So we stick to the plan. You shift us back into the basement and we’ll get those fireworks lit. If we can distract her enough, one of us might get a shot at her.”

“Works for me,” Joe says. “I just wanted to make sure you were all in.”

He takes off the backpack and sets it on the ground.

“Don’t bother taking them out,” Duncan says. “Soon as we’re there I’ll toss a fire spell at them and they’ll all go off at the same time.”

“Do you need any special preparation before we go?”

Duncan shakes his head. “Fire spells are one of the first we learn. I can do it in my sleep.”

“Okay. On my count set them off. I’ll make sure we’re inside as they go off.”

Joe hefts the backpack and reaches a hand to Duncan.

“This is two I owe you,” he says.

He counts down. On three he shifts them back to the basement to a position behind where Jones is standing. He throws the backpack off into a corner. The basement explodes in a cacophony of sound and lights, rockets trailing tails of sparks as they ricochet off the walls.

Joe isn’t paying attention. He snaps into his animal skin and a red dog launches itself at Loretta Jones.

9

Wednesday

I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to give up Joe but there’s no way I’m letting Christiana or Davey get hurt either.

I’m still searching for a way out of our dilemma when Joe and Duncan suddenly appear behind Loretta Jones. Joe chucks his backpack into a corner as Duncan throws a spell at it. Fireworks explode, creating instant chaos within the confines of the basement. It’s like World War III just broke out.

I don’t care how good a magician you are. That sudden barrage of sound and light is going to rip away the ability to concentrate on your spell work. The havoc is making me feel crazy and I’m not trying to hold three people dangling in the air.

Jones spins toward Joe and Duncan but she doesn’t have a chance. Before she turns halfway around, the big dog that is Joe barrels into her. As she goes down he snaps his jaws on her right hand.

I think she screams but it’s hard to tell over the sound of the fireworks. Whatever spell’s been keeping the three of us captive vanishes and we drop to the ground. I don’t turn to look at Christiana and Davey. It’s not that I don’t care. But there’s a more pressing concern.

As my feet touch the floor I bend my legs, letting my knees absorb the impact. I reach for the Glock I dropped earlier. In front of me Jones has recovered enough to wield magic with her free hand. She has it raised over the dog as he bites her. A weird light pours out of her palm, pounding into Joe. His fur is smouldering and I know her magic is hurting him, but he doesn’t let go.

I don’t even have to think about it. I raise the Glock and put a bullet through her upraised hand. Whatever magic was pouring out of her palm dies.

This time I hear her scream.

I bounce to my feet and cross the basement to where she’s lying, the dog still on her. I put the muzzle of the Glock against her forehead, pushing hard enough to press her against the stone floor.

“You can let go now, Joe,” I say.

The dog gives me a dazed look but he does as I say. He drops her hand and backs off, her blood smeared around his muzzle. His rear legs don’t seem to be working properly. All the fur has burned off his haunches and his skin is black with severe burns. His gaze meets mine but I can tell he doesn’t really see me. All that’s reflected in them is the pain.

I don’t look away as I tell Jones, “Stop moving or I pull the trigger.”

The dog’s legs are trembling now. The rear ones give way and his hind end flops to the ground.

I’m aware of Christiana at my side, her own gun levelled on Jones.

Now the dog’s forelegs collapse under him and he hits the ground, chin meeting concrete. With Christiana covering Jones I stick my Glock in my belt at the small of my back and kneel beside Joe. I want to comfort him, to ease the pain, but I’m afraid to touch him and make things worse.

“For God’s sake, Joe,” Christiana pleads. “Shift.”

“Where’s he supposed to shift to?” I ask.

“Not to. Into his human shape. Cousins heal when they shift.”

Joe’s lying on his side now, his breathing laboured, eyes closed. The air is filled with the stench of burnt fur and the smoke from the fireworks.

Davey and Duncan are standing across from me on the other side of where Joe lies. Their faces are pale and they look stunned.

“I think he’s too far gone to do it on his own,” I tell Christiana. “Is there some way we can make him shift?”

When she doesn’t answer I turn to see the unhappy look in her eyes. She still doesn’t take her gaze from Loretta Jones.

“I have no idea,” she finally says.

I turn back to Joe. I refuse to accept this. I remember Oliver saying something about the way to take down one of these powerful hedge mages—that you have to give up what’s most important to you. I’m not saying Joe’s the most important thing in my life, but he’s right up there.

There’s no way I’m letting him go.

I reach down. Grabbing the thick fur on either side of his head I lift it and yell at him. “You don’t get to die!” I tell him.

The dog’s eyes flare open. He manages a growl and tries to snap at me but he’s got no strength left.

“Shift, goddamn you! You want me to have to tell Cassie that you didn’t even fucking try?”

Something changes in the dog’s eyes at the sound of his wife’s name.

“That’s right,” I go on. “You plan to leave Cassie? Make her a widow?”

I give him another shake.

Yeah, I know. Not exactly the best bedside manner happening here but I don’t have a plan B.

“Shift!”

I don’t know whether it’s Cassie’s name, how the dog’s pissed off with the way I’m manhandling him, or that I’ve managed to finally reach whatever part of Joe remains, but I finally see a hint of focus in the dog’s eyes.

“Shift!” I yell and give him another shake.

And then he does.

Fur turns into black feathers, and a crow as big as a raven explodes from between my hands, lunging into flight. He circles the basement once, twice, at ceiling level. My gaze tracks him. When he finally returns to where we’ve got the drop on Jones he swoops down, changing into a man as he does.

And we have Joe back.

He staggers and might have fallen except Duncan and Davey lunge forward to grab him. They keep him upright, letting go and backing away when he shakes them off.

He stands there for a long moment, looking around the basement with bleary eyes. His gaze finally reaches mine and clears. The crazy lights are back in his eyes and he grins.

“That was…different,” he says. “Magic doesn’t usually affect me that much.”

He reaches down and gives me a hand up as though everything’s normal—and what was I doing squatting on the floor?

I enfold him in a hug as soon as I’m standing. “You scared the shit out of me,” I say when I pull back. I search his face. “You’re really okay now?”

He nods, then looks over to where Christiana stands, Glock still fixed on Loretta Jones. The magician lies there, arms cradled against her chest like Nida Dill did, except Jones’ sweatsuit is soaked with blood and she’s sneaking glances at Joe. She flinches when he takes a step toward her.

“What—what are you?” she manages.

“Wrong question,” he says.

He reaches down and yanks the bone necklace from her neck.

“Do these belong to the girls you killed in Raven’s World?” he asks.

“Raven’s World?” I repeat, mostly to myself.

“What cousins sometimes call our world,” Christiana says, “because Raven stirred the world into being.”

Joe is dangling the necklace in front of Jones’ face. “Well?” he says.

Jones’ eyes are squeezed shut, her breathing laboured.

“She lost a lot of blood,” Davey says, “and she’s losing more. I can heal up her hands, close the wounds.”

“Yeah,” I say. “So she can start throwing spells around again. I don’t think so.”

Joe nods toward a workbench against the far wall. “See if you can find some rags over there to bandage her hands. But that’s all the care she’s getting from us.”

As the Fairweathers head over to the workbench Joe passes me the necklace. I accept it with a little bit of reluctance because I’m expecting some kind of ghostly connection to open up, but I get nothing from it. I don’t know what else to do so I stick it in my pocket.

“How do you want to play this?” he asks.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Juniper.”

“It’s just—”

His eyes flash at me. “I’m fine.”

I don’t know how he can possibly be fine after the damage he took in his dog shape, but there’s a lot I don’t know about cousins. So I decide to take what he’s saying at face value.

“Okay,” I say. “We need the ghost girls’ box from the Spook Squad’s cell. We’ll get Jones here to open it for us. If she refuses, we take option number two and bleed her out onto it.”

Joe nods and steps away.

I take out my Glock and aim it at Jones even though Christiana is already doing the same. I don’t want to take any chances while Davey and Duncan wrap rags around her hands to stop the blood flow.

Jones is in rough shape. The hand Joe savaged in his dog shape is a mess of shredded flesh and muscle. The one where I shot her has a hole going straight through. Her face is the shade of bone and she’s obviously in a lot of pain.

I’d feel sorry for her but all I have to do is remember what she did to the ghost girls to keep my resolve strong. She brought this on herself. She’s the only one to blame. I’m not interested in vengeance. All I’m interested in is freeing the ghost girls and making sure what happened to them can’t happen to anyone else.

“How can you be so sure she’s the one you’re looking for?” Duncan says. He’s turning into a regular voice of my conscience.

“I can’t,” I tell him. “Not until the girls get here.”

Davey has been walking around the perimeter of the basement. Occasionally he holds his hands out to the wall and moves his palms an inch or so from the cement surface. “These wards are still strong,” he says when he comes back to us. “How does Joe get through them?”

“He doesn’t,” Christiana answers, which is good because I didn’t have an answer. “He’s coming back and forth from this spot, bypassing the wards.”

“Is this another cousin trick?” Duncan asks.

Christiana smiles. “No, it’s a Joe trick. He’s not the same as other cousins.”

Before she can go on, Joe returns. He’s holding the box from the cell at the Spook Squad. He’s also brought company.

As soon as I see Cray and Waller I step away from Jones and level my weapon at them.

“You’re still on Jones duty,” I tell Christiana.

She nods.

“Easy,” Joe says. “They’re not here to cause any trouble.”

“You, I trust,” I tell him. “And maybe Waller. But him.” I jerk the muzzle of my gun in Cray’s direction. “Him I don’t trust at all.”

“I’m vouching for him,” Joe says.

I shake my head. “The guy’s a loose cannon, Joe.”

The glare of hatred in Cray’s eyes does nothing to soften my feelings about him.

Joe grins. “You see, Sam?” he tells Cray. “You need to learn to make friends or this is what you get.”

He sets the box down near Loretta Jones. “Seriously, Juniper,” he says. “Dial it back a little.”

I wait a heartbeat before I nod and tuck the gun away.

Ever since Joe arrived with the box I’ve been watching for the ghost girls but they’re not here. Maybe they can’t cross from one world to another. Maybe that’s why Jones left them behind. If it was her that killed them.

“What’s the matter now?” Joe asks.

“The ghosts aren’t here.”

Cray walks toward Jones, taking a bit of a circuitous route to avoid any proximity to me. He stands over the broken magician.

“This is her?” he says. “This is the one that tortured and butchered my aunt?”

Jones looks up at the sound of his voice. The dark fury in his eyes seems to have no effect on her. She regards him for a long moment, then looks away.

“I don’t know for sure,” I say. “I’m waiting on confirmation.”

“How’s that work?” Cray asks.

“When the ghost of your aunt shows up she’ll tell me, one way or another.”

“And then what?”

I shrug. “Then I set the ghosts free and you do whatever the hell you want with Jones so long as I don’t have to see her again and she can’t ever hurt another kid.”

“Jones,” Cray repeats.

“Loretta Jones. I don’t know if it’s her real name. We’ve tracked down at least a couple more that she was using when she was stalking two of the girls.”

I turn my back on him and walk across the basement where it isn’t as crowded. I notice the remnants of Joe’s destroyed backpack in a corner. The fireworks blew it to pieces.

I remember how it worked with the ghost of Ethan Law. He came when I called him by name.

“Sandy Collins,” I say. “We need to finish this.” And then I start naming the other girls, one by one.

But nothing happens.

I try it again, then a third time, because three’s a magic number, right?

When I say the last of their names for the third time and nothing happens I know something’s wrong.

“What the hell’s she doing?” I hear Cray say.

“Shut up,” Joe tells him. He comes over and rests a hand on my shoulder.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

I shake my head. “We need to go back to the cell. With the box.”

“All of us?”

“No, just you and me.”

“You got it.”

I watch him go over and lift the box.

“Now what?” Cray asks.

“Hang tight. We’ll be right back.”

Cray steps up to him. “Where are you going?”

Joe ignores him. “You okay holding the fort?” he asks Christiana.

“Absolutely.”

Joe pushes past Cray.

“Try not to kill each other,” he throws back over his shoulder as he returns to me. “Grab hold,” he adds, elbow bent so I can slip my hand in.

Then he steps us away.

The cell’s exactly the same as the last time I was here—especially when Joe puts the box back on the table. The only difference is there are no ghost girls.

“What if we’re wrong?” I say.

“About Loretta Jones?”

I nod.

“We’re not. She matches the pictures. She had that finger bone necklace. She came down hard as soon as we showed up in the basement.”

“Except we were invading her space. What if she’s just some eccentric recluse defending herself?”

“I don’t read it that way,” Joe says, “and neither do you.” He waits a beat before he adds, “What’s really the problem?”

