Summary of the Ouija-board session with Mrs. Polina Mankarest.

  After more than forty-five minutes of insisting, the planchette finally began to move. My questions were precise, directed to the shadow that had chosen to answer our call. The replies were erratic and senseless:

  “At the roof of the world… fugitives… they crossed… spirits… whisper… those abysses… they did not arrive… beware… beware… beware… others are… they are searching… beware… beware.”

  Laulak says it may point to mountains—the route the Spoutniks took in their flight—but I disagree. I think it’s a metaphor. Perhaps the key is in the heavens… with Balakan.

  Tofi finished reading and fell into thought. He could picture the scene—on certain nights, depending on the alignment of the stars, his uncle held spiritualist sessions in the great hall of the tavern The Highland Ghost after closing time. Mrs. Mankarest, the ironmonger’s wife in Leedzen, presided. She specialized in card reading, the pendulum, tarot, and family séances to settle unfinished business with the dead or pry open secrets with the intercession of shadows. Uncle Wolfram was one of her regular clients—much to Mama Laulak’s disgust.

  “Are you going to finish that?” a nun asked, cutting off Tofi’s reflections.

  He glanced up. The sister stood there with a tray stacked with dirty plates collected from nearby tables. Tofi smiled, scooped up the last of his food—spaghetti and a few fried sausages drowning in cheap tomato sauce—and set the plate on her tray. She moved on toward a Syrian family at the next table. A minute later, raised voices broke out between the nun and the family’s patriarch over whether the sausages served were halal.

  Tofi was in the dining hall of the Mission of Blessed Serafina of Müguelein. After dinner he sipped his coffee and reached for his notebook—when two teenagers slipped in. He barely looked up until he recognized one of them: Wang-Kei. He tracked them as they crossed to a back table where a vagrant was eating. The boys took the seats across from him and started talking. Tofi slid discreetly to a shadowed corner and listened.

  “You realize you’ll be stepping on the Kurkis’ monopoly?” the vagrant muttered. “They move the Ore.”

  “Let us worry about that,” Wang-Kei shot back. “Can you get us Red Ore?”

  “You got the money?” the man asked.

  One of the boys pulled out an envelope and set it on the table. The vagrant scooped it up with filthy fingers and tucked it into his coat.

  “Harder and harder to source meth,” he said. “They’re switching to the more lucrative Red Trance. You can bet on it.”

  “Exactly what we want,” Wang said. “Alya told us to use this to buy Ore.”

  The vagrant bit into a sausage slick with tomato sauce and calmly wiped his mustache. “When do you want it?”

  “When can you get it?” Wang’s friend asked.

  The man eyed them sideways. “Tonight, around eight. Find me at the Piazza di Santa Maria di Porta…”

  The boys left. The vagrant waited until they were gone, then took out his phone.

  “The elves took the bait,” he said.

  He kept eating. Tofi shouldered his backpack—his laptop tucked inside—and slipped out toward the square. What he found there was bleak. The plaza was decrepit, dominated by an ancient church along one side—long closed, if anyone even remembered when it last opened its doors. Around it, shuttered shops with corrugated iron curtains; every wall was a scrawl of graffiti. Only one window glowed, high up on the third floor of a building, the lone sign of life in the decayed square.

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  Tofi hid in a side alley and waited. The two boys arrived and stopped in the middle of the plaza. From each corner, young men emerged, surrounding them.

  “Where’s Murka?” one of the boys demanded. “And who are you?”

  The newcomers drew weapons and disarmed the teens.

  “You know the Ore trade is ours,” said the one who seemed to be the leader. “We’re the Kurkis.”

  The two boys raised their hands.

  “You know the price?” the man asked.

  They nodded, terrified. One of the Kurkis grabbed the boy by the neck. The teen struggled, but it was over in a single motion: the knife flashed; the cut was clean; blood welled at once. Tofi stumbled back in horror, banging into a brace of iron pipes propping a wall. The three Kurkis whipped around at the noise. The surviving boy bolted. One Kurki sprinted after him; another stalked toward the sound. The third stayed in the square, reporting in on his phone.

  Tofi crouched behind heaps of trash and splintered boards. The Kurki advanced slowly, listening.

