After a great day with the Alchemists, we launch into a not-so-great all-nighter. It takes ages to pinpoint what’s wrong with the Tower. At last, we figure out that the electricity levels in the containment fields were off kilter, zapping all the ghosts awake and angry. One spirit even broke out of the Carrier, but the Tower went on lock-down before he got too far. Still, the whole thing was close. Too close. It’s late morning by the time Lincoln and I head over to the warehouse. The place is a huge long box made of corrugated metal and lined with shelves from floor-to-ceiling. The many aisles twist around in a way that reminds me of the hedgerow maze back at the Ryder mansion. Large wooden crates are stacked everywhere, all of them stuffed with magical junk. Like compasses that always point to Hell. Enchanted pens that’ll only write praises about the ghouls. And my personal favorite, a box of old Scala robes that either belonged to Maxon Bane or were doused in ‘eau de old guy’.