I stare through the glass and down the corridor with all the cells. There’s a man sitting at the desk in front of the elevator but he has his back to us and the sound-proofing is doing its job.

“I’m freaking myself out a little,” I finally say.

I turn back to look at Joe. “That business in the Crescent Beach world never seemed entirely real. It was like a video game or an action movie. It was so obvious who the monsters were and we went at them like all good heroes do. But this has been different. First, the way I went at Nida Dill, and now with Loretta Jones.” I sigh. “I don’t like who I’m becoming.”

Joe nods. “It’s hard for people like you and me. We’re the ones who have to take the heat so that the ones we love get to live their safe and happy lives.”

“How do you figure me into that equation?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Apparently not.”

“I knew it from the first time I met you,” he says.

I shake my head. “How can you say that? We’ve known each other for quite a while and you never made one mention of it.”

“That’s because you gave no sign that this was something you could or would do,” he says.

“Look,” he continues. “I love Jilly and her friends and the life they get to live. But that life puts them on the edge of a dark and dangerous world. I don’t want them to have to think about it. I’d rather be the buffer between them and the horror shows like what we found in Crescent Beach and with these magicians. Are you going to tell me you feel any different?”

“Add in Tam,” I say, “and I guess not. But is this who I have to be now?”

“No. It’s just a part of who you are. People like you and me—and even Cray and his squad—we’re keeping the world safe from dangers most people don’t even believe in. We help people. Sometimes we can do it Jilly’s way, helping out at the food bank, giving comfort to the old folks or the strays at the shelter. You know, just lending a hand where we can. But when the freak shows start, we have to do what Jilly and the others weren’t made to do. That’s when we put on another hat and kick some ass.”

I give him a slow nod. “I wish it didn’t have to be so damn violent.”

“You and me both. But we’re the ones with the skills and temperament to get the job done.”

I give him another nod. “And speaking of jobs…”

I lay my hand on the box and call the ghost girls again.

This time they come. They can’t talk, so I can’t even ask why they didn’t answer me before, but at least they’re here now.

“I think we’ve found a way to let you move on,” I say, “but it won’t work unless you come with us.”

The girls look at each other, uncertain.

“Please trust us,” I say.

I figure if any of them is going to to take a leap of faith it’ll be Cray’s Aunt Sally. Instead it’s MisRule who steps away from the others and rests her hands on the box. One by one the others join her.

This time I pick up the box instead of leaving it to Joe.

“Stick with me,” I tell them as I shoot Joe a glance. “We’re ready to go.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder and steps us all back to Loretta Jones’ basement.

I do a head count when we arrive. All seven of the ghost girls made the trip over. I carry the box over to where Loretta Jones is now propped up against a metal support post. Christiana still has her Glock trained on her. The others are standing on either side of her. Everybody looks up as I approach with the box. I set it down on the cement floor.

“Is this her?” I ask the ghosts.

Their reactions vary between hatred and fear. A few nod their heads vigorously.

I turn back to Jones.

“Open it,” I tell her.

She looks from the box back to me. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Here’s what I know,” I tell her. “Correct me if I’m wrong. Sometime in the fifties you discovered a spell that would…I’m not sure…prolong your life and give you extra magical power? Or maybe you were actively searching for one. Whichever, you stole Sandy Collins from her bedroom one night and butchered her in a ritual that you then went on to repeat at least six more times.

“So tell me this,” I finish. “What the hell is it that I don’t understand?”

A little piss and vinegar comes back in her eyes as she meets my gaze. “Girls like these aren’t deserving of their lives,” she says. “They’d rather waste them away, become subservient to men and live no life of their own. They could rule the world but instead all they do is drink, take drugs and whore themselves out.”

I glance at the ghost girls, read the fury in their faces.

“So you steal lives because you think you can put them to better use,” I say.

“I know I can. I live life to its fullest.”

“Hiding here in some crappy reclaimed squat building protected by your wards. Yeah, that’s really living. Now open the fucking box.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

“Because then you’ll lose your connection to all this youthful vigour you’ve stolen over the years.”

She scowls and looks away from me.

“Okay,” I say. “So we’ll have to do this the other way. Do you have a knife I can borrow, Joe?”

I suppose you could call what he hands me a pocket knife, but when the blade folds out it locks into place, six inches long and sharp as a razor.

“Wait,” Jones says, staring at the blade. “What—”

“Am I going to do? From what I’ve heard, if you won’t open the box your blood will do the trick just as well. So I’m going to bleed you over this box until either you die, or your damned lock spell lets go.”

“You couldn’t,” she says, and I can tell she believes me incapable of such cruelty.

“I know. What kind of a monster would do something like this to a poor woman who thought she was safe in her own home?”

I look around. “I’ll need some help holding her in place.”

Detective Waller is looking a little sick, as is Davey. Cray’s obviously struggling with wanting to go the distance for his aunt, and the fact that he’s a cop.

Surprisingly, it’s Duncan who steps up with Joe. They each grab Jones by an arm. “Where do you want her?” Joe asks.

“Hold one of her wrists over the box.”

“No,” Jones cries.

She struggles but there’s no point. Duncan helps but Joe’s a cousin, faster and stronger than you and me. Once he has a grip on her she might as well try to move a mountain. The arm they hold over the box is the one that Joe savaged in his dog shape. The makeshift rag bandage is already seeping blood. As the drops hit the box they sizzle and flare, and a strange smell like an electrical fire fills the air.

Jones holds out right until I’m about to slash her wrist with the knife. For a woman who can dole out pain as effortlessly as she did with the ghost girls, she sure can’t take it.

“Wait, wait,” she cries. “I’ll open it.”

“All right then,” I say.

I pull the knife back but I don’t close the blade. Not just yet. I nod for Joe and Duncan to pull her back from the box.

“Either way, my life is done,” Loretta Jones says.

“Nobody cares,” I tell her. “You should have thought about that before you started torturing and killing teenagers.”

Joe and Duncan are still holding her.

She stares at the box.

I frown at her. “Don’t try to tell me that you need to use mumbo jumbo finger movements to get this open.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

Everything about her is resigned now. Her posture, her voice, the dullness in her eyes. Then she makes a grab for the necklace in my pocket. I’m so startled that she almost gets away with it, almost gets that trophy of her kills back in her hands, and with it whatever power it holds. But then I catch myself and slash down with the blade. It hits the bones on the back of her hand and she cries out.

“Try that again,” I tell her, “and we’ll do this the hard way.”

She stares daggers at me—like I care. I hold her gaze until she finally puts her bloodied hands on the box and speaks some words I don’t understand. I hear the click of a lock disengaging inside.

“Now what?” I ask when she sits back.

“I’m not going to kill myself,” she says. “It’s unlocked. If you want it open, do it yourself.”

“Wait,” Cray says as I reach to pull the lid up. “It’s probably booby trapped.”

I know it isn’t. Just as I’ve a pretty good idea of what’s going to happen when I open the box.

“Like you care,” I tell Cray as I open it up.

I swear the temperature around the box drops ten degrees. I don’t know what the others see but my gaze locks on pale, silvery strands of mist that come slipping out of the opening like snakes made of air. They form an elaborate pattern, sliding in and out of each other’s loops as they sail past my head.

I look inside the box and see a jumble of tiny bones—I guess they’re the other part of the necklace in my pocket—then turn to watch the strands of mist weave their dance around the ghost girls until, one by one, each strand of mist enters one of them. I can actually hear their soft cries of delight. A couple of them cry, but they’re shedding happy tears. And then they begin to fade away.

MisRule gives me a peace sign. “You’re okay, Juniper Wiles,” she says before she too is gone.

In the end, there’s only Sandy Collins left, standing tall and straight in her old-fashioned cheerleader’s outfit, grinning the way any kid her age should.

“Oh, God,” somebody says.

I have to agree. That was amazing. It makes all the crap I’ve had to go through these past few days worthwhile. It puts a warm glow in my heart seeing them go to their final rest after their horrible deaths and all the years tied to the monster that tortured and killed them.

Except when I turn around I see that whoever spoke wasn’t talking about the ghost girls. Nobody else was looking at them. Nobody else can see them.

Everybody else’s attention is on what’s happening to Loretta Jones.

I have no sympathy as I watch all the years she stole from the girls descend on her. The woman who killed the girls—the woman who hung Christiana, Davey and me up with her magic—was in her late twenties, early thirties at most. This one is ancient, drying up and withering away as I watch.

Her face becomes a map of wrinkles. Her cheeks lose their flesh and become sagging jowls. Her bleary eyes, dull with thick cataracts, are set in a pair of sunken hollows. Her back is hunched, limbs mere sticks, chest but a concave ribcage. Her sweatsuit hangs off her now, many sizes too big. She looks well over a hundred years old.

Somehow, her dim eyes find me.

“I curse—” she begins.

But Joe presses a hand across her mouth. “No magician’s curses here,” he says.

The final light dies in her eyes and she goes limp. Joe removes his hand from her mouth and searches for a pulse.

“She’s gone,” he says.

I sense Sandy stepping close to me and I turn to look at her. Her gaze is locked on the old dead woman.

“I was raised a good Christian,” Sandy says. “I should be able to forgive her. But I can’t.”

“I don’t either,” I say.

Everybody turns to look at me.

“I’m talking to Sandy,” I say. “One of the ghost girls. She’s the only one left. The rest have all gone on.”

Cray’s eyes widen a little. “Aunt Sandy?” he says. “She’s here?”

I nod.

“Look at him,” Sandy says. “He’s grown into a fine man.”

“That depends on your definition,” I say. “From my perspective he’s a pigheaded brute. A bully.”

“What’s going on?” Cray demands.

“Your aunt thinks you look like a fine man,” I tell him. “I’m just setting her straight.”

Cray’s jaw clenches and he takes an angry step in my direction.

“Lay a hand on her,” Joe says, “and that’ll be the last time you have the use of it.”

“You see?” I ask Sandy.

“Why is he so angry?” she asks. “I can see what you mean now. It runs so deep inside him.”

“She wants to know why you’re so angry,” I say to Cray, then I turn back to Sandy. “To be fair, what happened to you messed him up. It’s the reason he became a cop—and he’s supposed to be a good one—but he’s letting it cloud the way he views the world. It’s to the point now where it’s him against everybody else, and if you don’t agree with him or the way he wants to do something, you’re his enemy.”

“Tell him he doesn’t have to be angry anymore,” she says. “I’m at peace now. Tell him I love him.”

I do.

Cray stands there, emotions playing over his features. Detective Waller steps up and puts an arm around his shoulders.

“Tell her,” he says. “Tell her I miss her.”

I can’t. She’s not here anymore. The last thing she said was a whispered thanks in my ear. But I say his words aloud anyway, talking to thin air, which is all anybody else has seen except for me.

“She’s gone on now,” I say.

Cray shrugs off Waller’s arm and walks across the basement to stand with his head bowed and his back to us.

Duncan and Joe get up from the floor where they’ve been kneeling beside Jones’ body. Duncan looks pale. Christiana puts her Glock away, storing it behind her back the same as I’ve done. Davey is standing a little away from the others, arms wrapped around himself.

Joe dusts his hands on his pants. “Hang tight a moment,” he says and he steps away. When he returns he’s carrying a pair of jerry cans, one in each hand. They slosh and the faint smell of gasoline comes from them. He heads up the stairs. He’s gone a few minutes. When he comes back he’s only carrying one can which he’s emptying on the stairs as he comes down.

“Time to go,” he says. “Everybody grab a hold of me or someone that’s holding me.”

Cray turns to look at him. “What about the bones? The ones in the box?”

“You can bring them back, but you’re not going to know which belongs to which girl.”

“We can do DNA tests.”

Joe nods. “And then what?”

“I’ll talk to the families,” I say. “It’ll be easier for me to give them closure than to have the cops come to their doors.”

“No,” Cray says. “That’s our job.”

“And you’ll tell them what?” I ask. “How do you even start to explain what happened? I’ll just play the medium card—tell the families that I’ve spoken to the spirits of their lost girls and they’re at rest now.” I pause, then add, “All of which is true.”

“Makes sense,” Waller says when Cray doesn’t answer.

I take the time to add the finger bones from the box to the ones I’ve already got in my pocket.

“Now remember,” Joe tells Cray as we get ready to leave. “This ends here. No harassing Juniper or Christy or any of their friends when we get back.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll find yourself back in those woods where I left you before, only this time I won’t go back for you.”

“I should throw you in jail.”

Joe gives him a mild look that seems all the more dangerous for its indifference. “You really want to go there?” he asks.

“Sam,” Waller says.

“Right,” Cray says without a lot of conviction. He’s got a lost look in his eyes which makes me wonder how much good he’s going to be heading up the Spook Squad when we get back.

“Time to go,” Joe says again.

