“Two demon marks in one night, yes. Clever, clever little witch for you to guess! Capital good instincts!” he said, just about bursting. “What bit of bloodied thing do you have of Trenton to find him? Nothing? ” he almost drawled. “What a shame. You should rectify that. Give him a bloody nose next time you see him, and save the hanky.”

I sighed, wondering what bit of bloodied thing in that cabinet was mine. There had to be about fifty things in there, all from people halfway belonging to Al.

“Now, we have to do this a little backward,” Al was saying, pulling me to that ugly face he used as a landing pad and having to kick the tapestry out of the way. My face went cold, and I looked to the other side of the room. I knew it had been over there.

“Wait. Wasn’t that over there?” I said, hesitating, but Al yanked me forward, pulling me to stand right next to him.

“Probably,” he said, kicking backward at it again. “I can’t pop into reality uninvited unless I’m checking on you. I’ll get you there, and you summon me. Immediately.” His eyes narrowed, and I shoved his tightening grip off my arm. “It’s that trust thing you’ve been whining about,” he growled. “I trust you to bring me along.”

“And I trust you not to throttle him,” I said, and he made a pained face.

“Abso-o-olute-e-e-ly,” he said, so slowly I doubted him. “Tap a line, Rachel.”

Doubt or not, I tapped the line, feeling the curious ache of using a line this side of reality. My eyes widened when the bit of paper flamed up in Al’s white-gloved hands. “You can only do this once?” I asked, amazed as he breathed in the smoke, eyes closing in bliss, but my shock redoubled when I realized the paper wasn’t being burned.

“It’s not real flame,” Al said, then gave me a shove. “Go!”

“Hey!” I shouted in protest, but my lungs compressed and the line took me. With an almost absurd quickness, I popped back into existence in a dark, low-ceilinged room. It was stuffy, with the light coming from a bank of electronic equipment. I could smell stinky socks and what seemed like too much occupation. The walls were painted cinder block, and there was the tang of mold. Flat brown carpet lay over what felt like cement. Metal and wood racks made aisles from floor to ceiling, all holding wooden crates wired shut.

Oh. My. God. Am I in Nick’s mother’s basement? But then I decided that it was more like one of those bio shelters they made during the Turn with filtered air and bottled water.