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E velyn pressed her back against a tree and wished, not for the first time, that she was a proper witch.

A nearby light post blocked her path to the abandoned library, the flickering bulb refusing to die no matter how creative the curses she whispered its way. Night had fallen hours ago, and the narrow sliver of moon overhead left the world below in deep shadow except for this one damned flicker. A low howl in the distance made her freeze. Parts of the city were deep in slumber at this time of night. This wasn’t one of those parts.

Giving the light post a wide berth, she moved from darkness to darkness, casual in her movements so as not to draw attention to herself as either criminal or prey. The red brick building was swathed in a pale glow from one lone bulb near the front entrance, its twin long since stolen or broken. She kept to the darkened side, breathing more freely the farther she stayed from the yellow glow.

Darkness is your ally when you like to be invisible. Darkness becomes your friend when you need to stay invisible to survive. She traced gloved fingers along the bricks as she circled the building, looking for the old delivery door she’d been told would be unlocked. The wrought-iron fence to her left creaked and groaned in the breeze, sending shivers down her spine despite the warm night. Now was not the time to get spooked. She was a professional, after all.

The shadows at the rear of the building were so inky black that she felt the wooden door before she saw it, and she had to squeeze her body between an overgrown tree trunk and the wall in order to access the rusted iron door handle. It resisted her touch, sending a shock of adrenaline through her system, then abruptly gave way. It was rusted in place but not locked. Evelyn slipped from the darkness outside to the darkness within.

Although this particular branch had been retired from service as a community library for nearly sixty years, the building itself hadn’t gotten the memo. The air was still fragrant with the unmistakable scent of old books—ink, paper, fabric, dust. She savored a breath. It was a heady perfume, filling her lungs and tickling her nerves like the bubbles in champagne.

She’d entered via some sort of storage room. It was so crowded with old furniture and cardboard boxes gone limp with damp and time that she was surprised the door had been able to open at all. She navigated cautiously through the space, going slowly to avoid knocking anything over or disturbing more dust than was absolutely necessary. The less obvious it was that anyone had been here—let alone an unsanctioned borrower like herself—the better.

Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dark, and she was able to move more quickly through the next few rooms, each one more empty of furniture and more filled with echoes than the last. Whispers lingered at the very edges of her hearing, conversations from times long past. It turns out libraries have memories too—and they’re better than most.

Next came the tricky bit. Evelyn pulled a crude amulet from around her neck, barely more than a raw crystal wrapped in wire and strung on a cord, and held it in her hand, waiting for it to warm and tell her she was getting close. Warmer. Warmer. Colder. Cold. Freezing. She was going the wrong way. A few more precious seconds passed as she struggled to orient herself in the building’s interior. She’d studied the original blueprints—such as they were—but the door wasn’t where she’d expected it to be. Or it was, and she couldn’t… she stopped. Couldn’t see it.

She uttered a few words under her breath, focusing more intently on the crystal in her hand. A whispering voice rose above the rest, swirling around her, tugging at her senses, pulling her toward a dusty corner near the back of the old collections room. Loose scraps of newspaper littered the floor, fluttering in the air disturbed by her footsteps. There it was. The glow of magic around its edges was so faint it could easily be mistaken for moonlight.

Evelyn peeled off her gloves to press her bare fingers into the cracks in the wall, feeling for the switch she knew had to be there. No self-respecting hidden door would have a handle . A breath later, she was padding softly down a set of stairs as old as the building and twice as dusty. The moonstone, now back around her neck, glowed coolly, coating the space in a pearlescent light just bright enough to guide her steps. When her client had said it was an easy job, he must’ve forgotten that she couldn’t see in the dark. Humans couldn’t, as a rule.

Urgency pushed her forward. She’d already been in the building too long. She needed to find the book and get out before she was caught. Or the sniffers found her trail.

She ventured into three empty rooms before finding the right one, a tiny closet of space tucked under a second set of stairs. Inside she found a broken stool, a set of collapsed bookshelves soft with rot, and one very shiny book. Shiny to her, anyway.

She’d been barely six years old when she realized that other people didn’t see the shine. That all the books and toys and knives and broken teacups looked the same to them. Her great-grandmother, eyes milky with cataracts, had watched quietly as Evelyn collected her little treasures, trash in everyone’s eyes but theirs.

Evelyn pressed her palm against the cover of the small book, feeling its power pulse in her veins. Some people could feel the shine, primarily witches and sorcerers, but she’d yet to meet another person who could see it. If you asked the so-called experts, people like her didn’t exist.