He pulls a matchbook out of his pocket and lights the whole book with one of them. He throws it on the gas and there’s a huge whooshing sound, flames jumping high and tall and racing up the stairs.

Then he steps us away.

The only thing we take away are the finger bones in my pocket. And a worry I can’t name. Everything else we leave to burn.

10

Thursday

The next morning I’m sitting on a new bench under the apple tree in the wild acres. Christiana’s been busy. She stopped by my house long enough to set up a couple of extra doorways for me. One leads to just outside the animal shelter, the other to the alley behind O’Shaunessy’s. And there’s yet another bench by the portal that’s my way in and out of the wild acres. It’s going to look like a public park if she keeps this up. Luckily there’s still plenty of wild acres.

She also gave me a new smart phone. “My tech guy in Mabon says it’s warded so nobody can put a spell on it,” she says. “Nobody can hack it either. And it can’t be used to track you. Your service provider’s in Mabon and it gives you coverage anywhere. In any world. And don’t worry, you’ll never get a bill because they owe me.”

“I can’t accept this,” I say. I try to hand it back to her but she waves me away.

“Let me do this little thing to make your life easier,” she says. She cocks her head and studies me for a moment. “Unless you and Jilly aren’t doing this thing of yours anymore.”

“We haven’t talked about it,” I say, “but how do you turn your back if you know you can make a difference?”

“Exactly. There’s only one cost to you for this,” she says, pointing at the phone. There’s a merry twinkle in her eyes.

“And that is?”

“You consider me an asset,” she says. “I want to be part of the team.”

“You do know that’s more to our benefit than yours, right?”

She smiles. “If you say so. Now come on. Let’s get these doors set up so that you can use them.”

Once Christiana shows me how the portals work she leaves me to my own devices, having accurately read my mood. I need to be alone to work a few things through, which is why I’m sitting quietly under this apple tree. A lot happened in the past week, including my break up with Nick. I feel bad about how that went down for his sake and my own. This is the kind of moment when a girl just wants to curl up with her boyfriend and enjoy some tenderness, but I know I can’t have it both ways. It’s better to give Nick the space to meet someone who can make the commitment he deserves. As for me, for the time being I’ll have to remain alone.

Alone’s a relative term, of course. I’m the only human here in the acres, but romping in the field around the apple tree is Sonora as well as four dogs that I brought from the shelter to give them a little exercise. I watch as they bound through the grass and wildflowers, first one in the lead, then another.

I envy the way they can put any crap in their lives aside and just live in the moment.

Jilly’s good at that, too.

Jilly.

I worry about her. This thing we’re doing gets dangerous. So far I’ve kept her out of situations like Crescent Beach and what happened with these hedge mages, but I can’t guarantee that’ll always be the case. I could never forgive myself if something happened to her. It’s like Joe said. There needs to be a buffer between the Stanton Street regulars and the darkness, and we’re it.

If we’re going to keep doing this I need to extract a promise from Jilly that she’ll leave the fieldwork to Joe and me. And I guess Christiana.

It’s not that I think she, Wendy and the others are incapable of learning the right survival skills. I just don’t want them to have to.

I’m still ruminating on all of this when I hear Bobo’s familiar yapping. Sonora and her new crew of scruffy reprobates go charging in Bobo’s direction then start off on some new mad run with Bobo right there in the middle of them. When I turn back to the path, I see Jilly making her way to me. She runs a hand along the back of the bench.

“This is nice,” she says.

“I’m not sure,” I say, “but this might now be the start of her new parlour. Or maybe it’s going to be a patio.”

Jilly laughs as she settles in beside me.

“I doubt that. She did this for us—and especially for you. She knows it’s your favourite place here.”

“It is. Seeing this tree with both fruit and flowers always makes my heart feel lighter.”

“Good magic can do that. It’s not all darkness and horror.”

“Just like life.”

“Just like life,” Jilly agrees. She puts a hand on my knee. “So how are you holding up?”

“Joe filled you in?”

She nods.

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “We saved the ghost girls, took down the wicked magician, and even found time in the middle of all that to track down Duncan’s sister.”

“Who’s now his brother.”

“Which is great, except for Duncan’s reaction,” I say. “I think he blames me for it. But isn’t it a good thing to have helped Davey be right in his own skin?”

She nods. “I count it as a win.”

“Me too.”

“And the ghost girls?” Jilly asks. “Joe said they moved on to wherever spirits are supposed to go after they’ve died.”

I remember that instant when they were reunited with the parts of themselves that Jones stole from them.

“I wish you could have seen it,” I say. “It was such a joyous moment I thought my heart would burst.” I turn to look at her. “We did that. We made that happen.”

She grins. “Yes, we did.”

I lean my head back and look up into the apple tree. This is a good place to be. I have my best friend beside me and a pack of happy dogs racing about in the grass. There’s no sound except for birdsong and a soft breeze. The air is so pure I feel like I could live on it.

“Joe says you’re going to talk to the families of the girls,” Jilly says.

“I am.”

“Can I come with you? I’m good with people, even delivering news like that.”

I have to smile. Saying she’s good with people is pretty much the understatement of the year.

“I’d like that,” I tell her.

“What about the finger bones?”

“I was waiting for you,” I say. I reach down and lift a small bag made of dark blue velvet from the grass under the bench. “I thought we could bury them here.”

“I can’t think of a better spot.”

After we return the dogs to the shelter we take the portal back to the house on Stanton Street.

“So are we going to keep doing this?” Jilly asks. “Because it’s turning out to be way more dangerous than I thought it would be going in.”

I laugh. “You didn’t think about it at all when we started. You were just thrilled at the idea of playing detective.”

“This is true,” she says. “But now I do know. I hate the idea of you going off into these situations, even when you do have Joe to back you up.”

“And now Christiana,” I say. “She wants to be a part of it too.”

“But still…”

“I know. Except it turns out I’m pretty good at it.” I shake my head. “It’s funny. Pearse is always trying to get me into the ring and I’m always turning him down because I just like the exercise aspect of boxing. It was the same when I was studying martial arts back in L.A. But all of a sudden I’m facing down Bloods and hedge mages like I’m a character from one of my acting gigs.”

“Nora Constantine wasn’t exactly an action hero.”

“Come on. She could kick ass and you know it.”

“I always thought Gabi was the tougher of the two.”

“She just looked tougher,” I say.

“Oh, please.” She gives me a comical wink. But then she gets serious. “You have to be careful.”

“I will. I’m going to step up my training.” I stop walking and she stops alongside me. “But we can only do this if we stick to our roles. I can’t do it if you start wanting to go into the field.”

“I could train too.”

I shake my head. “Remember how Oliver told me that the only way to defeat one of these super powerful hedge mages was by giving up the thing that means the most to me?”

Jilly nods.

“I thought I got away with it,” I say. “I thought I didn’t have to give anything up to defeat them but I was wrong. I gave up my innocence. I’m still me, but there’s a hardness in me now. A ruthless streak that I’m still trying to come to terms with. I don’t want that happening to you.”

“I’m not exactly innocent,” Jilly says.

“You know what I mean. Could you shoot somebody? Could you have brought yourself to break the bones in Nida Dill’s hands to keep her from working spells?”

She doesn’t answer.

“I was telling Joe,” I go on, “about how what happened in Crescent Beach didn’t feel entirely real. How it was like a video game, or playing a role in an action movie, or even a Nora Constantine episode. But dealing with these hedge mages was all too real. It brought out something in me that saved my life, and probably the lives of others, but it’s not all that pretty. And I know it’s changed me because I’d do it all over again if I had to. I thought I was pretty much a pacifist but it turns out I’m not a dove at all. I’m a hawk.”

Jilly gives me a hug. “That’s not true—or not completely true. You’re still my sweet friend.”

“I’ll always be your friend but I don’t know how sweet I am anymore. I don’t know that I ever was, and that’s a disturbing thing to find out about yourself.”

“So what are you saying?” Jilly asks. “Do you want to stop? You know I’m totally okay with that. And I don’t want you to beat yourself up anymore.”

“No. I think this is who I am now. This is how I’m going to make a difference.”

“Are we actively going to look for cases,” she asks, “or do we wait for them to come to us?”

“We let them come to us,” I say. “But we’ve still got some loose ends to tie up with this one.”

I explain what I mean when we get back to the house. A bunch of us are sitting around the kitchen table—Geordie, Wendy, Mona, Christy and Saskia, as well as Jilly and I. In the middle of the table is the inevitable Brown Betty filled with tea, though Mona put on a pot of coffee for me and Christy. The dogs are asleep, Sonora under my chair, Bobo on Geordie’s lap.

“So how do things stand with Detective Cray?” I ask Christy.

“I don’t know,” he says, “and to tell you the truth, I don’t really care. He’s been getting steadily more prickly and disrespectful over the past couple of months. No one wants to consult with him anymore. When we do go in we always try to see Waller or Rameriz or—well, pretty much anybody except for Cray.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I told you, he’s being a prick.”

“No,” I say. “Why do you think he’s being a prick?”

“He hates his job,” Mona says.

Saskia shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s that so much as that he hates there being a need for his job.”

“I agree,” I say. “It’s hard to feel grounded when nothing in the world makes sense anymore. When it feels like anything can happen. And let’s face it, for him all he sees is the dark side of the magical world.”

“So we should introduce him to some peaceful hobs and brownies?” Christy says. “Let him see that it’s not all monsters and deadly creatures?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Or we could cut him some slack, considering what happened to his fiancée. I’m sure we all went through this when we first realized that the world is a lot bigger than we could ever have imagined, and that there’s more than one of it. I know it blew my mind to the point where I wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t. We’ve probably all gone through that in one way or another.”

“I didn’t,” Jilly says and everybody laughs.

“Of course you didn’t,” I say. “But I don’t think it’s the same for the rest of us.”

I look around the table and everybody’s nodding.

“I fought it for years,” Geordie says. “I hated the idea of it, though now I couldn’t really tell you why.”

“So the thing is,” I say, “Cray hasn’t had a chance to come out the other side yet. But the city needs a guy like him running the Spook Squad because, for all his flaws, he’s been getting the job done where most people would have collapsed under the weight of the responsibility. But even as messed up as he is, he’s still showing up every day protecting us all from monsters that most people don’t even know exist.”

There are more nods of agreement around the table.

“We can cut him all the slack we want,” Christy says, “and maybe he respects Joe enough to back off on harassing us, but the man can hold a grudge. I’ve seen it over the years that I’ve worked with him.”

“Which is why we need to do him a favour so big that he’s just going to fall in love with us all over again.”

“He was never in love with us,” Christy says. “Maybe he resents the fact that his job exists, but he seems to resent working with paranormal consultants even more. I remember the first time he met us as a group—”

I can tell he’s just warming up but Saskia puts a hand on his arm and he stops.

“What did you have in mind?” Saskia asks.

“I’m glad you asked,” I say. “The Spook Squad’s obviously doing a good job with their particular mandate but they’ve got one black mark on their record: a guy named Devin Nash.”

I tell them what Joe told me about how Nash worked for their task force, then used his clearances to hack into the NPD’s network and started siphoning off money through the accounts department. He managed to steal maybe a third of the NPD’s budget before somebody noticed and shut it down.

“You want us to find him and bring him in,” Saskia says.

“Sort of. Mostly I want you to find him with your worldwide web skills and once you’ve got a location I’ll bring him in.”

“Is that even possible?” Wendy asks. “He could be anywhere.”

Saskia has a thoughtful look on her face.

“That’s true,” she says. “But I can study how he interfaced with the NPD’s computers, then I’ll start a search for somebody using the same patterns of keystrokes—you’d be surprised at how individual they are if you get a solid baseline, and considering how long he must have worked at the task force, that shouldn’t be hard. If he’s still using a computer anywhere that’s connected to the net, I should be able to find him, or at least narrow the possibilities down to a manageable list that we can look into more deeply.”

“Perfect.”

“It could take a while,” she warns. “Even for me.”

I nod. “We’ll just have to stay out of Cray’s crosshairs until you do find something.”

Sonora and I go to the gym after the impromptu meeting breaks up. She lies on the dog bed that Pearse bought for her and watches me run through a series of cardio, weights and a workout on the heavy bag. After a shower I sit down on the bench beside her bed and send Duncan a text.

A half hour later I’m sitting at one of the little two-person tables outside of the Half Kaffe café with a latte and a cinnamon scone. Sonora’s lying between my chair and the wall of the building happily gnawing on a deer antler that Joe gave her. Duncan slides into the seat across the table from me.

“You got a new phone,” he says.

“Yeah, I was tired of being stalked because of the old one.”

“I wasn’t stalking you. I just put a little spell on it to let me instantly get to where you are.”

“Which other people call stalking.”

“It came in handy when Nida Dill buried you in that graveyard.”

