Silas Crane believes in the magic of black coffee on a muggy morning, the prophecies of crows, and the monster under their bed.
Red flannel and graveyard dirt, the lock of a dead boy's hair and an unspent silver bullet.
Uncle Micah's glasses.
A flask of war water and a vial of Ma's perfume.
The footprints of an enemy, sprinkled with Hotfoot and whispered over at dawn.
Simple magics are always the best, and Silas knows it.