“Shelley used to complain about it with writing. The more she learned of her craft, the harder it became for her to simply read for enjoyment. She worried that mastery would rob her of the joy she once found in stories.”

“Shelley?”

“Mary Shelley, yes.”

“YOU KNEW MARY SHELLEY?”

“I did.”

“I hate you a lot right now.”

“I bring it up because I’m concerned about you. You’ve grown more cynical.”

“Have you seen the news lately? No, I suppose you haven’t. Wars and riots and slaughter tend to tarnish things like hope and optimism.”

“Not for a libriomancer.”

“I seem to recall you being pretty damn cynical.”

“Yes. And then I died. Am I the example you want to follow?”

“I THOUGHT WE WERE all in agreement that Johannes Gutenberg was dead,” said Deb.

“Technically, so are you,” I pointed out. “But yes. I was there. His magic had been peeled away, and he was impaled through the chest. He died pretty much instantly.”

“You see where that could raise questions about you conversing with him.” Lena kept her attention on the road. I didn’t need to see her expression to hear her concern.

“You’ve got that phone in your tooth,” Deb said, before I could respond. “What if someone’s tapped into that? They could be talking to you in your sleep, trying to pry information out of you. Or maybe it’s a crossed signal, and you’re overhearing someone else’s conversation.”

“It’s not the phone. I wish I could sleep through that thing. It jolts me awake every time someone calls, and I haven’t figured out how to take it offline at night.” I sat up straighter and leaned to the side, trying to catch Lena’s eye in the rearview mirror. “I’m all right. Smudge would know if anyone tried to pull a Voldemort and return through my body or anything like that. This is something else.”

“Another research project?”

“Not officially.” I picked up my book and concentrated on tracking the siren. “I’ll tell you more later. I promise.”

“Go ahead and say it,” Deb piped up. “You’ll fill her in once the dead woman’s not around to overhear. I’m hurt by your lack of trust, Isaac.”

“Uh huh. Go one week without pulling a gun on me or mentally manipulating werewolves into committing murder and working with terrorists, then we’ll talk.”

The siren’s signal had grown significantly stronger. I leaned against the window, my attention split between the magic and the real world.

“Slow down.” The signs on the side of the road said we were heading west on Route 58. Ten minutes later, I sat up and pointed to a narrow turnoff, blocked by a chain-link fence. “There.”

Lena drove another mile before pulling off the side of the road. “You’re sure they’re here?”