Fifteen long minutes later, he was back, empty-handed.

“They have a rack of conch shells and some of them are painted, but none with girls in any kind of bathing suit.”

“Huh. Must have been a different store, then.”

I let him keep the twenty and he disappeared into the T-shirt shop.

My next mark was a fortyish man who sucked in his spare tire as I drew close. For him, I had a new story: I’d been in the store the night before with friends, some of whom had been drunk and made a scene. I really wanted this shell for my brother, but I was afraid the store owner would recognize me and kick me out.

He too returned empty-handed. “It’s behind the cash register,” he said, handing me back my twenty. “And it’s not for sale. I tried, but the guy said a friend of his had painted it and it was only for display. Sorry.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, I walked into the shop. It stank of cheap suntan lotion, not quite masking a smell that reminded me of Gran’s attic, of dirt and dust and disuse. Most tourists probably never veered from the path between the door to the cash register, lined with T-shirt racks and baskets of cheap shells.

There was no bell over the door, but the clerk’s head shot up as I walked in, setting off his spell. Middle-aged with blond shoulder-length hair, he wore a tank top, his flaccid triceps swaying as he moved to the counter. Behind him was the conch shell.

I made it two more steps before the vision hit. A deep voice chanted in my ear. Disembodied hands appeared, pale against the black. Fog swirled from the hands.

A sorcerer. My gaze went to his hands, which were safely folded on the counter. Sorcerer magic is cast by a combination of words and gestures, but the security spell suggested he might also know some witch magic. Better to keep an eye on his lips then, and duck if he started muttering.

I extended my hand. “Marietta Khan, special aide to the council. I work with Paige Winterbourne.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You know who she is, then. Good. It has come to the council’s attention that you’re under surveillance by the Cortez Cabal, following reports of spellcasting in this neighborhood.”

He paled, then straightened. “I’ve been broken into six times in the past year. I have the right to defend my property as long as I don’t use excessive force.”

“You’re right.”

“And if you people think—” He stopped. “I’m right?”

“I’m from the council, not the Cabal. Our job is not only to watch you, but to protect you against ungrounded Cabal prosecution. What I need from you is the paperwork.”

“The…?”