She quickly tucked the book into her bag, pulling out its replacement, then sealing it in with two iron buckles and a few key words. That should be enough of a cloak to get her out of here and safely to the estate without getting picked up by sniffers. Should be. Evelyn didn’t believe in relying on shoulds for shit, but it was the best she could do for now. She carefully smeared dust over the duplicate book, its shineless cover nearly invisible in the dim light, even draping some nearby cobwebs over it to make sure it blended in before leaving.

She took the steps back upstairs two at a time, only slowing when she approached the hidden door into the collections room. Two breaths convinced her it was safe to exit the basement. Three breaths saw her past the now-silent main room. Even the whispers had left the building. Four breaths and she was outside, easing the door closed behind her and thanking the tree for his help in concealing her exit.

The first few blocks were dark and quiet, just the way she liked it. It was warm and humid, but the slight breeze was cooling on the back of her neck. She turned down a side street, then a long, low howl told her she wasn’t alone. Sniffers. She broke into a sprint, cursing herself for not fixing her motorcycle in time for this job. She was too slow on foot—it left too much time for the sniffers to catch the scent and hunt her down.

Another low howl, closer this time. Her boots thudded on the sidewalk in time with her heartbeat. If they caught her, she was dead. She caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of her eye and dug deep, forcing her legs to go faster. By the time she reached the edge of Denmark’s estate, she was running out of stamina and from the sound of it, at least two sniffers were closing in behind her. No matter, all she needed to do was get one singular toe across the boundary line, and?—

“Making new friends?”

Evelyn collapsed on the grass of Denmark’s expansive front lawn and laughed as she struggled to catch her breath. “All the time. I’m irresistible, didn’t you know?”

“I think they were more interested in the item in your bag than in your personality.”

Oof, burn. From anyone else, she would’ve taken offense. Maybe even caused an offense or two in return. But Valen wasn’t insulting her. Not on purpose, anyway. She looked up at him from her position on the ground, taking in his broad chest and broader shoulders before tilting her head back to see his face. Larger than life in size but not personality, Valen was Denmark’s top security guy. Or only security guy. Quality over quantity, clearly. He grinned down at her, his dimples peeking through the dark shadow of his short beard. God, he was attractive.

“They almost caught you this time,” he continued. “I’m glad they didn’t.”

She returned his smile. His playful smirk made her want to do bad things with him. “Me too. I’ve got enough friends.”

He reached down with one strong, well-veined hand to help her up and lifted her to her feet effortlessly. Her smile widened. Very bad things indeed. Seemingly unaware of her lustful imaginings, Valen led the way across the grassy field that qualified as a front lawn and around the side of the sprawling plantation-style house that her client called home. He motioned her inside.

“He’s expecting you in the study. You can go up.”

“You’re not coming with me?” She tried to hide the disappointment in her voice, but the return of his dimples proved she’d been unsuccessful.

“I want to be sure your new friends respect the boundary line. Can’t start making exceptions. I’ll lose my good reputation.”

She was never completely sure whether he was flirting. She usually had a pretty good radar for these things, but not when it came to Valen. His intentions remained inscrutable. “Thanks. I’ll look for you on my way out.”

He nodded, then took off at a jog back the way they’d come. Evelyn shifted her focus back to her mission. Deliver the item. Collect the cash.

Denmark’s private office was a study in dark brown and burgundy, every surface covered with one of the two shades, including the walls and ceiling. As she did every time she visited his inner sanctum, Evelyn wondered whether it was meant to be intimidating or cozy. The deep leather couches were definitely the latter, but the genuine Gothic gargoyle crouched in the far corner, shining darkly with sinister magic, suggested the former.

“Any difficulties?” Denmark was on the far side of fifty, once handsome, now distinguished in the way that men got to be, but women seldom were. Well on his way to silver fox status, he reminded her of Cary Grant in North by Northwest . Maybe he was still handsome. She was too interested in his money to really care.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said, cringing at her own bravado. But Denmark respected swagger, so swagger she would. “How did you find out about this one, anyway? It was tucked far away from everything. I doubt anyone had seen this book in decades. Maybe longer.”

He looked pleased by her question, clearly taking it as the compliment she didn’t intend. “Thank you. And I have my methods, you know. I’m assuming you were able to—” He made a few hand gestures that she hoped were meant to signify stealing.

“Of course.” She unbuckled her bag and handed him the book, her fingers lingering on the cover ever so briefly. She wanted to read it. She always wanted to read them.

Denmark set the book on his desk, then handed her a plain white envelope thick with cash. Evelyn headed for the door.

“Before you go,” he said, his voice suddenly silken, telling her he was about to ask for something. She turned to look back at him. He sat behind the desk, fingers steepled under his chin. “I have another job for you. A real challenge this time. Not just a retrieval, but a trade.”

