Fifteen-year-old Daphne plopped herself down on the chair next to the table.
“This is stupid.” She blew a random cluster of hair out of her eyes. “We’re looking for an old book, not old junk. What is this crud?”
The backpack at her feet stirred and Skinner’s head lolled awkwardly to the side. “That ancient tech would be an adding machine and a typewriter.”
“How would a sorcerer’s familiar know that?”
“The spirit trapped in this dead cat knows a lot,” Skinner croaked.
“My great-grandma better have that stolen spellbook or we’ll never get you out of that murdered kitty.”









