The demon spoke English with no accent. Or maybe with my accent. (When I was a little kid, I thought my accent was the true neutral. Because everyone on TV sort of sounds like they’re from Omaha, Nebraska.)

It seemed a bit hassled at first, like I’d interrupted it in the middle of something. But then it was polite. I told it a lot about myself. That’s something one of my journalism professors taught me. You can soften up a source by sharing things about yourself. It’s like saying, This is a safe place for intimacy. This has always come naturally to me. I like telling people about myself. I like listening when it’s their turn to talk. I like being such a good listener that they sort of forget about me. Most people really like to talk about themselves; it doesn’t take much encouragement.

The demon was less forthcoming than most people. It didn’t forget itself.

It sat on my bed—Penelope would be horrified—and drank my Coke and got right to the point.

“Did you call me of your own free will?” it asked.

“Yes,” I told it. “Of course. I was excited to meet you.”

It nodded at me. My room was full of sulphurous smoke by then. “All right, Shepard Love from Omaha, Nebraska—you’ve got yourself a deal.”

PENELOPE

I’m running out of space on my blackboard wall. I cast the spell on a second wall and push the TV out of the way. Simon would complain about this if he were here, but Simon isn’t here.

NEXT STEPS, I write in big block letters, as high as I can reach. “I still think we should wake the giant. I’m putting that on the list. And also, if the giant could read this demon language, maybe someone else can. Maybe it’s not totally dead or obscure—maybe there’s even another copy of that book. Was it handwritten?”

Language! I write.

The book. More copies? Check at Watford. Pitch Library?

“You know, the Mage actually seized a bunch of old magickal books. Wonder where those ended up…” I tap my chin.

Ask Premal about the Mage’s book stash.

“Was the book handwritten?” I ask again.

When Shepard doesn’t answer, I turn away from the wall.

His head is down, and he’s running his fingertips up and down the raised stripes of his trousers.

“The book,” I say, “was it handwritten? Could there be more copies?”

Shepard looks up at me, with one eye closed, like he’s thinking. “Penelope. I have to go now, if I’m going to make my flight.”

“What? No—you’ve still got time.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

I pick up my phone … Oh. He doesn’t have time. He’s already going to be cutting it close. I look back at the blackboard. “But…”