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end of her life. Edison’s bulbs were mounted in some of the streetlights, while others burned with flickering gas flames. All of them cast hazy spheres of light, doing little to actually illuminate their surroundings. The buildings stood at slightly odd angles to one another, with parts of them seamlessly missing. Everything—streets, sidewalks, buildings—was made of wood.
    “Hell’s bells,” I muttered. “No wonder the real Chicago kept burning down. This place is a tinderbox.”
    Rats moved in the shadows, but the street was otherwise empty and still. The rift that led back to our world wavered and shifted, fluorescent light and sterile hospital air pouring onto the old Chicago streets. Around us pulsed maybe a dozen shimmering disturbances in the air—the rich life forces of the infants back in the infirmary, showing through into the Nevernever.
    “Where is she?” Michael asked, his voice quiet. “Where’s the ghost?”
    I turned in a slow circle, peering at the shadows, and shook my head. “I don’t know. But we’d better find her, fast. And we need to get a look at this one if we can.”
    “To try to find out what’s gotten it stirred up,” Michael said.
    “Exactly. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a little tired of chasing all over town every night.”
    “Didn’t you already get a look at her?”
    “Not the right kind of look,” I said with a grimace. “There could be spells laid on her, some kind of magic around her to clue me in on what’s going on. I need to be not in mortal peril for a couple of minutes to examine her.”
    “Provided she doesn’t kill us first, all right,” Michael assented. “But time is short, and I don’t see her anywhere. What should we do?”
    “I hate to say it,” I said, “but I think we should—”
    I was going to say “split up,” but I didn’t get the chance. The heavy wooden timbers of the roadway beneath us exploded up and out in a deadly cloud of splinters. I threw one leather-clad arm across my eyes and went tumbling one way. Michael went the other.
    “My little angels! Mine, mine, MINE!” screamed a voice that roared against my face and chest and made my duster flap around as though made of gauze.
    I looked up, to see the ghost, quite real and solid now, clawing its one-armed way up from the sub-street. Agatha’s face was lean and bony, twisted in rage, and her hair hung about her in a shaggy mane, sharply at odds with her crisp white shirt. Her arm was missing from its shoulder, and dark fluid stained the cloth beneath it.
    Michael rose to his feet with a shout, one of his cheeks cut and bleeding, and went after her with Amoracchius . The spirit backhanded him away with her remaining arm as though he weighed no more than a doll. Michael grunted and went flying, rolling along the wooden street.
    And then, snarling and drooling, her eyes wide with frenzied madness, the ghost turned toward me.
    I scrambled to my feet and held out my staff across my body, a slender barrier between me and the ghost on its home turf. “I guess it’s too late to have a reasonable discussion, Agatha.”
    “My babies!” the spirit screamed. “Mine! Mine! Mine!”
    “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I breathed. I gathered my forces and started channeling them through the staff. The pale wood began glowing with a gold-and-orange light, spreading out before me in a quarter-dome shape.
    The ghost screamed again and hurtled toward me. I stood fast and shouted, “ Reflettum! ” at the top of my lungs. The spirit impacted against my shield with all the momentum of a bull rhinoceros on steroids. I’ve stopped bullets and worse with that shield before, but that was on my home turf, in the real world. Here, the Nevernever, Agatha’s ghost overloaded my shield, which detonated with a thunderous roar and sent me sprawling to the ground. Again.
    I jammed my scorched staff into the ground and groaned to my feet. Blood stained my tingling fingers, the skin