“How our apartment ever had a security deposit to begin with is a joke,” August says. “The oven doesn’t even go over three-fifty.”

“And it didn’t go over one-fifty before I rewired it,” Myla says.

“Wes?”

The four of them jolt like Scooby Doo and the gang, caught in the act. Niko is not technically allowed to use his key for after-hours communications with the dead. No personal calls, basically—they can’t get caught.

But it’s only Isaiah, fresh from a gig going by the duffel bag thrown over his shoulder and the smudged eyeliner. It’s the first time August has properly seen him out of drag. In his T-shirt and jeans, it’s all very superhero secret identity.

“Isaiah,” Wes says. Niko returns to searching for the right key. “Hey.”

Even in the washed-out darkness of the street, it’s obvious Wes is blushing under his freckles. As Niko would say, that’s interesting.

“Hey, uh … what are y’all doing?” Isaiah asks.

“Uh—” Wes stammers.

Niko glances over his shoulder and says flatly, “A séance.”

Wes looks mortified, but Isaiah is intrigued. “Oh, no shit?”

“You wanna join?” Niko says. “I feel good about the number five tonight.”

“Sure, uh—” He turns, addressing the guy who’s been waiting for him. “You good to get home?”

“No worries, babe,” the guy says. He waves and heads off toward the nearest subway stop.

“Who was that?” Wes says, very obviously trying to sound like he doesn’t care at all.

Isaiah grins. “That’s my new drag daughter. Freshly hatched little baby. Goes by Sara Tonin.”

Myla laughs. “Genius.”

“Aha!” Niko crows, victorious, and the door to the shop swings open.

Niko leaves the overhead lights off and moves purposefully around the shop, lighting velones de santos like the ones he’s shown her at home until the glow mixes with the moonlight and the muddy flood of the streetlights. The space is wall-to-wall shelves, full of stones and bundles of herbs and animal skulls, bottles of Niko’s home-brewed Alcoholado. One rickety bookshelf sags under hundreds of bottles and jars, most filled with murky oil and labeled things like FAST LUCK and DRAGON’S BLOOD. There’s a collection of pillar candles too, with cards explaining their uses. The one closest to August is either for reuniting past loves or penis enlargement. She should probably get the prescription on her glasses updated.

“So … is this a … general séance?” Isaiah says. He’s on the other side of the room, examining a jar of teeth. “Or are we trying to talk to someone in particular?”

And now August is in Wes’s position, stammering and hoping Niko doesn’t come through with the truth.

“We’re doing a séance to reach a woman August has a crush on,” Niko says, coming through with the truth.

“Please, sir,” Myla says in an absolutely terrible Southern accent. “It’s my girlfriend, she’s very dead.”

August considers pulling the shelf of potions over on herself and ending it all. “Thank you both for making me sound like a necrophiliac.”

“You know, I thought you were a little spicy when I met you,” says Isaiah, taking it remarkably in stride.

“We don’t know if she’s dead,” August says. “She just happens to have not aged since 1976.”

“That’s basically what we said,” Niko says. “Follow me.”

In the back is a tiny room with a round table draped in the same heavy black cloth as the walls around it. Little poufs surround it, and a shimmery, sheer scarf rests on top, purple and glistening in the low light, spirals of gold and silver stars winking up at them.

Niko’s already lit a bundle of sage and set it to smolder in an abalone bowl. He’s at the table, carefully arranging incense and a ring of crystals around tall white candles, the kind you see in a Catholic church when you’re leaving a prayer for the Virgin Mary, except August is definitely the only virgin here and she doesn’t think praying to her would accomplish anything.

“Grab a seat,” Niko says. He’s holding a spent match between his teeth and a lit one between his thumb and forefinger. August has never seen him so fully in his element. Myla looks turned on.

“How is this going to work?” August asks.

“We’re going to try calling Jane’s spirit,” Niko says. “If she’s dead, she should be able to project herself here and talk to us, and then we’ll know for sure. If she’s not, well. Probably nothing will happen.”

“Probably?”

“Something else might come forward,” he says, lighting another match with total nonchalance as if he has not just suggested some unknown force from the great beyond could Beetlejuice into the room and rub its little demon hands all over them. “It happens. If you open a door, anything can come through it. But it’ll be fine.”

“I swear to God, if a ghost kills me, I’ll haunt the shower,” Wes says. “You guys will never have hot water again.”

“We don’t have hot water now,” August points out.

“Fine, I’ll haunt the toilet.”

“Why do you want to haunt a bathroom, man?” Isaiah asks.

“It’s where people are most vulnerable,” Wes says, like it’s obvious. Isaiah frowns thoughtfully and nods.

“Ghosts can’t kill you,” Niko says mildly. “Everyone hush.”

He lights the remaining candles, speaking quiet Spanish to someone no one can see. Wes tenses at August’s side as the last flame goes up.

“August?” Niko says. He’s looking at her expectantly, and she realizes: the scarf. She unwinds it from her neck and lays it on the table, the image of her uncle’s pocketknife laid across a gauzy cloth flashing through her brain.

“Okay,” he says. “Take one anothers’ hands.”

Myla’s callused palm slots neatly into August’s. Wes hesitates, looking unwilling to release his iron grip on his sweatshirt sleeves, but he finally gives in and laces his fingers through August’s. They’re clammy and as bony as they look, but comforting. He tentatively picks up Isaiah’s on his other side.

Across the table, Niko closes his eyes and releases a long, steady breath before speaking.

“This works better if everyone is open to what’s happening,” he says. “Even if you don’t know that you believe, or you’re afraid, try to open your mind and focus on radiating a sense of welcoming and warmth. We’re asking for a favor. Be kind about it.”

August bites her lip. Isaiah’s usual bright glow has dimmed to a reverent smolder as he brushes his thumb across Wes’s hand. It’s pretty late on a weeknight for a post-drag séance, especially considering he works a desk job, but he looks unbothered by the time.

“August,” Niko says, and she snaps her eyes to him. “Are you ready?”

Focus. Welcoming and warmth. Open mind. She releases a breath and nods.

“Spirit guides,” Niko says, “we come to you tonight in search of understanding, in the hopes we’ll receive a sign of your presence. Please feel welcome in our circle and join us when you’re ready.”