“True. And thank you for that. But I still don’t like the idea of somebody else tracking my phone.”

“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?” he asks.

His voice is a little snippy.

“Not really. Mostly it’s to thank you for stepping up and helping us with Loretta Jones. I know I was one of the last people you wanted to see at the time and I appreciate that you put aside your personal feelings toward me to help out.”

He shrugs. “I was just doing the right thing.”

“I know. But people don’t get thanked enough for that.”

I can tell he doesn’t really want to be here. He fidgets in his chair, one finger tapping out a rhythm on his leg.

“Have you seen Davey since last night?” I ask.

The finger goes still and he frowns. “Why would I?” he says.

“Because he’s your brother and you two have things to work out.”

“There’s nothing to work out. He’s not my brother. I don’t have a brother. I had a sister but now she’s gone.”

I sigh. “I’ve got a brother named Tam and I love him to bits—easily as much as you love Daisy. If he came to me one day and said he’d always felt he was a girl and had decided to start the procedures to change his body to become a woman, I’d find it disconcerting to say the least. Not because I wouldn’t respect his decision, but because he’s been my brother forever. I’d have to adjust, and that’s perfectly normal.

“But I’d give him my full support because at the end of the day, the person inside that body—whether they present as male or female—is still my sibling. A person I grew up with and loved all my life. I couldn’t turn my back on him.”

“So you’re a saint,” Duncan says.

“Hardly.”

He has a hand on the table, tapping it in a soft staccato rhythm. I reach for it but he pulls away.

“This isn’t about you,” I say. “It’s about Davey. Yeah, it affects you, but it was never your decision to make.”

For a moment I think he’s going to explode in anger. His face flushes and he grips the edge of the table. Or maybe he’s going to push away and stalk off. But then he deflates and a lost look comes into his eyes.

“I just don’t understand,” he says.

“Then talk to him.”

“I can’t. I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say that.”

The look he gives me is heartbreaking.

“I loved Daisy,” he says. “I don’t know this person she’s become.”

“But you’re still family,” I tell him. “You’re like Tam and me. All you have is each other. So isn’t it about time you found out who he’s become?”

“I’ve said some terrible things to him. He’s not going to want to talk to me.”

“Maybe he won’t. But you can be the bigger man. Apologize to him. Talk to him. Tell him you want to understand and then keep your mouth shut and listen to what he says.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“I know it’s not,” I tell him. “But I also know that if you don’t do this you’ll regret it forever.”

He looks away, out toward the street. Cars pass by but I know he doesn’t see them. Finally he turns back to me.

“I guess I could try,” he says.

And there’s my good deed for the day.

11

Friday

I don’t hear from Saskia until late the next morning. My phone rings just as Jilly and I are leaving St. Vincent’s Home for the Aged with the dogs and heading over to the Arts Court where she’s going to see if there are any kids wanting some one-on-one instruction while I volunteer at the café.

“I found your guy,” Saskia says when I answer. “You’ll never guess where he is.”

“I’m not even going to try.”

“Spoilsport. He’s working for Homeland Security in their San Diego office.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. How is that even possible?”

“The guy’s a genius at creating identities. You wouldn’t believe how deep this one is. But I tracked him through his key strokes and then double-checked by hacking his computer cam. He looks really different—black hair, moustache, glasses—but it’s definitely him.”

I know there’s no way we can grab him at work so I ask, “Do you have a home address?”

She rattles it off, along with the make and plate of his car, and some of his favourite places to eat and shop, which she got from his credit card records.

“Did anybody ever tell you you’re a genius?” I say.

She laughs. “Not often enough. Call me when you’ve got him and I’ll empty his offshore accounts back into the NPD’s bank account.”

“I repeat, genius.”

She laughs again. “Happy hunting and be careful.”

“I will.”

I call Joe when she cuts the connection.

“We found Devin Nash,” I tell him. “Do you want in?”

“Where are you?”

I check the street signs and tell him.

“I’ll be right there,” he says.

Jilly got the gist of what’s going on from my side of the conversation. I fill her in on what Saskia told me.

We’re waiting for a light to change when I spot Joe on the far corner.

“Can you take Sonora with you?” I ask her.

I kneel down to give my pup a hug and a kiss, then hand the leash to Jilly.

“Be careful,” she says.

“That’s what Saskia said. And I will.”

Joe waits at the corner for me to join him.

Turns out grabbing Nash is a little anticlimactic after dealing with a pair of hedge mages. Joe has a route to San Diego that brings us out of the otherworld in a spot close enough to walk to Nash’s condo.

“Stay behind me,” Joe says as we approach the front door of the building.

There’s no one around so he takes us into the otherworld and then out again, but this time we’re on the opposite side of the locked glass door. When we get to the door of Nash’s condo we can’t use the same trick since there’s no window. Joe pulls a set of lock picks out of his back pocket.

“Seriously?” I say. “You just carry those around?”

He doesn’t look up as he works the lock. “I do today.”

The cylinders inside the lock fall into place under his machinations.

“I so have to get better at that,” I say. “It looks so easy on the YouTube videos but in the real world? Not so much.”

“Planning a new career as a burglar?”

“No. It’s just so cool.”

He shakes his head, but he smiles. He pockets the lock picks and then we’re inside where we’ll hang around until Nash comes home.

Waiting with Joe turns out to be a little boring since he has no need for conversation. Instead he just sits down on the carpet by the door and goes away inside himself. I’m feeling restless so I wander through Nash’s condo staying well back from the windows to make sure I won’t be spotted from outside. I poke around but there’s literally nothing to find. The condo is like a hotel room. The only personal touches are some clothes and his toiletries.

“I thought you were more patient,” Joe says when I come back into the living room.

“And why’s that?”

“Well, I’ve always heard that making TV shows and movies is a waiting game. You’re on set for hours but only in front of the camera for a fraction of that time.”

“All the waiting was the part I liked the least.”

Joe smiles. “Then you made the wrong choice for a career switch. Private investigation is all about waiting.”

“Jilly can be the private eye. And let’s not call it a career. I just want to help people.”

Joe nods. I feel he’s about to say something more but he holds up his hand for quiet and rises smoothly to his feet. Once standing, he slips into the spot where he’ll be behind the door when it opens. I duck out of sight into the short hall between the living room and the bedroom.

The key turns in the lock, the door swings open. As soon as I hear the sound of a scuffle I come around the corner but Joe’s already got everything in hand. He holds Nash against the wall, palm on the man’s chest. Nash struggles but he might as well try to move a tree. His gaze darts to me, then back to Joe.

“Look, if you’re after money,” he says, “I can get you whatever you need.”

“Good point,” I say. I take out my phone and call Saskia. “We’ve got him.”

“I’ll start draining those accounts.”

“You’re a sweetie.”

I stow my phone back in my pocket and return my attention to Nash. “You had money,” I tell him. “Now you don’t.”

“Wait—what?”

“Do we really want to have a conversation with this guy?” Joe asks.

“Nope.”

Joe offers me his free hand. When I take it he steps the three of us into Detective Cray’s office. Joe marches Nash over to a chair and sits him down, then keeps a hand on his shoulder so he can’t move.

Cray is standing up from behind his desk, hand going for his holstered weapon until he sees that it’s us.

“What the fuck?” he says.

I wave a hand in Nash’s direction. “We brought you a present.”

Cray looks confused, then does a double take, eyes widening as he recognizes who’s in the chair.

“Where did you find him?” Cray asks.

“Homeland Security, the San Diego office,” Joe says.

“They picked him up?”

Joe shakes his head. “He was working there. We grabbed him from his apartment.”

Cray sits down. “He was working there? How the hell would he get clearance?”

“He’s good with computers,” I say. “My source says the identity he built was deep, going all the way back to childhood. Oh, and they’re draining his accounts and returning the money to the NPD. I can’t guarantee it’ll be everything because we have no idea what he’s spent.” I pause, then add, “Well, my source could probably figure it out, but I don’t want to impose on them any more than I already have.”

Cray is staring at Nash like he wants to pistol-whip him. “Do you have any idea how long and hard we’ve been looking for this piece of shit?”

“Joe mentioned it. So are we good now?”

Cray blinks in confusion.

“You know,” I say. “You leave us alone, we stay out of your hair.”

“About that,” Cray starts.

I shake my head. “Yes or no.”

“Of course we’re good. Even before you brought this guy in we were good. I was being an asshole and—”

I wag a finger at him. “Don’t make promises you can’t—or won’t—keep, Detective Cray.”

“Listen, Juniper—”

I look at Joe and extend my hand.

He leaves his place by the chair and takes it.

Before we can go Cray says, “Wait. There’s a substantial reward for information leading to Nash’s arrest. Considering you not only brought him in, but got us back what’s left of the funds, I’m sure the Chief’ll top it up with a nice bonus.”

“I didn’t do this for the money,” I tell him. “I did it so that we’d be square. If there’s a reward, give it to the Newford Police Widows and Orphans Fund.”

“That’s awfully generous of you.”

I think he still doesn’t get it.

“Just don’t mention my name,” I say.

“But—”

“I’d say see you around,” I tell Cray, “But I’m hoping that will never happen.”

Then Joe steps us away and we’re standing in an alley near the Arts Court.

“Remind me to never piss you off,” he says.

“Actually, I’m not mad. I just can’t trust him.”

“He’s a decent guy, Juniper. I don’t know what got into him these past few days.”

“I guess we’re just oil and water,” I say, “and we’ll never mix.”

Joe laughs and steps away. I leave the alley by a more mundane mode of transport and go to see if Jilly’s still at the Arts Court with the dogs.

12

Two weeks later

It’s late afternoon and we’re sitting around our dining room table. Me, Tam, Jilly, Geordie and Sophie. Tam’s been playing a lot more with Geordie these days, so earlier in the afternoon while the two of them were working up some tunes, Jilly, Sophie and I went off to The Bone Circus Gallery to check out the newest art and buy some supplies. We all spent way too much money even with the discount Sarah gives us, but we came back with bags of paints, canvasses and drawing paper that we can’t wait to work with. I was particularly pleased to find a box of mapping pen nibs because Mona’s been teaching me to work in pen and ink, and these were the elusive brand she’d recommended.

Coppercorn & Wiles has been quiet. We helped the ghost of a man by telling his widow where he’d hidden his will. Really, why do people hide these things? Do they want to make it harder on the people they leave behind? We also helped Cynthia Norton move on—she was the one with the unrequited love for Donald Hale whose coffin I shared for a couple of dreadful hours.

Those are wins. It was much harder tracking down the survivors of the six ghost girls and telling them what had happened to their loved ones. We were able to give them closure, but it was heartbreaking. Jilly was incredible talking to them. I kept getting so choked up I could hardly speak.

Right now we’re trying to decide on what to have for dinner. I want to make something—a stir fry, maybe, or quesadillas because we have all the ingredients—but Tam’s in the mood for Indian and Sophie wants to check out a new Vietnamese restaurant that was written up in the latest issue of In the City.

I’m complaining that the decision is going to end up being settled by rock-paper-scissors when the doorbell rings.

Bobo races down the hall yapping his head off. Sonora tags along behind, barking as well. She normally doesn’t cause much of a fuss about this kind of thing but Bobo’s a terrible instigator.

“Let me see who it is,” I say as I get up from the table, “since Tam’s obviously broken a leg and can’t do it.”

“You’re the social sibling,” he says.

“There’s nothing especially social about answering the door,” I throw over my shoulder as I head down the hall.

“There is when you don’t feel like doing it,” he says.

“I heard that!”

“Stop eavesdropping.”

“It’s not eavesdropping when your voice carries perfectly well down the hall.”

There’s general laughter in the dining room.

Bobo’s still yapping but Sonora’s now more interested in me than whoever’s on the other side of the door.

“Hush, Bobo,” I say.

I give Sonora a scratch behind her ear before I open the front door to find Detective Waller waiting for me on the other side of the screen door. I step outside onto the porch, not an easy task with two dogs vying to greet my uninvited guest.

“I thought we had an agreement,” I say.

He shrugs. “And here I thought it was only Sam you didn’t ever want to see again. I’m hurt.”

“No you’re not.” I try to sound stern but I can’t keep my lip from twitching. I like Waller. I just don’t like his boss.

He shifts his stance. “Can we talk for a moment?”

“Sure.”

When he sits down on the steps I take a seat beside him, angling my position so that I can look at him while we talk.

“I get how you feel about Sam,” he says. “He treated you badly and there’s no real excuse for that. But honestly, he’s a good guy.”

“People keep saying that. Maybe he’s a good cop, but he’s a crappy human being.”

Waller sighs. “Obviously you know about his aunt. Did you also know about Lela, his fiancée?”

I nod. “Killed by wild dogs. But he thinks it was a werewolf.”

