There was a gasp. “Oh my, Dinky,” Mrs. Talbu quavered. “Where’s my checkbook?”

I looked at Jenks and smiled bitterly. He gave me a thumbs-up.

There was a rustle, followed by a moment of silence and the distinctive sound of paper tearing. I wondered why she bothered with the old lady act. Everyone knew she was tougher than petrified dinosaur dung and would probably outlive us all. Even Death didn’t want her.

“I’m putting the word out on you, hussy,” Mrs. Talbu shouted through the door. “You won’t find a place to rent in the entire city.”

Jenks darted down as a slip of white was shoved under the door. After hovering over it for a moment, he nodded it was okay. I picked it up and read the amount. “What about my security deposit?” I asked. “You want to come with me to my apartment and look it over? Make sure there’re no nail holes in the walls or runes under the carpet?”

There was a muffled curse, shortly followed by more scratching, and another white slip appeared. “Get out of my building,” Mrs. Talbu yelled, “before I set Mr. Dinky on you!”

“I love you, too, old bat.” I took my key from my key ring and dropped it. Angry but satisfied, I snatched up the second check.

I went back to my things, slowing at the telltale scent of sulfur emanating from them. My shoulders tightened in worry as I stared at my life heaped against the walls. Everything was spelled. I could touch nothing. God help me. I was under an I.S. death threat.

“I can’t douse everything in salt,” I said as there was a click of a closing door.

“I know this guy who has storage.” Jenks sounded unusually sympathetic, and I looked up as I gripped my elbows. “If I ask him, he’ll come get it, put everything away for you. You can dissolution the spells later.” He hesitated, looking over my music discs carelessly dumped into my largest copper spell bowl.

I nodded, slumping against the wall and sliding down until my rear hit the floor. My clothes, my shoes, my music, my books … my life?

“Oh no,” Jenks said softly. “They spelled your disc of The Best of Takata.”

“It’s autographed,” I whispered, and the hum from his wings dropped in pitch. The plastic would survive a dip in saltwater, but the paper folder would be ruined. I wondered if I wrote to Takata if he would send me another. He might remember me. We did spend a wild night chasing shadows over the ruins of Cincinnati’s old biolabs. I think he made a song about it. “New moon rising, sight unseen, / Shadows of faith make a risky vaccine.” It hit the top twenty for sixteen weeks straight. My brow furrowed. “Is there anything they didn’t spell?” I asked.

Jenks landed on the phone book and shrugged. It had been left open to coroners.

“Swell.” Stomach knotting, I got to my feet. My thoughts swung to what Ivy had said last night about Leon Bairn. Little bits of witch splattered all over his porch. I swallowed hard. I couldn’t go home. How the hell was I going to pay Denon off?