The Dark Glamour (666 Park Avenue 2)

existence meant that there was hope. If Jane could find her
somehow
– maybe Dee could dig up another spell, or maybe Jane could somehow get another item of Annette’s – then Jane would never even need to fight Lynne. She could just give Lynne her daughter and go on her merry way. The thought alone was intoxicating.
    Two pudgy little boys ran full-tilt towards the pigeons, who flocked into the air in a heavy, thrashing mass. Jane watched them carefully, trying to decide if she should abandon her bench and move farther away from the central fountain. The outer branches of the park’s paths were a little more peaceful, but still good for people-watching, and pigeons or no, she didn’t feel ready to leave the park entirely. In the meantime, she settled for glaring at the giggling boys, only realizing after the fact that her habitual sunglasses made that compromise basically invisible. The boys took off, careening around the lip of the fountain pool towards the wide white arch that reminded Jane so achingly of home. The pigeons, emboldened by the remnants of the pretzel and their natural New Yorker cockiness, were already settling back down.
    Jane watched them idly, waiting for the disparate threads of thought to come together in her head.
Just like the pigeons,
she reflected smilingly: they seemed chaotic but could resolve into a coherent pattern at any time.
    One pigeon broke away from the flock, hopping and pecking until it was completely clear of its cohorts.
Vulnerable,
Jane’s brain supplied automatically, and she realized that she was probably reading a little too much into the birds.
It’s just me,
she told herself sadly.
I’m vulnerable and cut off from the people who love me – most of the ones who are still alive, anyway. But how can I put them in danger just to make myself feel safer?
    A red leather boot kicked at the lone pigeon, scaring it back to the safety of its flock. Jane’s gaze followed the boot up a camel-hair-sheathed leg, the riding pants clinging so obediently that Jane could see every contour of the kicker’s lean calf and thigh. Her eyes travelled onward, over a red leather jacket that matched the boots, and then on to the sharp point of a chin and violently high cheekbones with tanned skin stretched over them like Saran Wrap.
    I know that skin,
Jane’s mind shouted at her as her gaze reached the woman’s oversize sunglasses. She didn’t even have to register the short black hair to realize that she was looking right at the mystery woman who had frightened her out of her old coffee shop.
    It was true that the two places in which she had spotted Mystery Woman were connected by the A, C, and E trains. It wasn’t exactly impossible that the same person might be in both. But she could feel in her bones that this was no coincidence: this woman had been in the coffee shop to watch Jane, and she was watching Jane from behind those huge reflective lenses right now.
    ‘I want to know who you are,’ she whispered, her lips barely moving, as she focused on the mystery woman a few benches away. She pushed the sensitive tendrils of her magic towards the woman’s mind. ‘A fan? A reporter? A henchwoman? What do you know about me?’ But her magic ran up against a smooth, blank wall, and Jane grimaced. She searched for a few more seconds, looking for any kind of opening, but she knew that it would be futile. Mystery Woman was a witch.
    Jane slid off her bench and headed for one of the paths out of the park. She could feel Mystery Woman’s eyes following her, and in a burst of inspiration, Jane turned back and tossed her empty smoothie cup towards the trash can behind the swarm of pigeons. The cup missed, falling instead into the middle of the flock and sending it wildly skyward again. A shower of feathers littered the ground, and the air around the flock grew thick with dust.
    Jane hurried away down a paved path, trusting the beating grey wings and angry shoving of beaks to hide her from view. She didn’t turn around again, even once she had reached Washington Square West safely and alone.

Seven
    ‘I T ’ S SORT OF greenish,’ Jane observed doubtfully, poking at the inside of her falafel with a fork.
    ‘That means it’s fresh,’ Dee explained, rolling her eyes. ‘Try it with the tomato and some of that sauce – not that much, it’s spicy. You’re going to learn about food that isn’t French if it kills me, Jane.’
    Jane stuck her tongue out and then pushed it back in with a