patting the right-hand pocket to be sure the shop keys were still there. If they jingled, she couldn’t hear them over the obnoxious alarm, but the bulk and heft of them reassured her.
She’d clattered three steps down the stairs when the alarm died.
A ragged cheer went up from the neighbors. The newborn in unit 205 wailed.
Isa cringed.
“Was that an earthquake?” the woman from the unit next to Isa’s asked.
“Don’t think so,” the guy from across the hall said. “Only one shop alarm. Ms. Romanchzyk, let me walk down with you.”
“No need,” she called over her shoulder. “Alarm company’s on the phone, and the police are already on-site, but thanks! Sorry about the alarm!”
Doors closed behind her.
“Ms. Romanchzyk?” the guy on the other end of the phone said. “Did you secure the alarm?”
“No,” she said. “Still in the stairwell. Must have been the police.”
The phone line popped and crackled.
“Could be,” he said. “But I’m reading a fault in the system . . .”
She lost whatever he said after that to the noise on the line. She pushed out the door at the bottom of the stairs hoping for clearer reception on the street.
“Sorry, what?”
“. . . sure it’s nothing. Your system lost power. We . . .”
Three loud beeps made her yank the phone away from her ear, swearing. Of course the call would drop.
Isa jogged the half block to Nightmare Ink. The alarm company would certainly call back.
At the bus stop, she slowed, and then stopped.
No flashing red and blue lights. No police cruisers. The curb in front of the shop was empty.
Her hand tightened on the phone. Shards of glass littering the sidewalk in front of her store gleamed, reflecting the yellow and green neon from the kitschy consignment furniture shop one door up from hers.
Isa dialed 911.
Nothing happened. The call wouldn’t ring out. She hung up and tried again. Same thing.
She stared at the screen. No bars.
Useless damned piece of crap.
She’d have to call from the landline in the shop. Surely the alarm company had notified the police when they’d been cut off.
She edged closer to Nightmare Ink, listening intently.
Not a sound.
The window smasher hadn’t hung around it seemed. To be certain, Isa paused and opened to magic.
Gray fading to black silhouettes and golden puddles dotting the pavement beneath the streetlights shimmered with a faint overlay of color—the energetic signatures of everything in the street, animate and inanimate.
The faintest echo of another magical presence stirred the background energy of the street.
Her palms tingled.
Whoever had smashed the window had magic. The signature felt familiar somehow; predatory, elusive, but it wasn’t Daniel’s. Entirely. His magical fingerprint she would have recognized. The residue she sensed seemed confused. The dragon?
She’d never heard of rogue Ink returning to the scene of its escape, but Live Ink had so few data points to go by. Who knew what to expect of Ink that killed its host and achieved a semblance of life?
The only thing she knew for certain was that the dragon would be hungry. The police weren’t equipped to handle an attack from a creature they wouldn’t even be able to see.
She’d have to deal with the creature herself.
Her left quad twitched.
She strode to her shop door.
It seemed ridiculous to have to unlock the glass and varnished wood front door when her plate glass display window had been reduced to crystalline shards and glinting dust. Her neon OPEN sign dangled from one chain.
The breeze out of the south subsided.
A sour, metallic scent bit the back of her throat. Then the wind stirred again, carrying it away.
She turned the key in the lock, yanked her sweatshirt sleeve over her fingers so she wouldn’t print the handle. Isa wavered, hand on the knob. Her senses strained, grasping for something just out of reach. Warning thrummed in her ears like drums pulsing in the distance.
She pulled the door
She’d clattered three steps down the stairs when the alarm died.
A ragged cheer went up from the neighbors. The newborn in unit 205 wailed.
Isa cringed.
“Was that an earthquake?” the woman from the unit next to Isa’s asked.
“Don’t think so,” the guy from across the hall said. “Only one shop alarm. Ms. Romanchzyk, let me walk down with you.”
“No need,” she called over her shoulder. “Alarm company’s on the phone, and the police are already on-site, but thanks! Sorry about the alarm!”
Doors closed behind her.
“Ms. Romanchzyk?” the guy on the other end of the phone said. “Did you secure the alarm?”
“No,” she said. “Still in the stairwell. Must have been the police.”
The phone line popped and crackled.
“Could be,” he said. “But I’m reading a fault in the system . . .”
She lost whatever he said after that to the noise on the line. She pushed out the door at the bottom of the stairs hoping for clearer reception on the street.
“Sorry, what?”
“. . . sure it’s nothing. Your system lost power. We . . .”
Three loud beeps made her yank the phone away from her ear, swearing. Of course the call would drop.
Isa jogged the half block to Nightmare Ink. The alarm company would certainly call back.
At the bus stop, she slowed, and then stopped.
No flashing red and blue lights. No police cruisers. The curb in front of the shop was empty.
Her hand tightened on the phone. Shards of glass littering the sidewalk in front of her store gleamed, reflecting the yellow and green neon from the kitschy consignment furniture shop one door up from hers.
Isa dialed 911.
Nothing happened. The call wouldn’t ring out. She hung up and tried again. Same thing.
She stared at the screen. No bars.
Useless damned piece of crap.
She’d have to call from the landline in the shop. Surely the alarm company had notified the police when they’d been cut off.
She edged closer to Nightmare Ink, listening intently.
Not a sound.
The window smasher hadn’t hung around it seemed. To be certain, Isa paused and opened to magic.
Gray fading to black silhouettes and golden puddles dotting the pavement beneath the streetlights shimmered with a faint overlay of color—the energetic signatures of everything in the street, animate and inanimate.
The faintest echo of another magical presence stirred the background energy of the street.
Her palms tingled.
Whoever had smashed the window had magic. The signature felt familiar somehow; predatory, elusive, but it wasn’t Daniel’s. Entirely. His magical fingerprint she would have recognized. The residue she sensed seemed confused. The dragon?
She’d never heard of rogue Ink returning to the scene of its escape, but Live Ink had so few data points to go by. Who knew what to expect of Ink that killed its host and achieved a semblance of life?
The only thing she knew for certain was that the dragon would be hungry. The police weren’t equipped to handle an attack from a creature they wouldn’t even be able to see.
She’d have to deal with the creature herself.
Her left quad twitched.
She strode to her shop door.
It seemed ridiculous to have to unlock the glass and varnished wood front door when her plate glass display window had been reduced to crystalline shards and glinting dust. Her neon OPEN sign dangled from one chain.
The breeze out of the south subsided.
A sour, metallic scent bit the back of her throat. Then the wind stirred again, carrying it away.
She turned the key in the lock, yanked her sweatshirt sleeve over her fingers so she wouldn’t print the handle. Isa wavered, hand on the knob. Her senses strained, grasping for something just out of reach. Warning thrummed in her ears like drums pulsing in the distance.
She pulled the door
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