“Hey,” I said, flashing a big smile. “Do you have a second?”

“Uh, sure.”

I motioned to Sunken Treasures across the road. “There’s something in there I want to get for my boyfriend, as a joke, but I’m, well, kind of embarrassed to buy it. It’s a shell with a woman in a bikini on it.”

To an adult, this would seem strange. But to a thirteen-year-old, all adults are strange, their motives inexplicable. I described the shell and gave him a twenty, with the promise of another when he returned.

Fifteen long minutes later, he was back, empty-handed.

“They have a rack of conch shells and some of them are painted, but none with girls in any kind of bathing suit.”

“Huh. Must have been a different store, then.”

I let him keep the twenty and he disappeared into the T-shirt shop.

My next mark was a fortyish man who sucked in his spare tire as I drew close. For him, I had a new story: I’d been in the store the night before with friends, some of whom had been drunk and made a scene. I really wanted this shell for my brother, but I was afraid the store owner would recognize me and kick me out.

He too returned empty-handed. “It’s behind the cash register,” he said, handing me back my twenty. “And it’s not for sale. I tried, but the guy said a friend of his had painted it and it was only for display. Sorry.”

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?”

“I’m from the council, not the Cabal. Our job is not only to watch you, but to protect you against ungrounded Cabal prosecution. What I need from you is the paperwork.”

“The…?”

“Proof that you needed to cast the spells. I’ll need incident numbers for the break-ins, insurance claims and a list of the spells you’re casting. We’ll take this to the Cabal, and unless they can prove you’ve cast something stronger, you’re off the hook. In fact, if you have those papers and a copier here, I can take care of this right now.”

“They’re in the back.”

“I’ll watch the store while you get them.”

I HIGHTAILED IT across the street, darting around slow-moving carloads of tourist gawkers, past the soda fountain, past the motel, past the empty shop. I ducked inside an alley and stopped, clutching my prize. My eyelids fluttered as I savored the chaos. Having caused it myself made it twice as potent. I closed my eyes, replaying the ruse and the theft-the perfect high: better than booze, better than drugs, better than sex. Well, better than average sex. A potent mix. And an addictive one.

That thought sobered me. I had the shell. If I wanted more chaos vibes, I’d have to wait until I handed it to Romeo. I opened my beach bag, wrapped the shell in a towel, then-

“Why don’t you just hand that to me? I’ll take good care of it.”

I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see hands rising in a knockback spell. I dove. The spell caught me in the hip and spun me off balance, but I kept my grip on the bag and darted out of the way before my assailant launched a second one.

Ten feet away stood a young woman with spiky blond hair and so many piercings it’d take her an hour to prepare for a metal detector.

“My competition, I presume,” I said. “Sorry about your luck.”

“Oh, my luck’s fine.”

She cast again. I dodged the spell easily. Her lips tightened and her fury washed over me in delicious waves.

“Not used to casting against someone who knows what you’re doing?” I said. “Lesson one: don’t flail your hands.”

Another cast. I feinted to the side, but from the look on her face, there’d been no need.

“Run out of juice?” I said. “Lesson two: don’t spend it all in one place.”

I reached into the side compartment of my purse, a little hobo-style handbag, designed for the young urbanite of the twenty-first century, with convenient compartments for sunglasses, cell phone, PDA and a concealed weapon.

The witch stared at the gun as if expecting me to light a cigarette with it.

“Sit down,” I said.

After some prodding, she lowered herself to the ground, muttering about fair play. Among supernaturals, using weapons is considered an act of cowardice. But when your power package doesn’t come with fireballs or superhuman strength, you need to even the playing field.

Once she was seated, I used another weapon-my penknife-to cut the bindings from a nearby stack of recyclable papers.

“It’s called using what works,” I said as I tied her. “You should try it. Starting with learning your own kind of magic. If you’d cast a witch’s binding spell, I’d be the one sitting here, and you’d be the one with the conch shell.”

She fumed and squirmed and glared. I closed my eyes and drank in her rage, then picked up my beach bag and walked away.

I WAS PREPARED for Romeo to give me a hard time about passing the test. He grumbled and glowered, and I got my chaos reward, but he didn’t try to withhold the prize, probably for the same reason he hadn’t let me walk out when I’d threatened to-he was well paid for this middleman job and wouldn’t risk losing it.

He gave me an address and told me I was expected to show up there in two hours.

I HAD THE taxi do a drive-by of the gang’s address before I returned to my apartment, and I was glad I did, because it told me a shopping trip was in order.

The taxi driver recommended Bal Harbour Shops and it was a good call. And a good thing I was using someone else’s credit card.

Normally my frugal side would have kicked in, but I was still riding the high from besting the sorcerer, the witch and the goblin, so I was in the mood to treat myself. Considering that the test hadn’t been the cakewalk Benicio promised, I felt justified using his cash.

ANOTHER CAB TOOK me to my temporary apartment. The driver made me for a tourist from the first word and tried to “treat” me to the scenic route. I might not know the layout of Miami, but I spotted that trick after two blocks and ordered him back on track.

As we neared my apartment, I marveled at a wrecking ball tearing through what looked like perfectly good single-family homes-big houses, luxurious even. But houses nonetheless, on valuable property that could hold a hundred times that many in luxury apartment condos. One glance over the Miami skyline, dotted with cranes and skeletal high-rises, told even the newest visitor that this was a city on the move. Out with the old, in with the new.