My heart gave a pound and settled as the door squeaked. Nick put the key in his pocket with an abrupt, determined motion. “After you,” he said as he turned on the fluorescent lights.

I hesitated. “Is there any other way out of here?” I asked, and when he shook his head, I turned to Jenks. “Stay here,” I said. “Watch my—back. …” I bit my lip. “Will you watch my back, Jenks?” I said, my stomach clenching.

The pixy must have heard the hint of a quaver in my voice as he lost his excitement and landed on my proffered hand. At eye level, he nodded. The sparkles in his black silk shirt caught the light, adding to the glow his blurring wings put out. “Gotcha, Rache,” he said solemnly. “Nothing is going to come through here unless you know about it. Promise.”

I took a nervous breath. Nick’s eyes were confused. Everyone in the I.S. knew how my dad had died. I appreciated Jenks not saying anything, just telling me that he would be there for me.

“Okay,” I said as I took off my detecting amulet and hung it where Jenks could see it. I followed Nick in, ignoring the creepy sensation of my skin tingling. Whether they contained black arts or white, they were just books. The power came from using them.

The door squeaked shut, and Nick brushed past me, gesturing me to follow. I took off my disguise amulet and dropped it into my bag, then undid the bun my hair was in and shook it all out. Fluffing it, I felt half a century younger.

I glanced at the passing titles as I passed them, slowing as the aisle opened up to a good-sized room hidden from the hallway by racks of books. There was an institutional-looking table and three mismatched swivel chairs that weren’t even good enough for an intern’s desk.

Nick strode unhesitatingly to the glass-door cabinet across the room. “Here, Rachel,” he said as he pulled it open. “See if what you want is here.” He turned, brushing the shock of black hair from his eyes. I blinked at the intent, sly look shadowing his long face.

“Thanks. This is great. I really appreciate it,” I said as I dropped my bag on the table and came to stand beside him. Worry pinched me, and I pushed it aside. If the spell was too disgusting, I just wouldn’t do it.

Carefully, I worked the oldest-looking book out. The binding had been torn off the spine, and I had to use two hands to manage the unwieldy tome. I set it at the corner of the table and dragged a chair up to it. It was as cold as a cave down here, and I was glad for my coat. The dry air smelled faintly like potato chips. Squelching my nervousness, I opened the book. The title page had been ripped out, too. Using a spell from a book with no name was disturbing. The index was intact, though, and my eyebrows rose. A spell to talk to ghosts? Cool …