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. She always insisted on leaving a replacement book. A trade meant it was an active location, usually a personal library. Those were riskier, so she charged double. Denmark knew this. “How much?”

“Triple. Plus a bonus if you make it out without drawing attention to yourself. You’ll find the details in that file there,” he flicked one casual finger toward the couch, “and the replacement item is there, as well. Packaged just the way you like it.”

He’d gotten it in his head that she liked brown paper packages tied up with string, something to do with a musical his mother had loved. Evelyn had no idea why he thought she shared this affinity with his mother, but she didn’t care to explore it. She just accepted the packages, happy that the paper obscured the contents. She retrieved the file and opened it. There were photographs of a private residence, large and imposing and neo-Gothic. Not unusual for New Orleans. Blueprints, a map, and security details rounded out the packet. This was too detailed for Denmark to have put it together on his own. Valen must’ve helped him.

“Okay,” she said, shoving both the package and the file into her bag. “I’ll do it. Give me a couple of weeks.”

“Days, darling. You have three days.”

She had to cut through the French Quarter. There was no avoiding it. She was nervous about the possibility of more sniffers and sticking to more populated areas felt safer than her usual back-alley routes. Even after dropping off the goods, the scent of the shine could linger on her bag, her skin.

This time of night—or morning, rather—even Bourbon Street was relatively quiet. A light rain had left a sheen on every surface, the dark black of the asphalt glowing red, yellow, and green with the changing streetlights. Evelyn trailed her fingers along the back of a bench as she passed, relishing the cold of the metalwork wet with rain.

Warm yellow lights tucked up under intricate trellises guided her path, and she nodded hello to a few stray vampires prowling the nearby alleys. Most, if not all, of them were human, though you’d never know it from their sharpened incisors and pallid complexions. New Orleans had always had vampires, real or imagined. It was simply in the city’s nature. Evelyn wouldn’t be surprised if there were a few real ones still lingering about, but she hadn’t met one yet. Something to look forward to.

She considered calling a cab, but she knew most wouldn’t come into the French Quarter this late, not at the witching hour when all the businesses had finally closed their doors and all that remained awake and alive in the streets were the playacting vamps and other strays. And ghosts, apparently. The ghosts were the ones who refused to pay and ruined late night cab rides for everyone else.

She’d read somewhere that there was a place in Japan that had reported similar issues with stranded ghosts after a tsunami, leading to unpaid fares and unhappy cab drivers.

“Hurry up! We’ll walk if we have to!”

Evelyn ducked out of the light and into a shadowed alley as a couple burst out of the nearby hotel, obviously agitated.

“I don’t care what the clerk says—there was something wrong with our room, Reggie! I think it’s haunted!”

Evelyn shook her head and emerged from her hiding place. Yet another example of visitors to the Crescent City not being ready for what—or who—they’d find there.

On the surface, New Orleans was a lively city filled with great music, even better food, and an eclectic population of the human persuasion—a delightful blend of the eccentric and the mundane, the gifted and the dull, the seekers and the lost souls. Evelyn had arrived only two years ago, seeking and lost in equal parts.

She was nearly home. She’d reached the edge of the commercial strip and was free from the Quarter’s lights, but that was a double-edged sword. Darkness helped everything hide, whether you liked it or not. Keeping her ears peeled for the low howls that meant sniffers had picked up a trail, Evelyn hurried down the darkened road. She went through the list in her head:

1. She’d washed her hands in Denmark’s kitchen sink on her way out;

2. The gloves she’d worn when touching the book were safely tucked away in her bag, bound by iron and blessed into place;

3. The bag itself was resistant to shine, and even in the dark she didn’t see a hint of it.

None of that meant sniffers couldn’t find her, but it was a good start. The humidity hung heavy in her lungs, making her whole body feel damp by the time she finally reached the side yard that led to the carriage house she called home. The main house on the property was owned and run by a very inhospitable madame—her clientele were exclusive and nearly invisible—which meant she maintained exquisite wards at all times. Wards that covered her entire property, including Evelyn’s rented apartment. Landlords with magical benefits were highly underrated in her opinion.

Once her boots struck grass on Madame Leveaux’s property, she relaxed. The wooden stairs up to her apartment creaked in protest as though she’d woken them from their slumber, and they wondered who the fuck she thought she was disturbing them at such an ungodly hour.

Three knocks and four whispered words unlocked the wards she’d left on the door. Her keys took care of the trio of deadbolts—each a different type of metal, just in case. A chorus of mews and six glowing yellow eyes greeted her as she crossed the threshold and sealed the door behind her. Three deadbolts, three knocks, four whispered words. And three hungry cats who were certain she’d missed breakfast (she hadn’t, but cats are notoriously bad keepers of time. Or dirty little liars. Or both).

