Hooking up with a human wasn’t such an odd concept for Angeline, having grown up with the Keepers. Trey had taken it harder when he realized how many of the Warriors’ tenets he was violating; plus he’d felt guilty over Eddie. I was pretty sure Trey still harbored feelings for her. As for Angeline, it was hard to say. Like Jill, she seemed to have joined Neil’s fan club. Adrian claimed both girls were faking their feelings for him, and I couldn’t even begin to sort that out.

To say my friends were living a soap opera was an understatement. They almost made my dangerous relationship with Adrian look boring.

The only bright side was that everyone seemed to be in a holding pattern. Trey’s conflicted principles kept him away from Angeline. Eddie’s resolve kept him away from everyone, as did Neil’s. And so long as Neil held true to that stance, Jill and Angeline would have nothing to act on. Maybe it would have been nice for everyone to have some sort of happy ending, but I selfishly had to admit that my life was a lot easier when the drama dial was kept on low.

Trey might not have been behind the counter today, but another barista I knew well was. His name was Brayden, and he and I had briefly dated. Even at the time, it had seemed a little cool and unreal, and now, alive with the thrill of Adrian, I couldn’t even fathom how I’d thought what Brayden and I had was a relationship. There’d been no passion with Brayden, no moments that took my breath away, and certainly no touches that could set me ablaze. In retrospect, the highlight of dating him had been free coffee and a particularly compelling discussion on the fall of the Roman Empire.

“Hi, Sydney,” he said. We’d encountered each other here before, and things were pretty civil, especially since Trey told me Brayden had a new girlfriend. “Almost as smart as you,” Trey had said. “But not nearly as cute.”

I smiled back. “How’s it going?”

“Good, good. Just got out of class and found out my essay on the psychosocial implications of Pavlov’s associative experiments won me a scholarship.” He picked up a cup. “Skinny vanilla latte?”

I looked at the cup mournfully. “Mint tea.”

“There, there,” said Ms. Terwilliger, after she’d cruelly ordered her triple cappuccino. “You couldn’t have had any caffeine anyway.” It was true, seeing as I’d likely be experimenting with magic later. “Stay strong.”

“That’s right,” a voice behind me said. “Nothing builds character like a test of self‑control.”

I spun around, thoroughly unprepared for who had joined us in line. “Wolfe?” I gasped. “You . . . you leave your house?”

Malachi Wolfe, instructor and proprietor of the Wolfe School of Defense, gave me a withering look from his one eye. “Of course I do. How else do you think I get supplies?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I figured you ordered them in.”

“I do for some stuff,” he agreed. “But I’ve got to come here in person to get whole‑bean French roast. The dogs love it.”

While I supposed it was reasonable that he’d get out of the compound he called a home, showing up at a hip coffee shop just wasn’t what I’d imagined. Adrian and I had taken a self‑defense course with Wolfe a couple months ago, and despite how bizarre it had all been, we’d picked up some useful tips. Wolfe himself was quite a sight to behold, with his long grizzled hair and eye patch.

“Ahem,” said Ms. Terwilliger. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Sydney?”

“Huh?” I was still floored by the fact that Wolfe was in jeans rather than his usual Bermuda shorts. “Oh. This is Malachi Wolfe. He’s the man Adrian and I took a self‑defense class with. Wolfe, this is my history teacher, Ms.–er, Jaclyn Terwilliger.”

“It’s a pleasure,” she said.

Ms. Terwilliger extended her hand to shake his, and instead, he bowed grandly and kissed the top of hers. “No, no, believe me. The pleasure is all mine.”

To my complete and utter horror, she didn’t withdraw her hand when he continued to hold it. “You’re a teacher too, eh?” she asked. “I thought I sensed a kindred spirit when I first saw you.”

He nodded solemnly. “There’s no loftier goal than educating and shaping young minds for greatness.”

I thought that was a stretch, considering at least fifty percent of his teaching methods involved regaling us with stories of how he’d escaped from pirates in New Zealand or fought off a pack of hook‑fanged ravens. (When I’d pointed out no such bird existed, he insisted the government was covering them up). Adrian and I were currently trying to put together a time line of Wolfe’s alleged adventures because we were pretty sure there was no way they could’ve happened the way he claimed.

“What brings you ladies out today?” asked Wolfe. He glanced around. “And where’s your boy?”

“Who? Oh, you mean Adrian?” I asked casually. “He’s probably still in class. He’s an art student at Carlton.”

Wolfe’s eyebrows rose. “Art? I always thought he was a little flighty, but I had no idea he was that far gone.”

“Hey, he’s very talented! He just got a lot of acclaim for a mixed‑media project he worked on.”

“What was it?” Wolfe didn’t sound convinced.

“A piece using the monolith from 2001  as a symbol of mankind’s evolution to a world of advertising and social media.”

Wolfe’s contemptuous snort told me what he thought of that. “Goddamned idealistic college kids.”

“It’s brilliant,” I insisted.

“Sydney,” said Ms. Terwilliger. “It is  a little over the top.”

I couldn’t even formulate a response to her traitorous words. Wolfe, however, wasted no opportunity. “You want to see art? You should go see this exhibit down by the San Diego shipyard. They re‑created a Civil War battle scene completely out of Bowie knives.”

I opened my mouth to respond, couldn’t think of anything to say, and shut it.

Ms. Terwilliger’s eyes lit up. “That sounds fascinating.”

“You want to come see it with me?” he asked. “I’m going again this weekend. Fifth time.”

As they exchanged phone numbers, I glanced over at Brayden, who was staring openmouthed, holding our drinks. At least I wasn’t alone in my reaction. I took out the Love Phone and texted Adrian.

Ran into Wolfe. He asked Ms. T out.

Adrian’s response was about what I expected: . . .

I then delivered the coup de grâce: SHE ACCEPTED.

Adrian was still unable to get past symbols: ?!?

I was at a loss for words on the way back to Amberwood, made worse by Ms. Terwilliger’s dreamy expression. “Ma’am,” I said at last. “Do you think going out with someone like him is a good idea? At last count, he had eleven Chihuahuas.”

“Miss Melbourne,” she said, reverting to her old nickname for me, “I offer no critique on your dubiously sound romantic choices. Don’t question mine.”

Flirting with Wolfe had eaten into more of our time today, but to her credit, she didn’t delay in making use of our remaining twenty minutes. We pulled some desks together and huddled over one of Inez’s books, along with a small bowl of dirt. She pointed to a diagram in the book that depicted a palm with four small clumps of dirt arranged in a diamond.

“There’s no real incantation for this,” she said, sprinkling the dirt on my palm in the appropriate pattern. “It’s one of those that’s more meditative. Only you aren’t trying to accomplish any concrete result so much as connect with the dirt’s essence. What do you think of when you think of dirt?”

“To not wear white.”

Her lips twitched, but she stayed on track. “Shift yourself into a casting trance and think of all that earth is in the world and even the role it plays in the spells you know.”

I was familiar with casting trances, but simply using it to commune with a substance was a bit more difficult. Nonetheless, I closed my eyes and focused my breathing, entering an odd state where my mind felt both clear and concentrated. The dirt was cool in my hand, and I envisioned damp, mist‑covered forests, like one of the redwood parks up north, where trees anchored themselves in the earth and the smell of wet dirt hung everywhere. Dirt itself wasn’t always present in spells, but many things that hid within it were: jewels and plants and–