“I...I don’t think they’d try to hurt anyone.”
“You don’t know them. You see three old shopkeepers selling trinkets and used comic books. You don’t see the blood on their hands, enough blood to drown in.”
“If they’re so dangerous, shouldn’t we do something about them?”
“Ask Ethan, Noah, and Isaiah how that went. No, for the moment, as long as we leave them alone, they should leave us alone. When they become a problem—and they will—I’ll take care of it myself.”
CHAPTER7
Temple
In my early days, I was all about appearance.
I’d filled the mahogany bookshelves of my library and workshop with leather-bound tomes and gleaming magical knickknacks. Heavy velvet curtains covered the windows, shielding my research from outside eyes. I worked at a one-of-a-kind desk that once belonged to the alchemist Giuseppe Borri, and I used a high-backed antique balloon chair for my reading. Chalk runes covered the bare oak floor.
Over time, my priorities had shifted. Out went the old reading chair, replaced by a more comfortable recliner from La-Z-Boy with a built-in massage function. Bright, full-spectrum LED bulbs displaced fat beeswax candles. I ordered thick carpeting with extra cushioning to help with the ache in my bones if I stood for too long.
I still had the desk, though. I loved all the secret drawers and compartments. The other day, I’d discovered a forgotten pop-out tray I’d last used twenty years before. It contained an old property tax bill (oops), my notes for adding enchanted sunflowers to the back of the house for security (I never did get around to that), and a recipe for Basque cheesecake.
I used to care about my own appearance, too. Expensive clothes, fancy shoes, and far too much leather. Now I was just another old man trudging around in sweatpants and soft, comfortable T-shirts and hats that protected my scalp from sunburn, and who gave a shit what anybody thought?
Today it was a brown trilby, enchanted to keep the wind from blowing it off my head. It also had a small dimensional rift inside that could be used to store tools and weapons and other miscellany. I’d lost a pair of dentures in there last year.
The point was, appearances and the trappings didn’t matter. Power could attach to the lowliest, most unassuming of objects. Like my mother’s old folding card table, which stood by the window between the bookshelves. Despite the frail-looking metal legs, the table was completely spill-proof. You could fill a wineglass to the brim and leave it on that table through a seven-point-five earthquake, and not a drop would leave the glass.
It currently held a half-full mug of cold chocolate—it had been hot last night before I forgot about it—along with an old map of Salem, a weasel skull named Yorick, and my copy ofStuart Little. That had been my favorite book as a child. Over the years, it had absorbed thousands of other texts, from ancient spellbooks to an old copy ofPlayboyI’d found when I was thirteen.
And on the other side of that table stood Jenny, patiently waiting for me to respond to whatever it was she’d said before my mind went on a walkabout.
She cleared her throat and repeated, “Ronald Kensington?”
Right—that was why I had Yorick out. The weasel skull was a gift and a trophy from a group of fairies I’d helped in the early nineties. I’d used it to call in a favor. “The closest Ronald Kensington is two hundred miles away in New York City,” I said. “His blood doesn’t match the blood Annette got from our guy.”
“You can test a person’s blood from two hundred miles?” asked Jenny. She was moving slowly and carefully this morning, and I could smell the ointment on her joints.
“I asked a hummingbird fairy to get a sample for me.”
Annette entered and leaned against the wall, a mug of coffee cupped in her hands. She wore a loose silk robe, but much of her exposed skin was almost as red as her hair, covered in dry and cracked blisters. She looked like she’d been microwaved on high for twenty minutes.
My anger bubbled over.
Annette and Jenny could be headstrong pains in my ass. They’d barged into my home and upended my life, opening my doors to tourists, bibliophiles, and every cryptid with a splinter or a hangnail for a hundred miles in any direction.
I couldn’t imagine life without Jenny’s never-ending sunshine or Annette’s stormy sass. I’d never had kids, but if I had...I was certain any offspring of mine would have been just as infuriating as these two.
Pages fluttered past in response to my emotions. They stopped on a spell I’d dubbed Vorpal Axe. Even in my glory days, this particular spell would have left me bedridden for two days to recover from the power it required. If I tried to cast it now, it would probably kill me on the spot. But if whoever had done this to Annette was standing before me, I’d have cast the spell without a second thought, and to hell with the consequences.
I turned back to the section on tracking spells.
“Artemis called him the harbinger,” said Jenny. “Does that give you a way to find him?”
“It’s not a search engine,” snapped Annette. “You can’t just add keywords and hope the spell finds the right result.”
I sipped my drink. The tepid chocolate made me sad. Pages rustled, suggesting a new spell. This one, I could do. I conjured an orange flame to the tip of my thumb and flicked it into the mug to reheat it.
“Ronnie was just a kid,” Jenny grumbled. “How does he have this level of protection? Temple can’t track him. Even Artemis couldn’t see him.”
“You were only thirteen when you got your goddess powers,” Annette pointed out.