She peeled off her boots and stacked them by the door, murmuring to her cats all the while. “Mmhmm. I know. So hungry. Starving. Poor little foodless babes left all alone for four whole hours without a single bite of kibble. I’m the worst.”

They fought for space around her ankles, wrapping and re-wrapping their soft furry bodies, bumping hard little heads against her shins, purring and mewing in simultaneous love and annoyance. Evelyn dropped to the rug in front of the worn couch and let them roam.

There is nothing more grounding than sitting on the floor with friendly little familiars crawling all over you to remind you that you are loved (well, liked) and wanted (or needed?). Evelyn buried her face in their fur and purred back, thankful to be home and safe. Once her heart and heart rate had both returned to normal, she shifted from floor to couch and then from couch to kitchen.

“A little early breakfast never hurt anyone, right?”

She poured a half-serving of dry food into each of their bowls, clearly marked Nona, Decima, and Morta. They always went to their own bowls, which left her feeling queasily uncertain about whether they could read. Leaning toward yes.

She fixed herself a cup of strong black tea and spread cinnamon-flavored peanut butter on a piece of thick oaty bread.

“Enjoy,” she mumbled around a sticky bite, loosening it from the roof of her mouth with a swig of tea. Perfection. She leaned one hip against the kitchen counter as she drank her tea and ate her breakfast, her mind wandering back over the night’s events—lingering over Valen’s broad shoulders and what she imagined were chiseled abs. Or almost chiseled. She had a thing for almost chiseled. Like a tree wrapped in a blanket. Cozy as fuck. By the time she’d revisited her conversation with Denmark, she was hungry—but not for food this time.

She drained the rest of her tea, then set it down by the kettle. She’d be back for another one later. First, she needed a book. A good one. Something with at least a little shine.

One of the first things she’d done after moving in was fix the bookshelf situation. As in, the apartment had come with none. The apartment was small, formerly belonging to a chauffeur and his wife, but there were two bedrooms down a short hallway from the open kitchen and living room area. One was where Evelyn slept, large enough for a bed and not much else. But the other was where the magic happened, literally. The larger of the two bedrooms, it featured a window seat along the far wall, deeply set enough for an adult to curl up with three cats and not feel too crowded.

She’d loaded it up with soft cushions and fluffy blankets. Every other available inch of wall had been converted into floor-to-ceiling shelves. And those shelves were stacked with books, two layers deep, with additional stacks spilling onto the floor, piling high under the window seat and around the door. A thick rug covered much of the hardwood floor, making it comfortable to be barefoot year-round. Strands of fairy lights crisscrossed the ceiling, lending a gentle glow to the room in lieu of harsh overhead lighting.

An antique reading lamp was nestled into the corner of the window seat to provide stronger light when needed for reading at night. Evelyn entered her private library, closing the door behind her to keep out the sisters. She didn’t want to be distracted. Most of the books were normal, filled with that ordinary magic of stories well-told. She loved them almost as much as the ones that shined. Almost. Even though she was the only person she knew of who could see the shine and even though she’d never had another person in her apartment, human or otherwise, and even though the wards on the property were powerful, she kept certain books hidden away.

Call her superstitious.

Call her overly cautious.

Call her whatever you’d like, but she wasn’t going to leave them out where just anyone could see them, feel them, smell them.

She retrieved the key from its book-shaped hiding place, then unlocked the window seat, lifting the pile of cushions and blankets to reveal a storage space underneath. The shine hit her like a kiss on the lips, making her cheeks flush and raising goosebumps down her forearms. She couldn’t feel shine from other objects, a quirk to her abilities that confused her but ultimately didn’t matter much. For whatever reason, she could see shine all the time but only feel it when it was attached to book-shaped bundles of paper and ink.

She lifted a book off the top of the stack, then closed the lid and rearranged the pillows. She settled into the cozy nook, tucking her feet under her with a sigh. The taste of shine earlier had whetted her appetite. She needed more. She began by tracing her fingers over the book’s cover, savoring the shine as it set her pulse racing, following her veins to her heart, then spreading out from there.

She closed her eyes, letting the bubbles race along her nerves until she nearly laughed out loud. This was a good book. The shine was safe, joyful, like a sunny day in an open field. When she was ready, she opened it to the first page and began to read, bringing the shine into her body as her eyes trailed over each sentence. By the time she’d finished the first chapter, she felt filled to the brim, top to toes, with the irresistible light. Satisfied, she tucked the book back into its hiding place, locked the window seat, and re-hid the key.

“I’m walking on moonlight, mmhmm.” She sang the lyrics wrong, but sunshine didn’t have quite the same ring to it when you loved the night as much as she did. And moonshine meant something altogether different in these parts.