The Dark Glamour (666 Park Avenue 2)

desperately-searched-for Jane and not approached her – who would hide the fact they’d been looking, even – those were the most dangerous of the people on her trail by far.
    Jane froze in a painful moment of indecision. Should she try to read the woman’s mind? Maybe the mystery woman really was just there for coffee. Or maybe she was some spy of Lynne’s, and Jane could find out how close behind her mother-in-law really was.
    Or, worse still, Jane’s mind would run up against the blank wall that signalled the mind of a fellow witch.
    But what if using her magic gave her away somehow? Of all the things she didn’t know about her new powers, that one was by far the most frustrating. If magic left behind some kind of detectable trace, then Jane couldn’t afford to use any at all.
    The two possibilities fought in Jane’s mind for seconds that felt like days. The pressure built in her head and she closed her eyes, trying to fight down her panic and think. The gleaming bulk of the espresso machine behind the counter let out an ominous ‘pop’, and every pair of eyes in the shop turned towards it. The machine spurted scalding jets of espresso in one direction and steam in another. Jane had just enough time to see Mystery Woman ducking beneath the counter for shelter before her body caught up with her brain.
    She hurled herself through the door and out into the rainy evening as fast as her feet could carry her.
    Jane arrived at the Rivington Hotel sweating and out of breath.
    ‘Mizz Chase,’ the red-faced, permanently greasy day-manager drawled sarcastically as she ran by, but her skin didn’t even have time to crawl as she bounded up the stairs. She took them three at a time, careful to breathe exclusively through her mouth, and didn’t stop until she’d slammed the flimsy door of her room behind her. She flipped the lock, but the temperamental latch refused to slide into place.
    ‘Oh my God,’ Jane whispered, feeling the hysteria close around her throat like a hand. The familiar thrum of the magic in her veins could have been a lullaby or a battle cry, and she was sick of fighting it. She pushed away from the door with her fingertips, which left ten faint marks that looked suspiciously like blistered paint. She pushed her magic out like a third, invisible hand until it reached the unfinished chest of drawers in the corner. The dresser shivered, strained against the rusted bolts that tried to hold it to the floor, and then obediently slammed itself against the door. It was quickly followed by a moth-eaten armchair, an end table covered in the etched graffiti of previous residents, and finally by the squeaky twin bed, which tipped up against the rest of the pile with a dusty sigh.
    When the entire contents of the tiny room were on her makeshift barricade, Jane’s magic was spent. Her anger, fear and frustration, on the other hand, didn’t even feel as though they had quite peaked yet.
Enough is enough.
    ‘Who the hell do the Dorans think they are, anyway?’ she demanded of the empty room, her voice echoing unfamiliarly off the newly bare floorboards. The new furniture arrangement allowed room to pace, and Jane took advantage of it. Sahara, the emaciated woman downstairs, protested at the groaning floorboards by banging on her ceiling. ‘Seriously?’ Jane yelled, prompting another emphatic thud.
    Well, if she comes here to tell me off again, it’s not like she could even get in,
Jane realized with somewhat manic glee. But Sahara could decide to get the manager, and then Jane would have to explain her impulsive redecorating spree.
Well, it all started at an antiquities auction in Paris, with this too-perfect-to-be-true guy.
    As if by instinct, Jane’s fingers rustled through the cheap straw carryall she had picked up at H&M a day after checking into the Rivington: her red alligator flight bag was a little too conspicuous for her new surroundings. She found the waxy edge of her passport and pulled it out, tracing the gold-stamped letters briefly. She separated the thick pages with one fingernail and unfolded the scrap of paper that was taped to the inside cover, deftly catching the tiny plain key that fell out. FIRST TRUST NY, REC. & TRIN., 41811 was written carefully on the paper in Malcolm’s blocky print.
    Similar notes – and similar keys – had been attached to the other three passports as well, and Jane had quickly caught on that these were instructions to access four safety-deposit boxes