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“ S hit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

Evelyn took her bag with both books inside straight to her library and closed the door. From the closet, she pulled out an iron box covered in ancient inscriptions. She had only managed to translate roughly a third of them so far—the writing being even more dead than your standard, white bread dead languages—but that was enough to convince her this was her best bet at buying herself at least a few hours. She placed her entire bag in the box and sealed it shut, whispering an incantation her great-grandmother taught her.

“Place your hands on it like this, little duck,” her great-grandmother had said, demonstrating with a small wooden box they’d found at the nearby dollar store. One of the hinges was loose and the front latch didn’t hold, but young Evelyn didn’t care. It was her very own treasure box. Her great-grandmother continued, “Now repeat after me.” The words had been little more than magical nonsense to six-year-old Evelyn, but she’d never forgotten them or how safe she’d felt with her great-grandmother there to guide her.

If only she were here now.

Once the dangerous book was safely sealed behind her great-grandmother’s generational incantation, she collapsed on the floor, hands covering her face. Her heart pounded in her chest as she replayed the night’s events in her head. The weird house, the weirder woman, the sickly sweet pull of the deception followed by the blast of pure darkness. What had she done? Sure, handing this over to Denmark would be like giving Elon Musk his own personal nuclear bomb. But she, Evelyn Wight, didn’t want to have her own nuke, either. Especially one she had no idea how to defuse.

“Shit, shit, shit .”

She was going to die. That was clear. She wouldn’t go down willingly, obviously, but there was no coming back from this. She’d stolen seriously dangerous shine from a maybe-vampire and then failed to deliver it to her extremely wealthy client. If the scary blood-taster didn’t find her, Denmark would. She could only hope Valen had relayed her message effectively enough to buy her some grace. The fact that she wasn’t currently being thrown into the not-just-for-sex dungeon Denmark was guaranteed to have somewhere on his estate was a good sign, right?

Quiet mews sounded at the door, followed by several small paws reaching through the narrow gap above the floorboards. They were hungry. Evelyn looked at her hands. She saw no trace of the dark shine on her skin or on anything she’d touched, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Not with deception at play. She forced herself back to her feet. She could indulge in more panic and self-sabotage later. For now, she needed to cleanse herself the best she could and feed the sisters.

Evelyn took a hot shower, scrubbing her hands and body with black salt and sulfur until her skin took on the pale gray pallor and eggish odor of a hell-dweller. When she was done, three black furry faces stared at her, their whiskers twitching as they sniffed the air in what she could only assume was judgment and disdain.

“Don’t look at me like that, Morta. I’d like to see you handle dark shine like that and not try to scrub it out of your soul.” She went through the familiar routine of feeding them, chatting at them to try to stay calm. Despite the layers of wards and blessings she’d applied on top of Madame Leveaux’s already impressive security system, she jumped at every small sound outside. One of the sisters finished first and wandered over to weave around Evelyn’s legs, purring her thanks.

“You know, Decima, I think I’m going to take up weaponry. Every girl needs a hobby, and the practical applications are undeniable.” Decima mewed in response. “I knew you’d agree. We always see eye-to-eye on matters of violence, you and I.” She bent down and scooped the reluctant feline into her arms, resting her chin on Decima’s soft head. “I think I have a ritual knife around here somewhere. Let’s find it.”

Once the sisters had finished their meal and Evelyn had forced herself to eat an old protein bar she’d found in the back of one of the kitchen cabinets, she locked herself in the library once more. She had no idea whether cats could be impacted by dark shine and now wasn’t the time to find out. She set the ritual knife on the rug beside her, the exposed blade wickedly sharp while the garnets set in the handle glinted in the light. She had half a plan. It might be a bad plan, but at least it half existed.

She couldn’t give Denmark the book, that was decided. She still didn’t know what she could do with it—that was the missing half of the plan—but keeping it out of anyone else’s hands was enough of a challenge for now. She had the trade book that she had procured herself. Denmark didn’t know it existed, and other than being totally shineless, it looked a hell of a lot like the real one. She needed to find a way to infuse it with enough magic to pass whatever preliminary tests Denmark would put it through, then convince him to lock it up for safekeeping. It should be an easy sell—she was genuinely scared of the damn thing. No acting skills required.

There was just one problem with the half plan: turning a mundane object into a magical one was way above her witch-grade. It generally required a great deal of power, years of focused practice, and a degree of sacrifice that was distasteful at best and downright barbaric at worst.

Evelyn dug through her collection, searching for any volumes that might help her. It didn’t have to be dark shine. She could try mimicking the whimsical brightness she’d felt at first. Denmark was unlikely to sense the deception himself, and unless the Lybbestre were in town, he’d find it difficult to locate a local witch willing to test it for him. A chill ran down her spine at the mere thought of the ancient coven of witches that called New Orleans home. The Lybbestre were a closed society, their existence only known to those who either really knew their witch history or had crossed paths with one of the Lybbestre and lived to tell anyone about it. The latter was a rare occurrence. Loose-lipped witnesses tended to disappear. Evelyn had made a point of staying off their radar, and she planned to keep it that way.

The rest of the night passed quickly, and soon dawn was warming the window, filling the room with pale light. Evelyn scrubbed her hands over her face. The half plan was, thus far, a full failure. Her phone buzzed. Voicemail number twenty-seven from Denmark. She was running out of time. Creating a magical item wasn’t something she was going to master in one night. She needed help, and she was going to have to take the book with her to go find it.

“FUCK!”