  His own heartbeat thudded in his throat. Then the teen’s phone rang. He answered, and Tofi caught enough to understand the order: get out—sirens approaching, no risks tonight.

  The kurki backed off and hurried toward the plaza. “Carabinieri coming,” he told the one who’d stayed.

  “What about Zum?” the other asked.

  “He’s after the elf.”

  Tofi exhaled and ran—then skidded to a halt. Ahead, the chasing Kurki prowled a narrow lane. Wang-Kei had dashed into a doorway and was hiding, breath ragged, knowing the Kurkis would kill him if they found him. After a few minutes, he risked it, slipping out to flee—only to turn a corner and find the Kurki head-on.

  “Shit,” Wang hissed, stopping short.

  The Kurki drew an elven plasma dart-gun, leveled it, and prepared to fire. Wang spun to run—and smashed face-first into a bundle of pipes jutting from the wall. He went down, mouth bleeding.

  The Kurki grinned and strolled up, kicking Wang in the face before aiming the weapon at him. “That’ll teach you not to mess with the Kurkis,” he said, finger tightening on the trigger. Wang squeezed his eyes shut.

  A sharp whistle—

  The Kurki wheeled, gun up—

  —and a crackling ball of electricity slammed into his chest, hurling him into a second-story wall. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

  At the end of the lane stood Tofi, shouldering the ecto-buzz, still aimed. When he was sure the threat was neutralized, he hurried to the fallen Kurki. The teen’s phone was ringing. Tofi rifled his pockets and found, among other stuff, an ancient Roman coin. He blinked. Elven script. A wolf-headed man stamped on the face. He pocketed the coin, snatched up the phone, and memorized the number, knowing it might be useful. Then he raced to Wang-Kei, who lay stunned.

  “Come on,” he urged, shaking him. “They’ll be here any second.”

  “What are you doing here?” Wang mumbled through blood.

  “Be grateful I was passing by. Up!”

  “Where’s Muliak?” Wang asked.

  “Whoever he was—he’s lying in the plaza with his throat cut.”

  Wang stared at Tofi, shocked. Shouts echoed down the alley, calling to the attacker.

  “We need to go,” Tofi said.

  They ran. The Kurki on the ground groaned awake as his companions arrived and hauled him up.

  “Hunka, where’s the slant-eyed brat?” one asked.

  “Got away,” Hunka muttered, rubbing his head.

  “Leave him,” the leader said. “Let him carry the message. We already killed one.”

  They sprinted through the lane into the plaza. The dead boy lay where he’d fallen. One Kurki crouched, drew his knife, and sliced off the pointed ears. Sirens wailed closer.

  “MOVE IT, HUNKA!” a lackey yelled.

  Hunka stood, kicked the corpse, and took off after the others, vanishing into the maze as a patrol car nosed into the square.

  Several blocks away, Tofi and Wang crouched behind parked cars.

  “Damn it,” Wang whispered at last, still shaking.

  “Who were they?” Tofi asked.

  “Rivals,” Wang said. “We split the drug trade, but they’ve taken the lead with Red Trance —the new stuff. They’re squeezing us out.”

  An ambulance screamed past, followed by a police car. The boys crept back toward the crime scene. In the Piazza di Santa Maria di la Porta Antiqua, police lights strobed. A heavyset man in a cheap suit scowled down at the body while forensics lifted it onto a stretcher.

  “Inspector Rossini,” Wang murmured. “He’s been trying to shut the traffic down.”

  “Why cut the ears?” Tofi asked.

  “To hide identities,” Wang said bleakly. “Shit.” He slid down to the curb. “We’re screwed. They took the money and killed Muliak. Prince Alya will skin me alive.”

  “Take me with you,” Tofi said. “I’ll back your statement.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Wang said.

  “You don’t have many options,” Tofi replied. “Unless you’d rather run and hide with me.”

  “Prince Alya will send hunters. They’ll find me,” Wang said, defeated.

  “Then I’m your only card.”

  Wang peered over the rim of the dumpster, chewed his knuckles, and nodded. “All right. But no promises.”

  “I know they hate me,” Tofi said. “But I might be useful.”