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T wo nights later, Evelyn sat on the floor in front of her couch, evidence of her tea-fueled preparations scattered across the coffee table, the couch cushions, the rug. To her relief, it looked like the book she’d gotten from Henry the creepy-sexy shop owner would work. The powerful deception cast over his store had left her concerned that she was walking out with a blank notebook or something equally unhelpful instead of the volume she needed. But thankfully it was an authentic book of exactly the title and year she needed. She shivered at the memory of the way she’d felt when he stood close to her, how narrowly she’d escaped doing something truly dangerous.

Evelyn rubbed her arms to chase away the goosebumps before getting back to work. A little brown wax and rough handling later, the trade book looked nearly identical to the shine version in the photograph. Or at least she was assuming the version in the photo had shine. She couldn’t see it in photos at all. It was as though the phenomenon she processed as visual wasn’t actually physically there. At least not in a way that could be captured digitally. She’d never tried with older photography methods. It’d be an interesting experiment.

She wrapped the replacement book in wax paper and tied it with strong twine before tucking it into her bag. Not taking any chances this time, she stranded three different charms around her neck—her great-grandmother’s moonstone amulet, a small glass bottle of black tourmaline (freshly charged under the last full moon), and a hag stone—just in case. Granny Lucy’s black obsidian powder was tucked into the zippered pocket of her light jacket, ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice. She hoped she wouldn’t need it.

The clock ticked slowly toward midnight. Her impatience mounted as she waited. When the hands were finally vertical and overlapping, she grabbed her bag and slung it across her body, hugging it against her hip to make sure it was secure. The last thing she needed was for something to happen to the acquired book after she made the exchange.

The manual garage door groaned in protest, showering her with dirt when she shoved it up above her head to lock it into place. Her landlady let her use the old garage under her apartment as storage space, though Evelyn’s limited worldly possessions meant it was mostly just filled with various wildlife—some worse than others—and Marge.

She rolled her bike out to the sidewalk, not bothering to close the garage behind her. She didn’t want another dirt shower, thanks. If anyone noticed her absence, she could just say she went out for a ride to enjoy the night. Madame Leveaux was used to her odd hours. It was something they often shared.

Helmet on, visor down, Evelyn took off down the street. The breeze was cooling even in the humidity, and she savored the fresh air. She stuck to side streets and quiet neighborhoods where people minded their business and avoided yours.

She stopped a few blocks from the target address to tuck her bike behind a bushy outcropping. Close but not too close. She would’ve preferred to leave Marge another couple blocks away, but after what happened last time, she was willing to trade a degree of stealth for a speedy getaway. Besides, she didn’t want to get caught lingering around the neighborhood if someone raised the alarm. Black obsidian powder and quick access to Marge were her best options if everything went to shit. Denmark had insisted the place wasn’t warded, but could he be trusted? He wanted her to do the job, so he made it sound easy. Simple. Valen was responsible for the estate’s security, and Evelyn had wondered again as she read the report whether the surveillance had been performed by the large security guard or someone else. Because if Valen said it wasn’t warded, she would consider believing him. Denmark or some other third party? Not so much.

She approached the property cautiously, not entirely sure where the line was. She’d know when she crossed it. The house loomed out of the darkness, much larger than she’d expected. It was at least twice the size of Denmark’s estate, and Evelyn had gotten lost trying to find her way out the first few times she visited. Four white columns announced the front entrance of the three-story home. Metal trelliswork surrounded the second- and third-floor galleries, green with age and moisture. Dark shutters concealed the windows.

It looked old. And expensive.

Evelyn approached from the side, experience telling her that the front and back entrances were the most likely to be covered by security—magical or otherwise. Everything seemed quiet. No stray beams of light peeked out from gaps around the shutters or under the doors. Even the streetlamps directly in front of the house were out.

She took a slow breath to calm her nerves. She’d seen this movie, and it didn’t turn out well for the trespasser. Literally ever. She held her hiding place for ten long minutes, observing closely for any signs of movement, glints of camera lenses, anything. The house was set back from the road enough that she didn’t have to worry too much about neighbors or passersby noticing her.

Evelyn freed one of the cords from around her neck. The pale gray hag stone was rough against her fingers, uneven in shape. She held the nickel-sized hole up to her eye and looked through it, scanning for anything previously unseen. She checked every window, searched the trelliswork, even swept over the yard and the nearby road. Still nothing.

