I deployed the mass projection, effectively wiping Vera out of existence. She and her jean jacket, camo pants, and canvas backpack disappeared in the eyes of everyone except me. She sucked in a steadying breath as all her senses went wonky.

“I still don’t … like this,” she muttered, holding her hands out in front of her.

We resumed our approach. By the time we reached Corky’s, her gait almost resembled that of a normal, functioning human being.

I sniffed the rancid air wafting out the door and asked in an undertone, “Are you sure they serve actual food here?”

She scrunched her nose. “Maybe just order coffee.”

I opened the door with enough gusto for her to slip in after me.

The inside of Corky’s Cuisine didn’t smell any better than the outside, nor did the décor inspire confidence in its culinary competence. The tables looked like the wobbly leftovers from other dive bars, while the chairs had definitely been stolen from the defective bin behind an unguarded Walmart.

My shoe stuck to the tiled floor, and I employed considerable effort not to make an “ew” face at the mysteriously tacky brown substance I’d walked through. A rough, handwritten note stapled to the wall instructed me to seat myself, so I chose the least rickety table I could find in the loneliest corner of the restaurant.

Vera trailed behind me. “You’re sure none of them can see me?”

We both looked across Corky’s distinctly male patronage. Five men were crowded around a single table in the corner opposite mine, and none of them seemed to know what a razor was. They spoke to one another in an eloquent language of grunts.

“Kind of a sausage party, isn’t it?” I observed.

“Yeah. A greasy one.”

A man in his sixties, roughly the same size and shape of an elderly orangutan, lumbered out of the kitchen and crossed to my table. “Whattya want?”

“Just coffee for now.”

“That it?”

“For now.”

The aproned orangutan muttered something unkind and walked away, never once looking in Vera’s direction. As he disappeared into the kitchen, she relaxed.

“It’s working,” I murmured, trying not to move my lips too much. “Either that or he’s incapable of acknowledging anyone without a Y chromosome.”

She surveyed the dude-centric room again. “Faustus does tend to run a bit of a boy’s club. How far does your illusion thingy extend?”

“As long as you stay inside the restaurant, you’ll be okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“A hundred percent.”

She stood there for a moment longer, then shook her head. “I’m not getting any visions, so I guess we’re good to go.”

“Then run along,” I urged her. “The faster you are, the sooner you can return to your visible form.”

To be honest, I was less concerned with her personal comfort than my endurance. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep the halluci-bomb going.

With a quick nod, she moved away from the table and navigated her way through the restaurant.

Step Two: Hide and Seek.

Our success was solely in Vera’s hands now. All I had to do was sit still and maintain the projection while she stealthily searched the building for Faustus’s stash of artifacts.

This part of our plan was comparatively weak when stacked up against the idea of posing as potential buyers, where the artifacts would be on display and easy to access. She’d have to comb the bowels of Corky’s for clues, and being invisible, she had to be careful while moving about. She couldn’t shift anything, including doors, if anyone might see it.

And the biggest potential obstacle: if her artifacts were sealed inside a magically reinforced piggy bank or otherwise inaccessible, then we were screwed. And that, of course, would lead to …

Step Three: Improvise.

Orangutan-man pushed through the door, carrying a plate of weirdly slimy chicken wings, and Vera slipped into the kitchen unnoticed. The server/cook/primate delivered the poultry limbs to the beefy men in the other corner, then returned to his greasy domain in the back.

Well, nothing for me to do now but maintain the projection and relax. The more energy I conserved, the better. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. In and out, slow and deep.

Several quiet minutes passed, then my respiratory concentration was interrupted by the odor of something that resembled sour coffee. I looked up to see that my order had arrived—only it wasn’t the orangu-man who’d delivered it.

Standing in front of me was a fellow with long, straight, jet-black hair that clung to his skull and hung down to his elbows. His clean-shaven, birdlike face made it difficult to pinpoint his age. Thirty-five? Seventy-five? Probably somewhere in between. Everything, from his nose to his shoulders to the pattern on his blazer, was bizarrely geometric. Even his blindingly white grin was too triangular to be natural.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said in a voice that registered somewhere between a whisper and a squeak. He extended his hand toward me. “My name is Faustus. Faustus Trivium.”

Chapter Eighteen

It took me a couple of seconds to fully absorb who and what I was looking at. Faustus Trivium. The very artifact dealer we were here to steal from. The one whose reputation was nasty enough to make Vera nervous. The guy who was hosting a “stolen magic” auction for the city’s criminals tonight.

Yeah, him.

I reached out and completed the handshake. “I’m Kit.”

Should I have used a fake name? Probably, but I was channeling most of my brainpower elsewhere at the moment.

Faustus’s strange smile widened. This guy didn’t resemble a single “thuggish criminal” stereotype. He looked more like a combination of Skrillex, Tilda Swinton, and a box of Wheat Thins.

He pulled out the chair across from me. “Mind if I sit?”

I shrugged, and he delicately set himself down on the chair, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands in his lap.

“I own this place,” he told me, still wearing that grin.

Great info, except I already knew that. Why had he stopped to talk to me? Did he suspect something? My mind raced through the possibilities, which wasn’t good. A racing mind tuckers out a hell of a lot faster than the non-racing variety, and I had a halluci-bomb to maintain.

“That must keep you busy,” I replied, unable to come up with anything more intelligent.

“Occasionally. But I have other interests that take up more of my time.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a collector. I collect things.”

I was aware of that too, but I feigned ignorance. “Like what? Antiques?”

His triangle smile got colder and the edges got harder. “Don’t be cute, Kit. I know what you are.”

My blood chilled, and I forced a slow breath through my nostrils. I couldn’t panic. Not yet. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a mythic.” He reached into the collar of his turtleneck and withdrew a gaudy gold chain. Dangling off it was a diamond-encrusted compass that couldn’t possibly point north. “I won this artifact in a game of poker a few years ago. It alerts me when another mythic is in its presence, and it detected you the moment you set foot in my restaurant. You must have a powerful mythic essence about you.”