“Proof that you needed to cast the spells. I’ll need incident numbers for the break-ins, insurance claims and a list of the spells you’re casting. We’ll take this to the Cabal, and unless they can prove you’ve cast something stronger, you’re off the hook. In fact, if you have those papers and a copier here, I can take care of this right now.”

“They’re in the back.”

“I’ll watch the store while you get them.”

I HIGHTAILED IT across the street, darting around slow-moving carloads of tourist gawkers, past the soda fountain, past the motel, past the empty shop. I ducked inside an alley and stopped, clutching my prize. My eyelids fluttered as I savored the chaos. Having caused it myself made it twice as potent. I closed my eyes, replaying the ruse and the theft—the perfect high: better than booze, better than drugs, better than sex. Well, better than average sex. A potent mix. And an addictive one.

That thought sobered me. I had the shell. If I wanted more chaos vibes, I’d have to wait until I handed it to Romeo. I opened my beach bag, wrapped the shell in a towel, then—

“Why don’t you just hand that to me? I’ll take good care of it.”

HOPE CANDY STORE

HOPE

CANDY STORE

I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see hands rising in a knockback spell. I dove. The spell caught me in the hip and spun me off balance, but I kept my grip on the bag and darted out of the way before my assailant launched a second one.

Ten feet away stood a young woman with spiky blond hair and so many piercings it’d take her an hour to prepare for a metal detector.

“My competition, I presume,” I said. “Sorry about your luck.”

“Oh, my luck’s fine.”

She cast again. I dodged the spell easily. Her lips tightened and her fury washed over me in delicious waves.

“Not used to casting against someone who knows what you’re doing?” I said. “Lesson one: don’t flail your hands.”

Another cast. I feinted to the side, but from the look on her face, there’d been no need.

“Run out of juice?” I said. “Lesson two: don’t spend it all in one place.”

I reached into the side compartment of my purse, a little hobo-style handbag, designed for the young urbanite of the twenty-first century, with convenient compartments for sunglasses, cell phone, PDA and a concealed weapon.

The witch stared at the gun as if expecting me to light a cigarette with it.

“Sit down,” I said.

After some prodding, she lowered herself to the ground, muttering about fair play. Among supernaturals, using weapons is considered an act of cowardice. But when your power package doesn’t come with fireballs or superhuman strength, you need to even the playing field.