On the other side of the wall, Glory also lay wide-eyed and wakeful. She imagined the Inquisition’s witch prowling around next door, plotting his next move. He was a strong witch, that was for sure. As soon as he’d begun his witchwork, her own Seventh Sense had felt the fae leap and crackle in the air between them. She wasn’t afraid of him – at least, not in the way she was afraid of Charlie Morgan. But he made her nervous.
As a result of her restless night, Glory slept through her alarm and didn’t get up until mid-morning. Still, the extra sleep had done her good. She felt hopeful and alert. First, she decided, she’d sort out the mess with Patch and the accounting. Then she’d show Harry around. He might be more forthcoming once she got him on his own, away from the coven.
There was a secure line to Charlie Morgan’s office in the basement meeting room. It was furnished with a telephone, computer and a battered conference table and chairs. She half hoped she could leave a message, but her call was answered with an irritable ‘What?’
‘Morning, Uncle C.’
Monster. Murderer. I’m gonna take you down . . .
Coolly, she explained the situation with Patch’s brother and the gambling debt, and confirmed the money would be repaid at the end of the month.
There was heavy breathing from the other end of the line. ‘So what next?’
‘How d’you mean? I did what you wanted and I got you your cash. Patch never meant no harm. As for Dad . . . well, he’s a soft touch. But he knew Patch would do right by him.’
Charlie made a scoffing sound. ‘Your dad’s head is so far in the clouds it’s practically on Pluto. This is what happens when a coven loses its way – without discipline, people take advantage.’
‘Maybe so. In which case, getting us back on track – and restoring discipline – is my problem. And Cooper Street’s business.’
She sucked in her breath, trying to visualise the man on the other end of the line. The shrewd cruel eyes, the well-fed face. Had she gone too far? There was a long wait before he answered.
‘If you’re not careful, there won’t be much of a business left. I need to see results, Glory. I’m depending on you.’
He hung up. Murderer, she mouthed at the phone. Bastard. Murderous treacherous bastard scum.
She had just got up to leave when Jacko and Earl pushed through the door. They were talking about Harry.
‘. . . I only met him the one time,’ Jacko was saying. ‘’S’funny, though. He seems younger than I remembered.’
Earl chuckled. ‘All the better for us. He’s used to living soft too. Anyone can see.’
‘Ain’t you the early birds,’ Glory remarked, before they could ask what she was doing there. ‘What’s up?’
‘Gotta check on the online perfume sales,’ said Jacko. ‘The computer upstairs keeps crashing.’ He turned on the PC. ‘Chinese Dave phoned – said there’s a problem with the latest DVD order. Nate’s gone to talk to him, and taken Harry along.’
‘You serious? I thought Harry was supposed to be lying low. Not being paraded about like a prize poodle. At this rate, we’ll have the Inquisition sniffing round our doorstep before the week’s out.’
In fact, Nate’s recklessness made her own job easier. The Wednesday Coven would be on to Harry even more quickly. She couldn’t believe no one else had considered the risks though.
Earl looked uncomfortable. ‘I did tell ’em to be careful. And Nate swore not to say a word –’
But Glory was already hurrying up the stairs to Number Seven’s attic. If Nate and Harry were with Chinese Dave, they’d be gone for at least an hour. It was the perfect chance to investigate Harry’s glamour.
If Glory had wanted to publicly expose him, she would need to destroy the amulet he was using. She only wanted to see through his glamour without him knowing. This meant reversing the witchwork involved.
Glory knew a glamour’s illusion could outlast its amulet for some time, depending on its contact with the witch who had crafted it. But to be safe, Harry would be wearing an amulet close to his skin. To be even safer, he would have a ready-made spare. She could work on that just as effectively.
Her search began with the various nooks and crannies in the attic. All she found was dust. From there, she went through the folded pile of clothes by the mattress, checking the seams. Then she moved to the sports bag. Its lining had already been searched by Nate, and she didn’t find anything new.
She sat back on her heels and surveyed the room. What a neat-freak. The contents of the washbag were laid out as tidily as the clothes. Toothbrush and paste, shower gel, flannel and the rest were all lined up to one side of the sink. The one missing item was the deodorant, which was in a zipped-up side pocket of the otherwise empty bag. It struck her as odd because everything else was so carefully set out.
Glory gave the can a shake, and – feeling foolish – sprayed it out of the window. OK, so it worked. What now? She’d already spent twenty minutes on the search. She took out some of her irritation on the can, twisting it about with her hands in frustration. It was then the base popped open, and a fold of grubby paper fell out. Bingo.
Now the real work could begin.
Firstly, she had to cover her tracks. Best keep it simple: she’d make up some story about having to ‘borrow’ Harry’s bag, and present him with a replacement later. Since he could hardly kick up a fuss about a missing deodorant, he’d just have to craft another glamour as soon as he could.
Secondly, she had to find a vantage spot for undoing the glamour. She needed to have a clear view of her target, yet be out of sight herself. This was easier said than done. But luck was on her side. It was a sunny day, and when Nate and Harry returned at twelve, they went straight out into the scrubby patch of weeds that was Number Seven’s back garden. Chunk followed, carrying pizza and beer. Glory could do the job from the safety of her own bedroom.
She pulled a side table over to the window and placed a mirror face down, to use as a work-board. If she was going to undo the witchwork, she needed to reverse as many of its components as possible. Very carefully, she unfolded the amulet. It was gummed together by a paste of ash and bits of unknown grit. She spread it out flat to examine the little stick man with his pink cheeks and scribbled yellow hair. As she touched it, she could feel the Devil’s Kiss warm beneath her collar bone responding to the fae imprinted on the paper.
Glory brushed off as much of the ash mix as possible, before licking her index finger and rubbing it through the grit. Then she picked up her eraser. She was glad the picture hadn’t been done in ink; working with Tipp-Ex would have been messy, and harder to control. Watching Harry out in the garden, drink in hand, she took the eraser and dragged it in slow strong strokes across the yellow-haired stick man. Her fae flowed through, rubbing out the fae worked into the lines and shading of the picture.
It wasn’t easy. The pencil didn’t fade like it should. The other witch’s fae was resisting hers, and the effort sent pins and needles shooting through her hand. Her Devil’s Kiss ached. Still, Harry was looking blurred. Like a watercolour painting that had got wet. Finally, she took his name – a false name for a false identity – and unpicked it. Backwards-speech was the language of reversals. Sekuj Yrrah she whispered, as the brown pencil eyes grew fainter and the pink pencil cheeks faded. Sekuj Yrrah.
Now her view of Harry was nothing but grey fuzz. Glory pressed the blank rag of paper between her palms. Sekuj Yrrah, she said for a third time, this time commandingly. Her eyes stung and watered. And when the mist cleared, a pale slim boy with dark hair was staring up at her window.
In spite of herself, she started away in shock. He really was her own age, not just some under-grown twenty-year-old. A boy witch with powers near equal to hers! He must already be an important figure in WICA if they and the Inquisition entrusted him with undercover work.
Who was he and where did he come from? He was better-looking than his glamour but she didn’t reckon that he and ‘Harry’ were too dissimilar in background. You could spot the public school type a mile off. Like those twits in green uniforms at the bus stop the other day. It was an air they had. A gleam and polish . . . Maybe that’s why this boy looked slightly familiar. She’d bet he wasn’t putting on his toff accent, or that haughty manner. Believe me, I don’t underestimate the challenge.
But Glory liked a challenge too. Seeing the witch’s true face had only increased her curiosity.