TEN MINUTES LATER, I walked into the shop. It stank of cheap suntan lotion, not quite masking a smell that reminded me of Gran’s attic, of dirt and dust and disuse. Most tourists probably never veered from the path between the door to the cash register, lined with T-shirt racks and baskets of cheap shells.

There was no bell over the door, but the clerk’s head shot up as I walked in, setting off his spell. Middle-aged with blond shoulder-length hair, he wore a tank top, his flaccid triceps swaying as he moved to the counter. Behind him was the conch shell.

I made it two more steps before the vision hit. A deep voice chanted in my ear. Disembodied hands appeared, pale against the black. Fog swirled from the hands.

A sorcerer. My gaze went to his hands, which were safely folded on the counter. Sorcerer magic is cast by a combination of words and gestures, but the security spell suggested he might also know some witch magic. Better to keep an eye on his lips then, and duck if he started muttering.

I extended my hand. “Marietta Khan, special aide to the council. I work with Paige Winterbourne.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You know who she is, then. Good. It has come to the council’s attention that you’re under surveillance by the Cortez Cabal, following reports of spellcasting in this neighborhood.”

He paled, then straightened. “I’ve been broken into six times in the past year. I have the right to defend my property as long as I don’t use excessive force.”

“You’re right.”

“And if you people think-” He stopped. “I’m right?”