16

MIXED PICKLE PRESS was written in chipped gold paint on the window of a small, dingy door wedged between a Persian rug store and a pizzeria. Half of the buildings in the area consisted of modern chi-chi type cafés, furniture stores, and clothing boutiques, while the other half were remnants of darker days. I pressed my face up to the glass. A narrow staircase was visible through the greasy film. I could tell the walls hadn’t been painted — or washed, for that matter — in decades.

“You’re joking, right?” said Hollis. “You can’t possibly expect me to follow you in there? What kind of a publisher is this, anyway?”

I had my own concerns about ascending those stairs, but I wasn’t about to let Hollis know that. “Obviously one that isn’t doing too well.”

She rolled her eyes. “Very funny.”

“Come on,” I said. “I can’t do this without you.”

“And why not?”

“Because,” I said, reaching for the tarnished brass doorknob, “I can’t just walk in there and go demanding to see the White Witch. Do you think publishers just hand out the real names and addresses of their authors — ones that obviously use pseudonyms for privacy? My plan requires the two of us. So get yourself in here or stay cursed forever.”

The threat seemed to do the trick. Hollis narrowed her eyes and motioned. “Après vous.”

I swung the door open. Its hinges screamed like I was torturing them. I stepped inside, with Hollis at my heels. The stairwell smelled musty — like a hamper full of unwashed clothes. I can’t say I wasn’t a tad worried, but it was a place of business, I told myself, not some motorcycle gang’s hideout.

I took a deep breath and crept up the stairs. Hollis was holding my arm in a death grip. At the top landing I had to turn right. The dank hallway gave way to a space not much larger than my living room. What I saw there melted my fear into a puddle of bewilderment. I scrunched my eyes and opened them. I wasn’t dreaming.

An old floral sofa, complete with doilies on the headrests, was off to one side. There was a rickety coffee table with piles of mini books similar to my Remedies, Rituals, and Incantations scattered across the top. A few old picture frames adorned the walls — some that looked like they housed certificates or awards. In the opposite corner there were several metal filing cabinets and a huge old wooden desk with a computer that could be politely classified as antique. And sitting at the desk that was covered in piles of manila envelopes of various sizes and shapes, was a rather large, rather menacing-looking clown.