messes with tech

Murphy’s radio chirped, and Eyes started to say something. His voice drowned an instant later in a burst of static.
That ratcheted more tension in everyone. Wizards and their major magical talent are tough on hardware. The more complex a machine is, the more disruptive a wizard’s presence becomes, and electronics are nearly always the first to malfunction when a wizard is nearby. The wonky radio warned us of Molly’s approach every bit as clearly as a sentry shouting, “Who goes there?”
“Huh,” I said.
Mort glanced at me. “What?”
“The technology disruption a practitioner causes is relative to his—or her—strength.”
“I knew that, actually,” Mort said. “It’s why I have to keep replacing my cell phone. So?”
“So Molly was not a heavyweight in terms of raw power. She had to be practically close enough to touch something to hex it down that fast.” I narrowed my eyes. “She’s gotten stronger. Either that or . . .”
“She’s already in the room,” Mort said.
Murphy looked up sharply at that. “What?”
The house lights flickered for a second and then went out.
They weren’t gone long—the space of a heartbeat or two. But when they came back up, Murphy had her gun in hand, Marci had become a wolf with a sundress hanging around her neck, and a young woman wrapped in layers and layers of cast-off clothing sat on the sofa between Abby and Mort, not six inches away from either of them.
Molly was tall and built like a pinup model, with long, long legs and curves that not even the layers of clothing could hide. Her face was lovely and devoid of makeup, and her cheekbones pressed out harshly against her skin. Her hair was dirty, stringy, tangled, and colored a shade of purple so dark as to be nearly indistinguishable from black. A wooden cane stained the same color of deep purple leaned against her knees, and an old military-issue canvas knapsack covered with buttons and drawings in Magic Marker rested between her hiking boots. From Abby’s and Mort’s reactions, it must have smelled like it had been at least several days since her last shower.
But it was her eyes that were the worst.
My apprentice’s blue eyes were sunken, surrounded by shadows of stress and fatigue, and an odd light glittered there in the glassy shine I’d seen mostly in people recovering from anesthesia.
“It’s interesting that you would notice me,” Molly said to Mort, as if she’d been politely participating in the conversation all along.


Ghost Story Chapter 11, Page 117-118