The air was thick with magic as I stepped into the street.
The overcast sky hung low like a drunkard hunched over after a rough night, and the steel-gray clouds scratched the rooftops. Even the Magiclysm couldn’t change some things: winter in Dublin had to be dark and wet.
Several of the molekind stood on the far side of the street, leaning against the wall by the vibrant purple door. The protective wards stamped all over it emanated with power, though the color of the wood had nothing to do with magic, just the local habit of painting doors, which had amused me ever since I moved to Ireland. Red, blue, purple, gray… Each door different, even though the red-brick townhouses formed a line of uniform buildings along the street. Of course, now some of them bore the marks of curse-started fi
