so there’s a chance the writer is a member of the coven.”
“We find the writer, we find the Sisterhood,” Tyler said.
“Do you have the book on you?” Nell asked her.
“Never found a copy outside the library in Buffalo,” Seelie said. “I mean, we could try to go get it, but it’s a six and a half hour drive one way and none of us owns a car. And we can’t get on a plane without a credit card, which means the Loom will probably spot us the second we buy a ticket.”
Nell had her phone out, typing while she talked. “What’s it called?”
“The Art of Lucid Dreaming, by Patty…” Seelie snapped her fingers, trying to remember. “On the tip of my tongue, it was something Polish—”
“Kowalski?” Nell asked.
“That was it.”
“Two on eBay, but they’d take a week to get here. Let’s hope for an e-book version.” She typed with her thumbs. “No such luck. Amazon only lists third-party sellers, and only used copies. It must have gone out of print ages ago.”
“We’re in New York City,” Tyler said. “I mean, books and theater are what we do here. There’s got to be twenty independent bookstores in Manhattan alone. Somebody has to have a copy.”
Nell picked up the last bite of her hot dog, the curl of a pepper clinging to the bun.
“Let’s make a list,” she said. “Then we’ll split it three ways and start making some phone calls. Lots of phone calls.”
* * *
On the seventeenth try, they got a yes.
A cab dropped them off in the East Village. Seelie knew the spot; they were on the west side of Tompkins Square Park, only four blocks from Ducky’s old place on Avenue D. Thinking about him—and about Amber, her skin draped like a tailored suit on a hanger in Dieter Rime’s cellar—sliced a fresh cut of shame across Seelie’s heart. They died because of her.
No, she told herself. They died because he murdered them. And he’s going to pay for it.
“Let me check it out first,” Tyler said. They had to be careful. The Loom was watching for people who spent money on occult knickknacks and books about dreaming, and this place had both in spades. Seelie and Nell waited on the sidewalk while he moved in, taking a quick cruise in front of the storefront. He came back, face tight.
“They’ve got a security camera. If it’s just feeding to a box in the back room, that’s no problem, and we’re paying cash so they can’t trace us by our credit cards, but…”
“But if that thing is connected to the net,” Nell said, “good chance the Loom is patched into it.”
“I’ll go alone,” Seelie said.
They both gave her a look. She held her ground.
“Look, I’m a candidate for grave-digging duty based on my reading habits and my sleep history. That’s nothing Leda doesn’t already know about me. If the Loom spots me on camera and I’m on my own, they’ll have to wonder: did we split up? Are we all going our own ways? She won’t know. Any uncertainty works in our favor right now.”
“I don’t like the idea of you going off alone,” Tyler said.
“I’ll be right inside the door. Nobody’s going to magically appear and grab me in the blink of an eye. Meanwhile, you can be on the corner, getting ready to flag a cab down. I get the book, you get us a ride, and we go. We’ll be out of here and halfway to Brooklyn before Leda can do anything about it.”
He couldn’t argue with that. Seelie took a deep breath, steeled herself, and headed in.
The faux-driftwood sign above the door read Crystal Moon, elegant cursive in bright purple paint. Seelie’s backpack rode heavy on her shoulders, a familiar and comforting weight, as she stepped inside. The store managed to be cramped but spacious at the same time, its long aisles stuffed to bursting with books, dried herbs in bell jars, talismans and trinkets—everything for the modern occult practitioner on the go. The warm scent of sandalwood hung thick in the air, white smoke curling from the glowing tip of an incense stick on the front counter. Music, soft and chiming, vaguely Celtic, lilted out over a tinny speaker system. Seelie eyed a display of bumper stickers on a wire rack. My Other Car is a Broomstick shared space with Witch Parking, All Others Will Be Toad.
Behind the counter, a woman with full tattoo sleeves was carving a pillar candle, working elaborate designs into