I don’t share what Joe told me about there being no such thing. It’s just a new cousin who buys into the mythology.

“That stuff’s always in his head,” Waller goes on. “He’s usually good at compartmentalizing it so it doesn’t get in the way of the job. But we had a few rough cases just before you came on board to help out with that ghost box. The worst was a bunch of street kids who disappeared over a period of a couple of weeks.”

The faces of my ghost girls float in my mind.

“Did you find them?” I ask.

“We found what was left of them. And we took down the monster that butchered them. It was something called a Red Cap.”

“Isn’t that a kind of faerie?”

Waller nods. “Yeah, they’re supposed to police their own freaks but this guy slipped through. We got an official apology from Tatiana McGree’s chancellor—you know about McGree, right?”

I nod. “But I’ve never met her.”

“Who has? We’ve only ever talked to her through intermediaries. But that kind of case eats at you—when it happens to kids—and while it might not seem like it to you, Sam’s a sensitive guy. He carries those things with him—all the times we’ve failed to serve and protect.”

“Okay. I get that. But—”

“How does this relate to you? We had a couple of mediums step up offering to help, but they were talking bullshit and all they did was waste our time—time we could have used to save the last couple of kids the Red Cap snatched.”

“Were they, um, associates of Christy?”

Waller shakes his head. “No. They’ve earned our trust and it was actually through one of his people that we got the lead we needed. We just got it too late. But the earlier business left Sam gun shy about people we don’t know, even when they were vetted by somebody like Joe.”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“Any chance we can go over to Ms. Coppercorn’s place? I’d rather only explain it the once.”

He’s being mysterious and I have to admit I’m curious.

“She’s here,” I say. “Let me go get her.”

I forgot about the dogs who slip past me the moment I open the door. I start to call them back but Waller laughs as they push up against him, sniffing at whatever part of him they can reach, tails wagging. So I leave him with them and return to the dining room.

“You’ve been a while,” Jilly says. “You haven’t been having religious discussions with some Jehovah’s Witnesses, have you? You know that’s my thing.”

“It’s Detective Waller,” I say.

“Uh-oh. Are we in trouble?”

“I don’t think so. He wants to talk to both of us.”

Geordie starts to get up when Jilly does. I wave him back down.

“Don’t bother,” I tell him. “We can handle this. I don’t think it’s anything worrisome.”

“So we shouldn’t be calling our lawyer?” Tam says.

I smile. “Not just yet.”

“Carry on with dinner decisions,” I tell them. “We shouldn’t be that long.”

“This is all very mysterious,” Jilly says as we head for the porch. “Do you know what it’s about?”

I shake my head. “But Waller’s been spending a lot of time explaining away Cray’s rudeness.”

“Oh please.”

“I know. Except he’s made some telling points.”

Jilly’s eyebrows go up but before she can ask anything else we’re at the door. I have to laugh as I look outside. Bobo is on Waller’s lap getting a belly rub. Sonora’s pressed up against his side, a blissful look on her face as she gets her chin scratched.

“Well, the dogs like him,” Jilly says, “so he can’t be all bad.”

“He’s not like his boss,” I say.

I push the screen door open and we join Waller on the stairs.

“Joe came and talked to us,” Waller says when we get settled. “He explained just exactly what it is you and your team are doing, and we want to help.”

I might have to kill Joe, I think.

“I’m not sure we need your help,” I tell him.

He smiles but goes on as if I hadn’t spoken.

“We want to bring you on board as Special Agents of the NPDPI Task Force,” he says.

“Do we get badges?” Jilly asks.

He nods. “Except we call them shields.”

He hands over a pair of bronze badges in the shape of a shield attached to a leather clip-on. Each shield has “Newford Police Department” engraved at the top, then a badge number, our names, and the words “Special Agent, PI Task Force” at the bottom.

“Why us?” I say before Jilly can speak.

“We believe in what you’re doing. And we can help. We can provide backup. We can get NPD lawyers to justify a no-warrant search—retroactively, if necessary.”

“Is that entirely legal?”

He shrugs. “It’s often a grey area. When you’re dealing with the paranormal, sometimes speed is the first priority. You can’t stop and call in for a warrant. By the time it shows up, the freak you’re chasing could be long gone.”

“The PI,” I say. “Does that stand for Paranormal Investigations?”

“It does. The reason it’s not spelled out on your ID is that we get our mandate directly from the Chief and he doesn’t want to advertise our existence.”

Jilly’s thumbing her shield, a big grin stretching her lips. “This gets better and better,” she says. “We’re being asked to join a secret government organization. Do we get special ops training?”

I close my eyes. I know Jilly’s only joking but I shudder at the idea of her out in the field. What the hell was Joe thinking?

But Waller seems to read my mind. “I’m sorry Ms. Coppercorn, but only Juniper’s been cleared to work in the field with weapons.”

Jilly waves that off. “Well, naturally. The only ones who’d ever even want to run around with a big sword or something are Juniper and Chri—”

I cut her off by asking, “What is it that you’d be expecting from us?”

“Again,” Waller says, “You have weapons clearance. Joe says you’ve already had extensive weapons and hand-to-hand combat training. Christy can continue consulting with us, or work with your team, but we’re not clearing him to carry a weapon, or to use it. Not unless he’s willing to be trained.”

I know Jilly was about to mention Christiana but I’d rather she not be on the Spook Squad’s radar. Need to know and all, and they don’t. Need to know, that is.

I give Jilly a meaningful look and I think she gets it. Or at least she stays quiet, which is just as good.

“As for what we expect,” Waller starts. “I should backtrack a little. Joe told us that you have connections in the paranormal community. That you’re—I think he said under the protection of both the wild clans and the faerie court.”

“Wild clans?” I ask.

“Joe’s people.”

“Right.” He means cousins. The animal people. “And that’s important because…?”

“We desperately need a liaison with connections to both groups. At the moment we only have Joe for the wild clans, and he’s made it pretty clear that he’s only interested in speaking for himself. But we assume others, like yourselves, have important connections.” Here he pauses and looks at Jilly, who can’t repress a mad grin.

“As for the faerie court,” he continues, “we have to take whoever they send us and it’s always somebody different.”

“So to sum up,” I say. “You want us on call to help you out whenever you need us, and in return we each get a nice shiny badge.”

I’m deliberately trying to find a button to push to see if he’ll react like Cray, because I need to know if the whole Spook Squad is messed up or just Cray.

Waller sighs. “No, it’s a two-way street. We help each other. You’ll have full access to our online resources. And of course there’s a salary.”

We already have full access to the NPD’s data through Saskia but he doesn’t need to know that.

“And who would we be answering to?” I ask.

“Yourselves. You’ll be working independently of the task force, just the way you are now, but there’ll be support measures in place should either of us need the other.”

“I meant, who would be our go-to person?”

“I won’t lie. At some point I’m sure you’ll have to interact with Sam. But for the day-to-day elements you can communicate with me or any of the other detectives.”

“And Cray’s okay with all of this?”

“It was his idea,” Waller says. “After talking to Joe he went and cleared it with the Chief.”

“I have to ask,” I say. “Isn’t this whole relationship you’re proposing all kind of…unorthodox?”

“The paranormal is unorthodox. We have to think outside the box to deal with it, use whatever assets we can find.”

I look at Jilly, who now seems to be taking this a bit more seriously. She shrugs.

I start to hand the badge back to Waller. “We’ll have to think about it.”

“No, keep it,” he says. “And of course you have to think about it. If you decide to give it a pass, you can get the badges back to me anytime. If you come on board then you’re ready to go.”

He picks up Bobo and sets him in Jilly’s lap, then gently moves Sonora away from where she’s been leaning against the side of his leg.

He stands up. “I’ll leave you to mull it over,” he says.

“We’ll get back to you soon,” I tell him.

He nods. “We could really use your help,” he says before he turns and walks to the black SUV parked at the curb.

There’s a lot of discussion over dinner. The Light of India won out and it’s delicious. Afterward we go over to Bramleyhaugh to loop in Christy and the rest of them. The pros seem to outweigh the cons, but we all have our misgivings. Most of mine center around the possibility of being tied down by other people’s agendas and the volatility Cray showed when we were helping out with the ghost girls.

“Let’s sleep on it,” I finally say to Jilly. “We can decide tomorrow.”

Sonora and I head home by way of the wild acres. I think of stopping in to talk to Christiana, but instead we go into our house then out into the backyard. Sonora busies herself snuffling around the yard while I sit on the old swing and call Joe. Moments later he’s in the seat opposite mine.

Sonora makes a beeline for him, wiggling her butt as Joe fusses with her. I’m not as overtly welcoming because I’m a little ticked off with him.

“A heads-up would have been nice,” I say.

He shrugs. “I wanted you to hear it from Waller. If I’d brought it up you’d have shut me right down.”

“I probably will still walk away.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little telling that you haven’t done it yet?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure what I think.”

Joe leans forward. “Here’s something you can think about: the police motto. To serve and protect. Isn’t that what we were talking about not so long ago?”

“I don’t know about the serve part.”

“Then substitute the word help.”

“Okay. I did say I want to do that. But I sure didn’t say I want to be a cop.”

“You’re not. You’re—”

“A special agent. So Waller said. But I think you might have sold them a bill of goods. Take this whole business about liaising with the cousins and faerie. The only cousin I know is you, and as for faerie, that’d be Mother Crone and Hazel, and I don’t know that a faerie queen is going to welcome me sticking my nose in her business just on their say-so.”

“The liaison part is something Jilly can handle.”

“Oh. Right. So I’ll be the muscle. I’m not exactly an action hero, Joe. I’m not looking for trouble.”

He leans back again, drapes an arm over the back of the seat. “So walk away.”

“You make it sound so easy. Black and white.”

He shakes his head. “It’s all shades of grey, Juniper. I just try to bring a moral compass to whatever situation presents itself.”

“But why me?” I say. “If they want a real special agent, they should ask you.”

“Who says I’m not?”

“Oh.”

“But just like you, the Spook Squad’s problems aren’t my only priority. I get spread thin enough as it is.” That gaze of his is serious as it holds mine. “I could use somebody to watch my back. Somebody strong and capable with a moral compass I can trust.”

“They didn’t pick me,” I say, starting to understand. “You did.”

He nods. “We work well together and I admire how you can make the hard decisions.”

“Even when they leave me feeling a little sick?”

“If they didn’t, I wouldn’t be interested in working with you. You’ve got Jilly’s kindness and compassion. But the steel at your core—that’s all your own.”

I look away, across the yard. I don’t take compliments well because I never quite believe them. That comes from my years in Hollywood where people will say whatever they think you want to hear just to get what they want. But I can tell Joe’s sincere and it puts a warm glow in the pit of my stomach.

“Waller says there’s a salary,” I say, trying to sound casual, “but I don’t need a salary.”

“So give it to the food bank.”

“You have an answer for everything.”

He shakes his head. “Not even close. But I have an answer for this.” He puts out his hand. “Partners?”

I take his hand and shake.

“Partners,” I say.

Bonus story

Back in the early 2000s my pal Christopher Golden asked if I’d be interested in contributing a story to an anthology of Hellboy stories he was editing for Dark Horse comics. I don’t usually play in other people’s worlds, but this was Hellboy. I’d been reading Mike Mignola’s Hellboy for years and since I’d already been thinking about doing a story featuring a Paranormal Task Force that would be part of the Newford Police Department, this seemed like a perfect opportunity to combine the two.

Sometimes writing is just too much fun and that was certainly the case with this story.

I’m reprinting it here because the task force plays a part in the Juniper Wiles books and it will show you their origins for those of you who missed the original publication. Plus it gives another perspective on Sam Cray. As Joe tells Juniper, “He’s a decent guy,” something you might not agree with from having read Juniper Wiles and the Ghost Girls. Now you get the chance to see if Joe was right.

Special thanks to my pals Dave Russell and Mark Finn for vetting this, to Chris for asking me to write it, and to Mike Mignoila for letting me play with a couple of his beloved characters.

Newford Spook Squad takes place some twelve years before the events in the novel.

13

Newford Spook Squad

Now…

We haven’t had any rain for the past few weeks, so the water level in the storm drains isn’t high—a trickle in most places, though occasionally it comes up to our ankles. But not having to slosh through heavy storm water doesn’t make it any more pleasant to be down here. Our flashlights cut a series of criss-crossing beams into the darkness ahead of us. The air has a musky scent and I keep hearing things scuttling away from us in the darkness.

Rats, I guess. Nothing big. Not what we’re looking for, but then who knows what the hell we’re really looking for? All I know for sure is three workers from the Water & Sewer Department have gone missing down here and no one knows what happened to them.

“What’s that up ahead?” Hellboy asks.

