Page 84 of No Charm Done

Behind her, she heard the mom’s voice: “That settles it. I don’t care how great everyone says that magic app is going to be. We’re staying analog.”

The portal snapped shut. Luna landed in an alley, cursing.

* * *

She recalibrated the locator spell. Poured more energy into it. Whispered a prayer to any gods who might be listening that CastR’s interference wouldn’t destroy her ability to find one very stupid magician.

Luna followed the spell northward this time. Toward Central Park. Toward the kind of real estate that required either inherited wealth or a deal with something decidedly non-human. She was halfway up Central Park West when something silver crashed onto the sidewalk three feet in front of her. An antique chalice, probably worth more than an average car. Suddenly, a variety of coins rained down across the concrete: old coins, gold coins, coins that belonged in museums.

Luna looked up.

Another object came sailing out of a penthouse window twelve stories above. A jeweled scarab, Egyptian, gleaming in the streetlights. It hit the sidewalk and skittered into the gutter.

Down came a glowing crystal orb. A carved jade dragon. A bronze mask. They rained down like the world’s most expensive hailstorm.

Pedestrians scattered. Someone shouted. A taxi swerved.

“Some people leave breadcrumbs,” she muttered as a golden statue of Bastet bounced off a parked Mercedes. “Shaw leaves felonies.”

She looked up at the penthouse. More artifacts flew out—a steady stream of stolen history being hurled into the New York night.

There.

She headed for the building’s entrance.

* * *

The doorman tried to stop her. “Miss, you can’t just⁠—”

Luna waved a hand. His eyes glazed, and he stepped aside.

She took the elevator to the twelfth floor. The doors opened onto a marble foyer, lit by a crystal chandelier. This was wealth that whispered, not shouted. The penthouse door stood ajar. She pushed it open.

The apartment was in chaos. No, not chaos, a dismantling. Every surface had been stripped bare. Paintings lay stacked face-down on the marble floor. Sculptures had been dragged from their pedestals. Ancient weapons—swords, daggers, spears—were arranged near the open window with deliberate neatness.

Burke stood several feet back from the glass, shirt sleeves rolled, hair plastered to his forehead. He clutched an ornate chalice to his chest, knuckles white.

Elias Shaw stood opposite him.

He’d helped himself to one of Burke’s cigars and looked perfectly at home. Jacket off, sleeves loose, one hand in his pocket, the other lifting the cigar to his lips with lazy familiarity. Smoke curled through the air, calm and unhurried.

“Again,” Elias said mildly. “Tell me what you knew.”

Burke’s jaw worked. His lips began to move—not answering, but reciting.

Luna felt it immediately: the low hum of spellcraft. Burke’s voice dropped into a chant, syllables scraping against each other like broken glass.

Elias sighed. “No.” He snapped his fingers and the chalice tore free of Burke’s hands, rocketing backward through the open window. The sound of metal striking stone echoed faintly from the street below.

Burke screamed, not in rage, but in pain. He staggered, clutching his head as if something inside it were being wrenched sideways.

“That was Mesopotamian,” Elias said casually. “Third dynasty, probably impossible to put a price tag on it. Answer the question.”

Burke sucked in a ragged breath and tried again, forcing out another incantation. The words tangled in his mouth, half formed. A counterspell, Luna realized. He’s trying to fight back against the mind-control token. Crude, desperate, but the best he could manage.

Elias flicked ash onto the marble.

A jade figurine leaped off the credenza and sailed past Burke’s ear, smashing through the window in a spray of green shards.