I raised my voice, speaking over them both. “Annette, did Alex give you any hint where he might have gone when he left the”—I tried to remember what she’d said in the call when she left the place—“the Real Pirates Museum?”
“The Salem Pirate Experience. It’s the new one over on the east side. And no, I’m not sure where he went.” Annette had piled the counter with all the notes and books and trinkets she’d brought back, and was now sorting them into neater piles on the table. She picked up a worn comb-bound notebook and opened the pages. “I’m no expert, but this looks Aramaic to me.”
I leaned over for a better look at the badly-photocopied pages. The plastic cover was scratched and damaged, and the paper was yellowed. “He Xeroxed Nabu-rihtu-usur’s spellbook.”
Alex must have snuck off with the book before we turned it over to Felipe and the Guardians Council. Had he been planning all of this since high school? I couldn’t believe that. For one thing, the Alex I’d known wasn’t patient enough for thirty-plus-year schemes.
Only, I hadn’t known him. Not like I’d thought. If I had, maybe I would have seen this coming early enough to stop it. Or if I’d stayed in touch . . .
He’d made copies of other items, too. Maybe he’d started out doing it to save them as trophies or souvenirs.
I told myself his original motives didn’t matter. We had to stop the threat he’d become.
I grabbed a laminated paper from another stack. I hadn’t studied Latin in years, but I recognized the decorative border of thorns and blood, along with the three-headed dragon attempting to eat and/or mate with the large letter T at the top of the page. Illuminated manuscripts got pretty weird sometimes. “I know this one. It’sNovem Reges Daemonium. Felipe had a copy.”
I found three more papers I knew: instructions for summoning a hearth devil—Hob snatched that one from my hand and tore it up before I could read it; part of a Spanish tome on the history of the universe in the ten seconds before the big bang; and a first-person account of the Ritual of Artemis, written by a Hunter more than a thousand years ago.
“Hello?” Hob pointed to his chest. “Do you mind wrapping this up so I can get the fuck away from you people?”
I finished stapling the hearth devil. “Alex always liked to talk. You must have heard something that will help us find him.”
“I’d rather gag on a minotaur’s dick than have to listen to another minute of that asshole’s ranting.” He touched the staples in his chest, then stretched until the skin pulled taut. “He held his little scout meetings one deck up from my prison. He went on and on about how unjust it all was. How the wrong people had power and magic and the right people got shit on. I mean, he’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean he had to keepwhiningabout it.”
I heard Temple approaching. Finally. Even his footsteps sounded weary. But his eyes were bright and alert as he entered the kitchen and looked things over. “Is that the Ritual of Artemis?”
“Alex is trying to make himself a Hunter of R’gngyk,” said Annette.
Temple adjusted his glasses and hummed to himself as he flipped through the three-page account of the ritual. Notes and annotations covered the pages in red ink. I recognized Alex’s handwriting, though it was rougher and more jagged than I remembered.
Temple unzipped his fanny pack and brought outStuart Little. “I don’t have a copy of this one. Do you mind?”
Annette shrugged. “Go for it.”
He set the book on the edge of the table, then brought the three pages close. The book rustled.
The corner of the printout touched the book’s pages.
When the book fed, it was like a cross between an oversized piranha and Cookie Monster fromSesame Street. The book’s cover opened and slammed again and again, pulling in the pages. Tiny, torn scraps fell like crumbs. Temple yanked his fingers away as the book gulped down the last of the ritual.
“What in the name of Zeus’s feathered cock ring is that?” shouted Hob.
“Stuart Little,” said Ronnie. “It’s good. You should read it.”
Temple slid the book closer and opened it to the modified Ritual of Artemis, complete with Alex’s notes. In the bottom corner of the first page, a mouse—Stuart, presumably—had grown tentacles and extra eyeballs.
Temple pointed to one of Alex’s scribbles on the second page. “The original ritual establishes a partnership with Artemis and each of her Hunters. It’s like you become the goddess’s little sister. It’s not a relationship of equals, but you and Artemis both choose to bind yourselves to each other.”
Felipe hadn’t presented it to me as a choice. Not really. Oh, he told me he wouldn’t force me to go through the ritual, but he also went on about how much the Council had invested in me and how many innocent people would die without a Hunter of Artemis to protect them.
The day I’d become a Hunter was both thrilling and terrifying. Thirteen-year-old me had been too young to truly understand what was happening or what I’d become. I remembered the way the Council stared at me, like I was a prize-winning pointer at the Westminster Dog Show.
Much of the ritual was a blur. I know I’d prayed a lot, and they made me sacrifice a goat. I’d hated that part the most, but it hadn’t mattered, because then Artemis had spoken to me for the first time, saying,WELCOME, YOUNG HUNTER.
I’d felt strong and safe and loved andwholefor the first time in my life.
“That wouldn’t work with R’gngyk,” Temple was saying. “You can’t have mutual understanding or partnership with no common frame of reference. It would be like trying to communicate with a particular shade of green. Alex’s solution is more parasitical. He’s a mosquito sucking up R’gngyk’s power.”
“How bad is that?” asked Ronnie.
