“Touché, touché,” Neil’s disembodied voice said, and he sounded contrite. “Anyway, back to the business at hand! You’re making good time, kids,” he pointed out, “but you don’t want to get there too quickly.”

“The sooner we secure the Grimoire—” Riley began, but Neil interrupted him.

“Yeah, about that. Sorry, Squidpickle, but I forgot to mention. I’ve got a Spell of Dimensional Protection on that sucker. The portal is the locker door, but… the book’s only there to grab at midnight.”

“Which midnight?” Riley snapped.

“Which one do you think, Tentakins?” Neil shot back. “Local time, and on the dot too so don’t be late about it. And don’t forget that briefcase! Neil, out!”

Riley fell silent. I could feel the waves of disapproval rising from him, and I shrank back, trying to make myself even smaller. Neil’s news had put him in a foul mood. I tried to distract myself with the world outside my window, despairing that Neil had interrupted… whatever that moment had been, when Riley’s hand had been in mine.

It was a gorgeous autumn day with a bright blue cloudless sky. The air that blew through our open windows was brisk but still warm. The traffic increased as we got closer to Manhattan, but Riley wove the Impala through the cars with an expert’s touch, never having to brake suddenly or swerve madly. I was even beginning to enjoy our little ‘road trip.’ The silence within the car had grown companionable. Even though a part of me was still holding my breath, terrified of what being with Riley might do to me and unsure of what lay before us, I had eased into a sense of complacent confidence. I couldn’t be one hundred percent certain, but my soul seemed to sigh, yes… I trust him with my life.

Before I knew it, the island of Manhattan rose in front of us, weighed down by an explosion of metal and glass, the spires of its monuments to the modern age reaching toward the sky. I had only moved to the East Coast a couple years ago, and hadn’t yet had the opportunity to visit New York City. I stared out of my window as we drove down the West Side Highway, the Hudson River to my left, the metropolis to my right. I only wished I had my cell phone so I could take some pictures, but I knew they could never do the sight before me any justice. To finally see it—its ordered chaos laid out before us, its frightening heights compacted within the confines of the tiny island—was dizzying.

“There are so many humans,” Riley muttered to himself as we waited at a red light. It was barely three hours since we’d left Portsmouth, and we had finally reached the New York Port Authority Bus Terminal at 8th Avenue and 42nd Street.