Satisfied, she tucked the stone away and moved from her hiding spot. The grass was dew damp and slick under her boots as she slipped across the yard to the side of the house. There it was. The storm shelter. Most houses in New Orleans didn’t have basements—the water table was too high—but whoever built this house had clearly spared no expense.

She opened the wooden doors, feeling like Dorothy before Oz, then dipped out of the night and into the dark once again. Instead of the dank smell she was expecting, the room smelled… clean. Once the doors were closed behind her, she pulled the moonstone necklace from underneath her shirt and held it up so that the pearlescent light could wash over the room. It was empty.

Pristine concrete floor, pure white beadboard walls, not a speck of dirt or drop of water to be seen. Evelyn frowned. Weird. She moved quickly, finding the door to the stairs unlocked and unwarded. The steps felt solid, new, with not even the slightest bend or creak to them. The interior didn’t match the exterior at all. If pressed, Evelyn would’ve guessed the house was upwards of a hundred years old, maybe even older. But the interior looked and smelled brand-new. Not renovated. Not updated. New. The door at the top of the stairs swung open easily, the hinges smooth and silent. This was too easy.

She stepped out into a kitchen so modern and polished that it would be the envy of any social media influencer or television chef. It was spacious and open with a well-appointed island and tons of cabinet space, and Evelyn was pretty sure her entire apartment could fit inside it with room to spare. Consulting the map in her head—she’d committed Denmark’s file to memory as part of her preparations—she turned to the left and pushed through a swinging door into the most magnificent home library she’d ever seen.

Spanning all three stories, the bibliophile’s dream room was filled to the brim with rows upon rows of bookshelves. A spiral staircase in one corner provided access to the second and third levels. Hanging lights dropped several feet down from the second-floor ceiling. Soft leather chairs and couches were arranged artfully around the ground floor, and a large worktable big enough to seat six was situated opposite the spiral staircase. The center of the ceiling towered skyward all the way to an eagle’s nest nook at the very top of the highest bookshelves. A skylight featured an intricate stained-glass design that she couldn’t quite make out. The library was a stunning architectural achievement, to be sure. But that wasn’t what had Evelyn frozen to the spot.

Every single book had shine. The space was brilliant with it. Some light, some dark, some blended or peeking out from behind deceptions. The intensity of that much shine in one place tightened her chest, making it hard for her to breathe. Her head started to spin as the familiar scent of books filled her lungs. So much shine. It was overwhelming. A part of her—a pretty damn big part, if she was honest—wanted to leave. Just call it a loss and run. This wasn’t some random collector who happened to have a book with shine and was utterly clueless about the magical item in his possession. No. Every single book in the entire library—there had to be literal thousands—was magical. This was no coincidence. No accident.

Whoever owned this house was a different kind of collector, and they would absolutely notice the substitute she’d brought with her. No matter how much effort she’d put into making it look right, it wouldn’t feel right to anyone who could sense magic. And whoever curated this collection—whether it was the owner or someone who worked for them—would feel it immediately. There was no win scenario left for her. She needed to leave. Now.

But she couldn’t.

Her legs weren’t responding to her instructions. She struggled, even reaching down and trying to physically force her feet to take even a single step. Panic tightened her throat.

It’s like my boots are melded to the floor.

“Not exactly right, but not exactly wrong either.” The woman’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Evelyn whipped her head around, trying to identify the source. “You can stop struggling. It won’t work.”

Evelyn looked down at her boots and saw it. Faint tendrils of dark shine curled up around the thick rubber soles like so much smoke. She’d stepped in a trap.

“Yes, but do not blame yourself. The entire house is a trap.” The voice was reading her mind. Evelyn flung up internal defenses, whispering words and tapping her fingers, blessings and curses twining together to form barriers in her mind, crafting a labyrinthine maze to protect her thoughts from intruders.

“Clever little witch.” A woman, almost impossibly tall, built of sharp angles and straight lines, appeared at the top of the spiral staircase. Her hair was pure white and hung smooth and straight past her waist. Her skin was so pale it appeared translucent, dark veins visible even from this distance. As she drew closer, her skin took on a waxen appearance, making it impossible to guess her age. She could just as easily be twenty or two hundred. Her irises were entirely black with no visible pupil.

