Free Summoning the Night by Jenn Bennett Page B

temporary wards on my car. And maybe it was time to start investing in something more longterm on the underside of my hood.
    We found a space on the second level. After parking, I reached over Lon’s knees to the glove compartment box and pulled out a silver plastic angel that fit in the palm of my hand.
    â€œA wind-up parking goddess?” Lon read from the discarded packaging.
    â€œShe doesn’t wind anymore. I stripped out her insides and stuffed her with powdered angelica root.” On the flat base was a simple warding sigil. Nothing fancy, but effective. I dug out a piece of gum from my purse and chewed it until it was soft. Mumbling a quick spell, I pressed the chewed gum, now chock full of Heka-rich saliva, over the sigil. A brief wave of dizziness passed over me. I exhaled slowly until it passed, then stuck the newly charged angel on my dash. “It won’t last long,” I explained, “but I’d rather not get my car out of impound after hoodlums decide to take it on a joyride.”
    Lon narrowed his eyes at my low-rent magick and made a little noise of appreciative surprise. “You’re kind of turning me on.”
    â€œJust wait until you see what I can do with a balloon and some consecrated Abramelin oil,” I said with a wink.
    His low laughter reverberated through the garage as we exited the car.
    In the ’70s, Cindy’s building had probably been a swinging bachelor’s dream home. Orange shag carpet lined the lobby and cracked mirrored tile ran down the center of thewalls. Whatever it was in its glory, it was just depressing and dirty now.
    Cindy’s apartment was on the sixteenth floor. Lon and I exchanged leery glances as we paused in front of her door, listening to the sounds of daytime TV roaring from the apartment to the right, and an angry domestic dispute in the one on the left. Stale cigarette smoke and rancid cooking oil permeated the hallway. A dark spot the size of a basketball stained the carpet near our feet.
    After ringing the doorbell twice, the door finally creaked open. Female eyes peeped through two cheap chain locks.
    â€œCindy?” I asked.
    â€œYeah?” Her voice was wary.
    â€œHi,” I said brightly. “My name is Cady and this is Lon. We’re from La Sirena Historical Preservation. We’re writing a book about the history of schools in La Sirena, and we’ve been tracking down alumni for interviews. We were wondering if you had a few minutes to talk to us about La Sirena Junior High?” Probably not the best lie we could come up with, but it was better than our original plan, to pose as cops.
    As if it would help prove our story, I held up a copy of the society’s book about coastal farming in the 1800s, taken from Lon’s library. Why Lon owned it, I had no idea. He owned a lot of strange books—and I’m not talking about the ones on demon summoning, either; his avid interest in irrigation and composting was far more peculiar, if you asked me.
    Confusion swept over the sliver of Cindy’s face peeping through the door crack. “I haven’t even stepped foot in La Sirena in thirty years.”
    â€œEven better,” I chirped, smiling as big as I could. “You’ll have a different perspective. We’ve talked to about ten people so far, and the interview only takes five minutes.”
    â€œI don’t really remember much—”
    â€œYou’ll get credited in print,” I suggested.
    â€œNo. Sorry.” She started to close the door.
    â€œOr you can be completely anonymous,” Lon offered quickly.
    The door stilled.
    â€œIt would mean a lot to us if you could help us out,” I added. “We drove all the way out here.”
    She blinked at us for several seconds, giving my silver halo a suspicious glance, then shut the door and slid both chains off the locks. When the door reopened, a thin woman with dyed red hair, a dark green halo, and