I looked around at the room and the labyrinth of antiques. “What do you want me to move?”

“It doesn’t matter. Pick something. Anything.”

I looked around, let my eyes pass the giant star sign, which was still propped against the wall. I mean, I wanted to move it on principle, since we’d started this journey together, but it was a big and lumbering thing. I didn’t especially want to impale Nix—especially with Gavin in the house.

I settled on a vintage produce crate with a gorgeous CREOLE LOUISIANA SWEET POTATOES sticker on one end. I could take or leave the crate, but the paper label could actually be worth a lot. Incentive not to bash it against anything hard—like Liam Quinn’s head.

“All right. You should probably all get out of the way.”

“Why?” Nix asked.

“Because my aim isn’t very good.” I held up a hand before they could complain. “Keep in mind the context and conditions. And keep an eye out.”

The crate sat on the top of a high shelf next to three others. I checked the path, imagined the string that would draw it to me. It would have to go around a chest of drawers with a mirror, then spin sharply back in the other direction to avoid getting snagged on a pink aluminum Christmas tree. Tricky. Not impossible, but tricky.

I blew out a breath, focused on the object. I imagined the room filled with energy, began to pull it together, like a spinning top of magic, of power.

“Good,” Nix approved quietly. “Good.”

Slowly, I lifted my gaze to the crate, trying to keep the magic together, contained, and began to pull the crate toward me. It bobbled, shook, lifted into the air with a lurch. Bounced against the tin ceiling, sending dust into the air.

“Focus,” Nix said. “Reel it smoothly.”

“If I could reel it smoothly, I wouldn’t need to practice reeling it smoothly,” I said through clenched teeth.

I guessed the angles, pulled it forward. It jerked three feet in the right direction, paused, shaking as it hovered in the air. I nodded at it, proud that it had mostly done what I’d asked it to do, and pulled again.

The crate zipped toward the mirror and, as I winced, paused right in front of the glass. The next bit would be trickier—back around the tree and straight toward home. I reached out a hand, imagined fingers grasping the string that connected it to me. I snapped it to the right, then pulled.

The crate zoomed past the Christmas tree, leaving the branches shaking, and whipped toward us like a wooden bullet.

“Shit,” Liam said, ducking as it whizzed over his head, only just missing the top of his dark crown of hair.

It flew toward me, and I flicked my fingers up, palm out, forcing it to a stop. It froze, shuddered, and dropped. About four feet from the spot I’d meant for it to.

I let the rest of the magic go, put my hands on my hips, and breathed through my nose, trying to get rid of the dizziness.

“That was not impressive,” Nix said.

“I got it here, didn’t I?”

Gavin came over, patted my back.

“And barely a concussion along the way.”

I glanced at Liam apologetically. “Sorry about that.”

“Job hazard,” he said.

“Technically, that’s not correct,” Gavin said. “You keep her from becoming a wraith, and you don’t have a job to do.”

And wasn’t that precisely the problem?

•   •   •

Nix made me immediately try casting again, “because magic isn’t always practiced under good conditions.”

And without good conditions, it took me twenty minutes to get a tiny dose of magic out of myself and into the box.