rebar like teeth. Here, without the meager benefit of broken windows, the darkness was nearly total. She could hear water dripping and the movement of air swirling around her, much like standing on a train platform in any major city. Instead of people, spirits stirred around her, moving back and forth in lines like ants. She could see only silhouettes, snatches of hats or briefcases or shoes. She glimpsed men and women in modern dress, a teenager with a cell phone, and a woman wearing a poodle skirt and bobby socks. But the images flowed past her in a cacophony of rising voices, parting around her as if she were a stone in a river.
A dull roar came from the distance, growing closer. The wind picked up, lashing her hair around her face. Sparky dug his toes into the brick. Anya leaned backward as the sound of a train whooshed down the tunnel, tearing at her with a terrible vortex of wind. She threw up her arms to shield her face from flying debris and the terrible light washing through the tunnel.
The sound and light receded. Anya removed her arms from her face and opened her eyes.
Except for her and Sparky, the platform was empty. Every single ghost was gone, sucked away by that terrible wind.
Witches were often willing to do things other people were squeamish about, and were known to keep the strictest levels of confidence.
Those were some of the reasons Anya went to Katie for odd magickal jobs.
Those, and Katie's baking skills.
Anya sat at Katie's kitchen counter, plucking a hot oatmeal chocolate-chip cookie off a baking rack. She juggled the cookie, trying to keep it from scalding her fingers as she crammed it in her mouth.
Barefoot, Katie swished around the kitchen in a long, crinkled skirt. She'd picked up a polka-dotted apron from a vintage shop that clashed with her plaid pot holders. She looked like Betty Crocker's demented little sister. The felt kitchen witch strung over the kitchen window jiggled in the breeze, seeming to chuckle at her bizarre fashion sense.
"I could live on these," Anya muttered in gooey happiness.
"Glad to share." Katie leaned over the sink to lick the dough from beaters. Witches did not fear food poisoning from raw eggs.
Katie's cats, Vern and Fay, tore through the kitchen, dodging between the bar-stool legs. Vern, a gray tabby, got hung up around the kitchen table leg, spun out, and scrambled for purchase on the freshly waxed linoleum. He bumped Katie's leg, causing her to drip dough on the front of her apron. Sparky plowed into the kitchen, feet churning and tail kinked in delight at having someone to play chase with. He chased Vern into the hallway. A faint yelp sounded from the back of the house.
Katie shook her head, dabbing at the dough on her chest. "I really wish I could see Sparky play with them."
Anya spread her hands. Cats could see him. So could dogs and other ghosts. And Anya. The only other person Anya had met who could see Sparky was another Lantern she'd encountered, months before. Her thoughts darkened, remembering: Drake had been her enemy and her lover. He was probably the only other person who really understood her. And now he was dead. Anya felt only a small twinge of grief at that; it had to happen, but she wished she'd had more time with him, to ask him more about what their kind was supposed to do in the world.
"You said you needed a favor." Katie stripped off her pot holders, and her fingers glistened with silver rings.
"I need to talk to Bernie." Anya said it without preamble. She rested her chin in her hand, staring across the bar at Katie.
Katie raised her eyebrow, and a teasing smile played around the corners of her bow mouth. "You didn't ask Ciro. Or Jules."
"It's not DAGR's case. And neither one of them is my father." It sounded petulant when she said it, but it was the truth. Ciro had forgotten more things about metaphysics than Aleister Crowley had ever known, but was very sparing and particular in its usage. He would never tell Anya how to get in
A dull roar came from the distance, growing closer. The wind picked up, lashing her hair around her face. Sparky dug his toes into the brick. Anya leaned backward as the sound of a train whooshed down the tunnel, tearing at her with a terrible vortex of wind. She threw up her arms to shield her face from flying debris and the terrible light washing through the tunnel.
The sound and light receded. Anya removed her arms from her face and opened her eyes.
Except for her and Sparky, the platform was empty. Every single ghost was gone, sucked away by that terrible wind.
Witches were often willing to do things other people were squeamish about, and were known to keep the strictest levels of confidence.
Those were some of the reasons Anya went to Katie for odd magickal jobs.
Those, and Katie's baking skills.
Anya sat at Katie's kitchen counter, plucking a hot oatmeal chocolate-chip cookie off a baking rack. She juggled the cookie, trying to keep it from scalding her fingers as she crammed it in her mouth.
Barefoot, Katie swished around the kitchen in a long, crinkled skirt. She'd picked up a polka-dotted apron from a vintage shop that clashed with her plaid pot holders. She looked like Betty Crocker's demented little sister. The felt kitchen witch strung over the kitchen window jiggled in the breeze, seeming to chuckle at her bizarre fashion sense.
"I could live on these," Anya muttered in gooey happiness.
"Glad to share." Katie leaned over the sink to lick the dough from beaters. Witches did not fear food poisoning from raw eggs.
Katie's cats, Vern and Fay, tore through the kitchen, dodging between the bar-stool legs. Vern, a gray tabby, got hung up around the kitchen table leg, spun out, and scrambled for purchase on the freshly waxed linoleum. He bumped Katie's leg, causing her to drip dough on the front of her apron. Sparky plowed into the kitchen, feet churning and tail kinked in delight at having someone to play chase with. He chased Vern into the hallway. A faint yelp sounded from the back of the house.
Katie shook her head, dabbing at the dough on her chest. "I really wish I could see Sparky play with them."
Anya spread her hands. Cats could see him. So could dogs and other ghosts. And Anya. The only other person Anya had met who could see Sparky was another Lantern she'd encountered, months before. Her thoughts darkened, remembering: Drake had been her enemy and her lover. He was probably the only other person who really understood her. And now he was dead. Anya felt only a small twinge of grief at that; it had to happen, but she wished she'd had more time with him, to ask him more about what their kind was supposed to do in the world.
"You said you needed a favor." Katie stripped off her pot holders, and her fingers glistened with silver rings.
"I need to talk to Bernie." Anya said it without preamble. She rested her chin in her hand, staring across the bar at Katie.
Katie raised her eyebrow, and a teasing smile played around the corners of her bow mouth. "You didn't ask Ciro. Or Jules."
"It's not DAGR's case. And neither one of them is my father." It sounded petulant when she said it, but it was the truth. Ciro had forgotten more things about metaphysics than Aleister Crowley had ever known, but was very sparing and particular in its usage. He would never tell Anya how to get in
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