The beam from his flashlight plays on a side tunnel. Waller checks the screen of his PDA. He downloaded the specs for this tunnel system before we left headquarters.

“It’s a dead end,” he says.

When we reach the branching tunnel, Hellboy plays his flashlight down its length.

“A dead end?” he asks.

“That’s what’s showing up on my schematic,” Waller tells him.

“Then how come I can feel a breeze?”

He’s right. There’s a draft coming down the tunnel towards us.

I step around him and move further in, the beam of my flashlight showing nothing but damp stone walls as far as it will reach. The passage slopes away from us at a slight angle. After ten feet, it makes a turn to the left. There’s no telling how far it goes.

I start to take another step, but Hellboy catches my arm.

“Wait,” he says. “Hear that?”

I shake my head.

“There’s something…” he begins.

But then we all hear it. Hell, we feel it. A sudden pressure in the tunnel, a sound like something’s shifting deep underground. Something big. The stone underfoot sends tremors up our legs and right through our bones.

I look at Hellboy and he grins.

“Now it’s getting interesting,” he says.

He sets off down the tunnel, his partner, Agent Sherman, on his heels. Waller and I exchange glances. He looks as uneasy about all of this as I’m feeling.

“Crap,” I say.

I don’t want to go, and neither does Waller. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up.

But we follow them into the tunnel all the same.

Then…

My name’s Sam Cray.

One week ago I was a detective for the Newford Police Department’s Special Investigations Squad.

Six days ago I was put in charge of the NPD’s new Paranormal Investigations Task Force.

No matter what I’ve been told, I figure I must have really pissed someone off to get the transfer.

“Tell me you’re kidding,” I say to Bill Sweet when he gives me the news in one of the downtown conference rooms.

Bill’s the Chief of Police now, but we go way back. We came up together from the Academy and even our rabbis were partners. We both made detective around the same time, but Bill was always more ambitious than me. Right from the start, he had a leaning towards the politics of the job, while I just wanted to be on the street, putting away the bad guys. I’m not saying one’s better than the other, just that we’re different. And it’s worked out well, because at least we have a Chief who actually knows the job from the bottom up.

Yeah, he knows my job, but at times like this, I can’t believe what’s involved with his.

“You can’t do this to me,” I tell him.

Bill shakes his head. “The mayor insists on it.”

“And there’s room in your budget for something like this?”

“No. The task force is being funded by an anonymous group of concerned citizens.”

“Who expect to get what out of it?”

“Nothing, Sam. In case you haven’t been paying attention, a lot of seriously weird things go down in our city—not just once or twice, but all the time. These people are worried about its effect on real estate values, on the tourist trade, on their ability to lure new businesses to town. So it’s not like they’re being particularly charitable here. But that’s fine, because no matter how self-serving their motivations might be, it still gives us the budget to actually help the people who are being affected by this.”

It’s a good speech, but I don’t buy it.

“This is bullshit,” I tell him. “What exactly am I supposed to do? Track down monsters and spooks and things that go bump in the night?”

“If necessary. If that’s what comes up.”

He says this with such a straight face it makes me glad I never played poker with him.

“Seriously,” I say. “What’d I ever do to piss you off like this?”

“This is a compliment to your abilities, Sam. Simply put, you’re the best man for the job. I went to every precinct with this and only your captain was against you being offered the position.”

“Really? Well, at least Monroe’s not trying to screw me.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Bill says. “He just doesn’t want to lose you to the task force.”

“I can’t believe you’re even calling it a task force. I’m going to be a laughing stock when this gets out. Jesus.”

Bill shakes his head. “This task force won’t officially exist, so no one’s going to know.”

Like that ever stopped information from getting around before. I swear, cops are worse than little old ladies when it comes to gossip.

“And you don’t answer to anyone but me,” Bill finishes.

“A task force,” I say. “On the paranormal. Do you have any idea how that sounds?”

“Last week we had a rain of frogs inside the Williamson Street Mall,” he tells me. “Monday a complaint was filed about something that looked like a cross between an eagle and a lion flying off with some guy’s Doberman. Just this morning two female joggers reported a fishman rooting through a garbage bin who dove into the lake at their approach and never surfaced. Do you need any more? Because I’ve got stacks of them.”

“Look,” I say. “I’ll admit this city seems to have more than its fair share of nutcases, but that doesn’t mean we should start believing what they tell us.”

“The guy who lost his dog,” Bill says, “is the president of the Newford First National Bank. One of the joggers sits on the city council; her friend is VP of Human Resources at McCutcheon & Grambs.”

Doesn’t mean they’re not loopy, I think, but I say, “Okay, so I’m supposed to do what? How is anybody supposed to figure out who’s responsible for this crap? Come on, Bill. You can’t arrest smoke and shadows and hearsay.”

But he’s shaking his head. “It’s not a lot different from what you’re already doing, except instead of collecting data on gangs and subversives and extremists, you’re going to be investigating the weird things that go on in this city. Hopefully, you’ll get to the point where you’ll be able to identify and prevent the incidents from occurring in the first place.”

“I don’t know the first thing about the paranormal.”

“That’s why we brought together those advisors for you.”

He’s talking about the collection of misfits he’s got waiting for us in the room on the other side of the one-way mirror where we’re having our meeting. Like the idea of working with them would even remotely boost my confidence.

“You get to pick your own team,” Bill says. “No strings, no PC processes. Choose whomever you want, and if they agree to the transfer, they’re yours.”

“Plus that bunch of bozos,” I say, pointing to the group waiting on the other side of the mirror.

“These people can be useful, Sam. They know things we can’t guess at.”

Because we still have the full use of our senses, I think. Or at least I know I do. I’m not so sure about Bill anymore, because these people…

I recognize some of them—mostly from pulling them in on various charges when I was still walking a beat. There’s the alcoholic priest who thinks he talks to angels and demons. The owner of The Good Serpent Club in Upper Foxville who claims to be a voodoo priestess. At least two of the people Bill’s brought in do the phony oracle shtick in Fitzhenry Park, or down on the Pier.

I also recognize the writer, but not from a rap sheet. I’ve just seen his mug in the paper when they’re reviewing his books.

“Who’s the old guy beside Christy Riddell?” I ask.

“Dr. Bramley Dapple. He’s got a couple of PhDs, but the one that interests us is in mythology and folklore. He’s supposed to be a world-renowned expert in his field.”

“And he’s got time for this?”

“He thinks it’s important and long overdue,” Bill says. “As do I.”

“You’re not asking me to head up a task force,” I say. “You’re asking me to babysit a pack of charlatans and lunatics.” I turn to look at Bill. “I have to work in an office with these people?”

He shakes his head. “This is just a meet and greet to let you all put faces to each other’s names. I want you to go in, introduce yourself to them, thank them for being a part of this. That’s all.”

“I don’t do this well,” I warn Bill.

“I know. Just be nice and get it over with. After this, you’ll only speak to them when you need their expertise on a particular case. And you don’t even need to do that yourself. You can delegate one of your people to be the liaison.”

I shake my head. Now I’ve got people.

“Let’s get this over with,” I tell Bill.

Now…

“Is he always like this?” I ask Hellboy’s partner when Waller and I catch up with her.

I can see the light from Hellboy’s flashlight a good twenty yards further down the tunnel.

Agent Sherman smiles. “We spend a lot of down time, back at headquarters, twiddling our thumbs. Which is a good thing, of course, because it means there isn’t some big crisis that needs looking after. But Hellboy likes it best when he’s in the thick of the action.”

“What’s his real name?”

“That’s it. Just Hellboy.”

Okay, I think. Be like that.

“I’ve read the stories,” I say. “Saw that Life magazine cover back when. But I always figured it was mostly image stuff, P.R., all that. So what, was he caught in a fire or something when he was a kid?”

She gives me a look that’s beyond cold. There’s anger in it and ice, and just the hint of old ghosts.  It stops me in my tracks and Waller bumps into me, but she just keeps walking, back stiff, long red hair bouncing against her back.

I turn to Waller.  “What’d I say?”

He shrugs.  “Who knows?  But I wouldn’t bring it up again. Maybe it’s like asking if my skin’s so brown because I fell down a crapper.”

“Who’s going to say something that stupid?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe some kid back when I was in high school—just before I broke his nose.”

“Christ, so now I’m a racist?”

Waller smiles.  “Not that I can see.  Seriously, though.  You think the guy’s a fake?  Somebody’s going to pretend they’re a demon?  Big media hoax?  Who’d do that?”

“Stranger things happen.  Maybe you should ask Agent Sherman?”

Waller shakes his head.  “Nah, I think I’d rather give myself an enema with a fire hose.  Man, if I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d done time because she’s sure got that thousand yard stare down pat.”

I grin in agreement and we quicken our pace, rubber boots splashing in the few inches of water underfoot. But just because I’m in better humour, doesn’t mean I’m not checking out the walls and tunnel roof for cracks or fissures. That sound we heard earlier, I figure it came from a piece of the roof falling in somewhere down a ways and I don’t plan on getting stuck down here.

Then…

Chad Waller is my first choice for this task force I’m putting together. He’s got experience, he’s tough and at six-foot, two-twenty, he can hold his own. I’ve seen him in action. He can look like a street thug, and he’s played the part in the past, though he can’t go undercover again—not since he put away most of the Taggart Street Runners, along with their main man, Frankie Chestnut. Waller’s also smart as hell, but more importantly, he’s a guy I can get along with. If I’m stuck with this job—if I’m going to have “people”—at least they’re going to be people I like.

Waller grins at me when I walk up to his desk at the 12th Precinct.

“If you’re here to ask me if I want to join up with your Spook Squad,” he starts.

“Jesus, who’s calling it that?” I say, before he can finish.

“Everybody. Come on, what did you expect?”

“Well, I knew no matter what the chief said, it was going to get out. I just didn’t think it’d be this fast.”

“Or that somebody’d come up with such a cute name,” Waller says.

“That, too.”

“Anyway,” he goes on, “I’m in. Unless you’re here to ask me to go for a beer, and then I’m going to be seriously embarrassed.”

“Why would you want in?” I have to ask.

“Are you kidding me? This is the gig of a lifetime. I mean, think about it for a minute: They’re willing to actually pay us to investigate all this weird stuff that goes down in the city. Which reminds me, do I get a raise?”

“Put it on your list of demands.”

“I get to make a list of demands? Sweet. I’m putting in for a Ferrari. Maybe that’ll finally get me some respect in the old ‘hood.”

I laugh. “But seriously,” I say. “When did you get into the weird stuff?”

“Living here, how can you not? It drives me crazy trying to figure out what’s really what.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Ricker.”

“Oh, crap. You’re not bringing him on board, are you?’

Alfred Ricker’s been collecting data on unexplained phenomena for about as long as anyone can remember and everybody avoids him because he’s got a hundred theories and he’s not afraid of sharing them with you. At great and tedious length. The only way you can get him to stop is to just walk away.

He’d probably add a lot to the team—if he didn’t drive us all insane first. I’m surprised Bill didn’t put him on my board of advisors, considering some of the other winners that are there.

“No,” I assure Waller. “I’m asking Rameriz next.”

“Judita’s good,” he says. “I heard she once stood down a swarm of fifteen or twenty kids going after a couple of Arab boys outside the Williamson Street Mall. Just her on her own, no backup. Knowing her, she stopped them dead with the sheer force of her will.”

I nod, wait a beat, then ask, “So is she a believer, too?”

Waller gives me a puzzled look. “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just…everybody’s treating this so damn seriously.”

“And you don’t,” Waller says.

It’s not a question, but I can see he’s just figuring it out now. The Looney Tunes crap the task force is being put together to investigate isn’t something the two of us have ever really discussed before. You want to know the truth, I don’t like to talk about it with anybody.

“Which really makes me wonder why they’ve got me heading up the task force,” I say.

“You’re a good cop.”

“I try. But this stuff…”

“Maybe they want someone in charge who’s going to stop and ask questions instead of just running with the weirdness of the moment.”

“I guess…”

Waller doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just sits there, studying my face—hesitating, I realize, when he finally does speak.

“This have anything to do with Lela?” he asks.

It’s been three years but I still feel the ground disappear under my feet at the mention of her name. Lela Searle. We were supposed to be married. She was going to leave the Job, become a civilian, raise our family. Instead, she got torn apart by a pack of dogs set on her by a crack dealer in Butler University Common. Except the whisper in the NPD is that it wasn’t dogs. The whisper says it was the dealer himself, Bobby Cairns. That he goes all Wolfman three nights of the month. That she wasn’t paying attention to the lunar cycle when she went to make her bust because otherwise she’d still be alive.

