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“Assuming the fog didn't relocate my art supplies to Narnia, yeah.”

Knox's jaw tightened.

“Do not make the face, Dead Guy. I am not going back through the cattle-prod wall to retrieve a painting.”

“Good.”

“Wow. That was disturbingly easy.”

Carrick cut in. “Nobody retrieves anything tonight. Maisie, if necessary, can you reproduce enough of the painting from memory for us to examine the geometry?”

I grimaced. “I'm an artist, not a Xerox machine, but I can sketch what I remember.”

Before anyone could say another word, the Ward reader on Guy’s table pulsed. Not screaming red this time. A strange, measured throb from the outer boundary.

Guy checked the monitoring spell. His face changed. “The section where Maisie entered.”

Nobody moved me toward the boundary, which was good because I had already prepared several filthy things to say about being used as Magical cheese in a Hellmouth mousetrap. Guy opened the monitoring system instead, and a live Magical projection of the affected section of the Wards shimmered into the air above the table.

“It’s not a breach,” Carrick said. “It’s a test.”

I opened my Alicorn Sight only enough to observe. Something outside touched the boundary with a bad, incomplete imitation of my Magical frequency. Gold. A little sky-blue. Not much pink sparkle at all. Distorted pieces of me, sampled and stitched together by something that did not know the song.

My guess was that the rhythm was wrong. The Wards rejected it with a force that made every window in the house rattle.

“It is testing her signature against the boundary,” Carrick said.

“And failing,” Bernie said.

“For now,” Knox said.

“So, Hell is basically standing outside wearing a fake mustache and telling the Wards it’s me?” I asked.

“That is not remotely what he said,” Knox said.

“Spiritually, it is exactly what he said.”

Hank lost it. Yep. I liked that Hellhound more with every passing minute.

The second test came stronger. Still wrong. The Wards slammed it back, but this time the pattern lingered long enough for my artist brain to catch its shape.

Lines. Curves. Negative space. Something familiar.

My stomach dropped.

“Maisie?” Knox said.

I could not look away from the pattern burning against the Wards.

“Knox.”

He was beside me instantly. “What?”

I stared at the shape I had thought was only a weird artistic flourish on my canvas.

“I painted that.”

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