ERON
I was elbow-deep in pixie dust and regret when Spike zoomed in through the storeroom window, trailing a comet-tail of iridescent sparkles that made me sneeze three times in rapid succession.
"Having fun yet?" he asked, perching on a shelf stacked with crystal vials that contained various magical substances no one had bothered to label in the last century.
"Absolutely," I deadpanned, gesturing to the disaster around me. "Cataloging two hundred and seventy-three types of enchanted dust is exactly how I planned to spend my almost-thirteenth birthday."
The storeroom had been neglected for decades, possibly centuries. Dust—the ordinary, non-magical kind—coated every surface except where I'd managed to clean. Pixie dust, brownie dust, dream dust, and dozens of other varieties had been c