She paused at the bottom of the stairs but her dress—a long, flowing gown of gossamer gray—kept moving, giving the illusion of being underwater. Evelyn fought for a steady breath and continued to build the labyrinth in her mind.

The woman stretched out one long-fingered hand to drag a dangerously sharp fingernail down Evelyn’s cheek. When had she gotten so close?

“You are precisely what I expected, and that is the finest compliment I have granted anyone in many years.” So not young then. Evelyn grit her teeth, determined to keep her mind free. “You can relax your efforts, witchling. I will respect your privacy.”

“Who are you?” She forced out the words, keeping them clear as crystal in her mind to avoid anything else slipping out. The woman kept her hand on Evelyn’s face.

“I am the owner of this house.”

“What do you want?”

She bared her teeth in what might have been a smile. “What an odd question considering you are the one trespassing here.” Her expression hardened. “But I do not have to ask you what you want. This is what you’re looking for, is it not?” She tilted her head toward the nearby table. A small book sat on its surface. The book.

The tip of the woman’s nail pressed harder against Evelyn’s skin, piercing the surface. A bead of blood trailed a warm path down her cheek, and she watched the woman bring her bloodied nail to her mouth and let a single drop fall onto her tongue.

That was more than enough to convince Evelyn that leaving was now all she wanted, all she would ever want. She slid her fingers into her zippered pocket and grabbed a pinch of black obsidian powder. The woman had her head tilted back, her eyes closed as she savored the taste of blood. Evelyn sprinkled the black powder on the trap at her feet. The shine faded as the trap disengaged.

She dipped her hand back into her pocket, grabbing a small handful this time. As the woman lowered her head and opened her eyes to focus on her once again, Evelyn drove her obsidian-coated palm into the woman’s chest.

“I in malam crucem!”

The woman hissed and staggered back, a black handprint singed into her pale flesh. Evelyn fled from the library to the sound of a banshee screech echoing off the walls.

She wanted to read it.

Frankly, she always wanted to. It was one of the great disciplines of her life that she didn’t always have time to read the books she (cough) acquired (cough) for her clients. But just the one touch as she’d swiped it from the table on her way out had told her this was a special book. Sweet. Wholesome. What the fuck did Denmark want with such an item? It was magical, sure, but the dark and dreadful ones sold the best on the black market. The nasty ones made from human skin and written in blood were the most prized when it came to private collections. But this tiny happy little thing?

The temptation tugged at her, pulling her mind toward the iron buckles on the bag slung across her body. Maybe just a peek.

Halfway to Denmark’s estate, Evelyn eased her bike into a side alley and pulled the book from its hiding place. This wasn’t a good idea. The whole point of the iron and the words was to disguise the shine so she wouldn’t get sniffed out. Followed. Bringing it out in the open was downright stupid. And yet here she was cradling it in her arms like a newborn babe. She stroked the cover longingly, then allowed herself the treat of peeling open the front cover ever so carefully.

A burst of shine so black and violent that she nearly lost consciousness scraped its nails across her brain.

Deception.

Evelyn gathered all the strength she had left and shoved the book back into her bag, slamming the iron buckles into place and using stronger words this time. Twice. Thrice. It all made sense now. Why Denmark’s trade book hadn’t been a good match. Why he was willing to pay triple. The replacement didn’t matter because he knew about the collection. And he readily offered to pay a premium because he was sending her into a viper’s nest. It had been a suicide mission. On the off chance she managed to succeed? Triple her rate was pocket change compared to what something like this was worth.

It was the darkest book she’d ever seen. No one should own a book like this. It should never have been made. It shouldn’t exist anywhere, but definitely not in the hands of someone like Denmark or whoever he might sell it to on the black market. Anyone with enough wealth to acquire this book would have access to someone who knew how to use it. Evelyn groaned. She couldn’t deliver it. Not tonight. She needed time to think. To make a plan. To definitely not touch the book again even though she very much wanted to. She pulled out her phone and called Valen.

“Hey, it’s me. Tell Denmark I’m not going to make the delivery tonight. The sniffers picked up the scent, and I can’t get around them. Tell him I said, ‘WHAT THE FUCK,’ and I’ll bring it by tomorrow as soon as it’s safe. Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

A long low howl alerted her to danger, and Evelyn sped out of the alley, cursing her own foolishness for listening to the shine when she fucking knew better.

This wasn’t her first deception.