A daytime excursion was normally safer than night, but with shine this powerful, Evelyn was unsure what rules still applied. She would have to just keep moving and try to stay ahead of anyone that picked up her trail.

She waited until the very last minute to take her bag out of the iron box. Her hands shook as she released the locks and opened the lid. To the naked eye, her bag looked the same as it always did—plain green canvas, soft with use. But she knew what it contained. Picking it up felt like snake handling, and she was no faith healer. A few seconds of stern self-talk later, she was once again wearing the bag slung across her chest and headed out the door.

The French Quarter was an entirely different place during the day. The jazz clubs and bars were closed, the streets quiet except for a few tourists with their faces buried in their ghost tour brochures seeking out haunted breakfast options. The colorful buildings with their cast-iron balconies showed their age in the morning sun. Trash from last night’s festivities littered the sidewalks and gutters.

Evelyn nudged the kickstand down with her foot, then left Marge parked in front of Granny Lucy’s store.

Although she only opened her shop after dark on the new moon each month, Granny Lucy also maintained normal business hours most mornings, selling basic supplies to friends and witchy nonsense to strangers. Evelyn frowned when she found the door locked, the sign still turned to “Closed.” Up on her tiptoes, she tried to peer into the shadowy interior.

“She’s not here.”

Evelyn jumped at the voice, her hand going instinctively to the bag on her hip. She nodded at Lady Plumeria, resident psychic and self-proclaimed medium to the stars. Which stars, she always declined to disclose, citing strict confidentiality agreements that transcended life itself.

“Sure looks that way. I thought she was normally open at this time.” Evelyn tried to look relaxed. Chill.

Lady Plumeria waved one ring-laden hand dismissively. “So she does. But have you considered that perhaps today, my dear, is not normal? Therefore, how could she be keeping normal hours?”

Evelyn fought the urge to roll her eyes. She really didn’t have time for this. “Have you seen her this morning?”

Lady Plumeria didn’t respond right away. Instead, she stared at a point roughly six inches above Evelyn’s head, her eyes glazed over. She hummed softly. Evelyn shifted from one foot to the other, impatient. If she couldn’t talk to Granny Lucy, then she’d have to find someone else to help her. This was clearly a waste of time. Evelyn took a step toward her bike, but Lady Plumeria lunged forward and grasped her forearm roughly, long nails biting into Evelyn’s skin.

“She’s gone dark, and she won’t be returning for some time. An emissary was snooping around just after dawn, but she was already gone.”

“An emissary?” Evelyn tried to free her arm from the older woman’s grasp.

“From the you-know-who. Sneaking around like a common criminal. But she didn’t find anything, did she? No. And neither will you.”

A cold chill ran down Evelyn’s spine at the suggestion that a member of the Lybbestre was looking for Granny Lucy. What could they possibly want with her? She’d never had contact with them before—at least not that Evelyn was aware of.

“What was she looking for? The emissary.”

Lady Plumeria waved her hand again. “You ask the wrong questions.”

Evelyn sighed. Getting anything of value out of Lady Plumeria would require patience and probably some kind of high-level interrogation technique that she simply didn’t possess. “What are the right questions?”

It was Lady Plumeria’s turn to look annoyed. “I cannot tell you. That is for you to determine. What do you most need to know right now? Perhaps the spirits will bless us with the answer.”

Evelyn hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to reveal too much about her current circumstances, but without access to Granny Lucy, her options were limited. Hopefully it would be worth the calculated risk.

“I’m looking for someone who can enchant an item for me.”

Lady Plumeria’s eyes glazed over again. This time she was staring at Evelyn’s right kneecap. “There are many purveyors of magical items in this street alone.”

“I don’t need a purveyor. I need an enchanter.”

Lady Plumeria’s body language shifted, her stance becoming softer, almost sultry. When she spoke, her voice sounded feminine and breathy, the accent stronger with an old New Orleans flair. “An enchanter, you say? My, my. What have you gotten yourself into, sha ? Dangerous business, enchantments.”

“I know. I wouldn’t be looking if it wasn’t important. I’m…” Evelyn cleared her throat. “I’m trying to keep people safe, but I can’t do that without an enchanter.”

Lady Plumeria stepped closer until Evelyn could smell her flowery and slightly fruity perfume. She wondered if that’s what plumerias smelled like. Evelyn wouldn’t put it past the eccentric to wear her namesake as a signature scent.

“Ah, I understand, mon ami . You wish to protect those who cannot protect themselves. And from such a danger as I have never felt before! Yes, yes—we can help you. The one you are seeking is Dominique Gareau. He lives in the Garden District. Plummy will give you the address. Just be sure to take him a snack. He’ll be hungry this early in the day.”

Lady Plumeria stepped back abruptly, her eyes returned to their normal brown. When she spoke, she sounded like herself again. “Well, then. Let me get you that address.” She pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her contacts.

“Plummy?”

Lady Plumeria sneered without taking her eyes off the task at hand. “A grotesque familiarity, no? Aurélie has fine manners, but she often chooses not to use them. Ah, here we are.” She handed the phone to Evelyn, who quickly sent the contact information to her own device and handed it back.

“Thank you for your help. If you see Granny Lucy, will you let her know I was looking for her? I’d like to know she’s alright.”

Already turning away, Lady Plumeria spoke over her shoulder at Evelyn. “I won’t be seeing her. She’s gone dark, as I said. If you’re meant to see her again, you will. Oh, and good luck with Dominique. You’ll need it.”