I’d headed straight for the fountain, scooped up a handful of water, and heaved a sigh of relief when it worked. Although the warm water had turned invisible the moment I cupped it, I’d felt its wetness, been able to dribble it from my hand and watch it become visible again. For a moment I was afraid I was a ghost. I’d hastened to one of the large standing stones and forced myself to place a hand against its eerie, obsidian coolness. It, however, had not vanished. Apparently only small things did.

As I’d made the long trek back to Dublin on foot, not willing to boost one of the SUVs and stir any suspicions, the Sinsar Dubh had insisted I leave this world because they would never stop hunting us.

I refused.

We argued all the way back to Dublin, which had taken most of the night. It threatened, cajoled, bullied, even tried to charm.

I’d been unmoved.

So long as I don’t draw my spear, which spurs a mindless killing frenzy, I remain in control of my feet, and I’m staying on this world, period, the end.

I’ve drawn my line in the sand, and the Book had damn well better toe it. There’s no question this is war. A lukewarm one at the moment but war nonetheless.

We’ve established a détente of sorts. The Book is now willing to toss me a bit of aid because—although it taught me the hard way that if I draw my spear to kill, it can make me kill others—last night I taught the Sinsar Dubh a harder lesson: I’m willing to sacrifice myself to save the world from what I might do to it.

It’s never going to let that happen.

So it’s keeping me invisible. Any small items I pick up or put on also vanish from the realm of the seen.

When I arrived in the city early this morning, I further tested the extent of my corporeality by shouting at two See-You-in-Faery girls hanging outside Chester’s while chucking a couple of rocks in their direction. They heard me, and were hit by my inexplicably materializing rocks. It was deliciously fun. Upon my return to the bookstore, I experimented more and realized if I wasn’t careful I could give myself away by sitting on a soft chair or sofa, creating a petunia-shaped indent. It appears minor things become invisible when I touch them but major things don’t. When I walk across the rug, my invisibility has no impact on it. When I press the handle to flush the toilet, it remains visible.

I suspect if I tried to turn myself over, the Book would take further measures to impede me. No worries there. I’ll sacrifice myself if there’s no other choice but I certainly won’t go hunting for the opportunity.

In the meantime, the Sinsar Dubh has decided to keep me as cloaked as a Klingon Bird of Prey.

“Works for me,” I say cheerfully as I bang out the front door of Barrons Books & Baubles. It’s two in the afternoon, the time of day the erstwhile ex-owner of my shop and man who dominates the top of my lengthy shit-list never comes around. I just finished showering (carefully wiping down the tile before hiding the damp towels in the back of a closet) and changed clothes (into the first outfit I’ve liked in a long time, pity that no one can see it, including myself, topped off with a lovely skull-bedecked pink scarf that I no longer have to worry about getting stained and smelly), pulled on soft-soled boots, and grabbed a few protein bars from my stash. I was actually stupid enough to look in the mirror, prelude to putting makeup on. Ha. That’s not going to happen. No need to style my hair either. Eating was a special challenge, since I can’t see myself or the food and you don’t realize how heavily you rely on a peripheral visual awareness of your body to eat until you no longer have it, but after stabbing myself in the nose and chin a few times (I decide against washing my face again, if I have chocolate smudges, no one can see them), I managed.

It’s time to find out what’s going on in the world, all those details I’ve been missing. Time to do some long overdue investigating.

MacKayla Lane: unstoppable supersleuth.

For the first time in months, it’s fun to be me.

Unfortunately, being corporeal means I’m as subject to the elements as everyone else, and it’s once again raining in Dublin; a torrential spring downpour, good for the newly planted flowers and trees but bad for me.

Once I grabbed it, my umbrella became invisible, too, but that just makes me a larger, unseen obstacle, and foliage isn’t the only new addition to Dublin’s streets, there are people out walking, just like old times, hurrying to and fro, chins chucked down beneath hats and umbrellas.

Twice passersby collided with me when I didn’t sidestep fast enough, and both times I nearly lost my parasol and took a brief but thorough drenching. This being invisible is tricky stuff. It may take me a while to get the hang of it. I make a mental note that once I reach my destination, I’m going to have to dry off so I don’t leak a trail of water everywhere I go.