Alex hurriedly emptied his rucksack and pockets, going through everything he had brought. Clothes, phone, keys, wallet, toothbrush, notebook with a pen attached, old toy robot carrying the name of God inside. There was nothing.

“Might be an idea to give your mother a call,” his grandfather said, nodding at the phone. “Maybe not mention being up the tree, though,” he added as Alex held it ringing to his ear.

“Hello, you,” his mum said. “What’re you up to? Is your grandfather behaving?”

“I heard that!” the old man shouted.

“We’re out walking in . . . Paris. Going to get some . . . balloons.”

“That sounds nice.” She yawned. “Does Harry still have no idea you’re planning his birthday?”

“Uh, no. Mum? Listen. I’m sorry I’ve been a bit, eh . . .”

“Moody.”

“Yeah.”

“S’all right. You should’ve seen me at your age. You’re barely an amateur.”

“Can you tell Carl I said sorry, though? I was a bit of an idiot to him.”

“Yes, you were. He can handle it. Have you eaten?”

“Uhm, we’re just going to do that.”

“Okay. Dunk a croissant for me. Keep in touch. Love you.”

“Love you.”

He ended the call, stood staring at the phone, then pulled up the abrupt message Kenzie had sent him.

Don’t.

It had just come back to him. The night before, when he was trying to make contact with the power, pushing through the doors of his deep dreamlike state—the dim figure he had seen, trying to talk to him.

It was Kenzie.

He typed back:

What?

He stood waiting, trying to will a reply to appear, then put the phone away. His grandfather stood scowling at the sky.

“Foul weather. That reminds me, there’s something I was going to give you.” He dug through his bag, finally producing a rolled-up olive-green bundle. Shaking it loose, he held it out for Alex’s inspection: an old army-style parka coat.

“Used to be your father’s. I remember he got it when he was a couple of years older than you. Wore it constantly for a while. Yours, if you’d like.”

After a moment, Alex nodded, lost for words. Something burned behind his eyes as he brushed a palm over the fabric.

“Might be wise to get rid of that,” his grandfather said, tapping his cane gently against Alex’s hooded top. “They used it to target you, who knows, there might be some residual hexing hanging around. A hoodoo in your hoodie.”

Alex barely heard him. He shrugged out of his top and absently handed it over, then slipped one arm into the old coat, fully fascinated. The parka was too big and musty from storage, but he didn’t care. As he pulled it on, he felt himself wrapped in a strange sensation, something simultaneously close and far away.

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s great. It’s really cool. I mean, I love it.”