I set to work with the chalk, sketching out a generic beacon sigil for Hermeneus spirits on the paper Lon gave me. A companion symbol was tattooed on my inner arm in white ink, along with several others inside an ancient Egyptian style cartouche that could be activated with a smear of Heka-rich body fluids like spit or blood. When Priya and I were linked, I used the tattoo to call it. But Priya’s death severed this link, and to reestablish it, I was going to have to do some creative spellwork.

In my magical order, calling a Hermeneus spirit would be a big to-do, a temple ritual that would be witnessed by the congregation. Sort of like a Bar Mitzvah. The magician calling the spirit would be in ritual robes. There’d be an energy-raising ceremony beforehand, a lot of chanting. The whole shebang would be presided over by the leader of the order, the Caliph—my godfather. And afterward, depending on the success of the ritual, which had a fifty-fifty chance of working, depending on the magician, there would be a celebratory round of wine or consolatory round of “it just wasn’t in the stars” and “maybe next time” speeches.

I would no sooner don a ritual robe than stick a knitting needle in my ear, and I didn’t need a crowd of chanting occultists to cheer me on. It felt good just to be doing magick the old-fashioned way, chalk in hand, caduceus by my side, whistling “Breaking the Law” while I worked.

Once finished with the beacon, I used the second piece of paper to write Priya’s name inside a cartouche with my personal sigil as a magician—a moon cradling a flat three-tiered rose—and connected the two sketches with a series of linking symbols. I didn’t really know for sure that this would work. I hadn’t actually known any magicians who’d tried to re-link themselves to reincarnated guardians. On the rare occasion that a guardian died, most magicians would just try to call a new one.

But I didn’t want a new guardian. I wanted Priya.

In the center of the calling sigil, I poured a small pile of the salt I’d stolen from Lon’s kitchen—some sort of fancy gourmet sea salt I liked to tease him about, because Morton’s table salt was too crude for his superstar palate. For a brief moment, I idly wondered if better ingredients, as in cooking, made for better magick.

His hundred-dollar paring knife was certainly sharper than the dime-store utility knife in my kitchen drawer. And it damn sure made a sizable nick on the pad of my pinkie finger. Kneeling on the cement, I pressed the edges of the cut together and watched as dark drops of my gourmet Heka-rich blood plopped onto the white salt pile.

A soft gust of wind sifted through my hair and caused a few grains of salt to scatter. Better get this done before the whole pile blew away.

One good thing about living in a big city was that there was such a wealth of electrical current. I barely had to reach out for it. A bright stream of electricity jumped into my body, latching onto my Heka, mixing with it, charging it. My nerve endings fizzled with raw energy. The roots of my hair swelled and lifted. Cells bounced around, dancing deliriously.

I was alert. Strong. In charge. And damn if it didn’t feel good!

But as I kindled Heka, somewhere in the horizon of my mind I spotted the now-dreaded flicker of blue light.

No fucking way. I definitely did not want to screw around with wild magick while I was trying to do something so specific and technical. And I damn sure didn’t want to hear my mom’s treacherous voice again.

It was all I could do to hold on to my kindled energy while I pushed back the Moonchild magic. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep it at bay, but I had it under control for the moment. Maybe I could learn to pick and choose what I want to use for kindling: electricity or moon power. The best of both worlds. That thought gave me a little thrill.

Breathless and shaking, I sputtered the words to the spell, a phrase of rough commands in classical Hebrew. Then I slammed the graphite tip of the winged caduceus onto the outer edge of the calling sigil.

“Priya, come!” I shouted into the wind and released the kindled Heka. It poured into the caduceus, coursed through it, and spread across my red ochre marks—all the way through the line that connected the calling sigil to Priya’s name. The marks lit up with a pulsing white light.

Reflected energy ran back up my arm and hit me like the kick of shotgun. My shoulder jerked back as the caduceus overloaded and flew out of my hand. It streaked across the cement roof and struck the low brick wall, exploding into a shower of wood splinters and golden sparks.

And before I had a tenth of a second to be surprised, the post-magick nausea lashed up and slapped me silly. My stomach clenched, my chest heaved. The sharp, acrid stench of the vomit that followed mixed with something sickly sweet. I really wish I hadn’t eaten all those stupid blackberry bars.

Lesson number one when doing any big spellwork involving a lot of kindled Heka: bring tissue and water . . . which I did not. As I swayed on my knees, I spit twice in disgust, then wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket, making a mental note to shove it in Kar Yee’s washer later.

A mass of crackling white light appeared in front of my face.

“Shit!”

I instinctually scrambled backward, struggling to pull my legs out from under me. The light flickered like a TV set with a bad connection, then a humansized boy lunged out of the sky.

A boy with a head of black hair that stuck out straight in all directions like a sooty nest.

Flying.

With wings.

His body was human, mostly. His nails were glossy, black, a little longer than they should be—almost talon-like. His skin had a silver gray cast to it. He was wearing loose pants that fell below his hips.