All of which seriously pisses me off. Lela was a good cop. Maybe she shouldn’t have been out on the common at night without backup, but those kinds of situations happen on the job. In the heat of the chase, you make the judgment call. It was bad luck Cairns had those dogs. It wasn’t supernatural. And if we ever pull in the murdering son of a bitch, I’ll go a few rounds with him and prove he’s just a lowlife with a freak for fighting dogs.

I hate the fact the whisper says she was killed by bad mojo. I want the world to know it was a man that got the drop on her, not some monster. If we buy into monsters, then what do we have left? What good are we against monsters? I mean think about it. If there really are these wolfmen and vampires and crap out there in the dark, how are we supposed to protect the public against them? We’re as helpless against that kind of thing as the average joe.

Sure, there’s weird shit on the street. But the point is, you get the facts, you take the incidents apart, and you don’t find monsters—at least not like in some freak show. We’ve got plenty of human monsters as it is. We don’t need to make up storybook ones.

Lela’s death has to mean something. She was a good cop. She died doing her job. She didn’t die because some random boogieman stepped out of the shadows and tore her apart. She died trying to bring down Bobby Cairns, a crack dealer, end of story. Accepting anything else, diminishes her death.

“No,” I tell him. “I don’t buy this crap for a lot more reasons that that.”

“And if it turns out to be true?”

I shrug. “Then I’ll buy myself some silver bullets for when I finally track down Cairns.”

Now…

When I was a kid, my friends and I were fascinated with the idea that the bedrock underneath the city was supposed to be honeycombed with caverns, some so big you couldn’t see from one side to the other. Discussing the possibility of their existence was a big deal for us. We’d sit around for hours planning all these Tom Sawyer in the caves/Journey to the Center of the Earth expeditions that never got further than the neighbourhood storm sewer, though it wasn’t for want of trying. We could just never find the secret entrances.

You put that kind of thing behind you once you grow up and find other interests—like, hello, girls—but it stays there in your subconscious. Every once in a while I’d remember. Maybe I’d be on a stakeout and the steam coming up from a manhole cover would remind me. Or I’d read in the paper about the fire department rescuing some kid from a storm sewer.

The city’s got an underground history, too. Everybody knows about Old City—that section of Newford that got dropped underground during the big ‘quake at the beginning of the last century—but nobody goes there except for the homeless. They say there are still buildings standing down there in some subterranean cavern—that’s what happened during the ‘quake: the roof of one of those caverns collapsed and Old City got swallowed up, buildings, streets and all.

I’m thinking about that now as Waller and I follow Hellboy and his partner down the storm sewer, pretty sure that what we heard and felt was a cavern roof falling in. But then we get to where the other two are standing, their flashlights playing over what appears to be a large body of water. I can’t see the far end. There’s no longer concrete or brickwork underfoot or on the walls. There’s just bedrock, with a bunch of loose boulders and stones along the edge of this underground lake.

If my childhood pals could see me now...

“How deep are we?” I ask Waller.

He shrugs. “Hard to tell, with all the ups and downs and turns we took.”

“Probably the equivalent of a ten-story building,” Sherman says.

Her voice is completely normal, like she didn’t give me the big ice-stare two minutes ago.

I shine my light across the water and wonder what its range is.

“There’s something moving in there,” Hellboy says.

He’s shining his light into the water but it’s so murky I can’t make out a damn thing.

“Something big,” he adds.

It’s like he calls it to us, whatever the hell it is. I’m just aware of some large shape that comes out of the water like a whale, before the waters close over it again. The motion sends waves towards us, lapping at the tops of our boots.

“Jesus,” Waller says. “What the hell was that thing?”

Hellboy grins. “It looked like a kraken.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You’d have to be on crack to make sense out of something like this.”

Hellboy shakes his head. “I said ‘kraken.’ It’s a kind of sea monster.”

“In the city sewers?”

“It’s a small one,” Agent Sherman says. “But you’re right, it is puzzling. I didn’t think they could survive in fresh water.”

“Hey, the water down here’s anything but fresh,” I put in.

Hellboy smiles at me, then turns back to his partner. “Remember Nazas, in ’88? We had a pair of them.”

Sherman shakes her head. “You were with Abe that time.” She pauses a moment, then adds, “I thought they were Nessies.”

“What the hell are you people talking about?” I ask.

“Do you remember those Ray Harryhausen movies with the giant octopi?”

“Sure. But what’s that got—”

“They were actually kraken, which is like a giant cuttlefish or squid.”

Waller grins. “Man, I knew this was going to be an interesting gig.”

They’re all nuts, so far as I can see. And then Hellboy, as though to drive the point home, strips off his trenchcoat. He unbuckles his belt and lays that oversized handgun of his down on top of it, but he keeps the big glove on. I’m starting to think maybe the hand inside is deformed—you know, like he’s got elephantitis, which would maybe explain his size and colouring, too, but I’m no doctor. And the thing is, his hand works fine. It’s just big.

“What’re you doing?” I ask.

“Going to have some fun,” he says.

He turns to the lake and that’s when I see it. A red tail. He’s got a freaking tail.

I’m still trying to register the fact when he dives in.

I take a step into the water, but his partner calls me back.

“I wouldn’t try to follow,” she says. “Not unless you can hold your breath for five minutes or so.”

“And Hellboy can?”

“He’s kind of bigger than life in a lot of ways,” she says.

Waller laughs. “No kidding.”

“He’s got a tail,” I say. I turn to Waller. “Jesus, did you see it?”

Waller only shrugs and I make myself calm down. Okay, so he’s got a tail. I guess it should have sunk in by now that he’s not exactly like you or me.

Agent Sherman sits down on one of the nearby boulders and rummages around in her pocket. She comes up with a pack of smokes.

I step out of the water and sit on a rock near her, pretending a nonchalance I don’t really feel. But I figure if she’s not concerned about her partner, I’m not going to be either. At least I won’t let on that I am.

“Look,” I say. “About what happened earlier. I didn’t mean—”

She waves me off before I can finish.

“That was my fault,” she says. “It’s a touchy subject for me. I lost some people close to me in a fire.”

She snaps her fingers and damned if a little flame doesn’t appear, hovering there between her fingers long enough for her to get her cigarette lit. She offers it to me, but I shake my head. Waller accepts it, though, and I watch in fascination as she lights herself another.

“Nice trick,” I say.

She nods, but doesn’t explain. I guess she holds to that magician’s code where you never reveal how you did the trick, though she did do it twice. Didn’t help me much. I couldn’t figure it out either time.

I turn to look back at the water, then check my watch. It’s been almost three minutes and there’s still no sign of Sherman’s partner.

Then…

So Bill has one more surprise for me. I’m six days on the job, and the task force is just settling into our new offices at police headquarters, when he drops by with agents from something called the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense. Turns out the Feds have their own full-time investigative task force.

“These are agents Hal Jones and Liz Sherman,” Bill says as he ushers them in.

The man is just a nondescript suit, but the woman is a real looker. Great figure, pretty face. Long red hair falling past her shoulders. Cool, blue-grey eyes. But attractive as she is, she can’t hold my attention once the third member of their team comes through the door.

“And this is Hellboy,” Bill finishes.

The third team member has to duck his head coming through the door because he’s got to be seven feet tall. I put his weight at close to four hundred pounds, but even with the trenchcoat, you can tell there’s not an ounce of fat on him. So his size grabs you right off the bat, but then there’s his skin: bright red like a cooked lobster. Weirder still, he’s got a couple of disks stuck to his forehead—wood, bone, I’m not sure what. Except they look like they’re growing there. Like maybe he had some kind of growths and they were cut off, which makes no sense at all. What the hell would anybody have growing out of their head like that? But then I don’t know anybody who has his size or skin colouring either.

I can’t tell the caliber of the gun he’s got holstered at his hip. I just know it’s the biggest damn handgun I’ve ever seen. And then there’s this glove he’s wearing on his right hand, doubling its size. The cloth has a texture that makes it look like stone.

For the first time since I took this gig, I’m ready to think maybe it’s not all bogus. Because looking at him, it’s like looking at something not quite human. And he’s supposed to be one of us, one of the good guys, for Christ’s sake.

I guess I’ve been staring, but he doesn’t seem to take offense. He smiles, like he’s used to it. Like I’m an idiot for staring. So I turn it around and focus on the strangeness of him.

“That’s a seriously bad sunburn you’ve got there, buddy,” I tell him.

The monster laughs and turns to Agent Sherman.

“Already I like him,” he says to her.

“Now that we’ve established that we all like each other,” Bill says, “maybe we can get down to the business at hand.”

“I’m all business,” Hellboy assures him, but he winks at me.

It’s a friendly gesture—brothers-in-arms bonding and all that—but something goes pit patting up my spine all the same.

Bill lays it out for us once we’re in his office. A worker from the Water & Sewer Department went missing on a regular maintenance recon down in the storm sewers earlier this morning, so they sent in two more to look for him. They haven’t come back either, but one of the men did make a cell call just before Water & Sewer lost contact with them. There was screaming on his end of the line, screaming so bad that the receptionist who took the call was being treated for shock at the hospital as we spoke.

“What makes it our case?” I ask.

“Stafford at Water & Sewer says his men have been talking about weird sounds coming from down in the lower sewer levels,” Bill says. “Says it’s been going on for some time now.”

I nod, wondering if this is how it’s going to be. If every time someone gets some little whiff of the weird they’re going to call in the Spook Squad.

“I know you and your people only came down to introduce yourselves to my men,” Bill is saying to Agent Jones, “but seeing how this will be their first active case in the field…”

“No problem,” Jones says before Bill can finish. “Hellboy and Agent Sherman will be happy to assist.”

Great, I think. So now I’ll have the Feds breathing down my neck while dealing with my first case.

There’s a little more talk between Bill and Jones, but I tune them out. It’s all bureaucratic doublespeak, making nice, we’ll work together, share resources, yadda yadda. Instead, I concentrate on what I need to do once I get out of Bill’s office. I’ll take Waller and Rameriz. Waller to come down into the sewers with me—and won’t he love that—Rameriz to set up a command post at the entrance. We’ll have to grab a couple of uniforms. I’m trying to decide what the closest precinct is when I realize the meeting’s come to an end.

“So what do you think we’re looking at?” Hellboy says as we’re walking back to the Spook Squad offices. “Giant albino crocs? Mutant rats?”

I look at him, then at his partner.

“Is he for real?” I ask.

“If this is your first time out on something like this,” she says, “I guess it can seem a little over the top. But…”

She shrugs.

“Wait a sec’,” I say. “You guys have seen crap like that?”

“I just hope it’s not zombies,” Hellboy says. “I hate zombies. It takes forever to wash the stink of them away.”

Now…

I just about have a heart attack when my radio squawks, but it’s only Rameriz at the command post, checking in.

“No, we’re good,” I tell her. “We just found this lake and Hellboy’s gone for a swim looking for some giant octopus or something.”

There’s a moment’s silence before Rameriz says, “You’re kidding me, right?”

“I wish I was.”

“But—”

“I’ll get back to you, Judita.”

I cut the connection, still staring at the water.

“How long’s it been?” I ask.

“Four minutes,” Waller says.

I turn to Agent Sherman, but before I can ask if we shouldn’t be starting to worry, something explodes out of the water. No, not something. It’s Hellboy. The beam from Waller’s flashlight follows his trajectory as he sails maybe fifteen feet above the water before smashing against the wall to our right. When he lands, he lies still, but we don’t have time to see to him, because there’s something else coming out of the lake.

Now, I heard what the BPRD agents were telling me earlier about giant squids and crap, but it didn’t really register. By which, I guess, what I really mean is, it was just too stupid to take seriously. But this…this thing…

Stupid, impossible, whatever—I can’t deny what I’m seeing.

The water churns and this monster the size of a small car rises up out of the lake. We play our flashlights on it, but there’s no way their beams can take the whole of it in at once. I freeze when my light illuminates one huge eye along the side of its head because there’s…not exactly intelligence, but certainly a cunning that’s more than animal in the look it gives me.

Tentacles…arms…these appendages thick as tree trunks come whipping out of the water and then things get even weirder.

Turns out Agent Sherman’s trick with lighting a cigarette is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to her talents. She puts her hands together and when she moves them apart, a ball of fire forms in between.

I don’t know what she plans to do with it, because she doesn’t get the time. One of those tentacles comes ripping out of the water and knocks her flying. The flame ball lands in the water and splutters out. She lies still.

I manage to duck as the tentacle comes for me—I don’t know how, I’m just a gibbering idiot at this point. It’s like everything’s closing up inside me and I can’t even remember how to breathe. I’ve been a cop for over fifteen years and I’ve been in situations before. Serious situations. I’ve seen shit nobody should have to take home from work. But this thing does what nothing else in my experience ever has. It just shuts me down.

So I don’t know how I manage to duck. I just do.

