Page 11 of Magic for Nothing

“I know,” I said. “But you have to let me grow up sometime.”

“Just promise me you’ll run if you have to.”

I nodded. “I will. I don’t want to join you in the ghost world yet.”

Mary smiled. “You couldn’t handle the ghost world.”

“Damn straight,” I said, and she hugged me, and if she noticed that I was shaking, she didn’t say a word.

Four

“You can’t go home again. Especially not if you’ve already burned it to the ground.”

—Enid Healy

A nameless café somewhere in Manhattan, nine days, a cross-continental flight, a really long train ride, two taxis, a confusing subway trip, and a cup of coffee later

THE CAFÉ PROBABLY WASN’T NAMELESS, but as the owners hadn’t bothered to put a sign outside and the counter was staffed entirely by unsmiling, bored-looking hipsters with lip piercings and multiple tattoos, I wasn’t going to push my luck by asking what it was called. I was already pushing my luck by being there, comparatively uncool as I am. Why, I didn’t have a single tattoo! The only things I have pierced are my ears, and I was only able to get away with that because it’s so socially standard that unpierced ears are almost more visible.

My parents raised us to be nonconformists who always look like we just ran away from church camp. Thanks, Mom and Dad. Thanks loads.

New Yorkers like to say they have the best public transit system in the world. I think this is because they’re all high off whatever weird subterranean fumes are blowing around in those damn tunnels. I’d departed Grand Central Station with a series of careful directions written on an index card, and had promptly gotten totally turned around in a maze of complicated train routes that bore no resemblance whatsoever to anything my poor little Portland brain had ever encountered.

(Yes, yes, I’m sure they make perfect sense to the people who navigate them on a daily basis, but for me? The most complex public transit system I’d ever dealt with was the bus. Which does not run underground, or according to a system of “uptown” and “downtown” that assumes a degree of local knowledge I would need to live locally for months, if not years, to acquire. People who say they live in the only place on Earth with a public transit system that makes sense are assholes.)

Eventually, I’d managed to get myself un-turned-around and had found the café from my notes, where I was now holed up in the very back, my luggage forming a barrier between me and the rest of the room, nursing a cup of black coffee and thinking longingly of my bed at home. It was a good bed. Just the right size, with a mattress new enough to have some bounce, and pillows I had beaten to that perfect stage of worn-in—

“You Melody?”

I looked up. One of the bored baristas (say that five times fast) was standing in front of me, a piece of paper in her hand. I haven’t been Melody in a long, long time. That ID got retired when I graduated high school.

“Yes,” I said, without hesitation.

“Great. I’m not your message service.” She thrust the paper at me and went stomping back to the bar.

I unfolded the note. CALL YOUR MOM, it read.

Since my mother knew—well, not exactly where I was, but essentially where I was, this was my signal to grab my things, throw a dollar on the table for whoever had to clean up after me, and slip out the front door. The sidewalk was empty. I’d expected that. I walked to the corner, turned left, and kept going, looking for an alley. When in doubt, always look for an alley.

When I found one, it was narrower than I’d expected, almost claustrophobic, lined with trash cans and rickety-looking fire escapes. I started walking down it anyway, and was halfway to the next street when someone whistled.

I stopped. I looked up.

Verity and Dominic were standing on a fire escape. Verity bounced onto her toes and started waving violently when she saw me, which was almost enough to make me reconsider my decision never to ride the subway again. Call me weird, but an overly enthusiastic sister is not something I want to deal with after a trip involving planes, trains, and automobiles.

Dominic, unsmiling as usual, held up a can of Red Bull. I decided against heading back to the café. Instead, I gripped the handle of my suitcase a little tighter and stayed where I was, waiting for them to make their descent. Dominic came down the sensible way, using the ladder to reach the nearest line of trashcans, then hopping down, first onto their lids, finally to ground level.

Verity just jumped, like she was auditioning for a whitewashed live-action production of Sailor Moon and thought she was going to be a Soldier for Love and Justice. She hit the ground the same time Dominic did, and didn’t look like the fall had bothered her in the slightest. God, I hate her sometimes.

“Ta-da,” I said flatly. “Should we really risk being seen together?”

“The last Covenant field team left Manhattan after the Freakshow burned,” said Verity. “We have people watching for them to come back, but so far, there’s been no sign they plan to turn around. Sarah’s patch on the last field team really convinced them that there wasn’t much to deal with here. We probably shouldn’t go for a fun shopping spree through Midtown, but we’re okay for now.”

“I’ll trade you for your bag,” said Dominic, offering me the Red Bull.

I gave him my suitcase and had the tab popped on my energy drink before he finished adjusting his grip. Verity began to walk without another word. The bounce in her steps spoke of a nervousness she wasn’t admitting, and her eyes, as always, were turned high, scanning the rooftops and fire escapes for signs of movement.

Dominic was more grounded. He kept his eyes forward, and was more discreet in his surveillance. Verity lives and dies by the idea that the flashier something was, the less attention people would pay to the details . . . although not, I realized, today. She was wearing blue jeans and a gray hoodie with “I New York” blazoned across the front. It was the uniform of the tourist, and no one would look at her twice in this neighborhood, especially not with her uncombed hair and neutral makeup. She looked like an extra, rather than a star. Not normal for my stage-hungry sister. Not normal at all.