Moto was just about to smash the glass to steal the iPad when Finesse saw the markings on the windshield. “Stop! Oh, shit! SPELL!” He released the brick with a shriek, not caring that it landed on his shoulder and then his foot. Finesse checked again; “Sigil,” she said, trembling. Someone had licked their finger and drawn three symbols intertwined; she would never have seen it without the hard frost. “Theft = death = service,” she whispered, backing up. “Necromancy. This is a bait car.” Finesse took out a can of spray paint, wrote a message to the others in the street, and then they ran.