Waller isn’t as lucky.

He’s standing there like me, frozen, just staring at the thing. He starts to move when the tentacle comes for him, but he’s not quick enough. It wraps around him and tugs him up into the air.

I know I couldn’t have done this for myself. I just didn’t have what it would take in what was left of me. But on the job, your partner’s a sacred trust. That’s the first thing my rabbi taught me when he took me under his wing. No matter what, you watch your partner’s back. You stand by him and take the bullet for him if that’s how it plays out.

So seeing that the monster’s got Waller is what makes me move. I know my .38’s not going to do a damn thing against this creature, but we’ve got something else down here that might.

I take the few quick steps over to where Hellboy dropped his gear and tug that oversized handgun of his out of its holster. Turns out it’s not so much a handgun as a small mortar cannon with a handle and the damn thing weighs a ton. I need both hands to hold it, to aim. I squeeze the trigger and the blast pretty much deafens me. The gun bucks in my hand and I feel a snap as my shoulder dislocates. The gun falls from my hand, back onto Hellboy’s coat.

But I hit the monster.

Didn’t kill it, I don’t think, but I did enough damage that it shrieks with pain and drops Waller into the lake. Those arms of its are churning the water into a froth. My gaze goes from the gun to Waller. I don’t think I can lift the gun again, even if I had another shot for it, but I don’t know that I can get out there to Waller either.

Then a big shape looms up beside me and I don’t have to decide.

Hellboy stoops and picks up his gun. He cracks it open, knocks out the spent shell and inserts another that he gets from the pocket of his coat.

“I’m impressed,” he says. “I haven’t met many guys who can fire this and actually hit anything.”

He holds the gun with one hand and fires off a round, reloads and fires again. The first goes deep into the oily skin on the monster’s side. The second hits it in the eye. Bam, bam. Just like that, and the creature’s falling back into the water, dead. The impact of its body sets up a wave that brings Waller in close enough that I can wade in and pull him back to shore with my good arm.

He coughs up some water, but otherwise he’s okay.

I find my flashlight. I play its beam over the body and we just stand there staring at the damn thing floating in the water. Then I think of Agent Sherman. I turn to find that Hellboy’s already seen to her. She seems to be shook up, but okay.

I remember the fireball she made in her hands.

I turn again to look at the impossible monster floating in this underground lake.

“Everybody okay over here?” Hellboy asks as he walks up to us.

Waller nods.

“I think your damn gun dislocated my shoulder,” I tell him.

“Yeah, it’s got a kick. Here, let me fix it.”

“No, it’s okay. I can wait to see a—”

I don’t get the chance to say “medic” before he’s already grabbed my arm and popped my shoulder back into place. The pain goes through me like a white heat.

“Th-thanks,” I manage.

“What happened to you down there?” Waller asks.

Hellboy shrugs. “I couldn’t get a grip on its skin—it was too slick.”

Agent Sherman joins us. She lights a cigarette and I don’t even blink at her not using a lighter.

“We were lucky,” I say.

Hellboy shakes his head. “The hell we were. We’re better than the monsters. We’re smarter and we never give up. That’s why we’re always going to come out on top at the end.”

“I guess…”

“I’m serious,” Hellboy says. “You want to survive in this business, you need to remember that. The monsters are strong and they’re mean and they can scare the crap out of you. But we can stand up to them. We can put them down. It’s what we do.”

Agent Sherman smiles. “Make the world a safer place, yadda yadda.”

“But it’s true,” Hellboy says.

“I know it is,” she tells him.

Hellboy works a kink out of his neck, then bends down to get his coat and holster.

“You know what I need?” he says, looking at us.

Waller and I shake our heads.

Hellboy grins. “I need some Peking ravioli.”

There’s paperwork and debriefings to go through, but here’s the good thing about having the Feds at your back: you can put it off until tomorrow on their say-so. We take Hellboy and Agent Sherman to Cassidy’s, a cop bar on Palm Street, and make sure Hellboy gets both his cigar and his beer. Hell, he earned them.

“So you still think the bogeyman’s all a load of crap?” Waller asks later when we’re walking back to our car.

I shake my head. “I just don’t get how we don’t hear more about it. You’d think the papers and TV crews would be all over this stuff. You’d think there’d be federal task forces with their scientists dissecting these things right down to the cellular level. But there’s nada.”

“Well, we don’t know about the scientists,” Waller starts.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “Someone’s going to go down there and take that monster away.”

“I guess you’re right. They’re just going to keep a lid on it.”

“Everything’s need-to-know,” Waller says.

“But what about the ordinary joes who get caught up in this kind of thing?”

“I figure it’s a kind of consensual denial, you know? It’s easier to let it just be something that never happened. Human beings, we’re good at that.”

I nod. “I suppose we are.”

It’s another half-block to where we found a parking spot earlier and we cover the distance in silence.

“Do you think the armory carries silver bullets?” I ask when we reach our car.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“It’s a full moon next week. I thought I might go hunt me a werewolf.”

“Bobby Cairns,” Waller says.

“Since I can’t find him as a human—maybe I’ll have better luck tracking him down as a creature of the night.”

I can’t believe I just said “creature of the night” in all seriousness. I guess I’ll have to get used to it on this job.

“You doing this for Lela,” Waller asks, “or for the safety of the public?”

I have to think about that for a moment. I know what my immediate answer is, but now that I’ve learned what I have about how the world really works, everything’s more complicated.

“Bit of both,” I finally tell him.

He nods. “Either way, let me know when you’re going out. I’ll watch your back.”

Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review at your favourite retailer. Even if it’s just a sentence or two. It would make all the difference and would be very much appreciated.

To hear about new books, sign up to my mailing list. I promise not to share your information with anyone else or clutter up your in-box. www.charlesdelint.com.

Acknowledgments

Thanks as always to MaryAnn, who once again lent her ever astute and discerning editorial eye to the story you’ve just read, to first readers Julie Bartel and Alice Vachss, to my most patient agent Russ Galen, and to Ravven who went above and beyond to provide the gorgeous cover for me.

Also very special thanks to Rodger Turner, Kin Jee, Lynn Harris, River Lark Madison, Kelly Beaudoin, Peggy Hu, Beth Moore, Alan Allinger, Denise Cardos, Valérie Giese, Nimue Brown, Jack Johnson, Kath Sargent, Kim Miller, Tom Brown, Samuel Beard Jr., Sean Costello, Aaron Daniels, Jane Lindskold, Jim Moore, Michael Babinski, and Leslie Howle. I’m so grateful for the time and effort they all put into going through the manuscript. Reading is fun. Critiquing and proofing is harder work, but they were willing to put in the time.

And thanks as well to my loyal readers who wait for books with great patience and are so supportive of our indie publishing endeavours.

2020-2022 has been a very hard time in my household as I’m sure it has been for so many of you. I hope this story has allowed you to step away from it for just a little while.

Ottawa, Spring 2022

About the Author

Charles de Lint is a Canadian author with more than eighty published adult, young adult and children's books. Widely recognized in his field, he has won the World Fantasy, Aurora, Sunburst, and White Pine awards, among others. He has been inducted into the Canadian SF & Fantasy Association Hall of Fame and received a Lifetime Achievement Award from the World Fantasy Organization. De Lint is also a poet, musician, songwriter, performer and folklorist, and writes a monthly book review column for The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. He makes his home in Ottawa, Ontario. For more information, visit his website at www.charlesdelint.com or join him on www.patreon.com/charlesdelint.

You can also connect with him at:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8185168.Charles_de_Lint
http://cdelint.tumblr.com/

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Other Books by Charles de Lint

Discover other titles by Charles de Lint at your favourite retailer.

Newford Stories: The Blue Fiddle (collection; Triskell Press, 2022)

Juniper Wiles (Triskell Press, 2021)

The Forest Is Crying (short story; Triskell Press, 2020)

Barrio Girls (short story; Triskell Press, 2019)

Horsepower & Medicine (short story; Triskell Press, 2019)

The Wind in His Heart (novel; Triskell Press, 2017)

Somewhere in My Mind There Is a Painting Box (novella; Triskell Press, 2016)

Riding Shotgun (novella; Triskell Press, 2015)

The Wishing Well (novella; Triskell Press, 2015)

Newford Stories: Crow Girls (collection; Triskell Press, 2015)

Timeskip (short story; Triskell Press, 2015)

Paperjack (novella; Triskell Press, 2015)

Where Desert Spirits Crowd The Night (novella; Triskell Press, 2015)

Out of This World (young adult novel, Penguin Canada, 2014; Triskell Press, 2014)

Jodi and the Witch of Bodbury (young adult novel; Triskell Press, 2014)

Seven Wild Sisters (new edition, middle grade novel; Little Brown, 2014)

Sheriff Poole & the Mech Gang (short story; Triskell Press, 2013)

Over My Head (young adult novel, Penguin Canada, 2013; Triskell Press, 2013)

The Cats of Tanglewood Forest (middle grade novel; Little Brown, 2013)

Under My Skin (young adult novel, Penguin Canada, 2012; Triskell Press, 2012)

Eyes Like Leaves (early work, 1980 novel, Tachyon Publications, 2012)

The Very Best Of Charles De Lint (collection; Tachyon Publications, 2010); Triskell Press, 2014)

The Painted Boy (young adult novel, Viking, 2010)

Muse and Reverie (collection, Tor, 2009)

The Mystery of Grace (novel, Tor, March 2009)

Woods & Waters Wild (collection, Subterranean Press, 2008)

What The Mouse Found (children's collection, Subterranean Press, 2008)

Dingo (young adult novella, Viking, 2008)

Promises to Keep (novel, Subterranean Press, 2007)

Little (Grrl) Lost (young adult novel, Viking, 2007)

Triskell Tales 2 (collection, Subterranean Press, 2006)

Widdershins (novel, Tor, 2006)

The Hour Before Dawn (collection, Subterranean Press, 2005)

Quicksilver & Shadow (collection, Subterranean Press, 2005)

The Blue Girl (young adult novel, Viking, 2004)

Medicine Road (novel, Subterranean Press, 2003)

Spirits in the Wires (novel, Tor, 2003)

A Handful of Coppers (collection, Subterranean Press, 2003)

Tapping the Dream Tree (collection, Tor, 2002)

Waifs and Strays (young adult collection, Viking, 2002)

Seven Wild Sisters (novel, Subterranean Press, 2002)

The Onion Girl (novel, Tor, 2001)

The Road to Lisdoonvarna (mystery novel, Subterranean Press, 2001)

Triskell Tales: 22 Years of Chapbooks (collection, Subterranean Press, 2000)

Forests of the Heart (novel, Tor, 2000)

The Newford Stories (omnibus, Science Fiction Book Club, 1999)

Moonlight and Vines (collection, Tor, 1999)

Someplace to Be Flying (novel, Tor, 1998)

Trader (novel, Tor, 1996)

Jack of Kinrowan (omnibus, Orb, 1995)

The Ivory and the Horn (collection, Tor, 1995)

Memory and Dream (novel, Tor, 1994)

The Wild Wood (novel; Bantam/Spectra, 1994; Triskell Press, 2019)

From a Whisper to a Scream (novel, as Samuel M. Key; Berkley, 1992)

Into the Green (novel, Tor, 1993)

Dreams Underfoot (collection, Tor, 1993)

I'll Be Watching You (novel, as Samuel M. Key; Berkley, 1994)

Spiritwalk (collection, Tor, 1992)

Hedgework and Guessery (collection, Pulphouse, 1991)

The Little Country (novel, Morrow, 1991)

The Dreaming Place (novel, Atheneum, 1990)

Angel of Darkness (novel, as Samuel M. Key; Jove, 1990)

Ghostwood (novel, Axolotl Press,1990)

Drink Down the Moon (novel, Ace, 1990)

Svaha (novel, Ace, 1989)

Wolf Moon (novel, NAL, 1988)

Greenmantle (novel, Ace, 1988)

Jack, The Giant-Killer (novel, Ace, 1987)

Yarrow (novel, Ace, 1986)

Mulengro (novel, Ace, 1985)

The Harp of the Grey Rose (novel, Starblaze, 1985)

Moonheart (novel, Ace, 1984)

The Riddle of the Wren (novel, Ace, 1984)

Table of Contents

- Cover
- Title Page
- Praise for Charles de Lint
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Introduction
- Contents
- Epigraph
- 1. Friday
- 2. Saturday
- 3. Sunday
- 4. Monday
- 5. Tuesday
- 6. Tuesday: Joe
- 7. Wednesday
- 8. Wednesday: Joe
- 9. Wednesday
- 10. Thursday
- 11. Friday
- 12. Two weeks later
- Bonus story
- 13. Newford Spook Squad
- Mailing list
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Other Books by Charles de Lint